before a general election. It was a scenario everyone had dreaded for decades, prompted by the spectre of Taiwan. The Chinese had perceived the American president as a soft touch and upped the ante by deploying a dozen warships anchored just outside Taiwanese waters. But the leader of the western world had shocked the old men in Beijing by ordering the Third Fleet into position for a short ballistic missile flight from mainland China. The Chinese had then started flying planes into Taiwanese airspace, trying to push them into launching a Patriot missile. When one was launched, and shot down a Chinese fighter, the world had held its collective breath. That had been 24 hours ago. Since then, there had been nothing but an ominous silence hanging over Beijing, Washington and Taipei.
Harry had just finished reading the latest report when his producer Terry Mitcham arrived, a folder under his arm.
âSo whatâs the story?â Harry asked, taking off his reading glasses and pulling on his shades as Terry tucked in his chair and placed the folder on the table.
âHereâs everything Iâve managed to unearth,â he replied. Harry pulled the folder towards him, opened it and extracted a dozen sheets of A4.
Terry studied his colleague. Harry Flanders was wearing his perennial outfit â a shabby cream linen suit, white shirt with the top button undone, brightly-coloured tie loosely knotted, scuffed brown Doc Martin shoes, and three pens in his breast pocket. At his side was a well-worn brown leather satchel with one clasp broken. This morning he was unshaven, his receding hair dishevelled. Even in shades, he appeared washed out. âYou look terrible, by the way,â Terry added and signalled to the waitress.
âThanks.â
Terry ordered a large latte. âThe whole thing beggars belief,â he said as Harry read. âTwo brothers â the ambitious and hyper-intelligent Michael, now in his late forties, and his clearly dimmer, slightly younger sibling, Johnny Xavier. They shared a childhood fantasy of creating a hotel on the ocean floor. As kids, they grow up in an ordinary lower-middle-class family home in Hampshire, share a room and plaster the walls with pictures of submarines, sci-fi designs for underwater bases, and presumably they watch every episode of Stringray ever made. Michael becomes an incredibly successful businessman, the head of a global media corporation which he started as a student at Cambridge selling advertising time on his own radio station. He carries young Johnny along with him, and by the time heâs 35, Michael is a billionaire and decides to start living out the fantasy.â
âReminds me of Richard Branson and his bloody space hotels.â
Mitcham laughed as the waitress placed his coffee on the table. Harry looked up and ordered a third black for himself.
âSo, anyway. Ten years ago, Michael and Johnny form a company, bring in a raft of investors ranging from futurist nuts to some heavy players,â Terry went on. âBranson included, I believe,â he added wryly. âThey decide to locate the hotel off Fiji and call in the best marine engineers, architects, designers and materials experts to help them draw up a feasibility plan. It takes even a Michael Xavier five years to get the financial backing, the permissions from the Fijian government, clearance from environmental agencies, the UN, you name it.â
âYou have to admire the chap for his perseverance.â
âToo right. But then, the crazy bugger actually goes and builds the thing!â
Harry flicked through the contents of the folder. âNot a lot here, is there, Terry?â he said.
âThatâs all I could get from Google and everything thatâs on file in London. Natasha faxed it over. The Xaviers have been as secretive as they could be. Understandable really. Part of the appeal is the wow factor when itâs done.â
Harry nodded and scanned