my intention, young man.’
‘A lot? A lot of money?’
And then the Walrus did something that – just possibly – would change the course of Tom’s life for ever. He hoisted the little lad up onto the desk, then squatted down so their faces were on a level.
‘Young man, do you want to know a secret?’
Tom nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
The Walrus paused a moment. His face was sombre. ‘Oil is the future,’ he said. ‘Oil is the fuel for the new century. Cars will guzzle it. Ships will swallow it. Factories run off it. Whoever can find the oil will be rich. Not simply rich – they’ll be kings of the world.’
That evening, Tom spoke to Sir Adam.
‘Uncle, who is that new man? The friend of yours. Knox somebody.’
‘Knox D’Arcy?’ Sir Adam chuckled. ‘He told me the pair of you had had a chat. Mr D’Arcy is a friend of mine, a businessman.’
‘Does he know a lot about business?’
‘I should say so. He was an ordinary fellow, living out in Australia, when he came across two miners who told him they thought they’d found some gold.’
‘And?’
‘And they had. D’Arcy helped them make a business out of it. A very, very good one. He’s ended up one of the wealthiest men in England. One of the wealthiest men in the entire world.’
Tom’s eyes widened. ‘Uncle, he says that the best way to be rich is to look for oil. Is he right?’
Sir Adam laughed again. ‘If Mr D’Arcy says so, then Mr D’Arcy is almost certainly right.’
Right or wrong, D’Arcy was a betting man. Having accumulated one colossal fortune in gold, he was keen to plunge a vast chunk of it into the search for Persian oil.
But things weren’t that simple.
For one thing, no oil had ever been found in Persia. Or rather: there were numerous traces of it in the geology, but no one had ever sent down a drill and come up with oil. Not in Persia. Not in Mesopotamia. Nowhere in the entire peninsula of Arabia.
And there was a second problem. The kingdom of Persia itself. The country was a poor one, squashed between British India on the one hand, Mother Russia on the other. The two giants jostled for control. Obtaining the right to drill wasn’t simply a matter of commerce. It was a question of politics.
Hence Sir Adam.
Before settling back in England, Sir Adam had been a diplomat, rising to become the British ambassador in Tehran. He knew the Shah. He knew the country’s politics. He’d learned who mattered and who didn’t.
And that was why D’Arcy had come to Sir Adam that New Year’s Day. He had a proposition. The proposition was this: Sir Adam would help D’Arcy win an oil concession, giving D’Arcy the right to drill. In exchange, Sir Adam would earn a generous commission. Sir Adam, delighted with the adventure, agreed at once. He went to Tehran. He negotiated skilfully. He bribed the highest officials with gold, he bribed the lowest officials with paper. He even bribed the eunuch who brought the Shah his morning coffee.
Sir Adam did everything he needed to do.
And on 28 May 1901, he got what he wanted. He won the deal.
It was two months later. The family was at breakfast. Tom and Alan poked unhappily at their platefuls of porridge.
Then a footman came in with the mail. Normally, the mail would have been taken to Sir Adam’s study to wait for him there, but today Sir Adam was off to town and he couldn’t wait. He read a couple of letters in silence. Tom and Alan fidgeted with their porridge. Guy – who was no longer forced to eat the stuff – made a big show of filling his plate with kippers and scrambled eggs, as a way of annoying Tom. Pamela, who normally breakfasted in bed, came down to take a cup of tea and see her husband off. A little conversation moved in stops and starts. The wind outside creaked a shutter.
Then Sir Adam broke the silence.
‘Hello! Fancy that!’ He flung the letter down. ‘Very handsome of D’Arcy! Very handsome indeed!’
He was begging to be asked the news and Pamela was first to ask it.
‘D’Arcy, dear? What has he … ?’
‘The concession. He’s split off a chunk for us.’ He picked up the letter again. ‘“Delighted with your excellent work … blah, blah … Very happy to make you a small present … Gift … Drilling rights south of a line drawn from Bandar-e Deylam across to Persepolis.” Great heavens!’
But, surprised as Sir Adam might be, his surprise was as nothing compared to Tom’s. Tom was sitting bolt upright, white-lipped, open-eyed.
‘You mean to say we can drill there? By ourselves? We don’t have to ask anyone?’
Sir Adam laughed. ‘Yes, Tom. We have the drilling rights. We don’t have to ask anyone.’
‘Everywhere south of Persepolis? Anywhere we want?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The mountains,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the mountains.’
And he was right. Since his meeting with D’Arcy – and even more so since Sir Adam’s own involvement in Persian oil – Tom had become an oil obsessive and a Persia fanatic. He knew as much about the geography, climate, geology, tribes and politics of Persia as he’d been able to learn from Sir Adam’s library.
‘That’s right. The mountains of the Zagros. The wild country around Shiraz and the Rukna valley. Heavy work to look for oil there, I should think.’
Tom shook his head with an angry little flick. ‘There isn’t much chance of it there. The best places are further north.’
‘Well, you can’t expect the fellow to hand over his crown jewels. After all –’
‘But some.’
‘What?’
‘There is some chance. I didn’t say there wasn’t any chance.’
Sir Adam laughed at the youngster’s intensity. ‘Lord, Tommy! D’Arcy’s pocket is as deep as any, I believe, and I don’t think he’s ready for the expense of drilling there. I shouldn’t think that we –’
‘Can I have it then?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The silence at the table grew suddenly cavernous. The family of five might as well have been breakfasting alone beneath the dome of St Paul’s.
‘Can I have it? The concession? If you don’t want it.’
Sir Adam smiled. Perhaps he’d been hoping to encourage Tom to drop the directness of his demand. Perhaps he’d been hoping to soothe away the sudden sense of danger that had for some reason arisen. In any case, he smiled.
It was the wrong thing to do. Something flared in Tom’s blue eyes. He pointed at Guy.
‘He gets the house and all the land. Alan gets – I don’t know – money? A farm or something?’
Tom was just about to turn eight and he was piecing together the facts