Pondok Indah stood in fifteen acres nestled between the slopes of a small valley surrounding by breath taking views; the Caribbean to the west and the nearby rain forest that rose up to the clouds and dark peaks to the east. Smeaton’s home totalled almost seven thousand square feet, including the gazebo and garages, set in several acres of luxuriant vegetation with a stone paths leading down through carefully tended tropical gardens, past a series of natural waterfalls, to a small private sandy cove and jetty.
Two generators stood by in case of power outage and water was collected from a stream in the adjoining rainforest then treated to provide a constant supply of fresh, clean water to the house and grounds. An air-conditioning system provided protection from the tropical heat and a satellite link ensured communications and television.
‘Beautiful place,’ said Smeaton proudly waving his arm at the magnificent view from the terrace, stopping to admire the luxurious swimming pool below, as he guided Barton to his room. ‘Dominica was discovered by Christopher Columbus in 1493,’ he said filling his guest in on the history of the island. ‘It was British and French for centuries, before independence in 1978.’
Barton had little difficulty in imagining the Santa Maria and the navigator’s other ships in the bay, it was magic, the damp tropical vegetation, the mist hanging in the trees on the higher slopes, the scene was nothing short of breathtaking.
‘Over there,’ Smeaton said pointing to the ridge on south side of the valley, ‘we acquired forty acres of land and are building a few houses like this, we can talk about it later after you’ve freshened up.’
The sun was low in the sky over the Caribbean when Barton joined Smeaton and Fitzwilliams at the pool side bar for drinks.
‘So what exactly do you do?’ asked Fitzwilliams who had carefully avoided the question earlier in the day.
‘Property investment, mortgage brokerage. In the City off Fenchurch Street. I quit last year. Decided to retire if you like, live off my ill gotten gains,’ he replied jestingly, instinctively knowing the less he divulged the better.
‘Got out at the right moment,’ remarked Smeaton.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Set yourself up, a man of independent means,’ added Smeaton, seeming a little old fashioned.
‘Well you couldn’t say I’m exactly rich, more well off so to speak,’ he said modestly.
‘One of the almost rich,’ joked Fitzwilliams.
‘You could say that.’
It was a strange set of events that brought Barton to this chance meeting in Dominica with the successful scion of an old Anglo-Irish banking family. Under most circumstances the high flying City banker would not have afforded him much time. It was one those odd quirks of fate, the meeting on Tarasov’s yacht, which in appearance put him on the same plane as the banker, then finding himself seated beside him on the Air France flight. In distant lands, far from the unwritten rules and conventions of the society in which they normally lived, men met on an equal footing and unlikely friendships were often born.
‘You have some plans to stay here Tom?’ asked Fitzwilliams.
‘Well I heard this was a quiet and discreet place, a good place to be for banking and investment.’
‘I see what you mean. That’s exactly why we’re here, my family has long standing interests in banking in the Caribbean, like Malcolm with the Anglo-Dutch Commercial Bank.’
The discussion mellowed as dinner was served by Smeaton’s cook and housekeeper, Cissie, with Clarence, Smeaton’s kindly Jeeves, serving the wine and discretely fussing with the niceties. Grilled spiny lobster and Snapper Criollo were served with an excellent white Bordeaux.
‘If you’re looking for something to rent for a month or so Tom, I’ll show you one of the villas at our Emerald Pool development tomorrow.’
‘Yes do that Malcolm,’ said Fitzwilliams enthusiastically. ‘Our business here is rather informal Tom,’ he added. ‘Malcolm and I are old friends we don’t go in for the kind of meetings you see in the City for our business.’
‘That’s right Tom. The only formal commitment we have is one of Stanford’s get-togethers in Antigua next week, you can join us if you like.’
‘Stanford?’
‘The banker, he’s sponsoring a cricket competition.’
Barton vaguely recalled seeing Stanford’s name on the sports pages; he was little out of touch with cricketing news.
The next morning after breakfast, they were joined by an attractive young woman who Smeaton introduced as Sarah Kavanagh, the Emerald Pool development manager, giving Barton the uneasy sensation of finding himself in a situation where he would be obliged.
Smeaton seeing a shadow pass over Barton’s face laughed. ‘Don’t worry Tom, it’s because we’re proud of out little development, and it’s because I need a little time to discuss some business together with Michael, so it will be an opportunity for Sarah to show you around.’
‘Suits me fine,’ said Barton a little embarrassed by his own transparency.
‘After Sarah will show you Roseau,’ he said, then turning to Sarah added with a smile, ‘N’est pas my dear. Then we’ll see each other here at lunch time.’
‘I’ll have Mr Barton back in time for lunch,’ promised Sarah.
What had he to lose? Nothing, he reasoned, after all he couldn’t have a better guide to Dominica than Smeaton, obviously a man of importance on the island with its tiny population, a mere seventy thousand. There could not be that many bankers with such opulent homes in Dominica. Then looking at Sarah he decided to keep an open mind, what could be more agreeable than to spending the morning in this tropical paradise with this nice-looking young woman?
‘We’ll take the Jimny,’ said Sarah pointing to the small SUV parked on the drive, ‘it’s not far, but it’s up and down hill, hard going in this humidity.’
Heavy white clouds clung to the tree tops further up the mountain and with a temperature nearing thirty degrees the humidity was undeniably high.
At the top of the driveway they turned right and a couple of hundred metres further along the main road pulled up at a large portal with wrought iron gates, it stood between two sweeping walls each bearing a polished bronze plaque, one engraved with the name ‘Emerald Pool’ and the other ‘Hotel and Villas’.
Sarah pointed a remote control and the gates opened. A dozen metres beyond was a small green cabin, a check point, where they were greeted by a smiling security guard.
‘Good morning Miss Sarah.’
‘Hello Irvine how are you today.’
‘Fine Miss Sarah.’
‘We’re just visiting the villas.’
‘Okay, if you need me just call.’
‘So there’s a hotel here?’ asked Barton.
‘Not yet, construction should be starting soon. For the moment six villas have been completed and two others have been sold, but work has not yet commenced. The hotel is still in the starting blocks.’
‘Are the villas occupied?’
‘Two are permanently occupied by the owners, the others are rented on short term leases, their owners live overseas and usually spend a couple of months a year here.’
The road led downhill face to the sea. After the first bend they turned into a side road that led to one of the villas which looked every bit as splendid as that of Smeaton’s, surrounded by immaculate gardens and original tropical trees.
‘We look after the maintenance and upkeep, we also look after the leasing.’
They climbed out of the Jimny and Sarah led the way with a bunch of keys in her hand.
‘Each villa has a sea view and a pool. The hotel will be built over there behind that rise, it will have its own entrance.’
‘How many rooms?’
‘Thirty suites.’
‘That’s not many.’
‘No,’ she laughed, ‘it’s not a tourist hotel, it’s highly exclusive, top end of the market. The suites are in fact independent bungalows overlooking the sea, complete with kitchens, though the centra
l unit includes a restaurant service for guests.’
‘Sounds very exclusive?’
‘It’s intended to be.’
They walked around the villa to the pool side. Sarah opened the doors that led into the spacious main reception room. It was furnished in a mixture of Oriental and Caribbean styles with panoramic windows looking out onto the lush tropical garden.
‘What’s the price of a villa like this?’
‘Three million dollars.’
‘I’ve got no idea what that means here.’
‘Well, there’s not much property for sale on the island. Mostly small stuff. For those with money Dominica is an almost private island, with a friendly population, off the beaten track, a tropical paradise, no taxes, no crime, a place for the rich to invest, those who want to get away, a haven of peace. The same thing in the Bahamas would cost more than twice that.’
‘Perhaps it could be boring.’
She smiled a wry smile.
‘You mean island fever?’
‘I don’t know, but it sounds like the right term,’ he said laughing.
‘If you want to get away, you’re a twenty minute flight from France.’
‘Guadeloupe?’
‘Yes, there’s plenty of life there.’
‘Well I’m looking for a place that’s quiet and no taxes.’
‘Then this is the place.’
‘I don’t know about spending three million dollars.’
‘At the Emerald Pool we start at about two million, the most expensive we’ve built so far is eight million. For a Russian who lives in London.’
The hotel site was extraordinarily beautiful, offshore were several small islands the nearest of which was connected to the beach by a narrow sandy peninsula. The construction site itself had been cleared of low lying vegetation leaving only the original palms and tropical hardwoods.
‘We hope to start in September. It depends on the financing, with the situation as it stands at present we may have to wait.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘I live in Roseau, I’ve been here a few months.’
‘How long do you expect to stay?’
She shrugged her shoulders suddenly forgetting her sales pitch.
‘Depends on the economic situation.’
‘Do you have many potential clients?’
‘There’s no lack of clients, but to be honest they’re waiting.’
‘Let’s have a look at Roseau, I just arrived and know nothing about Dominica,’ suggested Barton.
The Emerald Pool