Be Careful What You Wish For: The Clifton Chronicles 4 (8 page)

‘The board meeting could not have gone better. They agreed by one vote to go ahead with the commissioning of the
Buckingham,
and it was the major’s vote that swung it. The
next thing we need to find out is which shipyard will be awarded the contract to build it. Until we know that, we can’t go ahead with the second part of my plan.’

‘And as that might prove rather expensive,’ chipped in Diego, ‘do you have any ideas as to how we’re going to bankroll this whole operation?’

‘Yes,’ said Don Pedro. ‘I intend to rob a bank.’

Colonel Scott-Hopkins slipped into the Clarence just before midday. The pub was only a couple of hundred yards from Downing Street, and was well known for being frequented by
tourists. He walked up to the bar and ordered a half pint of bitter and a double gin and tonic.

‘That’ll be three and six, sir,’ said the barman.

The colonel put two florins on the counter, picked up the drinks and made his way over to an alcove in the far corner, where they would be well hidden from prying eyes. He placed the drinks down
on a small wooden table covered in rings from beer glasses and cigarette butts. He checked his watch. His boss was rarely late, even though in his job problems did have a habit of arising at the
last minute. But not today, because the cabinet secretary walked into the pub a few moments later and headed straight for the alcove.

The colonel rose from his place. ‘Good morning, sir.’ He would never have considered addressing him as Sir Alan; far too familiar.

‘Good morning, Brian. As I only have a few minutes to spare, perhaps you could bring me up to date.’

‘Martinez, his sons Diego and Luis, as well as Karl Lunsdorf, are clearly working as a team. However, since my meeting with Martinez, not one of them has been anywhere near the Princess
Alexandra Hospital in Harlow, or paid a visit to Bristol.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Sir Alan as he picked up his glass. ‘But it doesn’t mean Martinez isn’t working on something else. He’s not a man to back
off quite that easily.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, sir. Although he may not be going to Bristol, it doesn’t mean Bristol isn’t coming to him.’

The cabinet secretary raised an eyebrow.

‘Alex Fisher is now working full time for Martinez. He’s back on the board of Barrington’s, and reports directly to his new boss in London once, sometimes twice a
week.’

The cabinet secretary sipped his double gin while he considered the implications of the colonel’s words. The first thing he would have to do was purchase a few shares in Barrington
Shipping so he could be sent a copy of the minutes following every board meeting.

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. Martinez has made an appointment to see the governor of the Bank of England next Thursday morning at eleven.’

‘So we’re about to find out just how many counterfeit five-pound notes the damn man still has in his possession.’

‘But I thought we destroyed them all in Southampton last June?’

‘Only those he’d hidden in the base of the Rodin statue. But he’s been smuggling smaller amounts out of Buenos Aires for the past ten years, long before any of us realized what
he was up to.’

‘Why doesn’t the governor simply refuse to deal with the man, when we all know they’re counterfeits?’

‘Because the governor is a pompous ass, and refuses to believe that anyone is capable of reproducing a perfect copy of one of his precious five-pound notes. So Martinez is about to swap
all his old lamps for new, and there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘I could always kill him, sir.’

‘The governor, or Martinez?’ said Sir Alan, not quite sure if Scott-Hopkins was joking.

The colonel smiled. He wouldn’t have minded which one.

‘No, Brian, I can’t sanction killing Martinez until I have a lawful excuse, and when I last checked, counterfeiting was not a hanging offence.’

Don Pedro sat at his desk, impatiently drumming his fingers on a blotting pad as he waited for the phone to ring.

The board meeting had been scheduled for ten o’clock, and usually finished around midday. It was already 12.20 p.m., and he hadn’t heard a word from Fisher, despite giving him clear
instructions to call the moment the meeting was over. However, he recalled that Karl had recommended that Fisher shouldn’t attempt to contact the boss until he was far enough away from
Barrington House to be sure that no other board member witnessed him making the call.

Karl had also advised the major to select a venue that none of his fellow directors would consider frequenting. Fisher had chosen the Lord Nelson, not only because it was less than a mile from
Barrington’s shipyard, but because it was situated on the lower dockside: a pub that specialized in pints of bitter, the occasional cider, and didn’t need to stock Harvey’s
Bristol Cream. Even more important, there was a phone box outside the front door.

The phone rang on Don Pedro’s desk. He grabbed the receiver before the second ring. Karl had also advised Fisher not to identify himself when calling from a public phone box, or to waste
any time on small talk, and to make sure he delivered his message in under a minute.

‘Harland and Wolff, Belfast.’

‘There is a God in heaven,’ said Don Pedro.

The line went dead. Clearly nothing else had been discussed at the board meeting that Fisher felt couldn’t wait until he travelled up to London the following day. Don Pedro replaced the
receiver and looked across at the three men on the other side of the desk. Each of them already knew what their next job would be.

‘Come.’

The chief teller opened the door and stood aside to allow the banker from Argentina to enter the governor’s office. Martinez entered the room, dressed in a pinstriped double-breasted suit,
white shirt and silk tie, all purchased from a tailor in Savile Row. He was followed by two uniformed guards who carried a large, battered school trunk displaying the initials
BM.
Bringing
up the rear was a tall, thin gentleman dressed in a smart black jacket, grey waistcoat, pinstriped trousers and a dark tie with pale blue stripes, to remind lesser mortals that he and the governor
had been educated at the same school.

The guards placed the trunk in the centre of the room as the governor slipped out from behind his desk and shook hands with Don Pedro. He looked fixedly at the trunk as his guest unlocked its
clasps and opened the lid. The five men stared down at row upon row of neatly stacked five-pound notes. Not an unusual sight for any of them.

The governor turned to the chief teller and said, ‘Somerville, these notes are to be counted and then double-checked, and if Mr Martinez is in agreement with your figure, you will then
shred them.’

The chief teller nodded, and one of the guards lowered the trunk’s lid and flicked the clasps back into place. The guards then slowly lifted the heavy trunk and followed the chief teller
out of the room. The governor didn’t speak again until he heard the door close.

‘Perhaps you’d care to join me for a glass of Bristol Cream, old man, while we wait to confirm that our figures tally?’

It had taken Don Pedro some time to accept that ‘old man’ was a term of endearment, even a recognition that you were a member of the club, despite being a foreigner.

The governor filled two glasses and passed one across to his guest. ‘Good health, old fellow.’

‘Good health, old fellow,’ mimicked Don Pedro.

‘I’m surprised,’ said the governor after taking a sip, ‘that you kept such a large amount in cash.’

‘The money’s been stored in a vault in Geneva for the past five years, and it would have remained there if your government hadn’t decided to print new bank notes.’

‘Not my decision, old man. In fact I counselled against it, but that fool of a cabinet secretary – wrong school and wrong university,’ he mumbled between sips, ‘insisted
that the Germans had been counterfeiting our five-pound notes during the war. I told him that simply wasn’t possible, but he wouldn’t listen. Seemed to think he knew better than the
Bank of England. I also told him that as long as my signature was on an English bank note, the amount would be honoured in full.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected less,’ said Don Pedro, risking a smile.

After that, the two men found it difficult to settle on a subject with which they both felt at ease. Only polo (not water), Wimbledon, and looking forward to the twelfth of August kept them
going long enough for the governor to pour a second sherry, and he couldn’t hide his relief when the phone on his desk finally rang. He put down his glass, picked up the phone and listened
intently. The governor removed a Parker pen from an inside pocket and wrote down a figure. He then asked the chief teller to repeat it.

‘Thank you, Somerville,’ he said before putting the receiver down. ‘I’m happy to say that our figures tally, old fellow. Not that I ever doubted they would,’ he
added quickly.

He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a cheque book and wrote
Two million, one hundred and forty-three thousand, one hundred and thirty-five pounds,
in a neat, bold,
copperplate hand. He couldn’t resist adding the word
only
before appending his signature. He smiled as he handed the cheque to Don Pedro, who checked the figure before returning his
smile.

Don Pedro would have preferred a banker’s draft, but a cheque signed by the governor of the Bank of England was the next best thing. After all, like the five-pound note, it had his
signature on it.

T
HE THREE OF THEM
left 44 Eaton Square at different times during the morning, but they all ended up at the same destination.

Luis was the first to appear. He walked to Sloane Square underground station and boarded a Circle line train to Hammersmith, where he crossed platforms to the Piccadilly line. Corporal Crann was
never far behind.

Diego took a cab to Victoria coach station, and climbed on board a bus for the airport; a moment later he was joined by his shadow.

Luis made it easy for Captain Hartley to follow his every move, but then, he was doing no more than his father had ordered. At Hounslow West he exited the underground and took a taxi to London
Airport, where he checked the departures board to confirm that his flight would be leaving in just over an hour. He purchased the latest copy of
Playboy
from W.H. Smith and, as he had no
bag to check in, made his way slowly towards gate 5.

Diego’s bus dropped him outside the terminal a few minutes before ten. He also checked the departure board, to find that his flight to Madrid had been delayed by forty minutes. It was of
no consequence. He strolled across to Forte’s Grill, bought a coffee and a ham sandwich, and took a seat near the entrance so that no one could miss him.

Karl opened the front door of number 44 a few minutes after Luis’s flight had taken off for Nice. He headed in the direction of Sloane Street, carrying a Harrods bag that was already full.
He paused to window-shop on the way, not to admire the goods on display, but to look at the reflections in the glass; an old ruse to check if you’re being followed. He was, by the same
shabbily dressed little man who’d been shadowing him for the past month. By the time he reached Harrods, he was well aware that his pursuer was only a few strides behind him.