Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (15 page)

“Well, actually, I have given it a lot of
thought, but nothing came.”

“Useless–worse than useless,” said Adrian.

James was stammering helplessly. Stephen cut
him short.

“Now listen, James, and listen carefully. We
meet again in twenty-one days’ time from tonight. By then we must know
everybody else’s plans by heart with no mistake. One error could blow the whole
thing. Do you understand?”

James nodded–he was determined not to let
them down in that.

“And what is more,” said Stephen firmly, “you
must have your own plan ready for scrutiny. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” mumbled James unhappily.

“Any other questions?” said Stephen.

There were none.

“Right.
We go through the three individual
operations again detail by detail.”

Stephen ignored muttered protests.

“Remember, we’re up against a man who isn’t
used to being beaten. We won’t get a second chance.”

For an hour and a half they went through the
details of each operation in the order of action. First, Jean Pierre during
Wimbledon fortnight: second, Adrian in Monte Carlo: third, Stephen during and
after Ascot.

It was late when they finally rose from the
table. They departed wearily, each with several tasks to carry out before their
next meeting. All went their separate ways, due to meet again the following
Friday in the Jericho Theatre of St. Thomas’s Hospital.

T
he next twenty days turned out to
be
hard work for all four of them, for each had to master
the other plans as well as organise his own. Friday brought them all together
for the first of many sessions at St. Thomas’s Hospital, which would have been
entirely successful if James had managed to stay on his feet–it was not even
the sight of blood that daunted him, just the sight of the knife was enough.
Its only virtue from James’s standpoint was that he once again avoided having
to explain why he had not come up with any ideas of his own.

The next week was almost full time, with
Stephen in Harley Street taking a potted course in medicine on a fairly high
level in one particular field. James spent several hours driving an old van
through heavy traffic from St. Thomas’s to Harley Street, preparing for his
final test in Monte Carlo, which he felt ought to be considerably easier. He
spent some days in Oxford, learning how the secretary of the University Chest’s
office operated, and also watching the movements of the secretary himself, Mr.
Caston.

Jean Pierre, at a cost to Mr. Metcalfe of £5.25
and a 48-hour wait, became an overseas member of Crockford’s, London’s most
distinguished gaming club, and spent his evenings watching the wealthy and lazy
play baccarat and blackjack, the stakes often reaching £1,000. After three
weeks he ventured to join The Golden Nugget casino in Soho, where the stakes
rarely reached £5. At the end of the month he had played 56 hours, but so
conservatively that he was only showing a small loss.

James’s overriding worry was still his
personal contribution. The more he grappled with the problem, the less he came
to grips with it. His mind never left the problem, even when he was travelling
through London at sixty mph. After returning the van to Carnies in Lots Road,
Chelsea, he drove his Alfa Romeo over to Anne’s flat by the river, wondering if
he dared confide in her.

Anne was preparing a special meal for James.
She was aware that he not only appreciated good food, but had taken it for
granted all his life. The homemade gazpacho
was smelling
good and the coq au vin was all but ready. Lately she found herself avoiding
modelling assignments out of London as she did not care to be away from James
for any period of time. She was very conscious that he was the first man for
some time she would have been willing to go to bed with and to date he had been
no more than gentle and attentive.

James arrived carrying a bottle of Beaune
Montee Rouge 1971–even his wine cellar was fast disappearing. He only hoped it
would last until the plans came to fruition. Not that he felt an automatic
right to success after his own efforts.

James thought Anne looked very beautiful.
She was wearing a long black dress of some soft material that tantalised him
with the reticence with which it outlined her shape. She wore no make-up or
jewellery, and her heavy nob of hair gleamed in the candlelight. The meal was a
triumph for Anne and James started wanting her very badly. She seemed a little
nervous, spilling ground coffee as she filtered two strong, tiny cups. What was
in her mind? He did not want to blunder with unwanted attentions. James had had
much more practice at being loved than at being in love. He was used to
adulation, to ending up in bed with girls who almost made him shudder in the
cold, clear light of morning. Anne affected him in an entirely new way. He
wanted to be close to her, to hold her and to love her. Above all, he did want
to find her there in the morning.

Anne cleared away the supper, avoiding James’s
eye, and they settled down to brandy and Billie Holliday singing, “I get along
without you very well.” She sat, hands clasped round her knees, on the floor at
James’s feet, staring into the fire. Tentatively, he put out a hand and stroked
her hair. She sat unresponsive for a moment and then she bent her head back and
stretched out her arm to bring his face down to hers. He responded, leaning
forward, and stroked her cheek and nose with his mouth, holding her head in his
hands, his fingers gently exploring her ears and neck. Her skin smelled faintly
of jasmine and her open mouth glinted in the firelight as she smiled up at him.
He kissed her and slid his hands down onto her body. She felt soft and slight
under his hands. He caressed her breasts gently, and moved down
beside
her, his body pressing against hers. Wordlessly, he
reached behind her and unzipped her dress. He stood up, his eyes never leaving
hers, and undressed quickly. She glanced at his body and smiled shyly.

“Darling James,” she said softly.

After they had made love, Anne settled her
head on James’s shoulder and stroked the hair on his chest with a fingertip.
She sensed that something was wrong. There are occasions in life when
revelation is made easier by circumstance.

“What’s the matter, James darling? I know I’m
rather shy. Wasn’t I very good?”

“You were fantastic. God knows you were
fantastic. That’s not the problem... Anne, I just have to tell you something,
so just lie there and listen.”

“You’re married.”

“No, it’s much worse than that.” James
thought for a moment, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Anne darling, I have
made a bloody fool of myself by investing all my money with a bunch of crooks.
I haven’t even told my family as they would be terribly distressed if they knew
the truth. Now I’ve got myself involved with three other people in the same
predicament–we’re all trying to get our money back. Nice chaps, full of bright
ideas, but I haven’t a clue where to begin and keep my part of the bargain.
What with the worry of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds down the drain and
constantly racking my brain for a good idea, I’m half frantic. You’re the only
thing that’s kept me sane.”

Thus James revealed the entire history of
Discovery Oil, from his meeting with David Kesler at Annabel’s to his
invitation to dine with Stephen Bradley at Magdalen through to the reason he
had been driving a hired van in London’s rush hour like a maniac. The only
detail James left out was the name of their intended victim as he felt that by
withholding this fact he was not completely violating his bond of secrecy with
the rest of the Team.

Anne breathed very deeply.

“I hardly know what to say. It’s quite
incredible. It’s so unbelievable that I believe every word.”

“I feel better just for telling you, but it
would be terrible if it ever got out.”

“James, you know I won’t say a word to
anyone. I’m so very sorry you’re in such a mess. You must let me see if I can
help in some way. Why don’t we work together without letting the others know?”

She began stroking the inside of his leg.
Twenty minutes later, they sank into a blissful sleep.

I
n Lincoln, Massachusetts, Harvey Metcalfe
began to prepare for his annual trip to England. He intended to enjoy himself
thoroughly and expensively. He had plans for transferring some money from his
numbered accounts in Zurich to Barclays Bank, Lombard Street, ready for the
purchase of another stallion from one of the Irish stables to join his stud in
Kentucky. Arlene had decided not to accompany him on this trip: she did not
care too much for Ascot and even less for Monte Carlo. In any case, it gave her
the chance to spend some rime with her ailing mother in Vermont, who still had
little rime for her son-in-law.

Harvey checked with his secretary that all
the arrangements for his holiday had been made. There never was any need to
check up on Miss Fish, it was simply habit on Harvey’s part. Miss Fish had been
with him for twenty-five years, from the days when he had first taken over The
Lincoln Trust. Most of the staff had walked out on Harvey’s arrival, or shortly
thereafter, but Miss Fish had stayed, nursing in her unalluring bosom ever
fainter hopes of marriage to Harvey. By the time Arlene appeared on the scene,
Miss Fish was an able and completely discreet accomplice without whom Harvey
could hardly have operated. He paid her accordingly, so she swallowed her
chagrin at the creation of Mrs. Metcalfe, and remained put.

Miss Fish had already booked the short
flight to New York and the Trafalgar Suite on the
Q.E.2.
The trip across the Atlantic was almost the only total break
Harvey ever had from the telephone or telex. The bank
staff
were
instructed to contact the great liner only in dire emergency. On
arrival at Southampton it would be the usual Rolls Royce to London and his
private suite at Claridge’s, one of the last hotels, along with the Connaught
and Brown’s, that have
a style
money alone cannot
reproduce.

Harvey flew to New York in high good humour,
drinking rather too many manhattans on the way. The arrangements on board ship
were as impeccable as ever. The captain, Peter Jackson, always invited the
occupant of the Trafalgar Suite or the Queen Anne Suite to join him on the
first night out at the captain’s table. At $1,250 a day for the suites it was
hardly an extravagant gesture on Cunard’s part. On such occasions, Harvey was
always on his best behaviour, although even that struck most onlookers as a
little brash.

One of the Italian stewards found it
worthwhile to arrange a little diversion for Harvey, preferably in the shape of
a tall blonde with a large bosom. The going rate for the night was $100 but the
Italian could charge Harvey $150 and get away with it. A 5 feet 7 inches and
227 pounds, Harvey’s chances of picking up a young thing in the discotheque
were not very good and by the time he had lashed out on drinks and dinner, he
would have spent almost as much money to achieve absolutely nothing. Men in
Harvey’s position do not have time for that sort of failure and expect that
everything will have its price. As the voyage was only five nights the steward
was able to keep Harvey fully occupied, although he felt it just as well that
Harvey had not booked a three-week Mediterranean cruise.

Harvey spent his days catching up with the
latest novels and taking a little exercise, a swim in the morning and a painful
session in the gymnasium in the afternoon. He could reckon to lose ten pounds
during the crossing, which was pleasing, but somehow Claridge’s always managed
to put it on again before he returned to the States. However, his suits were
tailored by Bernard Weatherill of Dover Street, Mayfair, who managed by dint of
near genius and impeccable skill to make him look well built rather than
distinctly fat. At £250 a time it was the least he could expect.

When the five days were drawing to a close,
Harvey was more than ready for land again. The women, the exercise and the
fresh air had quite revived him and he had lost all of eleven pounds this time.
He felt a good deal of this must have come off the night before. She had made
the
Kama Sutra
look like a Boy Scouts
Handbook.

One of the advantages of real wealth is that
menial tasks can always be left to someone else. Harvey could no longer
remember when he last packed or unpacked a suitcase, and it came as no surprise
to him when the ship docked at the Ocean Terminal to discover everything packed
and ready for Customs–a hundred-dollar bill for the head steward seemed to
bring men in little white coats from every direction.

Harvey always enjoyed disembarking at
Southampton. The English were a race he liked, though he feared he would never
understand them. He found them so willing to be trodden on by the rest of the
world. Since the Second World War, they had relinquished their colonial power
in a way no American businessman would have considered an exit from his own
Board room. Harvey had finally given up trying to understand the British way of
business during the 1967 devaluation of the pound. It had been taken advantage
of by every jumped-up speculator on the face of the globe. Harvey knew on the
Tuesday morning that Harold Wilson was going to devalue any time after Friday,
five o’clock Greenwich Mean Time. On the Thursday even the junior clerk at The
Lincoln Trust knew. It was no wonder that the Bank of England lost an estimated
$1.5 billion in four days. Harvey had often thought that if only the British
could liven up their Board rooms and get their tax structure right, they could
be the richest nation in the world instead of a nation which, as
The Economist
stated, could be bought by
the Arabs with sixty days of oil revenue. While the British flirted with
socialism and still retained
a
folie
de grandeur,
they seemed doomed to sink into insignificance.