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

“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 Harl

ow, 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 offense.”

* * *

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.