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

“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 traveled 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, gray 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 center 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 counseled 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 honored 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 checkbook 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 check to Don Pedro, who checked the figure before returning his smile.

Don Pedro would have preferred a banker’s draft, but a check 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.

8

THE 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 Crann 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 WH Smith and, as he had no bag to check in, made his way slowly toward 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.

A doorman in a long green overcoat and wearing a top hat opened the door for Karl and saluted. He took pride in recognizing his regular customers.

The moment Karl stepped inside the store he began to walk quickly through haberdashery, speeding up as he passed leather goods, and he was almost running by the time he reached the bank of six lifts. Only one of them had its gate open. It was already packed, but he squeezed in. His shadow almost caught up with him, but the lift attendant pulled the grille shut before he could jump in. The pursued couldn’t resist smiling at the pursuer as the lift disappeared out of sight.