Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“It’s more like a football ground,” said Robin, stepping for the first time inside a jumbo jet.

“It holds 350 people. About the size of the crowds most of your English clubs deserve,” said Jean-Pierre.

“Cut it out,” said James sternly, not realizing that they were both nervous passengers and were only trying to relieve the tension. Later, during takeoff, they both pretended to read, but as soon as the plane reached 3,000 feet and the little white light that says “fasten seat belts” switched off, they were back in top form.

The Team chewed its way stolidly through a plastic dinner of cold chicken and Algerian red wine.

“I do hope, James,” said Jean-Pierre, “that your father-in-law will feed us a little better.”

After the meal James allowed them to watch the film, but insisted that as soon as it was over they must prepare to be tested one by one. Robin and Jean-Pierre moved back fifteen rows to watch The Sting. Stephen stayed in his seat to be grilled by James.

James handed Stephen a typewritten sheet of forty questions on the price of gold all over the world and the market movements during the past four weeks. Stephen completed it in twenty-two minutes, and it came

as no surprise to James to find that every answer was correct: Stephen had always been the backbone of the Team, and it was his logical brain that had really defeated Harvey Metcalfe.

Stephen and James dozed intermittently until Robin and Jean-Pierre returned, when they were given their forty questions. Robin took thirty minutes over his and scored 38 out of 40. Jean-Pierre took twenty-seven minutes and scored 37.

“Stephen got 40 out of 40,” said James.

“He would,” said Jean-Pierre.

Robin looked a little sheepish.

“And so will you by September 2nd. Understood?”

They both nodded.

“Have you seen The Sting?” asked Robin.

“No,” replied Stephen. “I rarely go to the cinema.”

“They’re not in our league. One big operation, and they don’t even keep the money.”

“Go to sleep, Robin.”

The meal, the film and James’s quizzes had taken up most of the six-hour flight and they all nodded off in the last hour, to be woken up suddenly by:

“This is your captain speaking. We are approaching Logan International Airport and our flight is running twenty minutes late. We expect to land at 7:15 in approximately ten minutes. We hope you have enjoyed your flight and will travel again with British Airways.”

Customs took a little longer than usual as they all three had brought presents for the wedding and did not want James to know what they were. They had considerable trouble in explaining to the customs officer why one of the two Piaget watches had inscribed on the back: “Part of the illicit profits from Prospecta Oil—the three who had plans.”

When they finally escaped the customs official, they found Anne standing at the entrance by a large Cadillac waiting to chauffeur them to the hotel.

“Now we know why it took you so long to come up with something: you were genuinely distracted. Congratulations, James, you’re entirely forgiven,” said Jean-Pierre, and threw his arms round Anne as only a Frenchman could. Robin introduced himself and kissed her gently on the cheek. Stephen shook hands with her rather formally. They bustled into the car, Jean-Pierre sitting next to Anne.

“Miss Summerton,” stuttered Stephen.

“Do call me Anne.”

“Will the reception be at the hotel?”

“No,” replied Anne, “at my parents’ house, but there’ll be a car to pick you up and take you there after the wedding. Your only responsibility is to see that James gets to the church by 3:30. Other than that you have nothing to worry about. While I think of it, James, your father and mother arrived yesterday and they’re staying with my parents. We thought it might not be a good idea for you to spend this evening at home because Mother’s flapping about everything.”

“Anything you say, darling.”

“If you should change your mind between now and tomorrow,” said Jean-Pierre, “I find myself available. I may not be blessed with noble blood, but there are one or two compensations we French can always offer.”

Anne smiled to herself. “You’re a little late, Jean-Pierre. In any case, I don’t like beards.”