9
KARL ROSE LATE the following morning. He knew he couldn’t afford to be seen in a hotel breakfast room full of Protestants, so he grabbed a bacon butty at a café on the corner of Leeson Street, before he made his way slowly back to the Falls Road, which was now packed with shoppers, mothers with prams, children with dummies in their mouths, and black-frocked priests.
He was back outside the Volunteer moments after the landlord had opened the front door. He recognized Karl immediately – the five-pound man – but didn’t acknowledge him. Karl ordered a pint of lager and paid for it with the change from the bacon butty. He remained propping up the bar until closing time, with only two short breaks to relieve himself. A packet of Smith’s crisps with salt in a little blue sachet was his lunch. He had munched his way through three packets by the early evening, which only made him want to drink more. Locals came and went, and Karl noticed that one or two of them didn’t stop for a drink, which made him feel a little more hopeful. They looked without looking. But as the hours slipped by, still no one spoke to him or even glanced in his direction.
Fifteen minutes after calling last orders, the barman shouted, ‘Time, gentlemen please,’ and Karl felt he’d spent another wasted day. As he headed towards the door, he even thought about plan B, which would involve changing sides and making contact with the Protestants.
The moment he stepped out on to the pavement, a black Hillman drew up beside him. The back door swung open and, before he could react, two men grabbed him, hurled him on to the back seat and slammed the door shut. The car sped off.
Karl looked up to see a young man who certainly wasn’t old enough to vote, holding a gun to his forehead. The only thing that worried him was that the youth was clearly more frightened than he was, and was shaking so much that the gun was more likely to go off by accident than by design. He could have disarmed the boy in a moment, but as that wouldn’t have served his purpose, he didn’t resist when the older man seated on his other side tied his hands behind his back, then placed a scarf over his eyes. The same man checked to see if he was carrying a gun, and deftly removed his wallet. Karl heard him whistle as he counted the five-pound notes.
‘There’s a lot more where that came from,’ said Karl.
A heated argument followed, in a language Karl assumed must be their native tongue. He got the sense that one of them wanted to kill him, but he hoped the older man would be tempted by the possibility of more money. Money must have won, because he could no longer feel the gun touching his forehead.
The car swerved to the right, and moments later to the left. Who were they trying to fool? Karl knew they were simply going back over the same route, because they wouldn’t risk leaving their Catholic stronghold.
Suddenly, the car came to a halt, a door opened and Karl was thrown out on to the street. If he was still alive in five minutes’ time, he thought, he might live to collect his old-age pension. Someone grabbed him by the hair and yanked him to his feet. A shove in the middle of his back propelled him through an open door. A smell of burnt meat wafted from a back room, but he suspected that feeding him wasn’t on their agenda.
He was dragged up a flight of stairs into a room that had a bedroom smell, and pushed down on to a hard wooden chair. The door slammed, and he was left alone. Or was he? He assumed he must be in a safe house, and that someone senior, possibly even an area commander, would now be deciding what should be done with him.
He couldn’t be sure how long they kept him waiting. It felt like hours, each minute longer than the last. Then suddenly the door was thrown open, and he heard at least three men enter the room. One of them began to circle the chair.
‘What do you want, Englishman?’ said the gruff circling voice.
‘I’m not English,’ said Karl. ‘I’m German.’
A long silence followed. ‘So what do you want, Kraut?’
‘I have a proposition to put to you.’
‘Do you support the IRA?’ another voice, younger, passionate, but with no authority.
‘I don’t give a fuck about the IRA.’
‘Then why risk your life trying to find us?’
‘Because, as I said, I have a proposition you might find worthwhile. So why don’t you bugger off and get someone in here who can make decisions. Because I suspect, young man, that your mother is still teaching you your potty drill.’
A fist smashed into his mouth, followed by a loud angry exchange of opinions, several voices speaking at the same time. Karl felt blood trickle down his chin, and braced himself for the second blow, but it never came. The older man must have prevailed. A moment later three of them left the room, and the door slammed. But this time Karl knew he wasn’t alone. Having his eyes covered for so long had made him more sensitive to sound and smell. At least an hour passed before the door opened again, and a man wearing shoes, not boots, entered the room. Karl could sense that he was just inches away.
‘What is your name?’ asked a man with a cultured voice and almost no accent.
Karl guessed the voice belonged to someone aged between thirty-five and forty. He smiled. Although he couldn’t see him, this was the man he’d come to negotiate with.
‘Karl Lunsdorf.’
‘And what brings you to Belfast, Mr Lunsdorf?’
‘I need your help.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘I need someone who believes in your cause and works at Harland and Wolff.’
‘I am sure you already know that very few Catholics can find work at Harland and Wolff. It’s a closed shop. I fear you may have made a wasted journey.’
‘There are a handful of Catholics, carefully vetted I admit, who work there in specialized areas, electrical, plumbing and welding, but only when the management can’t find a Protestant with the necessary skills.’
‘You’re well informed, Mr Lunsdorf. But even if we could find such a man who supported our cause, what would you expect him to do?’
‘Harland and Wolff have just been awarded a contract by Barrington Shipping—’
‘To build a luxury liner called the Buckingham.’
‘Now it’s you who’s well informed,’ said Karl.
‘Hardly,’ said the cultured voice. ‘An architect’s drawing of the proposed ship was printed on the front page of both our local papers the day after the contract was signed. So, Mr Lunsdorf, tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Work on the liner begins some time next month, with a delivery date to Barrington’s of March fifteenth, 1962.’
‘And what are you hoping we will be able to do? Speed the process up, or slow it down?’
‘Bring it to a halt.’
‘Not an easy task, when so many suspicious eyes will always be watching.’
‘We would make it worth your while.’
‘Why?’ said the gruff voice.
‘Let’s just say I represent a rival company who would like to see Barrington Shipping in financial difficulty.’
‘And how will we earn our money?’ asked the cultured voice.
‘By results. The contract stipulates that the construction of the ship is to be carried out in eight stages, with specific dates attached to each stage. For example, stage one has to be signed off by both sides on December the first this year at the latest. I propose that we pay you a thousand pounds for every day any stage is delayed. So, if it was held up for a year, we would pay you three hundred and sixty-five thousand.’
‘I know how many days there are in a year, Mr Lunsdorf. If we were to agree to your proposition, we would expect a “goodwill” payment in advance.’
‘How much?’ demanded Karl, feeling like an equal for the first time.
The two men whispered to each other. ‘I think a down payment of twenty thousand would help to convince us that you are serious,’ said the cultured voice.
‘Give me the details of your bank account, and I’ll transfer the full amount tomorrow morning.’
‘We’ll be in touch,’ said the cultured voice. ‘But not before we’ve given your proposition further consideration.’
‘But you don’t know where I live.’
‘Forty-four Eaton Square, Chelsea, Mr Lunsdorf.’ It was Karl’s turn to fall silent. ‘And should we agree to assist you, Mr Lunsdorf, be sure you don’t make the common mistake of underestimating the Irish, as the English have done for almost a thousand years.’
‘So how did you manage to lose Lunsdorf?’
‘He got away from Sergeant Roberts in Harrods.’
‘I sometimes wish I could do that when I’m shopping with my wife,’ said the cabinet secretary. ‘And what about Luis and Diego Martinez? Did they also get away?’
‘No, but they turned out to be nothing more than a couple of smokescreens to keep us occupied while Lunsdorf made good his escape.’
‘How long was Lunsdorf away?’
‘Three days. He was back in Eaton Square by Friday afternoon.’
‘He couldn’t have travelled too far during that time. If I was a betting man, I doubt I’d get very long odds on Belfast, remembering he’s spent several evenings during the past month drinking Guinness at Ward’s Irish House in Piccadilly.’
‘And Belfast is where they’re building the Buckingham. But I still haven’t worked out exactly what Martinez is up to,’ said Scott-Hopkins.
‘Neither have I, but I can tell you that he recently deposited just over two million pounds at the St James’s branch of the Midland Bank, and immediately starting buying more Barrington’s shares. It won’t be long before he’ll be able to place a second director on the board.’
‘Perhaps he’s planning to take over the company.’
‘And for Mrs Clifton, the idea of Martinez running the family business would be humiliating enough. Take away my good name . . .’
‘But Martinez could lose a fortune if he tried to do that.’
‘I doubt it. That man will already have a contingency plan in place, but like you I’m damned if I can work out what it is.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’
‘Not a lot, except sit and wait, and hope one of them makes a mistake.’ The cabinet secretary finished his drink before adding, ‘It’s at times like this I wish I’d been born in Russia. By now I’d be head of the KGB, and I wouldn’t have to waste time playing by the rules.’