38
Wednesday evening
THE CABINET SECRETARY had considered all the permutations, and felt he’d finally come up with the perfect way to deal with all four of them in one masterful stroke.
Sir Alan Redmayne believed in the rule of law. It was, after all, the basis of any democracy. Whenever asked, Sir Alan agreed with Churchill that, as a form of government, democracy had its disadvantages, but, on balance, it remained the best on offer. But given a free hand, he would have opted for a benevolent dictatorship. The problem was that dictators, by their very nature, were not benevolent. It simply didn’t fit their job description. In his opinion, the nearest thing Great Britain had to a benevolent dictator was the cabinet secretary.
If this had been Argentina, Sir Alan would simply have ordered Colonel Scott-Hopkins to kill Don Pedro Martinez, Diego Martinez, Luis Martinez and certainly Karl Lunsdorf, and then he could have closed their files. But like so many cabinet secretaries before him, he would have to compromise and be satisfied with one kidnapping, two deportations and a bankrupt who would be left with no choice but to return to his native land and never consider coming back.
In normal circumstances, Sir Alan would have waited for the due process of law to take its course. But unfortunately his hand had been forced by no less a figure than the Queen Mother.
He had read in the court circular that morning that Her Majesty had graciously accepted an invitation from the chairman of Barrington Shipping, Mrs Harry Clifton, to name the MV Buckingham at noon on Monday 21st September, leaving him only a few weeks to carry out his plan, as he wasn’t in any doubt that Don Pedro Martinez would have something other than a naming ceremony in mind on that particular day.
His first move, in what was going to be a busy few days, was to ensure that Karl Lunsdorf was eliminated from the equation altogether. His latest unforgivable crime, on The Night Scotsman, was despicable, even by his vile standards. Diego and Luis Martinez could wait their turn as he already had more than enough evidence to have them both arrested. And he was confident that once the two sons were released on bail, pending their trial, they would flee the country within days. The police would be instructed not to detain them when they turned up at the airport, as they would be well aware they could never return to Britain unless they were willing to face a long prison sentence.
They could wait. However, Karl Otto Lunsdorf, to give him the full name on his birth certificate, could not.
Although it was clear from the description given by the chief steward on The Night Scotsman that Lunsdorf had been responsible for throwing – he turned a page of his file – Miss Kitty Parsons, a well-known prostitute, out of the train in the middle of the night, there wasn’t a fighting chance of getting a beyond-reasonable-doubt verdict against the former SS officer while the poor woman remained in a coma. Despite this, the wheels of justice were about to be set in motion.
Sir Alan didn’t much care for cocktail parties and although he received a dozen invitations a day to attend everything from the Queen’s garden party to the Royal Box at Wimbledon, nine times out of ten, he penned the word No in the top right-hand corner of the invitation and left his secretary to come up with a convincing excuse. However, when he received an invitation from the Foreign Office to a drinks party to welcome the new Israeli Ambassador, Sir Alan had written ‘Yes, if free’ in the top right-hand corner.
The cabinet secretary had no particular desire to meet the new ambassador, whom he’d come across as a member of several delegations in the past. However, there would be one guest at the party with whom he did want to have a private word.
Sir Alan left his office in Downing Street just after six and strolled across to the FCO. After offering his congratulations to the new ambassador, and exchanging pleasantries with several others who wished to pay him court, he moved deftly around the crowded room, glass in hand, until his prey was in sight.
Simon Wiesenthal was chatting to the chief rabbi when Sir Alan joined them. He waited patiently for Sir Israel Brodie to begin a conversation with the ambassador’s wife, before he turned his back on the chattering crowd, to make it clear that he did not want to be interrupted.
‘Dr Wiesenthal, can I say how much I admire your campaign to hunt down those Nazis who were involved in the Holocaust.’ Wiesenthal gave a slight bow. ‘I wonder,’ said the cabinet secretary, lowering his voice, ‘if the name Karl Otto Lunsdorf means anything to you?’
‘Lieutenant Lunsdorf was one of Himmler’s closest aides,’ said Wiesenthal. ‘He worked as an SS interrogation officer on his private staff. I have countless files devoted to him, Sir Alan, but I fear he escaped from Germany a few days before the Allies entered Berlin. The last I heard he was living in Buenos Aires.’
‘I think you’ll find he’s a little closer to home,’ whispered Sir Alan. Wiesenthal edged nearer, bowed his head and listened intently.
‘Thank you, Sir Alan,’ said Wiesenthal after the cabinet secretary had passed on the relevant information. ‘I’ll get to work on it immediately.’
‘If there’s anything I can do to help, unofficially of course, you know where to find me,’ he said as the chairman of the Friends of Israel joined them.
Sir Alan placed his empty glass on a passing tray, rejected the offer of a sausage on a stick, said goodnight to the new ambassador, and made his way back to Number 10. He settled down to go over his outline plan once again, making sure that every ‘i’ was dotted and every ‘t’ crossed, aware that his biggest problem would be timing, especially if he hoped to have both of them arrested on the day after Lunsdorf disappeared.
When he finally crossed the last ‘t’ just after midnight, the cabinet secretary decided that, on balance, he still would have preferred a benevolent dictatorship.
Major Alex Fisher placed the two letters on his desk, side by side: his letter of resignation from the board of Barrington’s, next to a letter from Cedric Hardcastle that had arrived that morning, offering him the chance to continue his role as a board member. A smooth transition, as Hardcastle described it, with long-term prospects.
Alex remained torn as he tried to weigh up the pros and cons of the two alternatives. Should he accept Cedric’s generous offer and keep his place on the board, with an income of ￡2,000 a year plus expenses, and every opportunity to pursue other interests?
If he resigned from the board, however, Don Pedro had promised him ￡5,000 in cash. On balance, Hardcastle’s offer was the more attractive alternative. But then there was the question of the revenge Don Pedro would exact if he backed out of his agreement at the last minute, as Miss Kitty Parsons had recently discovered.
There was a knock on the door, which came as a surprise to Alex, because he wasn’t expecting anyone. He was even more surprised when he opened it to find Diego Martinez standing there.
‘Good morning,’ said Alex as if he’d been expecting him. ‘Come in,’ he added, not sure what else to say. He led Diego through to the kitchen, not wanting him to see the two letters on his study desk. ‘What brings you to Bristol?’ he asked and, remembering Diego didn’t drink, filled a kettle with water and put it on to boil.
‘My father asked me to give you this,’ said Diego, placing a thick envelope on the kitchen table. ‘You won’t need to count it. That’s the two thousand you requested in advance. You can collect the rest on Monday, after you’ve handed in your letter of resignation.’
Alex made a decision; fear outweighed greed. He picked up the envelope and placed it in an inside pocket, but didn’t say thank you.
‘My father asked me to remind you that after you’ve tendered your resignation on Friday morning, he expects you to be available to talk to the press.’
‘Of course,’ said Fisher. ‘Once I’ve handed the letter to Mrs Clifton’ – he still found it difficult to call her the chairman – ‘I’ll send out the telegrams as we agreed, return home and be sitting at my desk waiting to answer any calls.’
‘Good,’ said Diego as the kettle boiled. ‘So we’ll see you on Monday afternoon in Eaton Square, and if the press coverage for the AGM has been favourable, or should I say unfavourable’ – he smiled – ‘you’ll get the other three thousand.’
‘You won’t have a cup of coffee?’
‘No. I’ve delivered the money, and my father’s message. He just wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind.’
‘What could possibly have made him think I might do that?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Diego. ‘But remember,’ he added, looking down at a photograph of Miss Kitty Parsons on the front page of the Telegraph, ‘that if anything does go wrong, it won’t be me who’s on the next train to Bristol.’
After Diego had left, Alex returned to his study, tore up Cedric Hardcastle’s letter, and dropped the pieces into the wastepaper basket. No need to reply. Hardcastle would get the message on Saturday, when he read his resignation letter in the national press.
He treated himself to lunch at Carwardine’s, and spent the rest of the afternoon settling several small debts with various local tradesmen, some of which were long overdue. When he returned home, he checked the envelope to find he still had ￡1,265 in crisp five-pound notes, with another ￡3,000 to come on Monday if the press showed sufficient interest in his story. He lay awake rehearsing some statements that he hoped would have the journalists licking their lips. I fear the Buckingham will have sunk even before it’s set out on its maiden voyage. Appointing a woman as chairman was a reckless gamble, and I do not believe the company will ever recover from it. Of course I’ve sold all my shares, I’d rather take a small loss now than a bath later.
The following morning, after a sleepless night, Alex rang the chairman’s office and made an appointment to see her at ten o’clock on Friday morning. He spent the rest of the day wondering if he’d made the right decision, but he knew that if he turned back now, having taken the pirate’s penny, the next person who would be knocking on his door would be Karl, and he wouldn’t have come down to Bristol to hand over the other three thousand.
Despite this, Alex was beginning to think he might just have made the biggest mistake of his life. He should have thought the whole thing through. Once his letter was published in any newspaper, his chances of ever being asked to join another board were non-existent.
He wondered if it was too late to change his mind. If he told Hardcastle everything, would he give him a thousand pounds in advance, so he could pay Martinez back in full? He would call him first thing in the morning. He put the kettle on and switched on the radio. He wasn’t paying much attention, until he heard the name Kitty Parsons. He turned the volume up to hear the newsreader say, ‘A spokesman for British Railways confirmed that Miss Parsons died during the night, not having woken from her coma.’