Best Kept Secret

41





THE DRIVER OF the white Bedford van drew up outside Green Park tube station on Piccadilly. He left his engine running and flashed his headlights twice.

Three men, who were never late, emerged from the underground carrying the tools of their trade and walked quickly to the back of the van, which they knew would be unlocked. Between them, they placed a small brazier, a petrol can, a bag of tools, a ladder, a thick coil of rope and a box of Swan Vesta matches in the back before joining their commanding officer.

If anyone had given them a second look, and no one did at six o’clock on a Sunday morning, they would have assumed that they were just tradesmen and, indeed, that is what they had been before they joined the SAS. Corporal Crann had been a carpenter, Sergeant Roberts a foundry worker and Captain Hartley a structural engineer.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Colonel Scott-Hopkins said as the three of them climbed into the van.

‘Good morning, colonel,’ they replied in unison as their commanding officer pushed the gear lever into first, and the Bedford van set out on the journey to Southampton.



Sebastian had already been on deck for a couple of hours before the Queen Mary lowered its passenger ramp. He was among the first to disembark, and quickly made his way across to the customs office. He presented the cargo manifest to a young officer, who inspected it briefly before giving Sebastian a closer look.

‘Please wait there,’ he said, and disappeared into a back office. A few moments later, an older man appeared, with three silver stripes on the cuffs of his uniform. He asked to see Sebastian’s passport, and once he’d checked the photograph, he immediately signed the clearance order.

‘My colleague will accompany you, Mr Clifton, to where the crate will be unloaded.’

Sebastian and the young officer walked out of the customs shed to see a crane lowering its hoist into the Queen Mary’s hold. Twenty minutes later, the first piece to appear was a massive wooden crate Sebastian had never seen before. It was lowered slowly on to the dockside, coming to rest at loading bay six.

A group of dockers removed the hoist and chains from around the crate, so the crane could swing back and gather up its next piece of cargo, while the crate was transferred by a waiting forklift truck into shed No. 40. The whole process had taken forty-three minutes. The young officer asked Sebastian to return to the office, as there was some paperwork to be completed.



The police car turned on its siren, overtook the Sotheby’s van on the road from London to Southampton and indicated to the driver that he should pull into the nearest layby.

Once the van had come to a halt, two officers stepped out of the police car. The first approached the front of the van, while his colleague made his way to the rear. The second officer took a Swiss army knife from his pocket, opened it and thrust the blade firmly into the back left-hand tyre. Once he heard a hissing sound, he returned to the police car.

The van driver wound down his window and gave the officer a quizzical look. ‘I don’t think I was breaking the speed limit, officer.’

‘No you were not, sir. But I thought you should know you have a puncture in your left-hand rear tyre.’

The driver got out, walked to the back of the van and stared in disbelief at the flat tyre.

‘You know officer, I never felt a thing.’

‘It’s always the same with slow punctures,’ said the officer, as a white Bedford van drove past them. He saluted, said, ‘Happy to have been of assistance, sir,’ then joined his colleague in the patrol car and drove off.

If the Sotheby’s driver had asked to see the policeman’s warrant card, he would have discovered that he was attached to the Metropolitan Police in Rochester Row, and was therefore miles outside his jurisdiction. But then, as Sir Alan had discovered, not many officers who’d served under him in the SAS were currently working for the Hampshire police force, and were also available at short notice on a Sunday morning.



Don Pedro and Diego were driven to Ministro Pistarini international airport. Their six large suitcases went through customs without being checked, and they later boarded a BOAC aircraft bound for London.

‘I always prefer to travel on a British carrier,’ Don Pedro told the purser as they were shown to their seats in first class.

The Boeing Stratocruiser took off at 5.43 p.m., just a few minutes behind schedule.



The driver of the white Bedford van swung on to the dock-side and headed straight for shed No. 40 at the far end of the docks. No one in the van was at all surprised that Colonel Scott-Hopkins knew exactly where he was going. After all, he’d carried out a recce forty-eight hours before. The colonel was a details man; never left anything to chance.

When the van came to a halt, he handed a key to Captain Hartley. His second-in-command got out and unlocked the shed’s double doors. The colonel drove the van into the vast building. In front of them, in the middle of the floor, stood a massive wooden crate.

While the engineer locked the door, the other three went to the back of the van and removed their equipment.

The carpenter placed the ladder up against the crate, climbed up and began to remove the nails that kept the lid in place with a claw hammer. While he went about his work, the colonel walked to the far end of the shed and climbed into the cab of a small crane that had been left there overnight, then drove it across to the crate.

The engineer removed the heavy coil of rope from the back of the van, then made a noose at one end before throwing it over his shoulder. He stood back and waited to perform the hangman’s duties. It took the carpenter eight minutes to remove all the nails from the thick lid on the top of the packing case, and when he’d completed the task he climbed back down the ladder and placed the lid on the floor. The engineer took his place on the ladder, the coil of rope still hanging over his left shoulder. When he reached the top step, he bent down, lowered himself into the box and passed the thick rope securely under each arm of The Thinker. He would have preferred to use a chain, but the colonel had stressed that the sculpture was in no circumstances to be damaged.

Once the engineer was certain that the rope was secure, he tied a double reef knot and held the noose up to indicate that he was ready. The colonel lowered the crane’s steel chain until the hook on its end was inches from the top of the open crate. The engineer grabbed the hook, placed the noose over it and gave a thumbs-up.

The colonel took up the slack before he began to raise the statue inch by inch out of the crate. First, the inclined head appeared, its chin resting on the back of a hand, followed by the torso and then the muscular legs, and finally the large bronze mound on which The Thinker sat, contemplating. The last thing to appear was the wooden base to which the bronze statue was fixed. Once it had cleared the top of the crate, the colonel slowly lowered it until it was suspended a couple of feet above the ground.

The foundry worker lay on his back, slid under the statue and studied the four butterfly screws. He then took a pair of pliers from his tool bag.

‘Hold the damn thing still,’ he said.

The engineer grabbed The Thinker’s knees and the carpenter held on to his backside in an attempt to keep the statue steady. The foundry worker had to strain every sinew in his body before he felt the first screw that held the wooden base in place give just half an inch, and then another half, until it came finally loose. He repeated the exercise three more times, and then suddenly, without warning, the wooden base fell on top of him.

But that wasn’t what grabbed the attention of his three colleagues, because a split second later, millions of pounds in pristine five-pound notes came pouring out of the statue and buried him.

‘Does that mean I can collect my war pension at last?’ asked the carpenter as he stared in disbelief at the mountain of cash.

The colonel allowed himself a wry smile as the foundry worker emerged, grumbling, from under the mountain of money.

‘Afraid not, Crann. My orders couldn’t have been clearer,’ he said as he climbed out of the crane. ‘Every last one of those notes is to be destroyed.’ If an SAS officer had ever been tempted to disobey an order, surely it was then.

The engineer unscrewed the cap on the petrol can and reluctantly splattered a few drops over the coals in the brazier. He struck a match, and stood back as the flames danced into the air. The colonel took the lead and threw the first £50,000 on to the brazier. Moments later, the other three reluctantly joined him, hurling thousands upon thousands into the insatiable flames.

Once the last bank note had been burnt to a cinder, the four men remained silent for some time as they stared at the pile of ashes and tried not to think about what they had just done.

The carpenter broke the silence. ‘That’s brought a totally new meaning to the phrase “money to burn”.’

They all laughed except the colonel, who said sharply, ‘Let’s get on with it.’

The foundry worker lay back down on the floor and slid under the statue. Like a weightlifter, he picked up the wooden base and held it in the air, while the engineer and the carpenter guided the little steel rods back through the four holes in the bottom of the statue.

‘Hold firm!’ shouted the foundry worker, as the engineer and carpenter clung on to the sides of the base while he replaced the four butterfly screws, first with his fingers, then with the pliers, until they were all firmly back in place. Once he was satisfied they couldn’t be any tighter, he slid out from under the statue and gave the colonel another thumbs-up.

The colonel pushed the up lever in his cab and slowly raised The Thinker high into the air, until it hovered a few inches above the open packing case. The engineer climbed the ladder as the colonel began gently lowering the statue, while Captain Hartley guided it safely back into the crate. Once the rope had been removed from under The Thinker’s arms, the carpenter replaced the engineer on the top step and nailed the heavy lid back in place.

‘Right, gentlemen, let’s start clearing up while the corporal is going about his work, then we won’t waste time later.’

The three of them set about dousing the fire, sweeping the floor and returning everything that had already served its purpose to the back of the van.

The ladder, the hammer and three spare nails were the last things to end up in the back of the van. The colonel drove the crane back to the exact position in which he’d found it, while the carpenter and the foundry worker climbed into the van. The engineer unlocked the door of the shed and stood aside to allow the colonel to drive out. He kept the engine running while his second-in-command locked the door and then joined him in the front.

The colonel drove slowly along the dock until he reached the customs shed. He stepped out of the van, walked into the office and handed over the shed key to the officer with three silver stripes on his arm.

‘Thank you, Gareth,’ said the colonel. ‘I know Sir Alan will be most grateful, and will no doubt thank you personally when we all meet up at our annual dinner in October.’ The customs officer saluted as Colonel Scott-Hopkins walked out of his office, climbed back behind the wheel of the white Bedford van, switched on the ignition and set off on the journey back to London.



The Sotheby’s van with its newly fitted tyre arrived at the dockside about forty minutes later than scheduled.

When the driver brought the van to a halt outside shed No. 40, he was surprised to see a dozen customs officials surrounding the package he had come to pick up.

He turned to his mate and said, ‘Something’s up, Bert.’

As they stepped out of the van, a forklift truck picked up the massive crate and, with the assistance of several customs officials, far too many in Bert’s opinion, manoeuvred it into the back of the van. A handover that would normally take a couple of hours was completed in twenty minutes, including the paperwork.

‘What can possibly be in that crate?’ said Bert as they drove away.

‘Search me,’ said the driver. ‘But don’t complain, because now we’ll be back in time to hear Henry Hall’s Guest Night on the Home Service.’

Sebastian was also surprised by the speed and efficiency with which the whole operation had been carried out. He could only assume that either the statue must be extremely valuable, or that Don Pedro wielded as much influence in Southampton as he did in Buenos Aires.

After Sebastian had thanked the officer with the three silver stripes, he made his way back to the terminal, where he joined the few remaining passengers waiting at passport control. A first stamp in his first passport made him smile, but that smile turned to tears when he walked into the arrivals hall to be greeted by his parents. He told them how desperately sorry he was, and within moments it was as if he’d never been away. No recriminations and no lectures, which only made him feel more guilty.

On the journey back to Bristol, he had so much to tell them: Tibby, Janice, Bruno, Mr Martinez, Princess Margaret, the ambassador and the customs officer all made their entrances and exits, although he decided not to mention Gabriella – he’d save her for Bruno.

As they drove through the gates of the Manor House, the first thing Sebastian saw was Jessica running towards them.

‘I never thought I’d miss you,’ he said as he stepped out of the car and threw his arms around her.



The Sotheby’s van turned into Bond Street just after seven. The driver was not surprised to see half a dozen porters hanging around on the pavement. Although they were all on overtime, they would still be keen to get home.

Mr Dickens, the head of the Impressionist Department, supervised transferring the crate from the roadside to the storeroom in the auction house. He waited patiently for the wooden slats to be stripped and the shavings swept away, so he could check that the number in the catalogue matched the number on the sculpture. He bent down to see ‘6’ etched into the bronze below the signature of Auguste Rodin. He smiled, and placed a tick on the manifest.

‘Many thanks, chaps,’ he said. ‘You can all go home now. I’ll deal with the paperwork in the morning.’

As Mr Dickens was the last to leave the building that night, he locked up before walking off in the direction of Green Park station. He didn’t notice a man standing in the entrance of an antique shop on the opposite side of the street.

Once Mr Dickens was out of sight, the man emerged from the shadows and walked to the nearest telephone box on Curzon Street. He had four pennies ready, but then he never left anything to chance. He dialled a number he knew by heart. When he heard a voice on the other end of the line, he pressed button A, and said, ‘An empty thinker is spending the night in Bond Street, sir.’

‘Thank you, colonel,’ said Sir Alan, ‘and there’s another matter I need you to handle. I’ll be in touch.’ The line went dead.



After BOAC flight number 714 from Buenos Aires touched down at London Airport the following morning, Don Pedro wasn’t at all surprised that every one of his and Diego’s suitcases was opened, checked and double checked by several over-zealous customs officials. When they had finally placed a chalk cross on the side of the last case, Martinez sensed a little frisson of disappointment among the customs officers, as he and his son walked out of the airport.

Once they were seated in the back of the Rolls-Royce and on their way to Eaton Square, Don Pedro turned to Diego and said, ‘All you have to remember about the British is that they lack imagination.’