Be Careful What You Wish For

40

Friday morning

DON PEDRO was still in a daze. So much had happened in such a short time.

He’d been woken at five o’clock by a loud, persistent banging on the front door, and was puzzled why Karl didn’t answer it. He assumed that one of the boys must have come home late and forgotten his key again. He got out of bed, put on a dressing gown and went downstairs, intending to tell Diego or Luis just what he thought about being woken at that hour in the morning.

The moment he opened the door half a dozen policemen burst into the house, ran upstairs and arrested Diego and Luis, who were both asleep in their beds. Once they had been allowed to dress, they were bundled off in a Black Maria. Why wasn’t Karl there to assist him? Or had they arrested him as well?

Don Pedro ran back upstairs and threw open the door to Karl’s room, only to find his bed hadn’t been slept in. He walked slowly back down to the study and rang his lawyer on his home number, cursing and banging his fist repeatedly on the desk while he waited for someone to pick up the phone.

A sleepy voice eventually answered, and listened carefully as his client incoherently described what had just taken place. Mr Everard was now awake, with one foot on the floor. ‘I’ll get back to you the moment I know where they’ve taken them,’ he said, ‘and what they’ve been charged with. Don’t say a word about this to anyone until you’ve heard back from me.’

Don Pedro continued to bang his fist on the desk and to shout obscenities at the top of his voice, but nobody was listening.

The first call came from the Evening Standard.

‘No comment!’ bellowed Don Pedro, and slammed the phone down. He continued to follow his lawyer’s advice, giving the same curt reply to the Daily Mail, the Mirror, the Express and The Times. He wouldn’t even have answered the phone if he hadn’t been desperate to hear back from Everard. The lawyer eventually called just after eight to tell him where Diego and Luis were being held, and then spent the next few minutes stressing how serious the charges were. ‘I’m going to apply for bail for both of them,’ he said, ‘although I’m not all that optimistic’

‘And what about Karl?’ demanded Don Pedro. ‘Have they told you where he is and what he’s been charged with?’

‘They deny all knowledge of him.’

‘Keep looking,’ demanded Don Pedro. ‘Someone must know where he is.’

At nine o’clock Alex Fisher put on a pinstriped, double-breasted suit, regimental tie and a brand new pair of black shoes. He went downstairs to his study and read through his resignation letter one more time before sealing the envelope and addressing it to Mrs Harry Clifton, The Barrington Shipping Company, Bristol.

He thought about what he needed to do over the next couple of days if he was going to fulfil his agreement with Don Pedro and make sure of receiving the other three thousand pounds. First, he had to be at the office of Barrington’s Shipping at ten o’clock to hand the letter to Mrs Clifton. Next, he would visit the two local newspapers, the Bristol Evening Post and the Bristol Evening World, and give their editors copies of the letter. It wouldn’t be the first time a letter of his had made the front page.

His next stop would be the post office, where he would send telegrams to the editors of all the national newspapers, with the simple message, ‘Major Alex Fisher resigns from the board of Barrington Shipping and calls for the chairman’s resignation, as he fears the company is facing bankruptcy.’ He would then return home and wait by the phone, answers to all the likely questions already prepared.

Alex left his flat just after 9.30 a.m. and drove down to the docks, making his way slowly through the rush-hour traffic. He wasn’t looking forward to handing the letter to Mrs Clifton, but like a runner who had to deliver divorce papers, he would be non-committal and leave quickly.

He’d already decided to be a few minutes late, and keep her waiting. As he drove through the gates of the yard, he suddenly realized how much he was going to miss the place. He turned on the Home Service of the BBC to catch the news headlines. The police had arrested thirty-seven mods and rockers in Brighton and charged them with disturbing the peace, Nelson Mandela had begun serving a life sentence in a South African prison, and two men had been arrested at 44 Eaton . . . He turned the radio off as he reached his parking space— 44 Eaton . . . ? He flicked it quickly back on again, but the item had passed, and he had to listen to more details about the running battles that had taken place on Brighton beach between the mods and the rockers. Alex blamed the government for abolishing national service. ‘Nelson Mandela, the ANC leader, has begun a life sentence for sabotage and conspiracy to overthrow the government of South Africa.’

‘That’s the last we’ll hear of that bastard,’ said Alex with conviction.

‘The Metropolitan police raided a house in Eaton Square in the early hours of this morning, and arrested two men with Argentinian passports. They are due to appear at Chelsea Magistrates Court later today . . .’

When Don Pedro left 44 Eaton Square just after 9.30, he was greeted by a volley of flashbulbs that half blinded him as he sought the relative anonymity of a taxi.

Fifteen minutes later, when the cab arrived at Chelsea Magistrates Court, he was met by even more cameras. He barged through a scrum of reporters to court number 4, not stopping to answer any of their questions.

When he entered the courtroom, Mr Everard walked quickly across to join him, and began to explain the procedure that was about to take place. He then went over the charges in detail, admitting that he wasn’t at all confident that either of the boys would be granted bail.

‘Any news about Karl?’

‘No,’ whispered Everard. ‘No one has seen or heard from him since he left for Harrods yesterday morning.’

Don Pedro frowned and took a seat in the front row, while Everard returned to defence counsel’s bench. At the other end of the bench sat a callow youth dressed in a short black gown who was checking through some papers. If that was the best the prosecution could do, Don Pedro felt a little more confident.

Nervous and exhausted, he looked around the near-empty courtroom. To one side were perched half a dozen journalists, pads open, pens poised, like a pack of hounds waiting to feast on a wounded fox. Behind him, at the back of the court, sat four men, all of whom he knew by sight. He suspected they all knew exactly where Karl was.

Don Pedro turned his gaze back to the front of the court as some minor officials bustled around making sure that everything was in place before the one person who could open proceedings made an entrance. As the clock struck ten, a tall, thin man wearing a long black gown entered the courtroom. The two lawyers rose immediately from their places on the bench and bowed respectfully. The magistrate returned the compliment before taking his seat at the centre of the raised dais.

Once he was settled, he took his time looking around the courtroom. If he was surprised by the unusual amount of press interest in this morning’s proceedings, he didn’t show it. He nodded to the clerk of the court, settled back in his chair and waited. Moments later, the first defendant appeared from below the courtroom and took his place in the dock. Don Pedro stared at Luis, having already decided what would need to be done if the boy was granted bail.

‘Read out the charge,’ said the magistrate, looking down at the clerk of the court.

The clerk bowed, turned to face the defendant and said in a stentorian voice, ‘The charge is that you, Luis Martinez, did break into and enter a private dwelling place, namely flat 4, 12 Glebe Place, London SW3, on the night of June sixth 1964, when you destroyed several items of property belonging to a Miss Jessica Clifton. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’

‘Not guilty,’ mumbled the defendant.

The magistrate scribbled the two words on his pad as defence counsel rose from his place.

‘Yes, Mr Everard,’ said the magistrate.

‘Your honour, my client is a man of unblemished character and reputation, and as this is a first offence, and as he has no previous convictions, we would naturally request bail.’

‘Mr Duffield,’ said the magistrate, turning his attention to the young man at the other end of the bench. ‘Do you have any objections to this request by defence counsel?’

‘No objection, your honour,’ responded the prosecuting counsel, barely rising from his place.

‘Then I’ll set bail at a thousand pounds, Mr Everard.’ The magistrate made another note on his pad. ‘Your client will return to the court to face charges on October twenty-second at ten o’clock. Is that clear, Mr Everard?’

‘Yes, your honour, and I am obliged,’ said the lawyer, giving a slight bow.

Luis stepped down from the dock, clearly unsure what to do next. Everard nodded in the direction of his father, and Luis went and sat next to him in the front row. Neither of them spoke. A moment later, Diego appeared from below, accompanied by a policeman. He took his place in the dock and waited for the charge to be read out.

‘The charge is that you, Diego Martinez, attempted to bribe a City stock broker and, in so doing, to pervert the course of justice. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’

‘Not guilty,’ said Diego firmly.

Mr Everard was quickly back on his feet. ‘This, your honour, is another case of a first offence, with no prior criminal record, so once again, I have no hesitation in requesting bail.’

Mr Duffield rose from the other end of the bench and even before the magistrate could enquire, announced, ‘The Crown has no objections to bail on this occasion.’

Everard was puzzled. Why wasn’t the Crown putting up a fight? It was all too easy – or had he missed something?

‘Then I shall set bail at two thousand pounds,’ said the magistrate, ‘and will be transferring this case to be heard in the High Court. A date will be fixed for the trial when a suitable time can be found in the court’s calendar.’

‘I am obliged, your honour,’ said Everard. Diego stepped out of the dock and walked across to join his father and brother. Without a word passing between the three of them, they quickly left the courtroom.

Don Pedro and his sons pushed through the horde of photographers as they made their way out on to the street, none of them answering any of the journalists’ persistent questions. Diego hailed a passing cab, and they remained silent as they climbed into the back seat. Not one of them spoke until Don Pedro had closed the front door of 44 Eaton Square and they had retreated to the study.

They spent the next couple of hours discussing what choices they’d been left with. It was just after midday when they settled on a course of action, and agreed to act on it immediately.

Alex leapt out of his car and almost ran into Barrington House. He took the lift to the top floor and quickly made his way to the chairman’s office. A secretary, who had clearly been waiting for him, took him straight through.

‘I’m so sorry to be late, chairman,’ said a slightly out-of-breath Alex.

‘Good morning, major,’ said Emma, not getting up from her chair. ‘All my secretary told me after you rang yesterday was that you wanted to see me to discuss a personal matter of some importance. Naturally I wondered what it could possibly be.’

‘It’s nothing for you to worry about,’ said Alex. ‘I just felt I had to let you know that although we’ve had our differences in the past, the board couldn’t have had a better chairman during these difficult times, and I am proud to have served under you.’

Emma didn’t reply immediately. She was trying to work out why he’d changed his mind.

‘Indeed, we have had our differences in the past, major,’ said Emma, still not offering him a seat, ‘so I fear in future the board will somehow have to rub along without you.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Alex, giving her a warm smile. ‘Clearly you haven’t heard the news.’

‘And what news might that be?’

‘Cedric Hardcastle has asked me to take his place on the board, so nothing has really changed.’

‘Then it’s you who clearly hasn’t heard the news.’ She picked up a letter from her desk. ‘Cedric recently sold all his shares in the company and has resigned as a director, so he’s no longer entitled to a place on the board.’

Alex spluttered, ‘But he told me—’

‘I have sadly accepted his resignation, and will be writing to let him know how much I appreciate the loyal and unstinting service he has given the company, and how difficult it will be to replace him on the board. I shall add a postscript, saying I hope he’ll be able to attend the naming ceremony of the Buckingham, as well as joining us for the maiden voyage to New York.’

‘But—’ Alex tried again.

‘Whereas in your case, Major Fisher,’ said Emma, ‘as Mr Martinez has also sold all his shares in the company, you too have no choice but to resign as a director, and, unlike Cedric’s, I am only too happy to accept your resignation. Your contribution to the company over the years has been vindictive, meddlesome and harmful, and I might add that I have no desire to see you at the naming ceremony and you will certainly not be invited to join us on the maiden voyage. Frankly the company will be far better off without you.’

‘But I—’

‘And if your letter of resignation is not on my desk by five o’clock this afternoon, I will be left with no choice but to issue a statement making it only too clear why you are no longer a member of the board.’

Don Pedro walked across the room to a safe that was no longer concealed behind a painting, entered a six-figure code, swivelled the dial and pulled the heavy door open. He took out two passports that had never been stamped and a thick wad of pristine five-pound notes, which he divided equally between his two sons. Just after five o’clock, Diego and Luis left the house separately and headed in different directions, knowing that the next time they met would either be behind bars or in Buenos Aires.

Don Pedro sat alone in his study, considering the options that had been left open to him. At six o’clock, he turned on the early evening news, expecting to suffer the humiliation of seeing himself and his sons running out of the court surrounded by baying journalists. But the lead story didn’t come from Chelsea, but from Tel Aviv, and it didn’t feature Diego and Luis, but SS Lieutenant Karl Lunsdorf, who was being paraded in front of the television cameras dressed in a prison uniform, a number hanging around his neck. Don Pedro shouted at the screen, ‘I’m not beaten yet, you bastards!’ His cries were interrupted by a loud banging on the front door. He checked his watch. The boys had been gone for less than an hour. Had one of them already been arrested? If so, he knew which one it was more likely to be. He left his study, walked across the hall and tentatively opened the front door.

‘You should have taken my advice, Mr Martinez,’ said Colonel Scott-Hopkins. ‘But you didn’t, and now Lieutenant Lunsdorf will be facing trial as a war criminal. So Tel Aviv is not a city I would recommend you visit, although you’d make an interesting defence witness. Your sons are on their way back to Buenos Aires, and for their own sake, I hope they never set foot in this country again because, if they were foolish enough to do so, you can be sure that we will not turn a blind eye a second time. As for you, Mr Martinez, frankly you’ve outstayed your welcome, and I suggest that it’s also time for you to go home. Let’s say twenty-eight days, shall we? Should you fail to take my advice a second time . . . well, let’s just hope we don’t meet again,’ added the colonel, before he turned and disappeared into the dusk.

Don Pedro slammed the door and returned to his study. He sat at his desk for over an hour, before picking up the phone and dialling a number that he had not been allowed to write down, and had been warned that he could call only once.

When the phone was picked up on the third ring, he was not surprised that no one spoke. All Don Pedro said was, ‘I need a chauffeur.’