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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 good night 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 favorable, or should I say unfavorable”—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.
