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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 nonexistent.
He wondered if it was too late to change his mind. If he told Hardcastle everything, would he give him £1,000 in advance, so he could pay Martine
z 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.”
39
Thursday morning
ALL FOUR OF them realized they couldn’t go ahead with the operation unless it was raining. They also knew that there was no need to follow him, as Thursday was his day for shopping at Harrods, and his routine never varied.
If it was raining on a Thursday, he would leave his raincoat and umbrella in the store’s cloakroom on the ground floor. He would then visit two departments, the tobacconist’s, where he would collect a box of Don Pedro’s favorite Montecristo cigars, and the food hall, where he would stock up with provisions for the weekend. Even though they had done their research thoroughly, everything still had to work to the split second. However, they did have one advantage: you can always rely on a German to keep to a timetable.
Lunsdorf came out of 44 Eaton Square just after 10 a.m. He was wearing a long black raincoat and carrying an umbrella. He looked up at the sky and put up his umbrella, then strode purposefully in the direction of Knightsbridge. This was not a day for window-shopping. In fact, Lunsdorf had already decided that, once he’d purchased everything he needed, if it was still raining he would take a taxi back to Eaton Square. They were even prepared for this.
Once he stepped inside Harrods he went straight to the cloakroom, where he handed his umbrella and raincoat to a woman behind the counter who gave him a small numbered disc in exchange. He then made his way past perfume and jewelry before stopping at the tobacco counter. No one followed him. After he’d picked up his usual box of cigars, he moved on to the food hall where he spent forty minutes filling several shopping bags. He returned to the cloakroom just after eleven and, peering through the window, saw that it was what the British call raining cats and dogs. He wondered if the doorman would be able to flag down a taxi. He put all the bags down and handed the brass disc to the woman behind the cloakroom counter. She disappeared into a back room and returned a moment later carrying a lady’s pink umbrella.
“That’s not mine,” said Lunsdorf.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” said the assistant, who appeared flustered, and quickly returned to the back room. When she eventually reappeared, she was carrying a fox wrap.
“Does that look like mine?” demanded Lunsdorf.
She went back inside, and it was some time before she reappeared, this time with a bright yellow sou’wester.
“Are you bone stupid?” Lunsdorf shouted. The attendant’s cheeks flushed and she remained rooted to the spot, as if paralyzed. An older woman took her place.
“I do apologize, sir. Perhaps you’d like to come through and show me which are your coat and umbrella,” she said, lifting the counter top that divided the customers from the staff. He should have spotted her mistake.
Lunsdorf followed her into the back room, and it only took him a few moments to spot his raincoat hanging halfway along the rack. He was just bending down to retrieve his umbrella when he felt a blow to the back of the head. His knees buckled, and as he sank to the floor three men jumped out from behind the coat rack. Corporal Crann grabbed Lunsdorf’s arms and quickly tied them behind his back, while Sergeant Roberts shoved a gag in his mouth and Captain Hartley tied his ankles together.
A moment later, Colonel Scott-Hopkins appeared wearing a green linen jacket and pushing a large wicker laundry basket. He held its top open while the other three bundled Lunsdorf inside. Even with him bent double, it was a tight fit. Captain Hartley threw in the raincoat and umbrella, then Crann slammed down the lid and fastened the leather buckles tightly.
“Thank you, Rachel,” said the colonel, as the cloakroom assistant held up the counter top to allow him to wheel the basket out on to the shop floor.
Corporal Crann went out on to the Brompton Road ahead of them, with Roberts only a yard behind. The colonel didn’t stop as he wheeled the basket toward a Harrods van that was parked outside the entrance, with its back doors open. Hartley and Roberts lifted the basket, which was heavier than they’d anticipated, and slid it into the van. The colonel joined Crann in the front, while Hartley and Roberts jumped in the back and pulled the doors closed.
“Let’s get moving,” said the colonel.
Crann eased the van into the center lane and joined the morning traffic moving slowly down the Brompton Road toward the A4. He knew exactly where he was going because he’d carried out a dry run the day before, something the colonel always insisted on.
Forty minutes later, Crann flashed his headlights twice as he approached the perimeter fence of a deserted airfield. He barely had to slow down before the gate swung open, allowing him to drive on to the runway where a cargo plane with its familiar blue and white insignia awaited them, its ramp down.
Hartley and Roberts had opened the van’s back doors and jumped out on to the tarmac even before the corporal had switched off the ignition. The laundry basket was yanked out of the van, pushed up the ramp and dumped in the belly of the aircraft. Hartley and Roberts walked calmly out of the plane, jumped back into the van and quickly pulled the doors closed behind them.
The colonel had kept a watchful eye on everything that was going on and, thanks to the cabinet secretary, he wouldn’t need to explain to a vigilant customs officer what was in the basket or where it was destined. He returned to his seat in the front of the van. The engine was still running, and Crann quickly accelerated away as the door closed.
The van reached the open perimeter gate just as the plane’s ramp began to rise, and was back on the main road by the time it started to taxi down the runway. They did not see it take off as they were going east and the plane was heading south. Forty minutes later, the Harrods van was back in its place outside the store. The whole operation had taken just over an hour and a half. The regular delivery man was waiting on the pavement for his van to be returned. He was running late, but he would make up the lost time during the afternoon shift, without his boss being any the wiser.
Crann stepped down on to the pavement and handed him the keys. “Thank you, Joseph,” he said, shaking hands with his former SAS colleague.
Hartley, Crann and Roberts all took different routes back to Chelsea barracks, while Colonel Scott-Hopkins went back into Harrods and headed straight for the cloakroom. The two cloakroom assistants were still standing behind the counter.
“Thank you, Rachel,” he said as he took off the Harrods jacket, folded it neatly and placed it on the counter.
