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“How do you want him disposed of?” asked Karl, matter-of-factly.
“Cut his throat,” said Martinez. “All you’ll need is a white coat, a stethoscope and a surgeon’s knife. Just make sure it’s sharp.”
“Might not be wise to slit the boy’s throat,” suggested Karl. “Better to suffocate him with a pillow and let them assume he died as a result of his injuries.”
“No. I want the Clifton boy to suffer a slow and painful death. In fact, the slower the better.”
“I understand how you feel, boss, but we don’t need to give that detective any more reason to reopen his inquiries.”
Martinez looked disappointed. “All right then, suffocate him,” he said reluctantly. “But make sure it lasts for as long as possible.”
“Do you want me to involve Diego and Luis?”
“No. But I want them to attend the funeral, as Sebastian’s friends, so they can report back. I want to hear that they suffered every bit as much as I did when I first realized it wasn’t Bruno who’d survived.”
“But what about—”
The phone on Don Pedro’s desk began to ring. He grabbed it. “Yes?”
“There’s a Colonel Scott-Hopkins on the line,” said his secretary. “He wants to discuss a personal matter with you. Says it’s urgent.”
* * *
All four of them had rearranged their diaries so they could be at the Cabinet office in Downing Street by nine the following morning.
Sir Alan Redmayne, the cabinet secretary, had canceled his meeting with M. Chauvel, the French Ambassador, with whom he’d planned to discuss the implications of Charles de Gaulle’s possible return to the Elysée Palace.
Sir Giles Barrington MP would not be attending the weekly Shadow Cabinet meeting because, as he explained to Mr. Gaitskell, the Leader of the Opposition, an urgent family problem had arisen.
Harry Clifton wouldn’t be signing copies of his latest book, Blood Is Thicker Than Water, at Hatchards in Piccadilly. He’d signed a hundred copies in advance to try to placate the manager, who couldn’t hide his disappointment, especially after he’d learned that Harry would top the bestseller list on Sunday.
Emma Clifton had postponed a meeting with Ross Buchanan to discuss the chairman’s ideas for the building of a new luxury liner that, if the board backed him, would become part of the Barrington shipping line.
The four of them took their seats around an oval table in the cabinet secretary’s office.
“It was good of you to see us at such short notice,” said Giles from the far end of the table. Sir Alan nodded. “But I’m sure you can appreciate that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton are worried that their son’s life might still be in danger.”
“I share their anxiety,” said Redmayne, “and allow me to say how sorry I was to learn of your son’s accident, Mrs. Clifton. Not least because I feel partly to blame for what happened. However, let me assure you that I have not been idle. Over the weekend I spoke to Mr. Owen, Chief Inspector Miles and the local coroner. They couldn’t have been more cooperative. And I have to agree with Miles, there just isn’t enough evidence to prove that Don Pedro Martinez was in any way involved in the accident.” Emma’s look of exasperation caused Sir Alan to quickly add, “Nevertheless, proof and not being in any doubt are often two very differe
nt animals, and after learning that Martinez wasn’t aware that his son was in the car at the time, I concluded that he just might consider striking again, however irrational that might seem.”
“An eye for an eye,” said Harry.
“You could be right,” said the cabinet secretary. “He clearly hasn’t forgiven us for what he sees as stealing eight million pounds of his money, even if it was all counterfeit, and although he may not yet have worked out that the government was behind the operation, there’s no doubt that he believes your son was personally responsible for what took place in Southampton and I am only sorry that, at the time, I did not take your understandable concern seriously enough.”
“I’m at least grateful for that,” said Emma. “But it’s not you who is continually wondering when and where Martinez will strike next. And anyone can stroll in and out of that hospital as easily as if it were a bus station.”
“I can’t disagree,” said Redmayne. “I did so myself yesterday afternoon.” This revelation caused a momentary silence that allowed him to continue. “However, you can be assured, Mrs. Clifton, that this time I’ve taken the necessary steps to make sure that your son is no longer in any danger.”
“Can you share with Mr. and Mrs. Clifton the reason for your confidence?” asked Giles.
“No, Sir Giles, I cannot.”
“Why not?” demanded Emma.
“Because on this occasion I had to involve the home secretary as well as the secretary of state for defense, so I am therefore bound by Privy Council confidentiality.”
“What sort of mumbo jumbo is that?” demanded Emma. “Try not to forget that we’re talking about my son’s life.”
