Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles) Page 7

  “There’s a lot more where that came from,” said Karl.

  A heated argument followed, in a language Karl assumed must be their native tongue. He got the sense that one of them wanted to kill him, but he hoped the older man would be tempted by the possibility of more money. Money must have won, because he could no longer feel the gun touching his forehead.

  The car swerved to the right, and moments later to the left. Who were they trying to fool? Karl knew they were simply going back over the same route, because they wouldn’t risk leaving their Catholic stronghold.

  Suddenly, the car came to a halt, a door opened and Karl was thrown out on to the street. If he was still alive in five minutes’ time, he thought, he might live to collect his old-age pension. Someone grabbed him by the hair and yanked him to his feet. A shove in the middle of his back propelled him through an open door. A smell of burned meat wafted from a back room, but he suspected that feeding him wasn’t on their agenda.

  He was dragged up a flight of stairs into a room that had a bedroom smell, and pushed down on to a hard wooden chair. The door slammed, and he was left alone. Or was he? He assumed he must be in a safe house, and that someone senior, possibly even an area commander, would now be deciding what should be done with him.

  He couldn’t be sure how long they kept him waiting. It felt like hours, each minute longer than the last. Then suddenly the door was thrown open, and he heard at least three men enter the room. One of them began to circle the chair.

  “What do you want, Englishman?” said the gruff circling voice.

  “I’m not English,” said Karl. “I’m German.”

  A long silence followed. “So what do you want, Kraut?”

  “I have a proposition to put to you.”

  “Do you support the IRA?” another voice, younger, passionate, but with no authority.

  “I don’t give a fuck about the IRA.”

  “Then why risk your life trying to find us?”

  “Because, as I said, I have a proposition you might find worthwhile. So why don’t you bugger off and get someone in here who can make decisions. Because I suspect, young man, that your mother is still teaching you your potty drill.”

  A fist smashed into his mouth, followed by a loud angry exchange of opinions, several voices speaking at the same time. Karl felt blood trickle down his chin, and braced himself for the second blow, but it never came. The older man must have prevailed. A moment later three of them left the room, and the door slammed. But this time Karl knew he wasn’t alone. Having his eyes covered for so long had made him more sensitive to sound and smell. At least an hour passed before the door opened again, and a man wearing shoes, not boots, entered the room. Karl could sense that he was just inches away.

  “What is your name?” asked a man with a cultured voice and almost no accent.

  Karl guessed the voice belonged to someone aged between thirty-five and forty. He smiled. Although he couldn’t see him, this was the man he’d come to negotiate with.

  “Karl Lunsdorf.”

  “And what brings you to Belfast, Mr. Lunsdorf?”

  “I need your help.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I need someone who believes in your cause and works at Harland and Wolff.”

  “I am sure you already know that very few Catholics can find work at Harland and Wolff. It’s a closed shop. I fear you may have made a wasted journey.”

  “There are a handful of Catholics, carefully vetted I admit, who work there in specialized areas, electrical, plumbing and welding, but only when the management can’t find a Protestant with the necessary skills.”

  “You’re well informed, Mr. Lunsdorf. But even if we could find such a man who supported our cause, what would you expect him to do?”

  “Harland and Wolff have just been awarded a contract by Barrington Shipping—”

  “To build a luxury liner called the Buckingham.”

  “Now it’s you who’s well informed,” said Karl.

  “Hardly,” said the cultured voice. “An architect’s drawing of the proposed ship was printed on the front page of both our local papers the day after the contract was signed. So, Mr. Lunsdorf, tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Work on the liner begins some time next month, with a delivery date to Barrington’s of March fifteenth, 1962.”

  “And what are you hoping we will be able to do? Speed the process up, or slow it down?”

  “Bring it to a halt.”

  “Not an easy task, when so many suspicious eyes will always be watching.”

  “We would make it worth your while.”

  “Why?” said the gruff voice.

  “Let’s just say I represent a rival company who would like to see Barrington Shipping in financial difficulty.”

  “And how will we earn our money?” asked the cultured voice.

  “By results. The contract stipulates that the construction of the ship is to be carried out in eight stages, with specific dates attached to each stage. For example, stage one has to be signed off by both sides on December the first this year at the latest. I propose that we pay you a thousand pounds for every day any stage is delayed. So, if it was held up for a year, we would pay you three hundred and sixty-five thousand.”

  “I know how many days there are in a year, Mr. Lunsdorf. If we were to agree to your proposition, we would expect a ‘goodwill’ payment in advance.”

  “How much?” demanded Karl, feeling like an equal for the first time.

  The two men whispered to each other. “I think a down payment of twenty thousand would help to convince us that you are serious,” said the cultured voice.

  “Give me the details of your bank account, and I’ll transfer the full amount tomorrow morning.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” said the cultured voice. “But not before we’ve given your proposition further consideration.”

  “But you don’t know where I live.”

  “Forty-four Eaton Square, Chelsea, Mr. Lunsdorf.” It was Karl’s turn to fall silent. “And should we agree to assist you, Mr. Lunsdorf, be sure you don’t make the common mistake of underestimating the Irish, as the English have done for almost a thousand years.”

  * * *

  “So how did you manage to lose Lunsdorf?”

  “He got away from Sergeant Roberts in Harrods.”

  “I sometimes wish I could do that when I’m shopping with my wife,” said the cabinet secretary. “And what about Luis and Diego Martinez? Did they also get away?”

  “No, but they turned out to be nothing more than a couple of smokescreens to keep us occupied while Lunsdorf made good his escape.”

  “How long was Lunsdorf away?”

  “Three days. He was back in Eaton Square by Friday afternoon.”

  “He couldn’t have traveled too far during that time. If I was a betting man, I doubt I’d get very long odds on Belfast, remembering he’s spent several evenings during the past month drinking Guinness at Ward’s Irish House in Piccadilly.”

  “And Belfast is where they’re building the Buckingham. But I still haven’t worked out exactly what Martinez is up to,” said Scott-Hopkins.

  “Neither have I, but I can tell you that he recently deposited just over two million pounds at the St. James’s branch of the Midland Bank, and immediately starting buying more Barrington’s shares. It won’t be long before he’ll be able to place a second director on the board.”

  “Perhaps he’s planning to take over the company.”

  “And for Mrs. Clifton, the idea of Martinez running the family business would be humiliating enough. Take away my good name…”

  “But Martinez could lose a fortune if he tried to do that.”

  “I doubt it. That man will already have a contingency plan in place, but like you I’m damned if I can work out what it is.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Not a lot, except sit and wait, and hope one of them makes a mistake.” The
cabinet secretary finished his drink before adding, “It’s at times like this I wish I’d been born in Russia. By now I’d be head of the KGB, and I wouldn’t have to waste time playing by the rules.”

  10

  “NO ONE’S TO blame,” said the chairman.

  “Perhaps, but we seem to be lurching from one inexplicable disaster to another,” said Emma. She began to read aloud from the long list in front of her. “A fire in a loading bay that holds up construction for several days; a boiler breaks its straps as it’s being unloaded and ends up at the bottom of the harbor; a bout of food poisoning that results in seventy-three electricians, plumbers and welders being sent home; a wildcat strike—”

  “What’s the bottom line, chairman?” asked Major Fisher.

  “We’re falling quite badly behind schedule,” replied Buchanan. “There’s no chance of stage one being completed by the end of the year. If things go on like this, we have little hope of keeping to our original timetable.”

  “And the financial consequences of failing to make the dates?” inquired the admiral.

  Michael Carrick, the company’s finance director, checked his figures. “So far, the over-run is around three hundred and twelve thousand pounds.”

  “Can we cover the extra expense out of our reserves, or will we have to resort to some short-term borrowing?” asked Dobbs.

  “We have more than enough to cover the initial shortfall in our capital account,” said Carrick. “But we’ll have to do everything in our power to make up for the lost time over the coming months.”

  In our power Emma wrote on the pad in front of her.

  “Perhaps it might be wise in the circumstances,” said the chairman, “to postpone any announcement on the proposed launch date, as it’s beginning to look as if we’ll have to revise our original predictions, both on timing and financial outlay.”

  “When you were deputy chairman of P & O,” said Knowles, “did you ever come across a series of problems like this? Or is what we’re experiencing unusual?”

  “It’s exceptional, in fact I’ve never come across anything like it before,” admitted Buchanan. “Every build has its setbacks and surprises, but things usually even out in the long run.”

  “Does our insurance policy cover any of these problems?”

  “We’ve been able to make a few claims,” said Dixon, “but insurance companies always impose limits, and in one or two cases we’ve already exceeded them.”

  “But surely some of these hold-ups are the direct responsibility of Harland and Wolff,” said Emma, “so we can invoke the relevant penalty clauses in the contract.”

  “I wish it was that easy, Mrs. Clifton,” said the chairman, “but Harland and Wolff are contesting almost every one of our claims, arguing that they haven’t been directly responsible for any of the hold-ups. It’s become a battlefield for the lawyers, which is costing us even more money.”

  “Do you see a pattern emerging, chairman?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re suggesting, admiral.”

  “Faulty electrical equipment from a normally reliable company in Liverpool, a boiler ending up in the harbor that was being unloaded from a Glaswegian coaster, our gang gets food poisoning but it doesn’t spread to any other part of the yard although the food was supplied by the same Belfast caterer?”

  “What are you implying, Admiral?”

  “There are too many coincidences for my liking, which just happen to all be taking place at the same time as the IRA are beginning to flex their muscles.”

  “That’s one hell of a leap you’re making,” suggested Knowles.

  “I may well be reading too much into it,” admitted the admiral, “but then I was born in County Mayo to a Protestant father and a Roman Catholic mother, so perhaps it goes with the territory.”

  Emma glanced across the table to see Fisher furiously scribbling notes, but he put his pen down the moment he noticed her taking an interest. She knew that Fisher wasn’t a Catholic, and for that matter neither was Don Pedro Martinez, whose only creed was self-interest. After all, he’d been willing to sell arms to the Germans during the war, so why wouldn’t he deal with the IRA if it served his purpose?

  “Let’s hope I’ll be able to make a more positive report when we meet again next month,” said the chairman, not looking altogether convinced.

  After the meeting broke up, Emma was surprised to see Fisher quickly leave the room without speaking to anyone; another of the admiral’s coincidences?

  “Can I have a word with you, Emma?” asked Buchanan.

  “I’ll be back in a moment, chairman,” said Emma, before following Fisher out into the corridor, to glimpse him vanishing down the stairs. Why didn’t he just take the waiting lift? She stepped into it and pressed the button marked G. When the doors slid open on the ground floor, she didn’t get out immediately, but watched as Fisher pushed through the revolving door and made his way out of the building. By the time she reached the door, Fisher was already climbing into his car. She remained inside the building and watched as he drove toward the front gate. To her surprise he turned left toward the lower docks, and not right in the direction of Bristol.

  Emma pushed open the door and ran to her car. When she reached the front gate, she looked left and spotted the major’s car in the distance. She was just about to follow him when a lorry passed in front of her. She cursed, turned left and tucked in behind it. A stream of vehicles coming in the opposite direction made it impossible for her to overtake. She had only gone about half a mile, when she spotted Fisher’s car parked in front of the Lord Nelson. As she drew nearer, she saw the major standing in the phone box outside the pub, dialing a number.

  She remained in the slipstream of the lorry, and kept on driving until she could no longer see the phone box in her rear-view mirror. She then swung around and headed slowly back, until the phone box came into sight. She pulled over to the side of the road, but left the engine running. It wasn’t long before the major stepped out of the phone box, got back into his car and drove away. She didn’t pursue him until he was out of sight. After all, she knew exactly where he was going.

  As Emma drove back through the gates of the shipyard a few minutes later, she wasn’t surprised to see the major’s car parked in its usual place. She took the lift up to the fourth floor and went straight to the dining room. Several of the directors, including Fisher, were standing at a long side table, serving themselves from the buffet. Emma grabbed a plate and joined them, before sitting down next to the chairman. “You wanted a word, Ross?”

  “Yes. There’s something we need to discuss rather urgently.”

  “Not now,” said Emma, as Fisher took his place opposite her.

  * * *

  “This had better be important, colonel, because I’ve just come out of a meeting with the Leader of the House.”

  “Martinez has a new chauffeur.”

  “And?” said the cabinet secretary.

  “He used to be Liam Doherty’s bag man.”

  “The IRA commander in Belfast?”

  “No less.”

  “What’s his name?” said Sir Alan, picking up a pencil.

  “In Northern Ireland, Kevin Rafferty.”

  “And in England?”

  “Jim Croft.”

  “You’ll be needing another man on your team.”

  * * *

  “I’ve never had tea in the Palm Court room before,” said Buchanan.

  “My mother-in-law, Maisie Holcombe, used to work at the Royal Hotel,” explained Emma. “But in those days, she wouldn’t let Harry or me on the premises. ‘Most unprofessional,’ she used to say.”

  “Another woman clearly years ahead of her time,” said Ross.

  “And you only know the half of it,” said Emma, “but I’ll save Maisie for another time. First, I must apologize for having been unwilling to talk to you during lunch, or at least not while Fisher could eavesdrop.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect him of having an
ything to do with our present problems?”

  “Not directly. In fact I was even beginning to think he might have turned over a new leaf, until this morning.”

  “But he couldn’t be more supportive at board meetings.”

  “I agree. It wasn’t until this morning that I found out where his true loyalties lie.”

  “I’m lost,” said Ross.

  “Do you remember at the end of the meeting you asked to speak to me, but I had to slip away?”

  “Yes, but what’s that got to do with Fisher?”

  “I followed him, and discovered he’d left to make a phone call.”

  “As, no doubt, did one or two of the other directors.”

  “No doubt, but they will have made their calls on the premises. Fisher left the building, drove off in the direction of the docks and made his call from a telephone box outside a pub called the Lord Nelson.”

  “Can’t say I know it.”

  “That’s probably why he chose it. The call took less than a couple of minutes, and he was back at Barrington’s in time for lunch, before anyone would have noticed his absence.”

  “I wonder why he felt it necessary to be so secretive about who he was calling?”

  “Because of something the admiral said, which meant Fisher had to report to his backer immediately, and couldn’t risk being overheard.”

  “Surely you don’t believe Fisher is involved in any way with the IRA?”

  “Fisher no, but Don Pedro Martinez, yes.”

  “Don Pedro who?”

  “I think the time has come to tell you about the man Major Fisher represents, how my son Sebastian came across him and the significance of a Rodin statue called The Thinker. Then you’ll begin to understand what we’re up against.”