CAFFEINE NIGHTS PUBLISHING

The Mary Dear

Alfredo de Gallegos

Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2012

Copyright © Alfredo de Gallegos 2012

Alfredo de Gallegos has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work

CONDITIONS OF SALE

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

www.cnpublishing.co.uk

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-907565-32-8

Cover design by

Mark (Wills) Williams

Everything else by

Default, Luck and Accident

To:

Vicky, Viviana, Carlos and Lorenzo

and in memory of my dear brother, Jorge

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Darren at Caffeine Nights and to

Neil Fein for his help with editing this book and

Mike Cappuccitti for all the technical help with aspects of flying a plane.

The Mary Dear

Prologue

Guayaquil, Peru,

22nd December 1951

LANSA’s morning flight to Lima taxied to the end of the runway and turned into the wind, under low dark clouds that blocked out the early morning sun. From the left seat of the Douglas C-47, his right hand resting on the throttle, Captain Morales surveyed the airstrip ahead. It was raining hard and thick drops washed down the plane’s windscreen like a curtain of water making the wipers struggle to clear the view. The runway ahead glistened, reflecting the lights on either side. He was clear for take-off, and he turned to his co-pilot, indicating he was ready to go.

Noise and vibration in the cockpit increased as he pushed on the throttles and revved the twin piston engines. He released the brakes, and as the airplane sped along the runway, Morales eased the stick forward to raise the tail wheel; outside, the runway shot past in a blur. Soon the aircraft reached flying speed, the tyres left the ground and the aircraft was climbing. Morales applied the brakes and raised the landing gear which finally settled in the wheel well with a clunk. The terminal building looked like a toy as the C-47 banked away, leaving Guayaquil behind.

Twenty minutes into the flight, Captain Morales handed over command to his first officer, to begin his usual walkabout to the passenger cabin. His co-pilot barely nodded; he was used to his Captain’s habits and smoothly took control of the plane. Morales disappeared through the small door and came face to face with Luisa, the pretty twenty year old solitary cabin crew member, who greeted her Captain with coffee from the galley which he gratefully accepted, and the flirty smile she reserved for him. A brief glimpse at his passengers confirmed the information on his flight manifest—some local farmers, three missionary nurses from Ecuador on their way to Lima, and a foreigner, Edward Hannah, an Englishman sitting towards the front who had smiled at him when he’d entered the cabin. Captain Morales sipped the hot coffee and leaned across an empty seat to glance out of the window. The sky had turned dark. Now and then, distant lightning flashes made the black clouds glow an angry red for an instant. Heavy turbulence shook the aircraft and made him spill what was left of his coffee; they had hit a large air pocket and lost a lot of height. Passengers exchanged nervous glances; Morales told Luisa to make sure everyone was strapped-in and went back to the flight deck.

That was the last time he saw her or his passengers. The plane crashed and was swallowed by the thick jungle canopy surrounding Chachapoyas, land of the Cloud People and an area dotted with villages and burial sites, bounded by rivers and tributaries that wound down steep mountain ranges on their way to feed the formidable Amazon River.

PART ONE

Chapter One

The Gold Train

On December 15th 1944, a few minutes after midnight, the Deutsche Reichsbahn locomotive pulled slowly out of Budapest’s main station, sending clouds of steam billowing high into the cold night air. The wheels slipped and spun on the frozen rails, and then soon the train began to speed up; the compartments rattled when they crossed the points.

A few minutes earlier the dimly lit platform had been a hive of activity crowded with passengers jostling each other. Eager to board the train. The passengers’ final destination was the Berchtesgadener Hof Hotel where, in times past, Eva Braun, Erwin Rommel and even Neville Chamberlain, had been guests.

On top of the train, one man to a carriage, the soldiers guarding it settled down for the long journey. Sitting cross-legged, a short plump soldier guarded the last carriage. He’d never wanted to be in the army. He was no hero and hated the war and his superiors in equal measure. He knew the Russian army was close on their heels, a hundred miles or so from the city, the sound of distant guns a constant reminder. He was the proverbial small cog in the much larger wheel, his fate sealed by the Führer himself whose order to Karl Adolf Eichmann had set Operation Margarethe, the codename for the invasion of Hungary, in motion. He cursed his luck, Hitler and all his fucking Generals. Freezing cold and scared to death he hoped he’d make it through to their destination in one piece.

Budapest was a mess and he was not sorry to be leaving it behind. The Jews were up in arms; it was all the talk in the cafés and shops since the government had forced them to deposit their gold, gems, ornaments and any other valuables with the authorities. At first he’d not believed it, but soon it became clear as he saw the long queues of men women and children handing over their precious possessions at various collection points in the city: The very treasures he had helped to load onto some of the train carriages were now being taken away from Hungary along with the passengers fleeing the advancing Russian armies.

It was a clear night, and a full moon cast its eerie white glow across the steel tracks snaking their way out of Budapest. The little man pulled the collar of his winter coat up as far up as it would go, and tried not to think.

In the cold, crowded compartments, passengers huddled together to keep warm. Those sitting by a window would gaze at the city’s buildings as they receded and disappeared from view; the barely visible faint light from the odd window here and there was the only outward sign of life in a nation gripped by fear. They steamed on through the outlying areas of the city; its austere grey apartment blocks were lined by street lamps, their hazy yellow light catching the odd solitary pedestrian hurrying home. As Budapest slipped away it gave way to the smaller towns of the suburbs.

At the Austrian frontier, the weather worsened, the wind audible inside the compartments, making the passengers feel even colder. Snow flurries caught in the light from the locomotive, made the driver strain to see the way ahead, forcing him to drive slowly for fear of missing a signal and colliding with another train. The Hungarian guards sat crouched forward on the roofs, shielding their faces from the wind and snow, their German MG 34 machine guns cradled in their arms; despite their warm uniforms they were cold and demoralized.

They had been travelling for ages, making slow progress, and the train had no scheduled stops until they reached their final destination. The guards had already fought off ten futile and badly planned attempts to rob the train, nine of them by breakaway members of the tired but still alert SS troops. .

They were about two kilometres from Boeckstein with the snow still falling hard when the train engineer saw a large dark shape across the tracks in front of him and braked hard; the wheels slipped and squealed for what seemed an eternity before the train began to slow down and stop. The shape he’d seen was a German Army Panzerwerfer, its tracks straddling the railway lines, its rocket launcher pointing to the side, ominously straight at his locomotive.

Inside the carriages the passengers, unaware of any impending danger and unprepared for the emergency stop, flew into each other. There were cries of pain from the women as they tumbled to the floor, accompanied by loud cursing and shouting from the men, mingled with the cries of children screaming for their mother. No sooner were they able to stand than some of the passengers pressed their faces to the windows, anxious to see through the snowstorm what could have brought the train screeching to a halt.

The engineer stared at the empty troop carrier standing not ten feet from his locomotive’s arc lamps, the Eiserne Kreuz Black Cross on the side of the truck faintly visible to him. He wondered why the hell the German Army had stopped a train that had the highest level clearance. Despite this knowledge, the engineer felt decidedly nervous; could these be more rogue elements of the SS?

Sitting on top of the carriages, the Hungarian guards had a good view of the troop carrier and of a staff car, with the distinctive Waffen-SS insignia on its door. Anticipating trouble, some of them started to stand ready to come down from the roof. The soldiers on the ground turned their machine guns towards them. With a wave of his hand, their Captain indicated to the guards on the roof to remain stationary. The soldiers accompanying the staff car were an elite unit of the Wehrmacht Heer, not like the ragged deserters they’d encountered previously; so the guards decided to do as they were told but remained ready for action. The silence was unsettling, broken only by the wind whistling through the branches of nearby trees. The troops on the ground had fanned out into a wide semi-circle while their commanding officer turned and spoke to the train driver. He was tall and stood casually, hands on hips, his goggles hanging loosely around his neck, oblivious to the furious snowstorm that showed no signs of abating. From the last carriage the soldier guarding it couldn’t hear what was being said but the sight of the soldiers and those uniforms sent shivers down his spine, he could feel his heart pumping faster and his finger edged towards the trigger of his machine gun.

Inside the staff car and barely visible, a German officer in a white uniform sat back and waited.

After twenty minutes or so, the Captain who’d been speaking to the engineer said he could leave, turned around and ordered his men back into their truck and joined the driver. They sped off, followed by the staff-car and its occupant. Though they had only been stopped for a few minutes, to the passengers it seemed an eternity. The train’s unscheduled stop was put down to one more spot-check and everyone was relieved when the train started to move again.

‘Hey Lieutenant! Over here!’ Kowalski’s shout made First Lieutenant Tony Santini turn around.

‘What’s up Kowalski?’

The gangly Sergeant Kowalski, with the U.S. 3rd Infantry Division, was returning from reconnaisance, leading a Company Platoon; and he was smiling ear-to-ear.

‘Well, you gonna tell me or what?’ but before the Sergeant could answer the rest of his men came into view, their M1 carbines pointed at a line of soldiers who walked with their hands on their heads. Santini broke into a run in the direction of Kowalski.

‘Now what the hell have you brought me?’ A huge grin spread across his face.

‘Well Lieutenant, this is just for starters, you’ll not believe what we’ve got for you.’ He told Santini how they’d found a whole train hidden in the Tauern Tunnel just south of Werfen and, what was more, they’d taken it without firing a single shot.

Santini stood there with a goofy grin on his face watching the line of prisoners being marched to a holding compound.

‘I left a squad guarding the rest of the train’s passengers but that ain’t all Lieutenant! Wait till you see what we found in the train’

Santini listened to the Sergeant’s account shaking his head in amazement

‘Kowalski, you son of a gun, keep this up and you might just make Lieutenant someday’ he said grinning.

Kowalski gave him an account of what had happened, and left saying he needed to talk to one of the prisoners..

Santini was watching Kowalski talking to the prisoner— who ‘had some explaining to do’, according to the sergeant—when someone spoke to him from behind.

‘What’s going on here Lieutenant?’ The gruff voice belonged to Major Frank S. Bright who was standing behind him and looking at the men Sergeant Kowalski had just brought in.

Santini saluted ‘Yes sir Major. Kowalski’s just got back from a recce with his platoon; seems he’s captured a whole train sir.’

‘Who’s that he’s talking to?’ He was pointing to the Sergeant who appeared to be interrogating a nervous looking soldier.

‘That little squirt was guarding the last carriage. There’s a bit of a discrepancy and Kowalski’s trying to get some answers.’

‘That right?’ he said, ‘I’m gonna go talk to him, mean time you’d better let the old man know,’ he said while walking away.

‘Yes sir, Major. He’s just gonna love this.’

As Santini had predicted General Daniel Waynright, the commanding officer of the 42nd Infantry Division, the ‘Rainbow Division’, was mighty pleased. They were sure going to love this at HQ.

Two days later Santini knocked on the General’s door with some more news.

‘How much?’

‘Fifty million, sir. Give or take a cent.’

‘Fifty million!’ He repeated ‘Well god-damn-it Santini, that’s a shit load of money!’ He was looking up at his Lieutenant, his face creased in a grin. He’d been sitting at his desk, a large cigar he’d yet to light stuck in his mouth, going through what he called ‘the usual load of Division crap’. The news had brightened up his day no end. When Santini left, the General was smiling and had lit his cigar.

Two officers walked side by side, their steps echoing off the stone floor as they made their way along a narrow corridor deep in the bowels of Schloss Hohenwerfen. The fortress built in 1076 perched high on a rock 345 feet above the Salzach was an awesome structure that now housed the Headquarters of the American army holding the city of Werfen.

‘Where is he?’

‘We’re holding him in an interview room; it’s just around the next corner.’

‘Has he said anything?’ He spoke with a public school accent. ‘Nothing, except that he’ll only speak to a British officer, and by the way, this guy’s a German.’

‘Is that so? I thought you said the guards were all Hungarian.’

‘Well yes I did, I mean he’s wearing a Hungarian army uniform so naturally, when I went to interview him, I took an interpreter with me, but it turned out that he’s German.’

‘That’s very curious; I must say I can’t wait to meet him.’

The young American lieutenant wished him more luck than he’d had and stopped outside an imposing door flanked by a large MP standing guard.

‘Well, if he wants a British Officer I guess I fit the bill.’

The American smiled and saluted smartly. The British officer returned the salute.

‘Don’t worry Jim; I’ll keep you posted, whatever I find out.’

Captain Joseph Keating VC gestured to the MP to open the door. The soldier knocked once and identified himself to his opposite number on the inside who promptly obliged. The MP standing guard over the prisoner was larger, if anything, than the one outside. As soon as he entered the room, he closed the door and stood at ease guarding the exit.

The first thing that struck Keating on entering was the smell, that and the cold. The smell was an unpleasant mixture of damp and male sweat. Keating took in the small, windowless, fifteen by twelve foot space; a single naked light bulb in the middle of a high-vaulted ceiling shone dimly, casting its faint light directly over a small table, empty but for a pitcher of water and a glass. Around the table were four straight-backed wooden chairs. A soldier in a Hungarian army uniform sat bolt upright in one of the chairs and glanced nervously towards the door when it opened to admit the new visitor. The next thing that struck Keating was that the prisoner was looking at the MP and not at him and from the look on the German’s face, Keating could see, that he was scared.

‘That will be all Sergeant.’ The MP looked startled.

‘Sorry Sir, but my orders are to guard the prisoner.’

‘And I’m giving you new orders; you can stand guard outside. Don’t worry Sergeant, I’ll call if I need you but I think I can handle the prisoner,’ he said with a smile.

The MP was surprised but the British Captain outranked him, so he saluted and stepped out smartly shutting the door behind him and stationing himself next to his friend. The MP on the outside, surprised to be joined by his friend, looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face.

‘I guess the Captain wants be alone with the prisoner,’ he said with a shrug.

Captain Keating made his way to the opposite side of the table, took a chair and sat down. He set the notepad and pen he had brought with him on the table and observed the German for a moment. The prisoner was small and chubby, not at all a fine exponent of the Aryan race. He had black hair that he wore swept back and small green eyes that looked red and watery. Despite the cold room, he was sweating and looked scared

‘Sprechen sie Englisch?’

The soldier looked relieved to find himself without the MP in the room.

‘Ja... yes...s...sir, before the war I was a student in Brighton for a while,’ he said, studying his hands and trying unsuccessfully to keep them from shaking.

Keating poured the man a glass of water that he drained before setting it back on the table. He took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one, drew a deep pull on it, savouring the taste and saw the pained look on the German’s face.

‘Cigarette?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ he accepted the cigarette and the light that Joseph offered.

The cigarettes and the matches he left on the table, tantalizingly near to the German who was busy taking in the smoke deep into his lungs and coughing, unaccustomed to the taste of British tobacco.

‘You asked to speak to a British Officer. Well here I am, let’s start with you giving me your name.’

The prisoner looked around the room as if making sure that no one else would hear him

‘They will kill me,’ he said in a shaky whisper.

‘Who? Who’s going to kill you?’ Keating could see that the man was frightened, his face was ashen; beads of perspiration pearled on his forehead, and he was shaking as if he had a fever. Bearing in mind how cold the room was; Joseph thought that he was either sick or scared witless and, if the latter, wondered who or what could have him so spooked.

‘Can you protect me sir? I’ll tell you what you want to know but I need to know you will protect me.’ The man’s eyes were red and watery and he seemed close to tears.

‘Protect you? From what exactly?’

‘The Americans...please don’t give me up to the Americans.’

Joseph sat back and considered his position. He had been seconded to a U.S. department to help them identify looted works of art because of his civilian degree in fine art. He wondered just how much latitude he had and what his CO would say if he overstepped the mark, but he needed to know what was going on so he decided to chance it.

‘All right, but that will depend on what you tell me.’

The prisoner seemed to consider this.

‘I am sorry sir but you must promise me. I must be a British prisoner of war.’

A prisoner making demands, that’s a new one on me, thought Keating.

‘Look old chap; you’re not in a very strong bargaining position now are you?’ But, seeing the look on his face he thought that a softer approach would be better and, though he wasn’t sure how he’d pull it off, decided to take a chance.

‘All right I’ll make sure,’ he promised, ‘we have a POW camp nearby; I’ll get you sent there. Now who are you and what’s all this about?’

The prisoner looked as if a large weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

‘I’m Unteroffizier Dieter Klein’—he said in an unnecessary whisper—‘and it’s about the train, sir...the one the Americans captured and brought here to Werfen,’ he began.

‘I was one of the guards on the train.’

‘All right Sergeant, that much I know, but what about the train? What’s so special about it?’

Dieter’s expression was one of astonishment.

‘But surely you know sir?’

Of course Joseph had heard about the capture of the train but did not know all the details; when the prisoners had been brought in he had been in a nearby town identifying looted works of art. Joseph’s curiosity had been pricked. What had our American cousins been up to?

‘Suppose you tell me?’

‘Well sir, it’s a long story,’ he began.

‘I have the time. Why don’t you start at the beginning,’ he said opening the notepad and unscrewing the cap of his Parker pen.

Dieter took a moment to compose his thoughts. ‘When we left Budapest, on our way to Berchtesgaden, our train was 44 coaches long; the last 24 were special, very special. We made an unexpected stop, unexpected but not for me... I knew it would happen.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Because it was the reason I was on the train and guarding the last carriage.’

Dieter’s eyes darted round the room; he reached for the glass but it was empty. Joseph filled it for him and waited for him to take a long drink.

‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to explain that.’

Dieter didn’t need more encouragement, ‘No one else knew what we were carrying you see; they thought it was military equipment but I knew. It was gold...diamonds, treasure and valuable paintings. My mission was to wait until the train was stopped and to uncouple the last carriage. It had to be left behind you see.’

Dieter paused for a moment, but realized that what he was saying was not making much sense.

‘Perhaps I should go further back...before Budapest.’

‘Perhaps you should.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Dieter said, struggling to get his story across, ‘but it’s all a bit complicated...I need you to know some things...so... so you can understand, you see.’ And again he paused as if waiting for approval. Joseph urged him to continue.

‘Before the war, my father was a successful business man but unfortunately someone—a business rival we think, though we never found out for sure—somehow found out our dreadful secret...’

‘What secret?’

Dieter was quiet for a moment. How could he make this Englishman understand what even he could not understand? He had to try.

‘In another time or another country this would not have been considered a secret worth keeping but in today’s Germany, unfortunately for us, it’s like a death sentence. You see, this man...he knew that we...my family that is, are descended from Jews and he saw a way to get at us by giving us up to the Gestapo.’

Joseph could easily understand why that kind of information would be worth hiding; after all, the Allies had known as early as ’41 about the existence of the death camps, there was even some intelligence from a Polish officer...what was his name? Pilecci, no, Pilecki, that was it—Witold Pilecki. He’d read the file and had been horrified. Joseph himself had many Jewish friends and thought he understood how the German was feeling but he could not understand what the hell a Jew was doing in the Wehrmacht wearing a Hungarian army uniform and guarding a train loaded with treasures? First things first, thought Joseph ‘But you’re here...how did you escape from the Gestapo and what happened to your family?’

‘Well sir, a good friend of our family heard a rumour that the Gestapo had been tipped off and he came to warn us to get away as fast as possible. We knew that would not work, I mean, where would we go? Well, as I said, my father...he was quite successful before the war and had made some money though that alone would not have helped us, but he has some influential friends and one of them is Göring’s half-brother Albert.’

That information came as a complete surprise to Joseph.

‘I was not aware that he has a brother...but how did that help?’

‘Albert is a good man. Hates the Nazis and all they stand for but despite their differences Hermann loves him. Albert has asked him for help on many occasions. The Gestapo has arrested him more than once but his brother’s always intervened and had him released.’

‘Are you saying that your father went to Albert and he got his brother to protect you before the Gestapo could get to you?’

‘Das ist richtig...I mean that is right sir...we lost everything of course but at least we kept our lives. But I am jumping ahead. I should explain our escape was not easy. Albert told us about his meeting with his brother. He said his brother was not happy at all. Hermann said it would be dangerous, even for him, to get involved but, when Albert explained we were both in the armed forces fighting for Germany and my brother a decorated U-Boat captain in the Kriegsmarine, he agreed to see us.’

When Albert turned up on his doorstep with yet another request for his intercession, Göring had been annoyed. More than that, he’d been exasperated that Albert could not grasp the difficult position his constant demands put him in but, when he heard that a member of the family was a U-Boat commander, he agreed to see them. Maybe fate had put in front of him a solution to a problem he had been pondering long and hard. Göring knew that the war was all but lost, but defeatist talk in Hitler’s Germany got you a firing squad—if you were lucky. He had a plan to secure his future but he needed help from people he could trust which meant people whose lives he held in his hand.

Albert and the Klein family arrived shortly before midnight. It was pitch dark and the blacked-out headlamps of the Mercedes barely gave out enough light to drive by. Albert was relieved when at last he stopped outside his brother’s impressive residence. They emerged from the car, their breath freezing like smoke in the air. All the houses on the street had blackout curtains drawn tight as a precaution against the regular Allied air raids. The small group followed Albert up to the front steps that led to the entrance. He knocked on the door and, after a few moments, the butler opened it.

The hall inside was gloomy; a faint strip of light shone weakly at the bottom of a door at the end of a corridor. The butler led the way and ushered them into the library, where Hermann was waiting. He had decided not to wear his uniform—so as to present a less intimidating image—and greeted them in a most friendly manner.

‘Come in Albert, come in everyone,’ he said, ‘you must be frozen.’

Albert could not believe the turnaround in his brother’s behaviour but hoped it meant that they would get the help they so desperately needed.

When they saw Göring, Wilhelm and his brother gave the customary Heil Hitler salute. Göring smiled and returned a half-hearted version.

The imposing room was lined with leather-bound books, most of them on aerial combat tactics. In front of the window, with its curtains tightly drawn, stood a large desk on which were some silver frames displaying family photographs and a leather-framed photograph of Air Chief Marshal Lord Dowding, Göring’s opposite number.

‘I think you’ll be more comfortable here,’ he said, showing Mr Klein and his wife to a large sofa in the middle of the room.

‘Albert, you must introduce me to your friends.’

‘Forgive me Hermann, of course. This is Mr Günter Klein and his wife Elsa. Their sons, Dieter and Wilhelm.’ He said indicating the young men who had elected to stand by the elegant fireplace that was lit and gave comforting warmth. Günter Klein stood up to shake hands with his host and Göring kissed the hand that Elsa had extended.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you all,’ he said smiling, ‘I know it is late but is there something I can offer you? A small cognac perhaps to chase away the cold?’ They thanked him but declined the offer. Göring dismissed his butler and turned to them, ‘Albert has mentioned to me that you have a problem. How may I be of help?’

The moment had come for Albert to speak and he was wondering how best to begin. The others waited taking in their surroundings. Above the mantelpiece, an ornate gold frame displayed an oil portrait of the Führer in his grey uniform, a Swastika armband around his left forearm. The artist had captured a look of madness burning in his eyes as he looked down imperiously on the unlikely gathering.

Albert shifted uncomfortably in his armchair while his brother surveyed his guests.

‘Well Hermann, my friends have been...’ he stopped and began again, ‘someone, it appears, has told the Gestapo that my friends are Jews. It’s preposterous. They are good Germans. Their sons are fighting for our glorious fatherland...Wilhelm has even been decorated by the Führer himself,’ he said pointing to where he stood, ‘how can anybody...’

‘Yes of course Albert; an obvious mistake,’ he said. ‘These are difficult times and sometimes people can be, how shall I say, a little overzealous.’ His face expressed how regrettable he found the situation.

While Albert had been defending his friends, his brother had been studying the Klein’s. Günter was a smart looking grey-haired man in his sixties and his wife a handsome woman, a few years younger than her husband, whose youthful beauty had followed her well into middle age. Their youngest son was clearly the runt of the family. Wilhelm, on the other hand, was something else. He stood before him in the smart uniform of a U-Boat captain of the Kriegsmarine, a six-foot two, lean, handsome man with ash-blond hair, rugged bronzed face and the coolest slate-grey eyes he had seen in a long time. A Knight’s Cross with Swords, Oak Leaves and diamonds hung loosely around the Captain’s neck and Göring thought a regular little hero of the fatherland, yes he’ll do nicely, very nicely indeed.

This was something Joseph had not expected to hear but it explained a lot of what he’d learned before and, eager to find out what happened at that meeting, he asked Dieter to continue.

‘Well sir, you see Wilhelm was in charge of leading the wolfpacks of the Kriegsmarine. His mission was to hunt convoys in the North Atlantic and he was under the direct orders of the Befehishaber der Unterseeboote, commanded by Karl Dönitz. Everyone knows Göring and Dönitz don’t see eye to eye, they don’t like each other much but I soon understood that Göring needed the use of a U-Boat, more precisely, one of the newer Type VIIC’s.’ Dieter paused to see if the British officer was following what he was saying and continued: ‘He could ask Dönitz to put one his U-Boats under his command, that was not the problem, but he needed a captain he could trust and now here was my brother, a Fregattenkapitan of one of these very special U-Boats and one that Göring could control due to this lucky encounter that his brother Albert had arranged.’

Joseph had been taking notes and could see where this was going.

‘So Göring offered you a way out...’

Dieter nodded. ‘Yes, he arranged safe passage for my father and mother to Switzerland in exchange for our services. The price we had to pay was to help him. I guess he wanted to escape to a new life somewhere after the war, maybe South America. So he commanded my brother to take a very special assignment.’

Joseph was starting to believe the story that was unfolding.

‘What was the assignment? Did your brother tell you?’

‘Yes sir, what Göring needed was for a very special cargo to be taken somewhere, I know that much, what I don’t know is where, because he said only my brother was to know and that this was a top secret mission...but my brother was troubled you see, he did not trust Göring. He told me not to worry, said he did not want to tell me all he knew, and that it was to protect me. He told me that he had taken some insurance; he repeated I was not to worry that all would go well.’

‘The carriage you had to uncouple, the one left behind. Did you think that the special cargo were the contents of the last carriage?’

‘Yes sir, I’m sure of it. No one knows about it; just me, you and of course, Göring himself.’

‘And your brother as well,’ he reminded him. ‘What happened to him?’

 ‘He’s dead sir, I’m sad to say.’ Dieter’s face looked drawn and sad, ‘I heard that an American destroyer depth charged him in the North Atlantic. Wilhelm and his entire crew were killed.’

On meeting the prisoner his first instinct had been that the German might be mad or suffering from shellshock or some such condition but now he wasn’t so sure. Dieter seemed so plausible and his fear was the genuine article; Joseph had seen that look too many times not to recognize a fake when he saw it.

‘But how is what you’ve told me going to get you killed by the Americans?’

‘No, not all the Americans sir...just one particular American,’ he said.

‘Which particular American? What’s his name?’

Dieter hesitated as if uttering that name would be like signing his death sentence. Joseph noted his reticence but he needed proof, something tangible to convince him that Dieter was on the level.

‘How do I know you are telling me the truth? You’re expecting me to put my neck on the line for you just on what you’ve told me. It’s an incredible story I grant you and I’d like to believe you but I’m sorry my friend, I need a lot more than what you’ve said so far or, I’m afraid, I will not be able to protect you.’

Dieter, who had begun to feel better, looked terrified

‘But sir...but you promised...you gave me your word.’

The look on Dieter’s face was pitiful and Joseph almost felt sorry for him. He was clearly at the end of his tether and in that moment must have decided he had nothing to lose. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a little black leather notebook, its front cover embossed with an oval wreath, adorned by a fan of six oak leaves on both sides. A submarine lay in the middle of the wreath with a German eagle above it. He pushed it towards Joseph.

‘What’s this?’

‘My brother gave it to me. It’s what he’d called his “insurance”. Before we went our separate ways he came to see me. He was worried Göring would not want him around with all that he knew.’ Joseph could understand Wilhem’s concern.

The moment Wilhelm knew what Göring was up to and what his plans for Dieter were he wasted no time and contacted Werner Bauer, a friend of the family in Budapest. Werner had helped out many people who had been in serious difficulty when no one else had been able to. Privately they all called him the miracle worker; this was going to take a miracle. He had many contacts that owed him favours. What Wilhelm needed was classified information but, if anyone could pull this off, Werner was the man. It was one hell of a favour and he wasn’t sure his friend would be able to deliver but when he spoke to him Werner told him not to worry even though he knew that under normal circumstances what Wilhelm wanted would have been impossible. But these were not normal circumstances. Budapest was in turmoil; the Russian army was virtually on their doorstep; and clerical staff was in disarray.

A few days later Wilhelm had what he needed and was forever indebted to his friend. He put the information down in a notebook and gave it to Dieter before he left for Budapest on Göring’s orders.

‘How come you have it? Didn’t the Americans search you when they brought you here?’

‘No sir.’

Joseph couldn’t believe it but then again it was not the first time nor would it be the last that someone made such an elementary mistake.

The notebook was an inventory of what, Joseph surmised, were the contents of the railway carriage that did not make it to Werfen, written in some sort of cryptic code. There must be a document that deciphers the code otherwise it would be impossible to know what the items referred to were. One thing was sure—they had to be of immense value. Joseph was thinking Göring must have been pleased the Americans had saved him the trouble of getting rid of Wilhelm. Now he looked at the German with renewed interest but he needed to know more...a lot more.

‘You have not told me how the carriage was removed from the train.’

At last Dieter seemed to relax. This British officer believed him, he was sure of it, he would allow him to tell his story and he would save his life, so he continued:

‘It was part of the bargain with the Reichsmarshall. He needed someone else he could trust and, well...I had, as you put it, “everything to lose and all to gain”.’

He told Joseph the whole story, right up to when the troop carrier stopped them. Joseph was now sure that Dieter was telling the truth.

‘Göring had arranged for me to travel to Hungary and to be a guard on the last carriage of the train,’ Dieter paused for another drink of water and Joseph thought he saw a trace of colour coming back to his face.

‘I was so afraid, I’d never been so scared in my entire life, but what was I to do? My life and my brother’s were at stake. We were at Göring’s mercy; if I failed we were dead. I knew what I had to do; I just had to do it.’

Joseph had been talking to the prisoner the better part of two hours and was beginning to feel the room closing in on him. Dieter was sweating more than ever, the room had grown unbearably cold and Joseph’s feet resting on the stone floor were freezing. How he wished he could end the interrogation and leave the claustrophobic interview room, he could use the fresh air and warm fireplace in the officers’ mess; but he feared if he didn’t get the whole story now, he might never get it, so he pressed Dieter to continue.

‘While we were stopped, one of the soldiers took advantage of the cover of night, I mean, it was easy, it was so dark and snowing hard, everyone was paying attention to what was happening at the front of the train.’ Dieter paused for a moment. ‘The soldier went round to the opposite side, away from where the Captain was speaking to the driver. No one noticed him come alongside my railway carriage except me but I was expecting him. I saw him running crouched down keeping close to the carriages. When he reached the end of the train he looked up and signalled me to be quiet; climbed onto my carriage and went forward towards the guard on the coach in front of mine. I saw him draw a bayonet from his belt, clamp a hand over the guard’s mouth and slit his throat. It was horrible. He pushed the dead soldier off the roof; he landed silently on the snow on the blind side of the carriage.’

Reliving the terrifying memory had been almost too much for Dieter.

‘The soldier turned towards me signalling for me to climb down while he took the place of the guard he’d just killed. He was taking a chance that the guard on the coach in front of him didn’t look back. At that distance he would have spotted the German uniform and God only knows what would have happened. I hurried up and uncoupled the last carriage. It was easier than I had thought it would be. When the train moved off I was still the guard on the last carriage. I turned back to see the one I’d been guarding disappear into the snowstorm.’

Joseph had listened to Dieter’s story with growing amazement; it was so detailed it had to be true. Besides, there was the matter of the black notebook, not to mention the contents of the captured train.

‘All right,’ he said ‘I believe you, but which American are you afraid of and why would he want to kill you?’

‘The Americans found the cargo manifest and saw there was a missing wagon. I was riding on the last carriage; I had to know what happened to it.’

Dieter had been talking fast, the words tumbling from his mouth but he still hadn’t said why anyone might want to harm him.

‘I remember there was a Lieutenant Santini when we were brought in, then a Major arrived and took charge. He was a large man, and intimidating. I am not a brave man; I don’t mind admitting I was very scared. I told him what happened but left out my part in it. I don’t think he believed me. I heard him order some soldiers to take a jeep and investigate where I told him we had been stopped.’

Joseph thought the story made sense and Dieter was eager to continue.

‘Our arrival at your barracks attracted a lot of attention. An American Colonel arrived to take over and I heard the Major tell him I should be held separately for further interrogation, so they sent me here but before that the Major said to me something like you and I are going to have a little talk. Just from the way he said it I knew what I could expect.’

‘What did you think was going on?’

‘Well sir, I thought the Major wanted the treasure and I knew what would happen when he got hold of me so I said I would only talk to a British officer.’

Joseph was still holding the notebook when there was a knock at the door. Dieter jumped from his chair and Joseph quickly pocketed the notebook at the same time saying ‘enter’.

The MP held the door open for an American Major and, from the look on Dieter’s face; Joseph did not need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce who he was.

Chapter Two

Fregattenkapitan Wilhelm Klein’s U-1977 left Kristiansand, on the southern coast of Norway, with a complement of 54 men at the start of its secret mission. Klein’s orders were to sail to Argentina. On arrival at Mar del Plata he would be met by Göring’s representative who would identify himself with a password, only known to the three of them. This representative would receive the cargo and Wilhelm’s mission would be complete. He was then instructed to return to Norway for a short leave before resuming his duties. His instructions were to avoid enemy contact at all costs.

Now, leaving Kristiansand, Captain Klein was thinking about how to address his men. What would he say to them? They would do their duty yes, but the recent sinking of the Tirpitz by Lancaster bombers had badly affected the men and their morale was low.

‘Well Heiny, we hunt again!’ he said. They were on the bridge, at the start of their mission but this time, he knew, would be different. There would be no hunting. Not if they could help it.

‘Yes Wilhelm, and God help us.’

Oberleutnant zur See Heinrich Lehman was his friend and second in command. They had an understanding. When they were alone they called each other by their Christian names, but not in front of the men. Should anything happen to him, if he got sick or was killed, Heiny would take charge of the boat. Wilhelm trusted him completely. A quiet man and devoted Christian, Heiny was the last man you’d imagine commanding a submarine but he had proved himself to be a cool and capable leader. Not for the first time Wilhelm thought how much he liked his friend. They were on the bridge smoking a cigarette, the familiar background clatter of the engines for company, just passing Bragdøya on the starboard. The smell of diesel and seawater reached their nostrils. Familiar smells, comforting smells. The North Sea was cold and the sky grey.

‘How are the men?’

‘They’re fine,’ he said, ‘they’re a good bunch, they’ll not let us down,’ but he knew what Wilhelm was asking, that business with the Tirpitz had affected them badly.

‘This mission...will it be a long one? I believe Reichsmarschall Göring requested specially that you be assigned...’

‘Yes Heiny, I think my medals impressed him,’ he replied self-deprecatingly with a knowing look. The answer would satisfy his friend...for now; neither man liked Göring. As for Admiral Karl Doenitz, that was another matter, they both respected and admired their leader.

Standing on the bridge, they felt cold but were enjoying this brief moment of peace before getting down to business. There would not be many moments like this—and they both knew it.

‘And your wife, Heiny? How long since you last saw her?’

‘Oh, about three months ago...I think. We had a few days off on my last leave. Klara’s parents have a place in Bühl on the outskirts of the Black Forest. It’s very beautiful. Very peaceful; you can almost forget the war...’

‘This bloody war...I’ll not be sorry when it ends,’ Klein said giving his friend a sideways glance that conveyed what both men knew: The hunting trips for the wolfpacks would soon be over.

With a final look at the receding coastline they flicked their cigarettes into the sea and went below.

It was a nervous time for everyone onboard. They travelled on the surface keeping an eye out for enemy ships and aircraft; it was the fastest and safest way by far as they were harder to spot; the destroyers’ ASDIC sonar—was useless when searching for surface vessels. The low silhouette of a U-boat was almost invisible at night.

Their type-VIIC vessel, one of the newest U-Boats in the fleet, was impressive: 220.1 feet long, with a surfaced displacement of 761 tons and 865 tons submerged. On the surface, it could travel 6,500 nautical miles at a speed of 17.2 knots—but submerged, its range dropped to 80 nautical miles—and its speed by half. In addition, it was equipped with the Schnorchel.

Put simply, the Schnorchel was a pipe with a valve on one end, which extended above sea level while the boat was submerged. The tube consisted of an intake and exhaust pipe, where outside air was drawn into the U-Boat, and exhaust gases expelled from the exhaust pipe. The shutoff valve prevented seawater from entering the intake if the mouth of the tube dipped below the surface. Wilhelm had had more than one occasion to be grateful for this piece of kit. Being able to run its diesels’ underwater gave him a tactical advantage; not only were they more powerful, faster, and had longer range, but more importantly, they eluded Allied radar.

The boat was well armed too, with four 21-inch bow tubes one 21-inch stern tube—and carried 14 torpedoes. Their deck armament consisted of one 88mm cannon and a 20mm Flak gun. It was a remarkable killing machine and one that the Allies had every reason to fear.

The crossing turned out to be long and arduous. Twice they had to crash dive to avoid an attacking enemy plane and once an American destroyer had depth-charged them after failing to ram them. Only Wilhelm’s experience and nerve had saved the day. After that he decided to do a Schnorchel run for the rest of the journey. They made the Iceland Passage on course 300º, a little North by Northwest, and they reached Cape Verde sixty-six days later, exhausted; where they stopped at Praia for a short swimming break.

It was in Cape Verde, while ashore, that Wilhelm decided to speak to his fellow officers. It was a risky decision but he thought he knew them well; sailing together the past eighteen months had resulted in a strong bond being formed between them, the kind that only war and suffering is able to engender. They were sitting together watching the men swimming, laughing, shouting and letting off steam like a bunch of kids on a seaside trip with their parents. They were good men. They deserved this break. Wilhelm turned to Heiny and the other officers, his friends—for that’s what they were—his mind made up. He revealed to them the truth about the secret cargo they were carrying and who the beneficiary would be. Then came the bombshell. He’d promised himself he’d tell them before the end of the war if he were still alive. After all, he knew them well and there wasn’t a Nazi among them. There followed a stunned silence but it was short lived. First to speak was Heiny.

‘Herr Kapitan,’ then softly, almost to himself ‘Wilhelm, I owe you my life and not just once but several times I seem to recall,’ his eyes were fixed on his captain’s and they held nothing back. It was simply the look of a friend who understood his position and sympathised. ‘I don’t know what the others will say, though I can guess, for me it changes nothing.’

Then the others quickly joined in echoing Heiny’s feelings but all decided that, while the war lasted, what Wilhelm had told them should go no further. After a short discussion, they agreed that the war was all but lost and that risking their lives to give a man like Göring a comfortable lifestyle after the inevitable surrender would be a travesty. Wilhelm was telling them of a plan he’d formulated that, with their help, would provide a solution. The sudden chatter of the U-Boat’s guns echoing across the beach brought their conversation to an abrupt end. Everyone looked up to see an aircraft making straight for the sub and watched in stunned silence as a 2000lb torpedo dropped from the belly of the plane and splashed into the water. They held their breath as they followed its track and let it out with an audible sigh as it careered past the submarine, its wake clearly visible heading out to sea. The rattling sound of the plane’s wing-mounted machine guns grew louder as it approached low over the water, sending lines of splashes as the bullets hit the waves, forming stitch lines either side of the sub and missing it completely. The plane was banking and climbing now, its engine sounding more distant as it went away, before turning in a tight circle coming back towards them as the pilot set himself up for a strafing run.

The sailors in the water got ready to dive for cover as deep as possible and everyone on the beach scattered running for whatever shelter they could find. The aircraft, a U.S. Avenger TBM torpedo plane with a crew of three, had appeared out of nowhere. Fortunately the U-Boat’s crew were battle hardened and the gunners had been scouring the skies for just such a possibility. When the second run begun, Wilhelm and Heiny had found a ditch and made themselves as small as possible.

The plane came flying low heading for the beach; it must have been twenty feet above the water, its engine roaring, its two, wing-mounted, M2 Browning machine guns sparking with an insistent cackle, spraying a hail of bullets—many finding their targets. As the Avenger came nearer, growing larger and louder, they caught sight of the three-man crew looking at them through their goggle-covered eyes, their faces curious, like innocent bystanders at the scene of a road accident. Wilhelm could see the U.S. Navy markings on the fuselage and beneath the wings. The submarine’s guns—that had not stopped pumping bullets—found their mark and a plume of black smoke appeared from the front of the Avenger, followed almost instantly by a huge explosion that broke the plane in midair. Debris scattered in all directions causing the front of the aircraft with the cockpit and crew to plunge into the sea, sending a column of water shooting high into the sky.

The front of the stricken plane appeared to sit on top of the waves, its propeller bent; the crew, trapped in the cockpit, were slumped forward and did not appear to be moving; the sea surrounding it seemed to boil for a moment and then there was nothing, not even a ripple to mark the place where three men had lost their lives.

The boat’s gunners had stopped firing and scanned the sky for signs of any more enemy planes. Silence. Then from the beach came the cries of the wounded. Wilhelm and Heiny had escaped unscathed and ran towards the nearest of them to see what they could do but it was clear that they were going to need more help. An inflatable dinghy was already making its way to the beach with the medical officer onboard, sailing past the floating corpses of the poor devils that had been swimming and whose blood had turned the sea red. An idyllic island had turned to hell in an instant.

They tended the wounded and carried them and their dead comrades back to the submarine. They left Cape Verde behind and an hour later, having made sure that there were no more fighters around, stopped for a burial at sea. Fifteen men had lost their lives, not counting the plane’s crew. It was bad but they had been lucky. There could have been many more if the torpedo had hit. Wilhelm shuddered at the thought.

After a short service and words spoken by Heiny—who had offered to say them—a sombre crew went about their chores, their minds on their lost comrades. Days and nights tend to melt into each other onboard a submarine, all the same, when evening came, the mood, if anything, had worsened.

Wilhelm got together with his senior officers and finished explaining the plan that he’d been telling them before the American plane launched its attack.

They accomplished their mission. The return journey took 90 days to complete and Göring was in Kristiansand to greet them.

Captain Klein informed him that they had been attacked and had had to improvise. Fifteen men had died and been buried at sea. Many others wounded but had survived. His cargo, however, was safe. Its location clearly marked and, moreover, in a place that no vessel was likely to find, even by chance. At first Göring had not been pleased but he had been hearing nasty rumours coming back from colleagues in Argentina that indicated that it might not be the best place to hide his loot. Perhaps this was better. It meant that he could go back at his leisure and retrieve it when the time was right. Yes, he felt that he could consider the mission a success and told Klein that he was delighted, there had been a problem but he had solved it and come up with an alternative that was acceptable. He had shown initiative and confirmed the faith he’d placed in him. Almost as an afterthought, Göring expressed regret at the loss of life saying that posthumous decorations would be awarded to the men and given to their next of kin. It seemed to Wilhelm that the Reichsmarshall considered the gesture would more than make up for the loss of their loved ones and his mind boggled at the inhumanity of the man.

Joseph got back to his billet and studied the notebook. It was an inventory sure enough but nowhere could he find the all-important information that pinpointed the location of the looted goods or, indeed, what those goods were. He needed more information and that meant talking to Dieter. He had to speak to him before the U.S. Major got his hands on him.

Major Frank S. Bright was a gorilla of a man and Joseph could easily understand why Dieter would fear him. Bright did not look like the sensitive type and he was sure the Major would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Joseph decided to wait till morning, let Dieter sweat it out in his cell a little longer and maybe he would tell him everything he knew; Joseph suspected he hadn’t heard the whole story yet.

Early the following morning Joseph arrived at the guardroom where the prisoner was being held and found the place crawling with U.S. army medics and all sorts of brass. He shot an enquiring look at the guardroom Sergeant, wondering what the hell was going on. The Sergeant looked distinctly sick so when Joseph asked to see the prisoner he blurted out:

‘I’m very sorry sir but you can’t see him.’ The place was busier than Hyde Park on a hot summer day and the Sergeant’s eyes were darting from one side of the room to the other.

‘Why not?’

‘The prisoner’s dead sir, he hanged himself in his cell...with his belt sir.’

For a moment Joseph could not believe what he’d just heard. Surely they would have removed belt and shoelaces.

‘When did this happen?’

‘They found him this morning at 0800 sir. We raised the alarm and the doctor was called. He reckoned he’d been dead around four hour’s sir.’

‘Did he have any visitors last night?’

‘Just one sir, Major Bright saw him for twenty minutes or so but he was okay when he left him. I looked in on the prisoner at 2200 hours before I was relieved sir and he was just fine.’

Joseph left wondering how Dieter had managed to build up the courage to take his own life. He’d not struck him as the type but then, a visit from Major Bright might have been all the motivation he needed. Or maybe the Major had got what he needed and got rid of him. After all, he only had the desk sergeant’s word for it that Dieter was okay at 2200, and they might be in it together. He would have to check if the sergeant had been relieved at 2200, as he’d said or been on duty all night. The thing was—what had Dieter told Bright and how long would it be before he came looking for him?

As Joseph was leaving, the desk sergeant called out to him.

‘Excuse me Captain, Lieutenant Santini asked me who’d been the last persons to see the prisoner alive and, apart from Major Bright, and me you’re the only one who’s been near him. Lieutenant Santini told me to tell you if I saw you first that General Waynright has asked to see you but it will have to wait until tomorrow because he’s been called to a meeting at Division that will go on half the night, sir.’

Joseph was glad of the stay of execution and thought he would telephone his friend Edward to talk things over, but on second thoughts, why telephone when they could meet? He decided he would drive over instead. He went to the carpool and was told by the sergeant that he didn’t have a jeep he could have right away but to give him an hour and he’d see what he could do. When Joseph went back to the carpool an hour later, there was one waiting. He signed for it and headed in the direction of Scharten where his friend was billeted with the rest of his unit.

‘Joseph, old chum what a nice surprise! Why didn’t you say you were coming, I could have laid something on?’ His friend was smiling and clearly delighted by the unexpected visit.

‘Spur of the moment thing, didn’t know myself till I was on the road heading your way’

Joseph couldn’t wait to have a word with his friend but not with so many people around.

‘Is there somewhere more private we could go?’

Edward said, ‘Sure, come to my room, it’s not much but at least it’s private. What’s this all this about?’

But Joseph just said. ‘Lead the way then. I really need your opinion on something.’

‘Why the mystery?’ But when Joseph didn’t answer Edward gave up, figuring he’d know soon enough. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘it’s right this way,’ and led the way to his quarters.

As soon as they were alone Joseph sat on a chair and Edward on the edge of his bed.

‘Well old chap, suppose you tell me now?’

When Joseph finished telling him everything he knew Edward stayed quiet, thinking for a moment.

‘Have you told anyone else other than me about this?’

‘No. I wanted to hear what you thought before I went any further.’

‘That’s very flattering. I’m glad you haven’t though. I don’t think it would be a good idea, bad for your health if you know what I mean, and your prisoner’s suicide? I don’t buy it; too convenient if you ask me.’

‘I agree. I’m going to give you the notebook and my interrogation notes for safekeeping. No one knows I’m here and I want to keep it that way. They’ll be safer with you till I can figure out what to do.’

Joseph left his friend promising to get back in touch soon and assuring him that he would be careful and as Edward watched Joseph drive off into the distance, a feeling of dread and foreboding came over him. They went back a long way and he hated the thought that his best friend could be in danger.

Edward had met Joseph in Cambridge; in fact it was he who had introduced Rebecca Aubrey to him in July of 1926 at a Bop, in Becky’s college, Magdalene. Edward was so glad to have introduced them, and happy that Joe had liked her immediately. She was beautiful—the perfect English rose, Joe had thought.

Joseph was 25 years old and studying for an MA in Fine Art at Trinity College. Becky, just a year younger than him, found Joseph impossibly good looking. He was a six-footer with light blond hair that fell over his forehead. She liked the way he would brush it away with the back of his hand, she liked his freckles that lent him a boyish look and his pale blue eyes. He had the habit of looking at her when they were talking without so much as blinking that she found flattering yet disconcerting; and when he smiled, his indecently perfect teeth made him look like a matinee idol.

They chatted for hours forgetting the party going on around them and Becky told him she was doing a PhD in Classics but wasn’t sure what she was going to do once she left Cambridge. Joseph, on the other hand, had big plans and wanted to travel and see the world.

In the beautiful summer of ’26, Becky and Joseph became inseparable. They studied together by the bank of the river Cam overlooking King’s College and, some Saturdays when the weather was good, they went to the Quayside to pick up a punt for the backs. Joe was the chauffeur standing at the stern holding the pole and Becky ate cucumber sandwiches and sipped her Pimm’s taken from a small hamper she’d prepared; ‘That’s the way it should be’, she said and laughed but she always made sure there would be plenty left for him.

Though one sits perilously close to the water, the flatness of the punt ensures that you won’t fall in. That, at least, is the theory. When he tried to impress her she told him to be careful not to fall in the water but he always insisted punting was a breeze. It‘s just a question of pushing with the pole and, afterwards, using it like a rudder to steer the boat he’d say. He was quite adept and she really felt safe with him.

In 1927 Joe proposed and Becky accepted joyfully. They got married in St Mary’s University Church, also known as St. Mary the Great, whose chimes are copied by Big Ben in Westminster. Their parents and friends were all present and it was the happiest day of their lives. 

Their honeymoon in Venice was a joint present from their parents, and they were thrilled to be staying in the Gritti Palace. During the 15th century, it had been the residence of the Doge of Venice, Andrea Gritti, and it had been lovingly restored to its former elegance and splendour. Their room looked onto the Grand Canal, giving them a grandstand view of the gondolas going to and fro, with the imposing Palazzi on the opposite side. Joseph was in his element dragging Becky to all the museums and acting as her guide, while she got her own back taking him on long shopping trips where he pretended to be bored. Afterwards they  would order cakes and drink coffee while listening to the bands that played in St Mark’s Square.

The honeymoon had to end sometime and they returned to England and Cambridge where they found digs in a pretty house in Rose Crescent.

When they finished their degrees in 1929 they went to live with Joseph’s mum and dad in West Harnham. In January 1934 their first child was born, and Jane brought untold happiness to the Keating household, but it was to be short lived. On April 1st 1934, Joseph’s parents died while holidaying in France.

They had been travelling with their friends near Beauvais when the Air France Farman F300 they were flying in crashed, killing all passengers and crew. Joseph was devastated; he had always been very close to his parents.

Becky was pregnant and Joseph felt so sorry that they had not lived to see their second grandchild—who would arrived on time in June 1935.

As soon as Joseph left, Edward studied the mysterious notebook and the interrogation notes left in his care. Taken at face value, it looked straightforward enough. The Field Marshall had got his hands on some loot and had arranged for it to be spirited away so he could recover it after the war. That in itself was not strange; Joseph had told him of the amount of looting that had taken place and the difficulties he had reuniting the rightful owners with their property.

What was sinister was the part being played by Major Bright. He thought it might be a good idea to ask some discreet questions about him. He had an idea of whom he might ask without arousing suspicion, and then he would be in a better position to advise Joseph.

The following morning Edward heard the terrible news. Joseph had died as a result of a tragic accident, while travelling in a jeep, just outside Scharten on the road to Werfen. Edward Hannah was not a man who believed in coincidences. He could not believe that Joseph was gone, how would poor Becky and the children take it? He couldn’t imagine.

Edward lost no time going to Werfen to where Joseph had been stationed. He needed to see his friend’s body; not until then would he believe that he was dead, and he wanted to find out more about the accident, if that was indeed what it had been; Joseph’s CO would be able to provide that.

Driving into Werfen he met a GI and asked him where the mortuary was. He presented himself to the medical orderly and explained who he was and the reason for his visit. The orderly, a quiet sympathetic young man, asked Edward to follow him and led him to a room where there were a range of ten large, cabinet-style drawers. Edward held back steeling himself for what he knew was coming and waited while the orderly opened a drawer and stood aside to give him a chance to see his friend. Any soldier in a war zone becomes hardened to the sight of a dead person and Edward was no exception—but when that person is your best friend, it is an entirely different matter. Edward gazed down on Joseph’s face; he seemed to be asleep and, though he was white and his lips had a purplish hue, he appeared to be unmarked. Edward stepped back unable to look any more and turned to the orderly.

‘Is there anything you can tell me about what happened?’

‘Very little sir, I’m afraid, but the CO will be able to tell you more. What I can tell you is that your friend was on his way back to camp and went off the road on a bend.’ the young man could see that the death of his friend had affected Edward badly, and wanted to comfort him: ‘The Captain must have been travelling quite fast because he lost control of the jeep, hit a tree and was thrown out; he must have died instantly. I don’t think he could have suffered.’

Edward had been listening to the orderly and wondering how Joseph could have lost control of the jeep, he knew Joseph was a good driver and didn’t drive particularly fast. He thanked the orderly and left with a gut wrenching feeling at having to leave Joseph alone.

As soon as Edward was outside he felt relieved. It occurred to him that he should see the jeep that Joseph had used and asked a passing soldier to be directed to the carpool. When he got there he found several mechanics working on a variety of vehicles and asked to speak to the person in charge. A Sergeant appeared and Edward introduced himself.

‘I’m truly sorry about your friend,’ the American said, ‘I was here when he picked up the jeep; he was a good man.’

The Sergeant looked genuinely upset and suggested that Edward might like to see the vehicle. He took him to an area away from the main workshop floor where the jeep had been brought in for inspection.

‘Did you find anything wrong with the jeep? Anything that might have contributed to the accident?’

The Sergeant seemed an honest man but looked apprehensive as he considered that Edward might be thinking some defect for which he and his men were responsible could have caused his friend’s death.

‘Sir I can’t think what could have caused it. In fact I happened to mention to Major Bright that I’d had a request from Captain Keating for a vehicle and told him I didn’t have one available. The Major said he had a jeep he wasn’t using and that he’d bring it over in half an hour or so, as he still needed to run some errands. Well I figure if the Major had been using it he would have spotted a problem if there had been one, don’t you think so sir?’

At the mention of Major Bright, Edward’s ears had pricked up but he said nothing. He would have to investigate matters further before making any kind of an accusation.

As he was coming out of the carpool, an American Lieutenant approached him, introduced himself as Jim McCarthy. McCarthy knew Joseph and had last seen him when he had taken him to speak to a German prisoner.

‘I was very sorry to hear about Joseph’s death,’ he said, ‘he was a fine man.’ McCarthy had seen Edward with Joseph a few times and knew they were friends.

‘Thank you. Did you know him well?’

‘As well as anyone else here, you know. This isn’t the sort of place you make many friends, but I liked him.’

‘Yes I know...about making friends in the middle of a war I mean. Have you any idea about how he might have had an accident? He was not a reckless person.’

‘Well...I might have. Care for a coffee in the canteen?’ he said giving Edward the impression that this invitation was one he should accept.

When they were seated and had a coffee in front of them and both had lit a cigarette, Jim leaned forward and looked Edward in the eyes.

‘Whatever I say to you stays between us. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Edward wondered what on earth he was about to hear.

‘I saw you coming out of the carpool so I guess you know about the jeep and who was last to drive it?’

‘Yes. Yes I do,’ he said wondering what Jim might know that he didn’t.

‘One of my duties here is to investigate any wrongdoing by American servicemen and women.’

‘I see,’ Edward said, thinking the conversation was turning out to be very interesting.

‘I’m glad to say that I am not kept very busy but there is a rumour going round about some pretty sharp practice and there’s someone I have been keeping an eye on for a while.’

Edward wondered how far to venture but felt he owed it to Joseph and to himself.

‘A certain Major?’

‘Yes. Now of course at present this is conjecture but I have quite a lot of information that sure as hell points in that direction.’

‘I think perhaps we should not be shy about mentioning names,’ Edward said, ‘Am I right in thinking we are both talking about Major Frank Bright?’

‘Well, as I said, it is conjecture but, yes.’

‘Jim. May I call you Jim?’ and the American nodded and said of course, ‘I know I am biased and I know that you must be thorough and impartial...I know I already said so but let me repeat it, anything you tell me goes no further than me until you tell me otherwise.’

‘Edward, please leave this to me. I am close to reaching a conclusion and when I do, you will be the first to know. I promise you that.’

Becky had been informed of the death of her dear husband and requested that he be repatriated as soon as possible. She had contacted Edward saying that she would be grateful if he could arrange it for her and, if possible, fly back with him.

Naturally Edward said yes. He applied for compassionate leave and asked to be permitted to take Joseph’s body back to England for burial. This was not usually granted during a war but, after all, the war was nearly over, everyone knew that, and Joseph was a decorated hero and holder of the VC.

On 7 January 1945, Edward accompanied his friend on board an RAF Lancaster from Bomber Command. He was glad to be leaving Austria but sad for the loss of his dear friend.

Joseph’s death was announced in the local paper; an article on the man and his achievements appeared in the obituary pages of the Sunday Times, with a footnote mentioning the date, place and time of the service

The day awoke to a leaden sky and a cold northerly wind that found a way to get through your clothes and into your very bones. A steady fine drizzle clung to one’s face making it uncomfortable to breathe. It was as if the sky, too, was sad, and wanted to weep and mourn the way that Joseph’s family and friends now wept and mourned his passing.

The Reverend Matthew Clegg stood by the door waiting for the funeral cortege as it wound its way round the narrow country lane leading to St. George’s Church. Joseph’s wife and her two children were in the lead car followed by a long line of shiny black cars that stopped behind hers in front of his church.

Becky was helped from the back seat of the sombre Humber Hawk by her ten-year-old son Colin and his sister Jane. Together they held her tight as they walked slowly up the path, their feet crunching the gravel beneath their shoes.

They walked past old tombstones, silent witnesses to the sad procession filing past them, before finally arriving at the entrance to the church to be greeted by their friend and pastor. Once through the door they walked up the aisle, their steps echoed in the empty church as they made their way to the special place at the front of the church reserved for family and their closest friends.

The black coffin stood on trestles, flanked by four candelabra, like soldiers standing guard over a fallen comrade. The West Harnham family church that had seen Joseph and both his children baptized now welcomed him and readied him for his final journey.

The service inside was well attended by family and friends. The Reverend Matthew Clegg read the popular poem—Ecclesiastes 3:1–8. To everything there is a season.... The organist played ‘Jerusalem’, that most joyful of hymns, and the voices from the choir and the congregation sung, filling the church and touching the heart of all those present.

Becky sobbed softly, the movement of her shoulders the only clue to what she was going through, and was comforted by her children. The door opened to admit a late arrival letting an unwelcome cold draft blow into the church making the congregation shiver, stirring the incense that filled the nave and making the candles flicker before settling down to their steady glow. The large man attracted a few curious glances from the mourners nearest the door. He looked awkward and self-conscious in his navy, single-breasted suit, as he found an empty seat at the back of the church. He rested his hat on his lap and read from the hymnbook he’d been given when he’d come into the church. The rain outside, stronger now and coming in waves, beat against the stained glass windows, sounding like the muffled drums of a funeral march.

As Joseph was laid to rest in the family tomb next to his dear mother and father, the Reverend Clegg read from The Book of Common Prayer:

Man that is born of a woman

hath but a short time to live,

and is full of misery.

He cometh up, and is cut down like a flow’r;

he flee’th as it were a shadow,

and ne’er continueth in one stay.

Becky and her children looked on and listened huddled under black umbrellas set against the drizzle and the cold wind. The service over, the Reverend Clegg, the family,  and their closest friends were getting ready to go on to Becky’s house for refreshments.

Edward stared at the dark wet gravel. The air, fresh from the rain carried the scent of flowers from the church garden. He lifted his eyes and looked over the gathering. Faces he’d not seen in years, some barely recognizable. A voice coming from behind made him turn; the American accent belonged to the large man speaking to Becky.

‘Mrs Keating,’ he began, ‘please forgive this intrusion but...’

Becky turned to face the tall man who’d addressed her, trying to place his face. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t believe we’ve met. You are an American, aren’t you? Were you a friend of Joseph’s?’

Edward looked at the powerful man. From Joseph’s description, in or out of uniform, there was no mistaking Major Frank S. Bright.

‘I was privileged to serve in his unit and we met often. I was very sorry to hear of his passing. Please accept my deepest condolences.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know your name.’

‘Of course please forgive me; I’m Frank Bright,’ he drawled, ‘I’m a Major in the U.S. military at present and my duties brought me to London on Army matters, I heard that your husband’s funeral was taking place today and that those who had known him were welcome to attend so I decided to pay my respects...’

‘Of course Major, you’re most welcome, any friend of Joseph’s,’ she said dubbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

Edward had been listening to this exchange when Becky turned to him for support and to divert the conversation away from her, ‘Edward, I wonder if you know the Major, you were not far from his barracks?’

Hearing this, Major Bright turned to face him, ‘Captain Edward Hannah? Of course, Joseph mentioned you often. It’s a great pleasure to meet you, though I wish it were under happier circumstances. Your friend was a great man, very much liked and appreciated by all who came into contact with him; a real English gentleman.’

‘Thank you Major, that’s kind of you.’ Edward was looking for any hint of insincerity, but he seemed genuinely sorry.

Becky’s daughter turned to her mother, ‘Mummy it’s time to go, our car is waiting.’

Becky smiled at her daughter and turned to the Major, ‘perhaps you would care to join us at the house?’

‘That’s most kind Ma’am but alas duty calls and I have to catch a plane back this evening. It has been a great pleasure to meet you and again, my sincere condolences to you and your family.’

Becky went with her children to the waiting car leaving Major Bright with Edward.

‘Tragic, real tragic,’ he was watching her leave and now he turned to Edward, ‘it must be devastating for you. I understand that you were very close and that he had been to visit you and was on his way to our barracks when this terrible accident happened?’

‘You’re quite right. We had arranged to meet and have a celebration of the anniversary of the day I introduced him to his wife many years ago, he’d told me he was missing his family you see; Edward was a bit of a romantic,’ it was a lie but there was no way he would know.

‘I see, so he was not worried about anything?’

‘Good Lord no. Not at all, just a bit homesick you know. This wretched war’s been going on so long...’

‘Yes quite. We’re all sick of it. I’m glad that Joseph was not concerned about anything. He’d been involved in the interrogation of a German prisoner. He didn’t mention anything...?’

‘No. Not at all, we never discussed our work; just prattled on about our life back home and what we would do after the war you know?’

Bright considered this, there wasn’t much more he could ask without arousing suspicion.

‘Well Captain, it’s been a real pleasure to meet you but you know the Army, I must get back to my unit and that plane won’t wait,’ he checked his watch and cast a glance towards his parked U.S. Army staff car and driver nearby.

Edward watched him stoop down to get his huge frame into the back of the car; moments later, his driver was speeding away carrying his passenger and headed for the small airport at Biggin Hill. He was puzzled and amazed by the Major’s tenacity. You had to hand it to him; it had seemed to Edward the most extraordinary fishing expedition. Did Jim know the Major was in England? It was impossible to know and Edward determined to call him at the earliest opportunity to hear how his investigations were progressing.

Chapter Three

Edward Hannah could not imagine what life would be like without Joseph, his best friend for as long as he remembered. He stood in a corner of the large living room feeling sad and utterly useless.

The fireplace was lit in the large living room bringing much needed cheer to the gloomy gathering. The servants passed amongst the guests offering sandwiches and refreshments. There was a subdued hubbub as friends and relatives conversed sharing stories of happier times.

Becky thanked the Reverend Matthew for his kind words, his support and his friendship. She excused herself and made her way over to where Edward was talking to his sister. She wore a smart black suit that she’d bought a year ago to attend a dear friend’s funeral. She never imagined she’d need it again so soon and never that her own dear Joe would be the reason. She greeted her friends with a pained smile, but the strain showed on her face. Becky was exhausted; her red eyes a testimony to the tears she had shed during many sleepless nights following Joseph’s death.

‘Can I borrow Edward for a moment?’ As Edwina smiled and said of course, Becky took him by the arm and led him into the conservatory leaving her alone cradling her cup of tea.

Becky looked drawn. She kept herself under control but beneath the surface she was a mass of nerves and on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Edward started, ‘If there’s anything Edwina or I can do, Becky, you know you just have to...’

‘Dear Edward, that’s thoughtful of you...’ she seemed lost and suddenly added, ‘he loved you, you know. Since Julian’s death well...you know how close he was to his brother, he told me he was so glad of your friendship, said he thought of you as family—another brother even.’

‘And I felt exactly the same, I hope Joe knew it too,’ he paused and gently asked her ‘what will you do now?’

‘I don’t know Edward...go on, I suppose, what else is there to do? I have to for the sake of the children, though they’ll soon be grown up and gone. I still see them as children and so did Joe, it’s what happens to all parent’s, isn’t it? If Julian were alive at least he’d know what to do.’

‘I never knew Julian all that well. He was such a private person and then he went off on that expedition of his and that was that.’

‘That wretched expedition, if only we knew what the future holds. He was so excited he was going to bring the treasure back, be rich. He had a childlike enthusiasm, which we all loved.’

‘So he found something then?’

‘Yes. He found something; just where the old family map said it would be. There’s a letter somewhere that he wrote to Joe before his second trip you know...the last one, where he drowned with all the others. I was expecting Colin, and Jane was just over a year old, and now... it all seems so long ago.’

Becky’s mind had drifted for a second, re-living old times, but now she’d come back to the present and looked so lost. Edward asked her what she’d wanted to say to him, and she told him how alone she felt; that Joseph had always handled all their affairs and that she was a little out of her depth. She hoped she could count on him. Edward assured her she need not fear and that he would be there for her and the children whenever he was needed.

He and Edwina stayed until the last person had gone, and only left when Becky mentioned she was tired and needed a rest. They made her promise to call if she needed anything. She thanked them and added that she had been so busy lately, what with the funeral and everything, and now she felt that she and the children needed to spend time alone together to grieve.

When they finally left Becky’s house, Edward gave his sister a lift home in his car, an MG TC in British ‘Racing Green’ that he’d just bought, his pride and joy. The sky was cloudy but even though it had stopped raining, the wind continued to blow, buffeting the car and making Edward grip the wheel firmly. forcing him to concentrate on his driving. They drove in silence, each with their own thoughts. By the time they got to Pinner and Edwina’s two-bedroom bungalow it was dark. Edward saw his sister safely inside before driving back to his rented garage in Porchester Square Mews, where he left his car and walked the short distance to his flat in Porchester Terrace.

It had been one hell of a day. He still could not get used to the idea that Joseph was dead and he would never see him or talk to him again; it was a hard pill to swallow.

He came out of the kitchen and into the living room, set a strong cup of tea down on a small mahogany table and sat down in his worn, comfortable armchair. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a tin of Old Holborn, his favourite tobacco, the same battered tin he’d carried throughout the war. He rolled a cigarette and lit it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs savouring its calming effect, before letting it escape slowly through his mouth and nose. Edward watched the smoke drift to the ceiling helped by the gentle breeze coming in through the half-opened sash window of his third floor flat.

He sat smoking for a while. Finally he stubbed his cigarette out and sunk into the armchair, closed his eyes and drifted into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke he realized he’d been dreaming of the last time he saw his friend and how worried about him he had been; sadly, his fears had been well founded. He could not help going over the war, a war he had tried to forget. It played in his mind like a film. He remembered the day it had started as if it had been yesterday; 3rd September 1939, they had all been seated in Joseph’s front room waiting for the Prime Minister to speak. He could still see the Mullard wireless on the small rosewood table next to the fireplace, its dial glowing faintly and everyone staring at it as if hypnotized, waiting for the broadcast to begin. Edward remembered a sombre BBC broadcaster announce: ‘The Right Honourable Neville Chamberlain’. There had been the brief crackling sound of static and then they had heard the prime minister address his fellow countrymen and women in a firm and resolute voice:

I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street. This morning, the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note, stating that unless we heard from them by 11 o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.

The Prime Minister had continued speaking but they had stopped listening. Everyone chattering at once until Joseph hushed them down so that they could hear the rest of the broadcast and they caught the end as the Prime Minister was saying:

Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against—brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution—and against them I am certain that the right will prevail.

They had decided to join up at once of course. A week later he’d gone with Joe to the recruiting office for the 3rd British Commando Unit.

Edward remembered the village hall in West Harnham that had been taken over by the army. The long bench manned by four recruiting sergeants; the crowded hall filled with eager young men ready to sign-up to defend and, if necessary, die for their country.

The queue went out the door and spilled into the street. There had been the veterans from the last war; young office workers in their tweed jackets and leather patched elbows, schoolboys and boys just out of school; the firm, the infirm and all shades in between.

The country had been in war fever mood and men laughed and joked about how they would soon have the Bosh on the run. Edward wondered how many young men who’d worried that the war would end before they got to see any action had survived to tell the tale.

For some reason he hadn’t considered the possibility that he might die. For his sister Edwina and all the other women it had been different. They had been so proud of their men but desperately afraid for their safety. Mums, wives, girlfriends and grandparents had hoped against hope that it would soon be over and their men would not need to fight. The oldest amongst them remembered the horrors of the Great War and could not bear to think that it was happening all over again. The look on his sister’s face as he boarded the train with Joseph by his side still haunted him.

Edward remembered the evening of 18 August 1942, as the naval forces of Operation Jubilee got under way from several ports on the south coast of England.

Everything had gone pretty much to plan it seemed; the different groups accomplished a trouble-free sea crossing. He and Joseph were in the left wing flotilla, the 3rd British Commando unit, when, at 3.45am, several miles off the coast, they ran into a small German convoy sailing from Boulogne to Dieppe. The ensuing battle completely upset the planned attack on Berneval, and alerted part of the enemy defence.

That action had resulted in his friend being awarded the Victoria Cross. Edward recalled the commendation that stated how a small group of commandos under Captain Joseph Keating had managed to neutralize the battery for an hour and a half and how, during the battle, Captain Keating had distinguished himself by his heroic action ‘leading his men in the face of heavy fire from a vastly superior enemy force’.

Edward had been so proud of his friend, and on the first leave they got they had they celebrated in style.

In 1944 the U.S. forces were engaged in the daunting task of identifying the vast works of art that the Nazis had looted and Joseph was a natural choice for the job. Edward remembered not being at all surprised when Joseph told him that he had been ordered by his CO to put his civilian degree in fine art to work, ‘helping our American friends’. They’d travelled to Austria together; at least they would not be far apart as he was going to be billeted nearby.

How sad, he now thought, that this last assignment, the safest by far that he had had to discharge, would prove to be the deadliest and cost him his life.

Edward’s thoughts turned to Becky and about how alone she must feel now. What she’d told him was true. If Julian were still alive he would have been someone else for her to lean on but Julian had been an adventurer; the family’s treasure map had been impossible to resist.

Ever since Edward had known Joe, he had known about the map and the family story that accompanied it; it had often been the subject of after dinner conversation in the Keating household. As far as Edward understood it, the map had come into the possession of Charles Keating, one of their ancestors who got it from a Captain Thompson, a pirate down on his luck and in need of funding to return to Cocos Island to retrieve the treasure he had buried there twenty years earlier.

The family story recounted how Thompson had tried hard to convince men of means to back his venture by promising them untold riches but, unfortunately, tales of buried treasure abounded and he had been unsuccessful until he’d met Charles and a friendship had been struck. Keating was a wealthy businessman, having made his money in tobacco, and agreed to provide the necessary funds. They set about putting together an expedition but, before they could leave, Thompson was overcome by a fever and died. The map became Charles’s property and five months later he set sail in search of the treasure. During the voyage the crew got wind of what he was after; on arrival they mutinied and threatened him with death unless he revealed the treasure’s location. He managed to elude them and hid in the dense forest for days, until they tired of searching and left the island. Weeks later he was rescued by a whaler that had come from Terranova. Eventually he returned to his native St. John and though he tried several times to return to the island, he never did. He died in 1873, and the map was left to his nephew. From then on, it and the story of the treasure had been passed on from father to son, and they both ended up in England with Julian Keating. A superstitious person might have thought the map and the treasure were cursed, but not Julian—and now he too was dead.

It had been a month since Joseph’s funeral and Edward was at home, about to open his mail when the telephone rang. The operator told him that he had a call from Lieutenant Jim McCarthy and asked if it would be all right to connect him.

‘Hello, is that Edward Hannah?’

Edward recognized the familiar American accent. ‘Good morning Jim, it’s Edward, good to hear your voice.’

‘Likewise. I have some good news that I thought you would want to hear from me personally.’

‘Good news? Sure. What good news?’

‘Well, the day after you left with Joseph’s body I went with two MP’s to arrest Major Bright on various charges, including one of tampering with your friend’s jeep, but was told he had gone to London on Army business. As soon as he returned I arrested him and he is being held pending a Court Martial. I promised I would call you, what do you think about that?’

‘I think it’s wonderful news. Really great news; have you a date for the hearing?’

‘Not yet but I will let you know the moment it’s set and will keep you up to date on the proceedings.’

A few minutes later, after Edward thanked Jim for all his efforts and told him how much it all meant to him and Joseph’s family, they said goodbye.

After he hung up he stood in the hallway thinking about what he’d just heard and feeling very pleased when he realized that he had been about to open his mail. He was surprised by a letter from Joseph’s solicitors informing him that he was a beneficiary of his friend’s Will and asking him to attend the reading in two weeks time. On the appointed day Edward arrived at the offices of Stafford Giggs and Browne at 30 Lincoln’s Inn Fields on the north side of the square, just next door to Essex Court Chambers. The imposing square—the largest public square in London and supposed to be one of the inspirations for Central Park in New York—is also home to many other famous institutions, notably The Royal College of Surgeons.

Joseph’s solicitors occupied a fine building attributed to Inigo Jones that retained all its old world grandeur. Edward was ushered into the senior partner’s office, a large room with a high ceiling from which hung an elegant crystal chandelier. At the far end of the room, three tall windows framed by pale cream silk curtains, looked out onto the square.

The walls were covered with large oil paintings of the firm’s founders. Sir John Stafford walked over to greet him. Edward noted that Becky and the children were already there; plus a few of Joseph’s other relatives and friends that he knew well.

They were seated around a large sturdy mahogany oval table occupying one side of the room, away from Sir John’s Victorian pedestal desk. Sir John went back and took his place at the head of the table and Edward took the empty seat next to Becky.

He was amazed to hear that his friend had left him two thousand pounds and a letter that expressed, in his usual forthright manner, the genuine love and affection that he felt for him. Edward was even sorrier, if that were possible, to have lost such a great friend and determined that he would find out all he could about the circumstances surrounding his death, particularly in view of what Jim, his American friend had told him. The idea that Joseph had died in an accident had never sat well with him.

Edward left the solicitors office with Becky and her young children, Jane and Colin, who said they wanted to do some shopping in Harrods. When Becky mentioned that she wasn’t up to it Edward insisted she should have tea with him and they left without her. Edward promised to take her to Knightsbridge after they had finished with their shopping, called a cab and they set off towards Mayfair and tea at The Connaught in Carlos Place.

They were seated in the tearoom when the waiter arrived with their pot of tea, some traditional finger sandwiches and a cake chariot with a tempting display of traditional tarts and farmhouse cakes.

‘Dear Edward, you are kind. I am exhausted, I could not bear a shopping trip and this is exactly what I need to revive me,’ she smiled at him.

‘Shall I be mother?’ he said.

‘No, please let me, and she picked up the milk jug. She looked at Edward while she poured, ‘I'm a “miffer”, milk in first... really because I'm lazy. This way I don't have to stir the tea. Did you know that in the old days the milk went in first to save the fine china from cracking with the heat of the tea alone?’ She was enjoying herself and Edward was happy to hear her sounding a little like her old self even if only for a moment.

They’d been sitting and chatting when she suddenly remembered something, reached into her handbag and brought out a letter.

She opened it. ‘Here it is, I very nearly forgot and I brought it specially to give to you. It’s the letter I told you Julian sent to Joe,’ and she smiled amused at the surprised look on Edward’s face. ‘I found it when I was going through some of Joe’s papers and thought you might like to have it...something of Joe’s I’m sure he’d like you to have.’ Edward had taken the letter and was listening to her, ‘...he once told me he wouldn’t have minded going off on an expedition of his own and taking you along with him, saying wouldn’t it be great if the two of you were able to make Julian’s dreams come true at last, even if he was no longer around to see it.’

Then Becky seemed to hesitate. ‘This is a copy of the map, it’s not brought us much luck and I’m not sure I should, but you might have more luck with it. I think it’s been in our family long enough.’

Edward took the map and thanked her. He did not know what else to say. They looked at each other and both smiled. That tender look and gentle smile conveyed more than any words could ever say.

They left The Connaught and caught a cab to Harrods.

Chapter Four

September 1951

Edward was at home when the telephone rung. He picked it up and was astonished to hear a voice he had not heard since the end of the war.

‘Hello old man. I bet you don’t know who this is?’

‘Peregrine? Peregrine Beddows. Good Lord, where on earth have you been?’

Edward’s voice betrayed the genuine astonishment that he felt.

‘How’d you get my number?’

‘Well I took pot luck and thought I’d try your old place just in case you hadn’t moved and, as for your number, Bayswater 1939’s a bit of a hard one to forget, old boy,’ he said.

‘As to where I’ve been well, not in Blighty or you’d have heard from me sooner; but listen Teddy, I’m not going to be here much longer and I’d love to catch up if you can spare the time.’

‘No one’s called me that in years,’ he laughed, ‘of course I’d love to see you; where are you staying, as if I need to ask?’

‘You guessed it. Boodle’s as always, family tradition you know.’ They chatted on and agreed to meet the next day at his club.

Edward set off early for his date with Peregrine. He wanted to drop into Liberty first to buy a present for his sister’s birthday. He headed off towards Oxford Street, carrying a bag with the cashmere sweater he had bought for her, and was passing the London Palladium remembering that, just last spring, he’d taken Becky to see Judi Garland’s debut—when a young man walked out of the theatre arm in arm with a beautiful woman and bumped right into him. It was only a moment but the man so resembled his old friend that he just stood there frozen while they excused themselves and went on their way. Funny how some things have a way of bringing back the past in an instant and make you relive a long lost memory.

The experience was slightly unnerving, and made him realize that Joseph had been gone six years and that Becky and her children had managed to come to terms with their loss and move on with their lives.

It was only he who was still, somehow, stuck in the past. He determined that he really needed to rethink his life and come up with something a bit more exciting than his present job at the bank. He walked on to Oxford Street and hailed a cab. The cabbie dropped him off outside the club in St. James’s Street.

Peregrine was waiting for him in the smoking-room and got up the moment he saw Edward walk in.

‘Edward dear boy, you have not changed a bit,’ he greeted his old friend with an outstretched hand.

‘A bit older, a bit wiser I hope,’ he said, ‘and neither have you dear friend, I guess we’re just a pair of Peter Pans.’

Peregrine led Edward to a quiet corner and they settled into two comfortable armchairs. He looked well, tanned and fit as a fiddle.

‘So old friend, do tell; where have you been hiding?’

‘That’s a long story. The short answer is that I’ve been in Ecuador. Guayaquil, to be precise,’ he said leaving Edward completely bemused.

‘That’s most extraordinary; I didn’t have you pegged as the adventurous type. I’d rather thought you would have stayed in England and joined your father’s firm.’ Edward remembered his friend’s father as a rather successful businessman in ‘The City’.

‘I might have,’ he said, ‘but I met this rather wonderful woman at a party in London you see and she happens to be Ecuadorian. She was visiting England with her family and I was quite smitten by her. I simply could not let her go, so I followed her to her country and, to cut a long story short, we got married four years ago and have two children. One of each.’

Peregrine had always had a reputation as a man about town but still the thought of him married with children and living in a foreign country was quite something to take in.

‘Well, well. Congratulations. Why, that’s wonderful—it’s no wonder you’re looking so marvellous, she clearly looks after you too well.’

‘She does do that, but Teddy, what of you? What have you been up to?’

Peregrine had been in the secret service during the war and there was not much he did not know about what had gone on. He’d also known Joseph but had not been a close friend.

‘Me, well, what can I say? After the war I stayed with my sister in Pinner for a while and tried to find some work. There wasn’t much about, you know. Then an old friend from my regiment got me a job in his bank and I’ve been with Coutts in the city ever since.’ His eyes looked around the room avoiding his friend’s inquisitive look.

Peregrine detected a slight air of dissatisfaction and thought he’d dig a little. ‘Banking eh! Well that sounds exciting, high finance and all that. So you’re set for life then?’

Edward hadn’t seen Peregrine in ages but he’d always been a good listener and now he thought he might use him as a sounding board. ‘Not really sure. I’m Assistant Manager now and I guess I could make Manager when Gooding retires, but I’m not so sure that’s all there is to life. I mean, look at you—married with a young family and in far off lands, now that’s a bit more exciting if you ask me.’

Peregrine rubbed his chin considering what he was about to say.

‘Look here Teddy; I’ve got a damn good job in Guayaquil. I’m manager of the shipyard there and I’m looking for someone I can trust to be my assistant. That’s part of the reason I’m in London,’ he paused to let Edward take in what he’d just said before going on. ‘Would you consider taking on the job? I know we’ve hardly seen each other since the war but I know I can trust you. What do you say Teddy, would you give it a go?’

Edward had not imagined that an offer like that would drop on his lap—today of all days, just when he’d been re-evaluating his life and future prospects. Peregrine could see the effect that his offer had caused and pressed him.

‘Come on Teddy, it’s not so bad you know and I think you would love Guayaquil; chance to put the past behind and who knows, you might meet a lovely señorita and... good Lord, I didn’t think to ask. Are you married?’ Edward saw the embarrassed look on his friend’s face and said:

‘Dear me, no; I mean...I’ve not had much of a chance really...but Peregrine do you think I’d be up to the job? Shipyards are not really my thing you know.’

‘Absolute doddle old boy and remember I’ll be there to help you.’

Edward’s face suddenly brightened and his smile said it all. He had made a decision and one that he was sure would change his life for the better. At last, he was stepping out of the dull life he’d made for himself and setting off on a great adventure.

When Peregrine saw his friend’s happy face he said: ‘Do I take it that’s a yes?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘That’s wonderful Teddy. I know I haven’t mentioned salary, conditions or anything like that but you won’t regret it, I’ll make sure of that. This calls for a celebration,’ he said, and ordered a bottle of his favourite champagne.

When Edward left Boodle’s it was with a distinct spring in his step and an altogether brighter outlook on his life.

Edward had not stopped making plans since his meeting with Peregrine a month ago. Edwina had not taken the news well; but he’d always had a way of getting around his sister and this time was no different.

A month later found Edward at home in the process of having a clear out. He’d gone to the storeroom cupboard in his flat and dug out his old case with the bits and pieces he’d kept from the war. He found his recent past stretching before him in the form of his old Montague Burton demob suit. Searching amongst the stuff inside he found some papers he’d kept, old bills, letters from Edwina and in amongst that lot something caught his eye that, though he’d not seen it in a long time, he recognized at once. It was Dieter’s little black notebook.

Well now, here was something from the past that brought all the sad memories of his friend’s death flooding back. Tucked in amongst its pages, as well as his friends interrogation notes, he found Julian’s letter to Joe and the treasure map that Becky had given him; yet another mystery, pirate plunder no less. But what of the Gold Train? Whatever became of it? Could it be that that treasure lay somewhere undiscovered all this time? Surely not...but then, he’d not heard or read anything about the missing carriage since the end of the war.

Edward had been studying Dieter’s little black notebook while enjoying his usual gin and tonic before lunch when he accidentally knocked the glass over spilling some of the contents over it. It was a stupid accident and he quickly mopped up the liquid with his handkerchief. No harm done he thought as he inspected the damage. The ink had run a bit, that was all, but then he saw something he had never noticed before—and heaven knows he’d studied that book closely enough so many times—yet there it was, a faint outline on the inside front cover coming through the page. If he hadn’t got it wet he may never have seen it. What was written there? He needed a magnifying glass. When he looked more closely something else struck him. A page had been expertly folded back and stuck to form the inside front cover of the book but its real purpose was to hide what had been written there. A good hiding place thought Edward.

He got his Swiss Army knife and selected the small blade. Carefully, so as not to damage anything that might be there, he proceeded to slice through the page so as to reveal the real inside front cover of the book. Finally he was done.

What he saw startled him: A set of coordinates. As he studied them it dawned on him that he was looking at the location of the items listed in the black notebook, the treasures looted from the Gold Train.

Edward sat back astonished. What had eluded him for so long, and baffled Joseph too, had been there all the time. It was a lot to take in at once. He wished he could share the moment with his friend. He started pacing around the room thinking, and the more he thought the less he knew what to do. This was crazy; he forced himself to calm down and consider what was to be done. Step number one was to determine the position indicated by the coordinates. For that he needed a chart and he knew just where to get one. Lunch forgotten, Edward put his tweed jacket on and tucked the book in the inside coat pocket securing it in place with the tab and buttoning it down. He was taking no chances losing it now. He took the stairs two at a time, got to the bottom, and nearly knocked over his landlady who was coming in with some groceries from the corner shop. He bent down to pick up her ration book, said sorry and handed it back to her. Before she could reply, he went out the door. Edward stood looking around and spotted a cab that had just dropped a fare on the opposite side. He ran across, gave the cabbie the address for Stanfords, jumped in, and settled back to think about what his next move would be. Pretty soon they were there;

Stanfords went back to 1827 and was the brainchild of one Edward Stanford who had decided to be the most prominent seller of maps in the country, after noticing the growth of foreign travel and the impact that British colonialism was bound to have on his fellow countrymen. His business, initially at 55 Charing Cross Road, grew, and forty-six years later moved to 12 Long Acre, where it has remained.

After leaping out of the cab and paying the fare, Edward went into the imposing building. Once inside he looked around, taking in the place which, as usual, was busy with shoppers looking at charts spread out on the many wooden plan chests to be found dotted around the ground floor. He found an assistant and gave him the coordinates to enable him to find the part of the world that they referred to. When he had narrowed it down he asked for the appropriate large-scale chart of that area and it was brought to him. The young clerk excused himself while Edward spread the chart on the plan chest and took a long hard look at the place indicated by the coordinates. He stood back smiling and thought that fate had contrived to make life easy for him this time round and he took this to be a good omen.

Edward’s job in Guayaquil awaited him and he decided that he would take up his position. It would not be fair on Peregrine if he didn’t turn up, but as soon as he got there he would explain that something personal had come up that prevented him from continuing on in the job. He would thank him for his kindness in offering him the position and apologise for letting him down but he was sure he’d understand. Naturally he would give his friend enough time to find a replacement and, as soon as a suitable candidate was found to take his place, his adventure would begin.

Edward set off to visit Thomas Cook, a travel agent near Marble Arch. It was one of those rare cold, crisp, sunny mornings that he loved so much. He walked to Queensway, past Whiteleys with its windows displaying the latest fashions, noted that short dresses were back and smiled. He continued heading towards Bayswater Road, passing large gaping holes where buildings had once stood, grim reminders of the London Blitz. There was a newspaper stand in the corner by the entrance to the underground with the latest news on the General Election that was due to take place the following month. The Conservative party were tipped to return to power and, if they did, seventy-seven year old Winston Churchill would again be the new prime minister; Edward liked Winnie and would be glad of it. He bought a copy of the Daily Sketch, caught a number 88, made his way to the upper deck of the bus and sat at the front. From his vantage point he saw Hyde Park full of people. There were men walking their dogs, some women pushed prams while lovers, out for a stroll, walked holding hands enjoying the fresh morning air. He felt good and full of optimism. He got off in Oxford Street and went in search of the agency in Edgware Road. When he got there he entered the shop and was greeted by a pretty young blonde seated at a desk nearest the door.

‘Good morning sir, how can I help you?’ She said smiling brightly.

‘Yes, I telephoned last week and spoke to Mrs Soames, you wouldn’t be...?’ He started to say.

‘No, I’m not,’ she said smiling, ‘she’s our manager; I’ll just get her for you... Mr...?’

‘Hannah. Edward Hannah.’

Mrs Soames turned out to be a charming; forty something, smartly dressed lady. She greeted Edward and asked him into her office. He followed her to the back of the shop, went into her office and sat down in front of her desk. The walls of her office  were decorated with colourful picture posters of New York, Paris and Rome as well as framed black and white photographs of pilots and pretty air stewardesses pictured against the backdrop of the airlines’ latest aeroplanes. A lead-cast model of a Stratocruiser on a pedestal stood by the telephone on her desk.

‘You’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve managed to find you a ticket to New York on BOAC’s Monarch morning service on December 9th,’ she said, ‘it’s a very long flight you know, eleven and a half hours to New York’s La Guardia, gets in at 5.30pm local time, I have the itinerary here somewhere,’ she said, ‘it’s their newest Boeing 377 Stratocruiser with sleeping accommodation so you will be well rested on arrival.’ Mrs Soames pointed to the model of the plane and continued to search amongst a pile of papers on her desk until she found the itinerary.

‘Yes here we are now, let me see...I’ve spoken to Pan Am,’ she said reading from her notes, ‘and they have you booked on a connecting flight to Mexico City where you will stay overnight. The following day you’ll leave Mexico with Taca on one of their DC3’s. I’m afraid they stop at every city from Guatemala to Costa Rica but that’s all there is. You’ll arrive there at 6.30pm and leave three days later as you requested. The airport in Costa Rica is La Savana, right in the heart of San Jose, which is most convenient for hotels and shops. From San Jose you’re booked on a LAV flight to Lima and from there on LANSA to Ecuador.’

Liz Soames sat back, pleased with herself. It was not every day that a gentleman walked into her shop and favoured her with such a complicated set of arrangements and she thought she’d done rather well. Edward thanked her and she promised to call him when she had the entire travel schedule confirmed, and the prices for the complete trip so that he could come in again to collect his travel documents and make the payment.

Mrs Soames gave Edward her card and he thanked her for all her hard work. He left the shop and decided to return to his flat on foot. It was a lovely day and a walk through Hyde Park would do him the power of good.

The day of his departure finally arrived and Edwina accompanied him to the airport in a taxi. When they got there he got a porter to help with the luggage and went off in search of the BOAC desk, which they found on the ground floor.

This was Edward’s first flight out of London Airport and he was very excited by the prospect of a transatlantic trip, though he’d read somewhere that over 700,000 passengers had travelled from London Airport last year and flying was now almost commonplace.

He was wearing a Panama hat that suited his face rather well, and had bought an elegant lightweight suit and some shirts in Austin Reed, anything else he would buy in Costa Rica as they were bound to be better value and would be more suitable for the temperature in the tropics.

The concourse was full of smartly dressed men and women in suits and hats. There was an air of exhilaration about the airport; air travel was so very new with its promise of a brighter future, bringing far off places closer to home. Edward was torn between the excitement at the prospect of his long voyage and the feeling that he was leaving his dear sister alone so soon after she had got him back from the war. He promised he would write and Edwina did her best not to cry but of course, when Edward’s flight was called, she broke down.

‘Well this is it I guess...Oh dear, dear now don’t you cry. You know how I hate to see you crying.’

‘I know but I can’t help it. You’re going off and I’m left here on my own.’

‘It’s not for ever you know, I promise I’ll write and, as soon as I can, I’ll place a trunk call and we’ll talk. When I’m settled you can come and visit for as long as you like. It’ll be all right you’ll see.’ But he could tell she wasn’t convinced. All Edwina could think of was her Edward going through the door marked Passengers Only and her never seeing him again. She knew it was silly but she just couldn’t help it and again she felt the sting of tears welling in her eyes and a horrible feeling of anguish in the pit of her stomach like what she’d felt when Edward went off to war.

‘You better go now you don’t want to miss your flight now do you?’ She said trying hard to stop herself crying. They hugged and held each other for a long time and finally he gave her a kiss on her cheek wet with tears.

‘Edwina, go to the observation deck, you can wave goodbye from there.’

He hated to let his sister go and followed her with his eyes for a moment, then turned away and made his way through to the departures lounge. Twenty minutes later his flight was ready for boarding. He joined the other passengers for the short walk along the tarmac to the huge double-decker aircraft. The airplane ladder bearing the BOAC logo was propped up to the entrance door and a slim stewardess, in the Corporation’s smart navy uniform, greeted the passengers before they climbed the stairs and entered the plane. When he got to the door at the top of the ladder Edward waved to Edwina who waved frantically back. Reluctantly he turned away and entered the plane.

The Monarch flight between London Airport and La Guardia in New York was a luxury service for the eighty-one passengers on board. On entering Edward was struck by its sheer size. Spacious seats either side of a six foot wide centre aisle and an eight foot ceiling height, meant that even six footers like him would be very comfortable during the long journey. He passed a circular staircase going down to the bar and made a mental note to go for a drink when it got dark. He found his place, sat down and looked through the large oblong window. He could still see his sister though she could not see him. He felt guilty living her behind but this was a chance of a lifetime. If he made his fortune she would not need to worry about money for the rest of her life, or him for that matter.

It was a beautiful bright, cloudless day as if to prove that England was not always engulfed in fog and rain. The cabin steward closed the door and the ground crew took the stairs away from the aircraft. All the passengers settled into their seats. A little later the calm voice of the captain came over the aircraft’s sound system introducing himself, his crew and the flight attendants. He announced the departure of the aircraft and left the passengers in the capable hands of the cabin crew.

Edward was sitting by the wing looking through the window at his sister who appeared rather sad standing alone waiting for his plane to depart; again, he felt a guilty pang at leaving her behind. He was brought out of his daydream by a shrill metallic cough, and saw a puff of white smoke coming from the engine cowling as the Stratocruiser’s captain started the initial warm up of the four Pratt & Whitney Wasp Majors. The propeller blades on the port and starboard-side engines turned hesitantly at first but soon settled down to a steady purr that transmitted a gentle vibration to the cabin. Edward’s thoughts turned to the last time he’d been on a plane, he had been on a Lancaster bomber accompanying his friend’s coffin on the journey home. How different this was; maybe it was finally time to put the past behind.

The Captain and his crew finished all the checks. They taxied to the runway, the flight engineer set the cowl flaps, and the co-pilot depressed the flaps for take-off. The Captain applied power gradually and the giant aircraft sped down the runway, andleft the ground climbing fast, leaving London behind bathed in glorious sunshine.

Looking out of his window at the clear blue sky Edward felt a jumble of emotions, happy and sad, exhilarated and apprehensive. Was he doing the right thing? He had a treasure map, two in fact. So many people had died searching for Thompson’s treasure but still, there’s no such thing as curses, is there? And what of Dieter’s book? Had it not cost him his life and maybe Joseph’s too? Could it be, he wondered, that inadvertently he’d gotten hold of a poisoned chalice?

Edward had been anticipating his arrival at Guayaquil with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. He felt terrible about letting Peregrine down after he had placed his trust in him and offered him a chance of a new life. As he descended the steps from the plane and walked towards the terminal building he played the scene he’d rehearsed in his head but, whichever way he said it, he knew it would sound bad. He came through customs after about half an hour and found Peregrine waiting for him on the other side. He looked the picture of health, even better than when he’d last seen him in Boodles. He was smiling broadly and waving his Panama hat to attract his attention.

‘Hello old man,’ he said by way of a greeting and Edward felt a strange sensation that he identified as embarrassment. That was it, he was embarrassed and that was not a feeling he was used to.

‘Hello Peregrine it’s great to see you.’

The arrivals area was crowded and very hot; not a good place for a reunion. Peregrine had come with two men from the shipyard to help with Edward’s luggage and was giving instructions in Spanish and taking control of the situation. When he was satisfied with the arrangements he turned to Edward:

‘Sorry Teddy but it’s best to get out of here as soon as possible. My men will take your luggage to your accommodation and you and I can go back in my car and at a more leisurely pace, you must be very tired.’

‘That’s very kind. I should be tired but, somehow, I’m not; must be adrenaline and the sight of you and the new surroundings,’ he said looking around at the cars parked outside the airport and all the strange faces so different to the ones he’d seen in Heathrow.

‘Yes, I know what you mean. It was just like that for me when I first arrived but I had my lovely Leonor to look forward to of course, still, we may yet find you a pretty señorita,’ he said with a mischievous look in his eyes.

‘Quite the matchmaker you’ve turned out to be,’ Edward laughed, ‘I can see I’m going to have to be on my guard.’

‘You make it sound like purgatory Teddy, don’t let Leonor hear you say that, she’s the matchmaker not me.’

‘Very well, I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise. Where are you taking me?’

They stopped next to a cream and grey Oldsmobile.

‘Your chariot awaits.’

‘Is this yours?’ The American car was new and very modern compared to the cars back home.

‘Yes Teddy, and soon I will have to fix you up with transport of your own. I hope you won’t mind driving in a country where there are no rules; it’s everyman for himself but you’ll soon get the hang of it, don’t you worry.’

It felt funny getting in on the wrong side of the car, just one more thing to get used to, he thought as Peregrine put the big automatic into drive and shot out of the airport area at an alarming speed.

Edward was wondering when would be the best time to broach the subject he needed to discuss with Peregrine, coming to the conclusion that the sooner the better; he wasn’t sure he could play dumb for much longer.

‘Fancy a nice cold drink after your long journey?’

‘I’m always ready for a drink,’ he said ‘I suppose you have a place in mind because, I’m afraid, I won’t be much help to you there.’

Edward was thinking that breaking it to his friend over a drink might be the easiest way.

‘Don’t you worry Teddy, I know my way around here pretty well, we’ll go the Country Club, it’s very nice and civilized, you’ll like it there.’

They arrived at the entrance to the large Country Club and were met by a valet who took the car keys and went off to park the car while Edward and Peregrine made their way inside.

‘Buenos dias señor Peregrine,’ the young receptionist greeted him.

‘Buenos dias Margarita, vamos a tomarnos un traguito.’

‘Muy bien, que disfruten.’

‘What was all that about?’

‘I just told her we’re going to have a drink and she very kindly said she hoped we enjoyed it.’

‘Spanish. I guess I’m going to have to learn it and soon.’

‘Don’t you worry Teddy; we’ll have you talking like a native before you know it.’

They were seated outside in the shaded veranda looking over the gardens and the swimming pool when a waiter arrived.

‘What’s your poison?’ Peregrine said.

‘Gin and tonic if that’s possible, thank you.’

‘Un gin tonic para el señor y un whisky para mi Javier por favor.’

The waiter left and Peregrine noticed that Edward looked distracted.

‘I’m a brute, I should have taken you straight back—you must be shattered.’

‘Not at all, it...it’s not that I...well I’ve got something to tell you and don’t quite know how to get it off my chest.’

‘Just say it straight out Teddy, that’s what I always think. Don’t worry I won’t bite.’

Just then the drinks arrived and Edward was glad of the opportunity to get what he wanted to say straight in his head, the last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Peregrine’s feelings.

‘Well it’s like this,’ he began.

Edward told Peregrine the whole story and when he finished there was an awkward silence.

‘I’m really so sorry Peregrine after all you’ve done for me.’

‘Buried treasure, and Nazi gold’ Peregrine was saying to himself, ‘well who would believe it...most extraordinary.’

‘You’re not angry?’

‘Why ever would you think that? Envious is more like it, you’re off on an amazing adventure I only wish I could go with you.’

‘But the post...I mean I don’t want to leave you in the lurch.’

‘And you won’t Teddy, don’t worry, I’ve had a local chap after the job for ages but I really would have much preferred you. No don’t you worry just promise me one thing.’

‘Anything Peregrine, just name it.’

‘That you won’t forget me when you’re rich.’

‘Fat chance of that Peregrine, I’ll be back here before you can say...well whatever it is that doesn’t take too long to say it and besides, you promised me a beautiful señorita, or have you forgotten?’

‘I’m a man of my word, you bring the treasure and I’ll bring your señorita,’ he said and they both laughed. Edward felt a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders and he thanked Peregrine for his kindness and understanding. Now he truly could make plans and he could not wait to get going.

Chapter Five

London, 2007

Elliott fumbled around blindly until he located and silenced the alarm clock, knocking it off the bedside table, sending it crashing noisily to the floor. His head hurt every time he moved it and his eyes were stuck shut. He rubbed them and attempted opening one; a painful experience. Some light started to filter in and he tried again. Better this time, but how he wished his head would stop swimming. As the fog slowly lifted and his head began to clear he started to take account of where he was.

It was his usual room in The Sloane Club in Lower Sloane Street. Everything was as it should be: no surprises there. He’d always liked the homey atmosphere of The Sloane, its well-stocked bar and the attentive, friendly service; but the previous night was still a bit of a mystery to him. He tried again and willed himself to think. He remembered setting off for a night out with his friends for a curry at Chutney Mary on the New Kings Road. He could still taste the chicken Madras he’d ordered.

It was all coming back now, like some god-awful nightmare he could not run away from. They’d ended up at a favourite haunt of Elliott’s, a casino in Dean Street just off Soho Square called The Royal owned by Johnny Briggs, an east end hoodlum turned businessman. Unfortunately Elliott had followed the Cobras with whisky chasers and by then he’d lost his inhibitions; he’d kept on gambling when he should have stopped and had fallen into a losing streak. All he needed was one more roll of the dice that’s all, just one more roll and he’d be back on top; so he asked for credit. He couldn’t remember his friends trying to stop him. The dealer got the nod from a pit boss to accept Elliott’s marker and he went on to add to his not inconsiderable debt and left the casino completely plastered an hour later, helped by his friends who put him in a cab and gave the driver Elliott’s address as The Sloane Club.

He was a regular who always paid his debts so when he left without settling his account no one tried to stop him figuring he’d be there the following day as usual to sort things out.

Elliott rolled out of bed and sat on the edge cradling his head and then it hit him—he’d managed to lose twenty grand. How the fuck had he managed to do that? And as the enormity of his plight began to sink in, he crawled back into the safety of his warm bed.

When Elliott reawakened it was midday. His head had stopped thumping but his mouth was dry and tasted like shit. He got up slowly and was delighted to find that the room had stopped moving. He went to the bathroom and undressed, turned the shower full-on and stood under the warm spray letting it soothe his body and wash away what remained of the previous night’s excesses. Finally he came out and towelled himself dry. Elliott opened the door to the bathroom and waited for the steam to clear before attempting to shave. He got a glass and filled it with a cupful of Listerine and topped it up with cold water. Swilled and gargled until he could hardly taste the curry.

He was starving and decided to go across the road to one of his favourite Italian restaurants for lunch; Elliott called reception and got them to book him a table. A good lunch was the answer; things always look better on a full stomach. He remembered that the last time he’d had a bit of pasta at Caraffini had been a month ago when he’d come to London for a bit of R&R—my how time flies he thought; then coming back to the present Elliott decided that when he was fully restored he would come up with a plan as to how he would deal with his huge gambling debt.

Elliott came out of The Sloane Club, turned right and walked to the corner opposite the pub. He was looking for a gap in the traffic before crossing the road to the restaurant opposite. A car came up to the turning; the passenger wound down the window and called him over.

‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Eton Square, do you know where it is?’

Elliott stopped to think for a second and didn’t notice the big man that had appeared from nowhere, opened the back door, shoved him inside the car, sliding in beside him. Before Elliott knew what was happening the car was moving.

‘Hey, what’s going on?’

‘Shut up and I won’t have to shut you up. Mr Briggs wants to see you.’

No more explanations were offered and none were needed. Elliott knew he was in trouble. The man beside him was massive. His large hands rested on his legs and Elliott noticed that the fingers on his right hand were tattooed with the word ‘Noko’. He wondered if that was his name but wasn’t about to ask. He started searching his mind for what he knew of Briggs. Elliott had never met him personally and had only seen him a few times at the club. Briggs usually kept himself away from the tables, and spent most of his day in his office upstairs. Elliott had heard Briggs was tough, that he’d been tied in with Ronnie and Reggie Kray.

The car was now in Hyde Park Corner, and there was no mistaking where they were headed. They were outside the club and then he was pulled out of the car and marched inside by Noko. They went in through a side door and up a set of stairs to the first floor.

There was a bouncer outside the only door on the landing. Noko asked:

‘Is he in?’

‘He’s in, snake, go right in.’

Snake. This guy has more names than a telephone book, thought Elliott, but he said nothing.

Snake opened the door, pushed Elliott inside and followed him in.

‘Hello Billy, who’s your friend,’ Briggs said, looking at Elliott like he didn’t know who he was.

‘It’s Mr Shepherd, Uncle Johnny. You asked to see him’

‘So I did.’ Briggs was sitting behind a large wooden desk, some sort of reproduction. Elliott thought he looked like a cheap hoodlum in an expensive suit.

‘Come and sit down Mr Shepherd,’ he said pointing to a chair in front of the desk.

Elliott sat down and Billy—stood behind his chair, towering above him. It made him feel nervous as hell.

‘Now Mr Shepherd, I’ve been told you visited my casino yesterday. Seems you had a bit of a bad night, lost a lot of money,’ he was studying Elliott with a humourless face that was making him feel even more anxious than he already was.

‘Mr Briggs...yes I’m afraid your boys took me to the cleaners,’ Elliot began, trying to inject some humour into the situation but Briggs obviously wasn’t into comedy.

‘That’s as may be Mr Shepherd but we don’t appear to have been paid and you haven’t called to explain...anyway, you’re here now so perhaps we can settle this hamicably.’

His East End accent, replete with dropped h’s, and h’s which kept appearing in places they didn’t belong. Briggs was making an attempt at being civil. Elliott wondered how long that would last.

‘I ’ope you brought your cheque book with you.’

‘Mr Briggs, I’ve got a bit of a problem with making an immediate payment. It’s just temporary. A couple of things I’ve got to sort out and then I’ll pay you of course.’

‘Mr Shepherd, you’re an educated man, I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you the difference between a casino and a bank. Banks give credit. We’re in the casino business.’

Briggs’s eyes were burning into Elliott and he could feel Billy’s presence weighing on him. When Briggs spoke again his tone had changed and his expression with it. Elliott had not had time to look at the room he was in, and now noticed a fish tank along one wall next to a coffee table, sofa and a couple of armchairs, obviously where Briggs sat for informal chats with his friends. There were framed black and white photos of Diana Dors, Sinatra, Judy Garland and one that he recognized of Ronnie and Reggie Kray taken by David Bailey; he’d seen it on a Channel 4 documentary. And there was something that had struck him as odd. A second look at the fish tank and he saw what it was. It had no water and it had a lid.

‘Do you like pets, Mr Shepherd?’

The question took Elliott completely by surprise.

‘Pets?’

‘Yes, you know, animals and such like. My nephew ‘ere, he loves pets. One in particular he’s very fond of.’

Elliott didn’t like the way the conversation was going but could not think what pets had to do with anything. Briggs’s nephew looked massive and evil, he couldn’t imagine what kind of pet he’d like but he was about to find out.

‘Billy, why don’t you bring Noko over here? I think Mr Shepherd would like to meet him.’

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Billy move away and head to the fish tank. It was sitting on a heavy table that had two deep drawers. He saw Billy open one and pull out what looked like a big canvas glove with a long sleeve. Billy slid his right hand into the glove and pulled the sleeve up until it reached almost up to his shoulder. Elliott was following the proceedings with increased misgivings and what he saw next nearly made him choke. Billy opened the lid back on its hinges and rested it on the wall. He then put his gloved hand inside and scrabbled at something Elliott could not see in a dark corner of the tank. A few moments later and Billy had a colourful snake coiled around his hand and part of his forearm. Elliott felt a rush of adrenaline hit him as if a thousand small daggers had been stuck into him simultaneously.

‘Noko is a very special pet, it’s a coral snake that comes from Central America, very rare and very deadly, but my nephew seems to like it, don’t you Billy?’

‘Yes Uncle Johnny, he’s very friendly is Noko.’

Elliott stood and was making for the door.

‘I am so sorry Mr Shepherd, I didn’t know you don’t like pets,’ he nodded to Billy to stay put.

‘Why don’t you sit down again and let’s discuss this cash flow problem of yours.’

Elliott was relieved to see that Billy didn’t look like coming over to introduce him to his pet.

‘Mr Briggs, you’re right. I owe you the money. Why should you have to wait for it? It’s just that, this cash flow problem I have is real. You’re a businessman,’ he said hoping that what he was about to tell him would not get him killed, ‘I have a proposition to make to you if you are interested,’ Billy had not moved and Briggs appeared to be waiting to hear what he had to say, so Elliott told him the whole story leaving out just enough to give himself a slight edge.

‘Let me get this straight,’ Briggs said, you’re prepared to pay me the money you owe me plus 200 grand, that is 10 times your debt plus my stake back. In exchange for what...time?’

‘Yes. Ninety days. That’s all I need.’

‘And you don’t want anything from me?’

‘Nothing more.’

Briggs nodded in Billy’s direction. Billy looked almost disappointed as he headed back to the fish tank to return Noko to his home.

‘I’m sorry Mr Shepherd, looks like you’re going to have to meet Noko another time, its way past his bedtime.’

Elliott could not believe his luck. Now all he had to do was make sure his project was a success. He had to pay Briggs. It was a small price to have his life back but Briggs appeared to be considering the deal and Elliott prayed he wasn’t having second thoughts.

‘You are sure about this?’

‘Completely sure.’ Elliott had visions of Noko returning.

‘What if you’re wrong?’

‘I’m not,’ Elliott said as convincingly as he could, ‘but if I don’t have it before the ninety days are up, I’ll sell my house and pay you out of that. You cannot lose. If I could borrow more from my bank I’d pay you right now but I can’t, I just need the ninety days,’ he repeated.

Briggs looked uncertain. It was a risk, but he knew where he could find Shepherd anytime he wanted. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘we have a deal,’ and they shook hands on it.

When Elliott left Briggs’s office he was soaked in sweat as if he’d been for a swim with his clothes on. He couldn’t wait to get back to The Sloane Club for a long shower.

‘Do you trust him Uncle Johnny?’

‘Maybe. He’s scared enough to say anything but he may be on the level. It’s worth a punt. I’m sure he doesn’t want to meet Noko,’ he said, ‘Now Billy, this is what I want you to do.’

Elliott Shepherd was born in England in 1974, and missed Beatlemania by a good ten years. He was educated at Hill House and Oxford where he took an M.Phil. in Latin American studies and in 1997, at the age of 23, joined the Latin American Desk at the BBC.

In November 1999, the BBC sent senior reporter Connor Henderson to do a tour of Latin America for a forthcoming radio broadcast. It was intended to usher in the new millennium, assessing how far human rights had come in that continent in the last 2000 years. Henderson took Elliott as his assistant and to help him gain first-hand experience. They visited all the major cities from Mexico to Panama and on through South America, stopping in Caracas, Buenos Aires and Lima.

Elliott was fascinated by Peru and vowed to return. Five years later he got his chance when the BBC sent him to cover a human-interest story that had captured the imagination of the local community and was causing a bit of a furore. A priest had been praying in his church late in the evening and was completely alone when, he claimed, that the Virgin Mary had appeared to him. That alone, and the fact that it was from his church that a life-size solid gold, gem encrusted statue of the Virgin Mary and Child had been stolen in the year 1821, had been enough for the Vatican to send a representative to look into the matter. Elliott had had the good fortune to interview the priest, Padre Ignacio Mora, and the Pope’s emissary Cardinal Quadrelli. He sent his report to his boss at the Beeb and it was used as a curiosity story in one of the Corporation’s nine o’clock nightly news broadcasts.

While covering the story Elliott had learned that the value of the statue, intrinsic and historical, was incalculable. There were the usual rumours that had grown over the centuries referring to pirate treasure taken in Lima, suggesting that the statue of the Virgin had probably been buried—along with the rest of the booty—in  Cocos, an island belonging to Costa Rica. Elliott determined to investigate a little more. Who knows? he thought, It could prove an interesting follow up to his original story.

The more Elliott looked into it the more his fascination grew.

Back in England, he decided to learn as much as possible about Cocos Island and about the people who had visited its shores in search of the treasure.

In May 2004, on his return from Peru, Elliott approached his boss and said that he wanted to work on a project that he thought the Corporation would be interested in. He suggested he could do it better working as a freelance reporter instead, as that would give him greater freedom of movement. His employer liked him and had no difficulty changing his contract to accommodate him.

Elliott started his research and found out that Julian Keating, a respected English archaeologist, had led the last British expedition to Cocos. He learnt that Keating was the brother of a war hero and holder of the VC, and also that he had died during the Second World War. Elliott went to the BBC’s own archives to see what, if anything, he might uncover. As it turned out, Joseph Keating was something of a celebrity and a decorated war hero to boot, so the story of his death in Austria had been big news in its day and had been covered by Richard Dimbleby for the BBC. In the archives he found the research notes and learned that Keating’s best friend, Edward Hannah, had accompanied him on his last journey home. The notes also mentioned the names of close family and friends who were present at his funeral. He hoped he might be able to find Julian Keating that way but, unfortunately, his research told him that he had died in a shipwreck near Cocos Island.

The Keatings’ children, Jane and Colin, had moved to Australia after their mother’s death to start a new life; but Edwina Hannah, sister of Keating’s best friend Edward, had stayed; she was still alive and a resident in sheltered accommodation in Pinner. Elliott lost no time contacting the private home and speaking to the supervisor. He explained that he was a reporter for the BBC researching an old story that the Corporation was interested in revisiting. He said that he needed to speak to one of the residents to get some background on an old friend of hers. The supervisor wasn’t sure she would want to speak to him but he would ask her.

Elliott met Edwina Hannah in a corner of the small living room that was reserved for the residents and their visitors. It was a pleasant environment and quite homely in an old fashioned sort of way. Edwina had very little money but her place there was paid for entirely by Rebecca Keating’s estate, Joseph’s widow, an old and dear friend of hers and her brother Edward. Mrs Keating had passed away but she had made provision for her friend to see her through to the end of her life.

‘Mrs Hannah, it’s very kind of you to see me,’ he began.

She was a slight frail-looking lady with white hair tied neatly in a bun. In her youth she had probably been very proper and a little plain. Elliott knew she was ninety-three, born at the start of the Great War, but despite her great age, she appeared to be well and looked quite presentable in her grey cotton skirt and white blouse.

She had a small, quiet voice and Elliott had to strain to hear her. ‘Not at all,’ she said, ‘I get very few visitors nowadays, and it’s “Miss” you know, I never did marry, but please do call me Edwina.’

‘Thank you Miss Edwina,’ he said, ‘were you told what my being here is all about?’

‘No, young man,’ she said, ‘but I was rather hoping you would tell me.’

She spoke slowly and deliberately as if every word needed to be uttered just so and her advanced years did not appear to have impaired her faculties.

‘I’m with the BBC, researching Mr Keating’s life and well...your brother, Edward, I understand that he was a good friend of Mr Keating’s.’

At the mention of her brother’s name, Miss Edwina seemed to perk up.

‘Joseph and Edward were best friends. He was best man at his wedding to Becky, that was Joe’s wife you know, and they served in the same unit all through the war. Joseph thought of my Edward as a brother,’ she said and her face had become quite animated.

Her new look did not go unnoticed by Elliott who observed that talk of her friends and her brother in particular had even brought some colour to her cheeks.

‘I was hoping you might tell me a little about what happened, it’s all such a long time ago and my knowledge is sketchy to say the least.’

‘Well, you see, my Edward...he died in 1951...’ and she suddenly looked rather sad.

‘I’m so sorry; I did not mean to upset you.’

‘No, no, you’re not upsetting me...not now. Joseph, in a way, was the reason my Edward went away.’ The old lady wasn’t making much sense.

‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean. Went away, you say.’

‘Well, I don’t know if you know but dear Joseph died in a tragic road crash in Austria though my Edward had never believed it and suspected foul play all along. In the end he was proved right when the Americans caught and punished the culprit,’ and she went on, ‘as I was saying, during the war they were both stationed in Austria and, just before he died, Joseph gave a notebook to Edward for safe keeping. It changed his life and, for that matter, mine too.’

A notebook that could change people’s lives, Elliott wondered what on earth she was talking about.

‘Could you tell me something about the notebook?’ he asked and Miss Edwina became quite animated and told Elliott what she knew of the history of Dieter’s book.

‘What happened to the notebook?’

‘The notebook, oh that, why...I’ve got it. I’ve had it since he left. Edward copied it out and left the original with me. He said it was safer that way.’ Elliott couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

‘You’ve got the book? I mean...here with you?’

‘Yes. Would you like to see it?’

Elliott could not believe his luck.

‘Yes Miss Edwina...if I may I would very much like to see it.’

She asked Elliott to call a nurse from the nurse’s station in the lobby. When the nurse came into the room Miss Edwina turned to her, ‘Ellie dear, there you are. Would you be kind and fetch me my papers box, you know, the one I keep on the dressing table?’

The nurse left the room and Elliott was again alone with Miss Edwina. He hoped his impatience did not show but he couldn’t wait for nurse Ellie to return with the box.

‘Thank you Ellie,’ she smiled, as the nurse came back into the room carrying a small, rose-coloured fabric box and placing it on the table next to Miss Edwina. Elliott watched her open the box with her old fragile hands and thought it strange that such a small box could contain one person’s whole life.

She pulled out a black leather notebook and looked at it for a second or two as if seeing it for the first time and then she handed it to Elliott. ‘Thank you Miss Edwina,’ he said as he stared at the logo, a strange one that he had not come across before—but similar in some ways to the ones he had seen in countless films and book covers.

Now here he was holding the genuine article. Elliott opened the book and found two folded foolscap pages of handwritten notes on both sides. It was British Army notepaper and appeared to be interview notes referring to an interrogation of a prisoner. The book itself contained some sort of inventory and on the inside front cover was what looked like a set of coordinates.

He needed more time with it, more time than he had to spend with her. ‘Miss Edwina, this book...it’s fascinating...it would be so useful to me if I could borrow it. I’d guard it well; I know how precious it must be for you.’

She looked vacant, as if her mind was somewhere else and Elliott wondered if she had not heard his question. Her answer astonished him.

‘You can keep it young man. It’s what took my Edward away. I never felt I could just destroy it but I would really be so glad to be rid of it. I mean...that would not be disloyal to Edward’s memory. Would it?’

‘Of course not and I promise that I will tell you whatever I find out... if you wish?’

Miss Edwina smiled for only the second time since Elliott’s arrival.

‘Well you’d better hurry up young man. I’m not sure I will be around much longer.’

Elliott was amazed to find that Miss Edwina still had a sense of humour and he gave her his best smile. ‘You’ll outlive us all, Miss Edwina, and thank you. Thank you for everything.’ Elliott thought that she looked almost relieved to be rid of the black notebook and asked her one last question. ‘Did your brother write to you before he died?’

‘Yes, he wrote me just one letter in which he told me he was finally free to go find what he had been looking for and that he was very excited. He promised he would write again but never got the chance. It was when he was on his way to Lima in search of it that God took him away. His plane crashed in Ecuador or Peru...I’m not sure which now...and all on board including my dear Edward were never heard of again.’

Edwina went quiet for a moment with a faraway look that spoke volumes. Elliott stayed a little while longer letting her chat about old times, keeping her company really, and again he promised to tell her if he found out anything more about her brother’s death. She thanked him adding that just knowing a little more than she knew before she died would be a comfort to her. He left her sitting alone clutching the little letterbox to her chest, rocking gently to and fro and lost in a world of her own. Elliott hoped that, wherever that world was, she was with her Edward. He didn’t know quite why, but meeting Miss Edwina had moved him more than he thought was possible.

Elliott sat in his car clutching the book in one hand and his mobile in the other. He knew the person he needed to speak to, one of his drinking pals who he’d last seen on his visit to The Royal. The thought of that place brought memories of his recent meeting flooding back. How had he got himself tangled up with a gangster like Briggs, and Billy and his fucking pet? It was all too much. He decided to put it out of his mind. Elliott phoned Charlie Woodruff’s mobile and found him at his local pub, the Australian in Milner Street. He told him he needed to see him and they agreed to meet there the following day at noon.

Elliott turned up on time on an unusually sunny morning. Though Wednesday is not a particularly busy day, the pub was fairly crowded with office workers, and tourists sitting outside making the most of the warm sunshine. As he approached he spotted Charlie waving at him and he waved back.

A pint of Guinness was waiting for him so Charlie must have guessed he’d be on time. ‘Good morning, and how’s the high roller today?’

‘Don’t fucking go there. That’s a painful memory and I’m not out of the woods yet,’ he scowled pretending to be angry, ‘call yourselves friends. Why the hell didn’t you stop me?’

‘Stop you? You know what you’re like when you’re in full gambling mode; not even fucking Rambo can stop you. Just be thankful we put you in a cab and sent you home.’

‘Well thanks a bunch,’ he said with a sheepish smile.

Charlie looked at his friend and slowly shook his head, tut-tutted but offered no more on that subject. He didn’t wish to rub salt in the wound. God only knows what he’d have thought had he known about his friend’s recent encounter with Briggs. Perhaps it’s just as well that he didn’t.

‘Cheers! Here’s to the hair of the dog!’ Charlie raised his glass.

‘Cheers,’ he said, downing half of his Guinness in one.

‘Needed that, did you?’ Charlie said, looking amused.

‘You better believe it.’

They had chatted casually over a ploughman’s lunch and then Elliott got down to business.

‘Charlie, I need your help with a bit of chart plotting, that’s your speciality isn’t it?’

Charlie had been wondering when Elliott would get to the punch line. He knew all about his mate’s penchant for foreign travel. ‘So, where are we off to this time?’

‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that.’

Elliott told him he had come across some interesting information while researching for a new project he was involved with and it concerned a set of coordinates, since Charlie was the only cartographer he knew...

‘Okay, I’ve a bit of time. What say you we go down to my place?’

‘Lead the way,’ Elliott said getting up.

Charlie lived just round the corner in Lennox Gardens. They got to number 10a, the fine Victorian four bedroom town house Charlie lived in.

Charlie went up the three steps to the door opened it and let his friend in. ‘Come on in Elliott, you can leave your jacket in the hall if you like, it is a bit stifling in here today.’

Elliott took his jacket off and hung it on the coat stand by the door and followed his friend who was already walking up the stairs to the first floor reception room.

‘Nice. I didn’t know you’d set up shop here.’

‘Yes. Since I started freelancing I’ve been kept very busy. Working from home has been a bit mad. I needed a bit more space than the box-room upstairs and had to sacrifice the living room. I got my chart table in here and...well, what do you think?’

‘Very nice indeed,’ Elliott repeated. The place had an Indiana Jones feel to it and Elliott felt right at home.

‘Well now, let’s have a look at those coordinates of yours.’

Charlie walked over to one of the drawers and opened it. He pulled out a large map that he brought over to the chart table. With Elliott’s help, he secured it with metal clips and pulled a large magnifying glass from a drawer underneath. After studying the chart a moment or two, his finger zeroed in on what, to Elliott, appeared to be an empty piece of the Pacific Ocean until he borrowed the magnifying glass and had a closer look.

‘Well I’ll be dammed! I know that place but it’s not possible!’

‘But it is,’ said Charlie and they both read out the name:

Cocos Island.

Elliott’s meeting with Charlie had been most revealing but he needed to organize his thoughts. He had to take stock of what he knew and what was mere conjecture. Only then could he plan what his next step should be. But what exactly did he know?

Well, he was pretty sure that when Edward Hannah got on that plane in Guayaquil he was on the first leg of a journey that would take him straight to Cocos Island. That much, he felt, was certain and it was equally certain that it had absolutely nothing to do with the possible burial site of the Gold Virgin. The trail that had started with Hannah may have ended with him the moment he’d died but the mystery of the black notebook seemed quite straightforward; after all, he had all the facts. And what of it, if his initial interest had been the Gold Virgin? The fact that it had led him to the discovery of the black notebook was a happy coincidence and one that provided him with the opportunity of finding not just one but two treasures. The questions that had troubled him all but resolved and he ticked them off one by one in his head:

1. Who was the original owner of the black notebook?

2. Who wrote the coordinates?

3. How did Hannah come to get it?

4. What, if anything, did that tell him about the inventory?

5. What is in Cocos Island at the point indicated by
the coordinates?

The answer to 1 was Wilhelm Klein and his brother Dieter. Question 2 was easy; it had to have been Wilhelm. The answer to 3 he had learned from the notes in the notebook, Keating had come into possession of the book when Dieter passed it on to him during his interrogation and he in turn had given it to his friend Hannah for safekeeping. Edward Hannah had given it to his sister Edwina before he left England. The answer to 5 must be whatever was referred to by the inventory.

As to what the items referred to in the inventory actually were he did not know except that the Nazis had gone to a great deal of trouble to steal them.

Guayaquil was where Miss Edwina had told him her brother had worked for a short while. Guayaquil it was then. Good a place to start as any. Besides, Elliott felt he owed her something for giving him the black notebook and a kind of duty to at least try to find out what had happened to her Edward. It was a good deed and one that would be much appreciated by her...after all; she didn’t have much longer on this earth and besides, he realized, he was fond of the old biddy.

One problem remained. He was brassic. He’d have to pay a visit to his friendly bank manager and if old Bowler didn’t stomp up, he’d have to put up the cottage in Trowbridge as security for a short-term loan, but that was absolutely only in the last resort. He needed the money and hoped Briggs never found out. He felt lucky and he was sure this was the turning point in his finances. Whatever lay ahead, he was sure, would make him rich.

Chapter Six

Costa Rica, 2007

Costa Rica appeared below as TACA’s A320 Airbus began its descent into Juan Santamaria, the country’s main airport. It was named after the brave drummer boy from Alajuela who died in the Battle of Rivas in 1856, defending his country against the invading forces of the American privateer William Walker.

Sandwiched between Nicaragua and Panama, Costa Rica looked green and lush. From his window seat, Joe Martin followed the plane’s shadow as it raced over the ground skipping over the rooftops. The Airbus was being buffeted by strong cross winds. The airframe shook and juddered with each gust, accompanied by mournful mechanical moans and sighs as the pilot lowered the landing gear. Joe noticed a few nervous passengers exchanging anxious smiles.

In the cockpit, Capitan Fuentes moved the side-stick and began final approach, the air traffic controllers’ calm voice clearly audible on his headset over the sound of the engines as he gave the Captain his final landing instructions.

Capitan Fuentes started the pre-landing checks with his co-pilot and set the ILS, ADF and Markers, finally setting his radio altimeter, arming the auto brakes and checking his missed approach procedure. From the cockpit he could see the runway ahead as little cotton-wool clouds flew past his window. With the flaps extended and his speed brakes armed, he brought the jet down with a gentle thud. The plane touched down followed by the usual rumble of tyres on the tarmac and the loud noise of the engines’ thrust being reversed.

The aircraft slowed down throwing Joe forward against his seatbelt. The runway flew by past his window. He saw the white terminal building in the distance and heard, above the noise of the engines, the sound of the crackly in-flight PA playing Tango Azul, briefly muted by the cabin crew announcing their arrival in Costa Rica, where the local time was 9.45.

They taxied to their designated spot and once at the parking gate the Captain switched off the beacon and the fuel pumps. Finally, with a muffled ping, the seatbelt sign disappeared just as the engine whine faded down to nothing. Capitan Fuentes took off his headset and lay back in his seat. It had been another routine landing at an airport he knew well.

They taxied to their designated spot and the Captain switched off the seatbelt sign.

There was the usual stampede to get to the overhead lockers before anyone else and out of the plane as soon as possible. Joe sat back in his seat looking at the other jets on the tarmac with their KLM, Iberia and Virgin livery, though most of the planes were the DC-4´s and Boeing 737´s from the national airline LACSA.

As he waited for the crowds to race each other to the exit door, he gazed out of the window at the ground service crew hurrying to the jet to begin taking the luggage off and ready the plane for the next leg of its journey. His mind drifted back to the events of two weeks ago that had brought him to this small Central American republic.

Joe had been at the Blackfriars, his local, enjoying his pint of the usual and grabbing a quick bite to eat before going back to work. He liked the wedge-shaped pub built in 1875 near the site of a thirteenth century Dominican Priory that gives its name to the area. It was particularly handy as it was within walking distance of his office in New Fetter Lane.

He felt his mobile vibrate inside his shirt pocket, reached for his handset and glanced at the caller ID on his old Nokia before taking the call. He greeted Mary, his sister-in-law, in the usual manner and with all the warmth that he felt for her. She sounded agitated and distressed and her speech was garbled and incoherent. Joe moved quickly out of the pub and into the street all the while trying to calm her and asking what the matter was.

‘It’s Timmy, he’s gone missing and I cannot get any sense out of the authorities in Costa Rica.’

Tim, as everyone else called him, was Joe’s nephew that he had taken under his wing after his brother’s untimely death in a car accident five years previously. Joe knew Tim was on holiday in Costa Rica; he’d had lunch with him before he went and he’d been very excited about his trip.

‘Calm down Mary, take a deep breath and tell me what’s happened.’

‘Joe, you know what Timmy’s like, he always calls me when he’s away, I mean he knows that I worry, the last I heard was almost ten days ago. He was in Puntarenas, scuba diving with the locals and I haven’t heard a word since,’ she was trying to keep calm but it wasn’t working.

Joe knew Tim was an experienced diver, only last year he’d worked with Jean-Michel Cousteau’s Ocean Futures foundation studying great whites near the fishing village of Gansbaai in South Africa. He could handle himself. Still the silence was strange.

Mary continued, a little calmer now, ‘I guess I just panicked, I called the Home Office...well you know...they were helpful and kind, told me they’d get back to me soon but I still have not had a word from them or Timmy, I’m at my wit’s end as to what to do, I really am.’

Joe knew Mary was prone to panicking. Tim was all she had since his brother died. It was understandable and, though he didn’t tell her, such a long spell without a word was unusual.

‘Well don’t worry any more about it now; I’m sure he’s fine. Just leave it all to me, I’ll find Tim for you,’ he heard himself say in a voice that was more confident than he felt.

The sound of Joe’s reassuring voice was a tonic to Mary; he promised that he would stay in touch and, in any case, would drop by at the weekend to see her with all the news he had.

True to his word, he called the Home Office in London and they suggested he should speak with Ian McBride, the British Ambassador in Costa Rica, as he was on the ground he would have more information. He then called on the Costa Rican Embassy in Lancaster Gate and got pretty much the same advice. Feeling that he was not getting much further himself and that a visit to Costa Rica might be inevitable he decided to give Tim a week to make contact and, failing that, he would go to San Jose and start looking for him. The week had come and gone with still no news so he had made his travel arrangements. Joe was due to take early retirement that year and when he informed his office about what had happened and that he needed to take some leave straight away they simply told him to take as long as he needed and that they would see him on his return.

Joe had not known how long his visit to Costa Rica would be so had bought a ticket with an open return—more expensive, but there was nothing else to be done in the circumstances. He found the best deal he could at short notice and took an afternoon flight to Madrid for an overnight stay. He emerged in the arrivals hall to find his friend Vicky leaning on the barrier at the front of a bunch of people waiting to greet the new arrivals. He waved at her and she pointed to the main entrance so he skirted round the crowds and finally come face to face with his friend.

‘Hola Vicky!’ he said with a big smile and gave her a huge hug.

‘Hi Joe, it’s been too long,’ she said and hugged him back as he kissed her on both cheeks.

They set off to the car park with Joe following her, pushing a wonky trolley that seemed to have a mind of its own.

‘God, it’s hot here. What is it, forty-five?’

‘This isn’t Sevilla,’ she laughed, ‘it’s more like thirty five but it was hotter yesterday.’

He’d forgotten what Madrid could be like. They collected her Seat Ibiza and drove to her flat in Lanuza. Vicky was a smooth driver, slipping in and out of traffic, changing lanes and attracting more than one blast from an angry horn and the odd dirty gesture from frustrated male drivers. They made it into the centre in one piece. She had a garage, one of the few to be had in Madrid. Joe picked his single piece of luggage, an old leather Mulberry suitcase, from the boot of the Seat and followed her up the three flights of stairs to her apartment door. Old buildings with lifts in Madrid, he remembered, are in short supply.

He freshened up and around eight they went to the Plaza Mayor for a drink just as night was falling and the street lamps where being switched on. Joe loved Madrid, knew it well from his stint working for his company in their Spanish office in Las Rozas.

‘Is my favourite restaurant still in business?’ He asked knowing Vicky would know what he meant.

‘El Espejo. Sure it is. I haven’t been there since the last time you and I went and I need hardly tell you how long that’s been.’

‘Fancy a trip down memory lane?’ He winked.

‘Why not,’ she said and they left to grab a taxi to Paseo Recoletos.

The restaurant was as good as Joe remembered, they were early and he asked for a table in the terrace, a favourite for him, where they could enjoy the warmth of a Madrid night in early June.

An elderly waiter took their order of tapas and a bottle of Marques de Riscal.

‘So Joe, what’s all this about Tim? He can’t have disappeared surely.’ She was pulling a face that conveyed disbelief.

‘Mary’s worried about him. She hasn’t heard from him in over a month. You know my sister-in-law; love her dearly but a drama queen. Anyway I’m retiring soon and thought I could go off early and get a holiday thrown in. Always wanted to see that part of the World.’ She was looking at him, an understanding look on her face.

‘Now you’re making sense,’ but she could see that Joe felt uneasy and was not as unconcerned as he was making out. ‘He’s a grown man for goodness sake,’ she said reading his mind, ‘and a tough guy with it. Remember the narrow escape with the Great White in South Africa. He doesn’t need babysitting.’ But she knew how Joe felt about his nephew so she just shook her head, smiled and let it go.

‘You’re right. I know you are, but hey I’m getting a holiday,’ he said.

‘Yeah right.’ She laughed, and then changed the subject to her own life in Madrid.

They had not seen each other in a while and there was no shortage of conversation. When dinner was over and they left the restaurant, they decided to walk back slowly, though it was a long walk it was a lovely evening, and they chatted easily as they strolled, arm in arm along O’Donnell past the Metro at El Retiro and continued on finally reaching Vicky’s flat in Calle Lanuza. By the time they got back to her place he’d almost pushed his worries about Tim to the back of his mind but he knew they would resurface the moment he was alone. The silence worried him. Vicky was right, of course she was, Tim didn’t need babysitting but he could not ignore Tim’s change in behaviour. It was strange.

‘Penny for them?’ She was looking at him and he realized he’d been absent.

‘Nothing. Well...Tim,’ he said apologetically.

‘Worrier,’ she said and pecked him on the cheek.

The following day after a quick breakfast of coffee and a bocadillo at a local cafeteria, Vicky and Joe parted promising not to let so much time pass by before their next reunion. He thanked her for her hospitality and she headed off to her office at the Ministerio del Aire while he took a taxi to the international departures at Barajas.

Soon as he arrived, he headed to the Iberia counter, checked-in and three hours later boarded his flight, to Colombia where he landed at El Dorado in Bogotá. The flight was long and uneventful. Joe caught a Copa flight to Panama and arrived in Tocumen at 20:10 where he planned to stay overnight. The following morning he made an early start and took the TACA Airbus for the final leg to Juan Santamaria airport in Costa Rica where he had just landed.

Joe thanked the two young stewardesses who were standing by the exit door as he disembarked, and followed the signs to passport control.

‘Good morning Mr Shepherd.’ The immigration officer greeted him in English with an American accent. ‘Is your visit business or pleasure?’

‘A little of both,’ Joe said, and smiled noncommittally.

‘Enjoy your stay in Costa Rica,’ he said, stamped his passport and handed it back to him.

Once through the custom’s formalities, after collecting his luggage from the carousel, Joe glanced around the terminal for the usual exit sign that would be marked ‘Taxis’. He moved quickly past crowds of friends and family gathered there to collect the newly arrived passengers or say goodbye to friends or family.

A young man in a loud yellow tee shirt with the logo ‘Pura Vida’ emblazoned in bright colours approached him.

‘Taxi Señor?’

‘Si gracias. Gran Hotel Costa Rica, por favor.’

The young man took his case and asked him to follow him to where his Toyota was parked. Joe didn’t know the hotel of course, but a man he’d met in the waiting room at the Costa Rican Consulate in London had recommended it saying it would more than meet his expectations. Not knowing any better he had decided to take his advice.

The hotel, a restored 1930s property standing adjacent to the Plaza de la Cultura and the National Theatre in San Jose, had seen better days but Joe decided it would suit him fine.

Tired from his long journey, Joe took his clothes off without bothering to unpack and climbed into bed. He woke up well after midday. After showering, shaving and changing into some new clothes he hung the rest in the wardrobe and left his room to get his first look of San Jose and the Costa Ricans.

Back at the hotel later that evening he asked the concierge to indicate a restaurant nearby where he could eat. His suggestion was a fashionable place downtown and he added that he was sure to like the atmosphere and the food. Joe decided that he would try to relax telling himself that he would start the following morning with a visit to the British Embassy. He could then decide on where to go from there.

At the Café Mundo on Avenida 9 in Barrio Otoya, he was relieved to see that the concierge had not misled him. After he had been led to a table for two he sat and ordered the fettuccine with camarones, dispensed with dessert and had his first cup of Costa Rica’s famous coffee. He lingered for a while over a cigarette and a second cup, self-conscious of being a lonely male in a restaurant full of couples and left early when he realized that the Café Mundo also attracted a largely gay clientele at night and, sitting alone and feeling a little conspicuous, he did not wish to be subjected to unwanted attention. As he left he wondered if the concierge had been having a little joke at his expense.

Ian McBride went into the diplomatic service straight from Cambridge and, during his years in the British Foreign office, he had represented his country all over the world, acquiring a good solid reputation and a distinguished service record. In 1993 he and his wife Muriel spent a holiday in Costa Rica. They fell in love with the place and its friendly laid-back people, so that when the opportunity had presented itself, Ian had pulled a few strings and landed the posting of Her Majesty’s Ambassador to Costa Rica. They had now made it their permanent home and could not imagine ever going back to live in England.

After Joe’s call to the Home Office in London they had sent a request to the British Ambassador about Mary Martin’s missing boy, asking him to look into the matter. Ian McBride, had taken the message seriously. There had been an incident last month when a pair of backpackers from Twickenham had got lost while hiking near the Arenal volcano. The British press had got a hold of it and had had his department under close scrutiny with all sorts of questions being asked about what the British government was doing to protect their citizens abroad. McBride did not want any more adverse attention directed his way. The Costa Rican police had found the back-packers safe and sound and reunited them with their family. Needing to discuss the disappearance of Mary Martin’s son, Ian McBride had called the Costa Rican police a second time and again they had responded promptly.

Costa Rica abolished its army in 1949, and now they have a police force that struggles with a rising crime epidemic of theft and murder. Fernando Juarez, the police chief, was a portly, educated man, with passable English who did his best with the limited resources at his disposal. He and McBride had met recently over the matter of the back-packers and they greeted each other like old friends. Unlike their British counterparts, Costa Rican police chiefs are not averse to a sociable drink while on duty so Juarez accepted the offer of a glass of Glendronach, McBride’s favourite malt whisky. The distillery, south of the river Deveron, on the very edge of Speyside, is not far from where his parents came from, and he delighted in saying that his special stock, sent all the way from the UK, was just one of the perks that came from representing Her Majesty’s government in the far-flung corners of the world.

McBride had called Capitan Juarez to his private residence rather than the British Embassy in San Jose. The matter had to be handled discreetly and he felt that this could best be achieved with a private conversation in a more informal setting. They took their drinks outside and settled into two comfortable rocking chairs on the veranda of Ian’s old, colonial style, house in Escazu. Two hours later, after sampling more of the subtle flavour of McBride’s Glendronach, Capitan Juarez left saying that he would get on the case straight away and promised to get back to him with good news very soon.

Joe Martin was in his mid-fifties and, at six foot two, cut an impressive figure with his weathered face, piercing blue eyes and thick auburn hair that had started greying at the temples. Slightly old fashioned, and a bit shy where women were concerned, Joe had remained single and slightly set in his ways. He hadn’t planned it, it just panned out that way. He came from a middleclass family whose father had served with The Royal Marines and who, after retiring from active service, had successfully played the stock market, made a pile and decided, henceforth, to take things easy. Joe’s parents had moved to Berkshire and joined Sunningdale Golf Club where they could be found most days, weather permitting, playing a round of golf or enjoying a drink in the clubhouse with their friends. Their holidays were invariably spent in their cottage in Devon.

Joe had always wanted a military career and in 1971, at the age of nineteen and with his father’s help, he’d joined his dad’s old regiment and served during The Troubles in Northern Ireland rising to the rank of Captain.

Most people who lived through “The Troubles”—named with typically Irish understatement—say they started in May 1966 with the formation of the Ulster Volunteer Force. The UVF, as it was more commonly known, was an illegal loyalist paramilitary organisation that formed at the time of the 50th anniversary of the Easter Rising in response to a perceived revival of the IRA. To most people The Troubles appeared to have no solution and things were not helped when Lord Carrington, the then Secretary of State for Defence, announced that the Army was to be issued with six-inch rubber bullets that could bring down a rioter at 30 yards. That’s going to earn us many friends, Joe had thought but kept it to himself. Then again, good PR had not been top of the agenda with his bosses in Whitehall. On 9th August, the year he’d joined up, the government introduced a policy of interning IRA suspects without trial. Hundreds of people were arrested in massive military operations in the Falls Road area of Belfast and in the Bogside in Londonderry. Joe could see it coming, a blind man could have, the Army’s tactics managed to achieve complete alienation of the Catholic population. The final paroxysm was reached when paratroopers opened fire on rioting Catholics in Londonderry, killing 13, on 30th January 1972—on what became known as Bloody Sunday.

Joe thanked his lucky stars that he had not been part of that operation.

Two weeks later rioters in Dublin burned the British embassy while the police watched. The one attempt at an agreement between the British government and the IRA occurred during that period. In 1972, they arranged a ceasefire and held secret talks. Joe had done the patrols; had shot and been shot at right up to 1991 when he left 45 Cdo at South Armagh after twenty years’ service. The mood of the Irish people changed as they became tired of terrorism, and the long peace movement that would result in the IRA renouncing violence, though still a few years off, had begun.

For Joe, the return to civilian life meant a complete career change. His rank as a Captain in The Royal Marines had given him an assertive bearing and an ability to command. Joe got his CV together and mailed it to a dozen or so agencies seeking employment in whatever capacity they could offer. He thought he would be as flexible as possible in the hope that a job would be found.

His experience in the army did not leave him particularly well placed for a civilian job and after six weeks he was beginning to wonder if he would be able to find something soon.

One weekend, while enjoying a delicious Sunday lunch that his mother had prepared, the subject of work came up in the conversation. Joe mentioned that he was still trying but hadn’t had much luck and his mother reminded him about a friend from his school days who had done rather well in Public Relations. Why not? Joe thought it was definitely worth a shot. Later that evening when he was back at his flat, what his mother had said during lunch came back to him. He remembered a day years ago when he was still a child, that his friend’s father had taken them to London for a pre-Christmas visit to see the lights in Regent Street and had stopped off at his club on the way back. For some reason the name of The Travellers Cub had stuck in Joe’s memory and he decided to try his luck there first.

Joe had contacted the club and been told that the Colonel had passed away but that his son was a member. Bertram Cooper-Cooper or Bertie to his friends had an association with the club going right back to when his father Colonel Cooper-Cooper used to take him there and let him sit quietly by his feet playing with his lead soldiers while his dad smoked his cigar and read the Times.

Joe had told the concierge to give his contact number to Mr Cooper-Cooper when he next saw him. Bertie had called the very next day, made a fuss about old times and had been delighted when Joe mentioned he wanted to meet. That meeting—their first reunion since their schooldays—had resulted in a position for Joe at the firm of Matthias-Young and Associates, Public Relations Consultants. It would not be a hindrance to have a distinguished Royal Marine Captain on his staff, and Joe was put to work handling a new MOD contract. 

That had been sixteen years ago. Sitting on his hotel-room bed in Costa Rica, Joe thought back to his original meeting with Bertie at the club and to their time at St. Paul’s school when it was still in that beautiful old terracotta building in Hammersmith. Bertie had been rather shy and a bit skinny then; now he was anything but that. At the time, Joe would have been hard put to recognize him if he’d bumped into him in the street. Joe figured his friend had discovered the Gym and made use of it every day. Since that reunion Bertie and Joe had remained close friends and met once a week for a chat and a drink at Bertie’s club.

Joe asked the hotel’s telephonist to get the British Embassy on the phone and pass the call to his room.

A moment later came the voice in that singsong accent of the Costa Ricans: ‘Embajada Británica buenos días.’

‘My name is Joe Martin,’ he said, ‘I would like to speak with the British Ambassador please.’

‘I am very sorry Señor Martin, His Excellency has a visitor with him but he should not be too long, can I take your number and get him to call you?’

Joe told her he would be in his room for the next hour and gave her the number and the name of the hotel. She knew it well and noted the room number promising that the Ambassador would not be long in calling him.

When Ian McBride returned Joe’s call half an hour later, he was a bit frosty, but his demeanour changed immediately when Joe mentioned Tim’s disappearance; he realized that this was not another journalist. He apologised for not recognizing his surname since it had just recently crossed his desk on the missing-person report he’d received from the Home Office in London.

He suggested that they meet later that afternoon but on second thoughts, he asked Joe if he had any plans for lunch and, when Joe replied that he had not, Ian McBride suggested that they meet in the Club Unión around 12ish, where they could discuss his problem away from the disturbances of the day-to-day running of the Embassy.

Joe arrived at the club punctually an hour later and the concierge ushered him to a comfortable room to await the arrival of the British Ambassador. ‘Señor Martin,’ the concierge said, ‘Señor McBride has telephoned to say that he has been unavoidably delayed. He sends his apologies, and says that he will not be long. Is there anything I can get you?’

Joe declined saying that he would be quite comfortable until his host arrived.

‘The Club Unión, was founded in 1923 by a group of Costa Rican society friends and its first president, Sr. Oscar Rohmoser, served there from its foundation until 1930. The imposing neoclassic building is directly opposite the Correo Central, the main post office right in the heart of San José...’

Joe was reading this in the club’s brochure that he’d picked up from the coffee table by his armchair when Ian McBride arrived impeccably turned-out in a tailored linen suit, smart white shirt with French cuffs and a club tie.

McBride took great pride in his appearance. Five foot six inches tall, nine and a half stone in weight, of reddish complexion and going bald at a young fifty-three, he looked every inch the diplomat. His hair, or what there was of it, neatly parted on the left since the day when, as a lad, his father had taken him to Trumper’s and the decision had been taken off his hands.

McBride extended a delicate hand that was engulfed in Joe’s own firm grip. He held it for the briefest of moments, careful not to hurt the Ambassador, while McBride excused himself for not being there to greet him when he arrived. He proceeded to regale his guest with a potted history of the Club as he lead him into the member’s bar for a drink or two, before lunch in the Club Union’s elegant restaurant.

Half an hour later Joe felt he had the measure of the Ambassador. Not what you might call a man’s man but charming and educated all the same. Most important of all, he’d taken a special interest in Tim’s disappearance.

‘Costa Rica’s pretty peaceful you know,’ he said, ‘nothing bad happens to tourists...not particularly, not if they’re sensible,’ he seemed convinced and Joe could see he was doing his best to reassure him.

‘Tim’s certainly that,’ Joe assured him ‘and thoughtful too,’ he added, ‘which is why we’re all a bit concerned...’

‘Understood. I’ve good contacts with the police here. They’re good chaps. Quite efficient in their way,’ he was saying almost to himself.

‘And you’ve heard...?’ Joe was asking more in hope than expectation.

‘Nothing at present; not to say investigations aren’t proceeding...there’s a certain element of mañana here but they get there in the end, that’s what matters.’ He was smiling conspiratorially, ‘I’m sure they’ll have something soon, try not to worry too much. Meantime is there anything else I could do for you. Accommodation satisfactory is it?’ He was in Ambassadorial mode now and Joe felt he needed to say something.

‘Everything is fine thank you, but please let me know the moment you have something,’ he said, adding: ‘His mum...you know. She worries.’

‘The moment I hear. Shall we?’ he said, pointing to the restaurant and inviting Joe to go in.

Chapter Seven

London, 2007

Elliott had travelled from his cottage in Trowbridge, near Bath in Wiltshire and taken lodgings in The Sloane Club. He was in London on various errands but principally to attend a lecture at The Royal Geographical Society at 1 Kensington Gore, on the subject of Caribbean pirates.

Although Elliott was concentrating on the Nazi treasure he had not abandoned his project to find the Gold Virgin. When he heard about the lecture, he decided it would be worth attending; after all, sooner or later he was going to be in Cocos Island and everything he could find out about the place—and the pirates that years earlier had made it their home—was bound to be useful.

Elliott arrived at the imposing redbrick Queen Anne building and checked the time under the watchful eye of the statue of Dr. Livingstone. As usual he’d cut it fine.

He made his way to the theatre and found a seat just as Professor Jonathan Hyde approached the lectern to begin his address, joining in on the applause that greeted him.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.’ A muffled hubbub greeted the old prof’s words. Jonathan Hyde was in his late sixties and looked every inch the nutty professor. Rumpled tweed jacket, horn rimmed glasses and a shock of unruly white hair that, though not quite up to Einstein’s standard, lent him the look that most people associate with eccentrics and learned academics. He riffled through his notes putting them into some sort of order on the lectern. He took a sip of water and turned his attention to his audience, his face warm and friendly like a favourite grandfather.

‘We have all heard the term buccaneer,’ he began, ‘but who exactly were they and how did they get their name?’ The professor asked without expecting an answer. ‘That, and other questions I hope to cover during this short lecture.’ He ran his eyes over his audience trying to see if there were any faces he recognized and plunged right in.

‘Let’s start with the word buccaneer,’ he said, ‘it derives from the Arawak word bouccan, a wooden frame for smoking the meat of sea cows, hence the French word boucan and the name “boucaniers” that the English colonists anglicized to “buccaneers” when referring to the native inhabitants of the West Indies.’ That went down well he thought, pleased with himself. It was clear that there were also tourists amongst the scholars in his audience.

Hyde continued: ‘An innocent enough word, you may think; but eventually, an assortment of international refugees, slaves that had managed to escape their masters and criminals who travelled along the coasts of the islands came to be known as buccaneers and the term has become synonymous with the pirates of that time.

‘I have chosen the Caribbean because it provides us with a great many interesting anecdotes about the most famous buccaneers that ever lived and in particular because of an Island—an Island that as early as 1683 was reputed to be the site of incalculable riches.’

He scanned his audience over the top of spectacles precariously perched on the end of his nose.

‘Cocos Island, as some of you may know, is some four hundred and eighty kilometres southeast of Costa Rica in the Pacific. To be precise, its latitude is 5 32' north and its longitude 86 59' west, about 532 km southwest of Cabo Blanco in the eastern Pacific Ocean. It is known that at least three pirate treasures are hidden there, perhaps more.’

He allowed himself a brief pause while he pretended to study his notes. The atmosphere in the room had changed to one of lively interest and expectancy.

‘In 1819, the island served as refuge to a famous pirate with the colourful name of Benito “bloody sword” Bonito. Some historians have it that he was, in fact, Captain Bennett Grahame, a British naval officer who had served with no less a personage than Lord Nelson. The same historians assert that Grahame, in command of H.M.S. Devonshire, had been sent to survey the coast between Cape Horn and Panama; but tired of the task and turned to piracy. On one of his many forays, Grahame spotted five Spanish ships, three men-o-war and two galleons and successfully engaged them but, in doing so, the Devonshire sustained such damage as had to be abandoned. Benito decided to load his treasure onto the captured Spanish brigantine Relampago and he set sail for Cocos Island.’ He searched his audience for signs of impatience, and saw none.

‘He died two years later at the hands of the British and did not live to enjoy his plunder but, unlike others before him, left clues as to the hiding place of his treasure.’

After a suitable pause intended for dramatic effect, the professor said: ‘In 1880, the grandson of one of the men that had sailed with Benito showed a map to a German sailor named Gissler. It was of an island that the old pirate referred to as “Las Palmas” where, he said, his grandfather told him that Benito had buried the treasure. Gissler copied the map and four years later found another that he compared it with and came to the conclusion that Cocos and “Las Palmas” were one and the same. He went to live on the island and spent the next twenty years searching in vain for the treasure but finally died a pauper in New York in 1930. By a quirk of fate, Bonito’s treasure was discovered two years after Gissler’s death by investigators using modern metal detectors. The gold appeared more or less where it had been shown to be on the maps. That only goes to show that some treasure maps are accurate.’ Hyde chuckled at his little attempt at humour.

Elliott was particularly interested in a certain captain and he did not have to wait long before his name came up: ‘The hiding place of The Lima Booty, probably the most valuable of all, is indicated on a map that the Scotsman Thompson himself drew when he was dying. This treasure forms part of the immense riches accumulated by the civil and religious Spanish authorities during nearly three centuries of Spanish occupation of Peru and is the most coveted of all the treasures of Cocos Island.’

If there were any treasure hunters in the audience this part of the lecture was certainly for them. Hyde picked up the story.

‘When in 1821 the liberation army under Simon Bolivar and Jose de San Martin approached Lima—capital of the viceroyship of Peru and one of the richest cities of the continent—it caused panic amongst the civil and ecclesiastic community. Thompson’s ship, The Mary Dear, had just completed a commercial crossing and was the only ship anchored in the port of Callao. The Spanish authorities, desperate to salvage whatever they could of the treasures that they had amassed, soon came to an agreement with the captain.’ Hyde glanced up from his notes to look at his audience.

‘The plan,’ he said, ‘was for The Mary Dear to set sail loaded with treasure and under Spanish guard to prevent them falling into the hands of the army of liberation. If the city emerged victorious from their encounter with the revolutionaries, Thompson would return the booty in a few weeks time. If Lima surrendered the captain was to set a course for Mexico, since it was still under Spain, and there they would offload the treasures, among which was a solid gold, gem encrusted life-size statue of the Virgin Mary and Child.’

Hyde had arrived at the part Elliott was really interested in and from now he paid particular attention to all that the professor said.

Professor Hyde cleared his throat. ‘The Mary Dear raised anchor ready to leave the port of Callao but, from the start, Thompson had no intention of keeping to his side of the bargain. Once on the high seas he easily disposed of the Spanish guards and set a course for Cocos Island. When The Mary Dear vanished, the Spaniards sent the San Agustin in search of it. There are accounts relating to the fact that they engaged The Mary Dear but that she was rescued by Benito Bonito’s ship, Relampago, and got away.

‘It is widely believed that Thompson buried the treasure on the island and rumoured that he was caught by a Spanish frigate near Cocos and sunk with all hands lost, except for Thompson and his first officer who managed to swim ashore and hide on the island. When his first officer died, perhaps as a result of the hardship he had endured it left the Scotsman the only man who knew the exact location of The Lima Booty. Thompson later left Cocos onboard a whaler that had come to the island in search of fresh water. He meant to go back but hard as he tried he was never able to put together the money needed to return and claim the booty. At the end of his life he made friends with a man named Keating and it was to him that he confided the map when on the verge of death.

 ‘The mystery that still shrouds the resting place of The Lima Booty depends on whether you believe Thompson really told Keating the truth or took his secret to the grave. Equally it depends on whether the Scotsman was sunk on his way to Cocos to bury his treasure or as he was leaving the island having buried it, since that would determine whether it is still on the island or the bottom of the sea.’

The audience were engrossed in this amazing tale of pirates’ treasure. The professor stopped to check his notes. ‘Keating was luckier than Thompson. In a short time he found a person to put up the funds and accompany him to Cocos. Some rumours have it that he found the treasure and took most of it with him, making a comfortable life for himself and his family but leaving the statue of our Lady of Lima and the rest of the booty behind for a later trip—one that he never made. While others say he never found it.

‘Since 1870, Cocos Island has been subject to numerous expeditions by treasure hunters. Legends and rumours are plentiful. In fact,’ he said, ‘there are as many theories as there are treasure hunters regarding the location of The Mary Dear and its final resting place and just as many as to where The Lima Booty is to be found. Is it on the island as many believe, or at the bottom of the sea? I will leave you to ponder that question.’

On that rather enigmatic note the lecture ended. When the audience was filing out of the hall after the usual time for questions and answers, Elliott seized his opportunity and approached the stage; Hyde was gathering his notes to put in a tattered and much travelled briefcase. Elliott introduced himself, produced a copy of the professor’s book, simply entitled ‘Thompson’, and asked if he would mind signing it. The professor was happy to oblige.

Elliott took the opportunity to casually mention a paper that the professor had written for an archaeological society based in Chicago where he had expressed an opinion regarding the treasures he believed were hidden in Cocos Island. The article had been well received by the society in Chicago but had been derided by some of his colleagues. This had annoyed and hurt Professor Hyde and now, finding an ally in Elliott, he was happy to answer some of his questions. Elliott wanted to learn as much about Thompson as he could and asked the Professor if there was any more he could tell him about this man and about Cocos Island.

‘Well, there’s really not much more to tell,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware that the first mention of the island was in 1541 in Nicolás Desliens cartographic map. It’s assumed that it was discovered before but the exact date is not known. In Deslien’s map it’s identified as “Coques”. They say that the Island owes its name to the abundance of coconut palms and fruit. A captain by the name of Colnett mentioned loading two thousand coconuts onto his ship on a visit to the island in 1793, so maybe that’s why.’

What the professor told him did not add much to what he had already given in the lecture—except for a historical footnote. Around 1869 the president of Costa Rica, Jesus Jimenez, had ordered that the island be formally included as part of Costa Rica’s territory. In order to accomplish this, the president sent an expedition headed by Don Rafael Oreamuno who raised the Costa Rican flag on the island for the first time. Jonathan Hyde looked impatient to leave so Elliott decided he’d heard enough, thanked him and left the Professor alone to finish collecting his notes.

Elliott kept thinking that what he had landed was a great opportunity to find two treasures. Everything pointed to Cocos Island as the likely site for The Lima Booty and again he thought back to Julian’s letter...it was definitely worth a look. After all, he was going to be there, wasn’t he?

After leaving the lecture, Elliot set off at a brisk pace along Kensington Gore for the short walk to the Royal Albert Hall, to collect two tickets for the evening’s performance of Puccini’s Madame Butterfly. He was a fan of the opera, particularly the Italian variety and his date for the evening shared his interest; if he played his cards right, he might fare better than Pinkerton had done with the ill-fated Butterfly.

He planned to take his date to dinner after the performance and had booked a table for two at L’Incontro, a delightful Venetian restaurant at 87 Pimlico Road, within walking distance of The Sloane Club. He had discovered it a few years ago and made sure he dined there at least once every time he was in London. Posh and uncompromisingly Italian, the restaurant boasted that it does not use anything so vulgar as cream. Elliott’s favourites were the antipasti of crab salad and scallops ‘alla veneta’ that he always followed with sea bass and balsamic vinegar. Tonight would be no different. He would order a chilled bottle of Arneis, a light, delicious wine from Piedmont. He particularly liked the fact that the name meant ‘rascal’ in the local dialect and fancied that the wine suited him rather well.

He had managed to get Gianfranco to reserve him a table in the private room downstairs that Lord Linley had designed. He felt like pushing the boat out and Lady Tina Sweyne-Devalois was the right person to help him do it. Educated at West Heath boarding school near Kent and Mont-Fleuri, the famous finishing school in Switzerland, she also had a sociology degree from London University, which she had passed with honours; add to that the fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous and Elliott felt that the evening had the makings of a huge success.

He had stationed himself at the main entrance of the Royal Albert Hall and was looking down, reading the programme that he had bought for her, when his eyes strayed to a pair of elegant black, Jimmy Shoo high heel open-toe mules. He followed his gaze slowly upwards—along a pair of long shapely legs that ended where an elegant above the knee black dress took over—and slowly on past an hour-glass figure to a delicate long neck adorned by a thin platinum chain, from which hung a pear-shaped one-carat diamond-drop from Tiffany’s, before his eyes finally came to rest on Tina’s almond shaped violet eyes.

At five foot nine inches, Lady Tina was tall and had all the poise born of money and privilege, with straight shoulders and an assured and graceful bearing complemented by an oval face with full lips, aristocratic nose and blond shoulder length hair tied into a ponytail. Elliott thought she was quite simply irresistible.

Tina was fashionably tanned and had arrived unfashionably promptly for their theatre and dinner date. She greeted Elliott with a warm friendly smile.

‘Elliott, how wonderful to see you and how thoughtful of you to invite me, you know how much I love Puccini and Madame Butterfly is one of my favourites.’

Tina was twenty-seven years old and her accent, not quite the cut glass you might expect given her lineage and upbringing, had a gentle, musical mid-ocean intonation. He leaned forward to kiss her on both cheeks and her skin had the refined fragrance of Calèche with its delicate blend of rose and iris.

‘The pleasure, is mine, Tina,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you.’

He took her arm and led her up the stairs to the main foyer. He had chosen the best stall seats that were available, in the centre, towards the middle and nearest the stage. They went into the bar for a G & T, made with Bombay Sapphire, before the start of the performance and Elliott took the opportunity to get his order in for the interval.

Tina accepted his arm, ‘Elliott, where have you been hiding? The last I heard of you, you were in South America on some special assignment or other for the BBC I seem to recall.’

‘You’re right, it’s a bit of a long story but I promise I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.’ They were finishing their drinks as the bell rung announcing the start of the performance. Elliott took Tina’s arm and guided her to their seats.

The orchestra were tuning their instruments, making that strange cacophony that usually precedes a musical performance. There was a slight pause in the general chatter coming from the audience as first one, and then more people noticed the entrance of the conductor and they erupted into tumultuous applause. The performance began.

David Freeman’s production of Puccini’s tragic tale had received rave reviews; as had designer, David Roger’s scene of an expansive water-garden where the plot evolves; from the onset the audience had been enthralled. The beautiful soprano voice of Ai-Lan Zhu filled the Albert Hall and could not fail to move as she sung the wonderful aria ‘Un bel di vedremo.’ Tina was completely lost in the timeless love story that has been told and retold in countless opera houses around the world. Elliott had always wondered how the first performance in the ‘Scala’ in Milan could have been such a fiasco and was grateful that Puccini had persisted and glad that he had added one of his favourite arias, that of Pinkerton’s famous ‘Addio, fiorito asil’—an aria that, when the opera had its second debut in Brescia, had been so well received that the opera as a whole was hailed as a great success; one that has become a staple of the operatic calendar. Tina was visibly moved when the opera reached its dramatic conclusion.

A happy Tina and Elliott filed out of the Albert Hall to find a taxi to take them to L’Incontro. They arrived at the restaurant and were greeted by Gianfranco who fussed over Elliott while never once taking his eyes off Tina. How Italian, thought Elliott, but then again, how understandable.

When they were seated downstairs and had placed their order the conversation turned to the usual small talk accompanied by flirtatious glances from both parties.

Tina had known Elliott around three years. She had met him when her brother Toby had brought him to a dinner party at their London house in the Boltons. Toby had met Elliott at a party given by a mutual friend in Chelsea and they had instantly hit it off. When Toby introduced Tina to Elliott she had been attracted. He was a bit of a rough diamond, not the usual type she mixed with; but after chatting with him for a while, she discovered that he was well educated and they had many shared interests. A sort of friendship blossomed that never went beyond that. Tina thought he was too close to her own age and she was famous for her habit of falling for older men.

She sat across the table from Elliot in her short-sleeved designer dress with her beautifully tanned arms folded in front of her. She now brought them up, put her elbows on the table and formed a steeple with her hands displaying beautifully manicured red French nails without a single piece of jewellery on her long, delicate fingers and just a diamond line-bracelet on her left wrist that matched the Tiffany pear drop around her neck. She was keen to hear all about her roguish friend’s recent adventures and asked Elliott to tell her all about his trip to wherever it was he’d been. Elliott, who had never been able to resist a beautiful woman, had to fight hard to keep his mind clear and on the matter at hand.

‘Have you ever heard of Cocos Island?’ He leaned forward and held her eyes.

‘I cannot say I have,’ her eyes widened in mock anticipation.

‘Well, it’s near Costa Rica.’ He could see this might not be easy but he wasn’t giving up.

‘Sounds awfully exotic,’ which meant far away from her usual haunts of the South of France or Portofino for the summer and skiing at Klosters in winter.

‘It is,’ he said and before the arrival of the antipasti, proceeded to give Tina an edited version of what he was up to, leaving all mention of the Gold Train out of it. Ostensibly, he was on an expedition in search of the Lima Booty and the missing Virgin. He then told her that he was going to Costa Rica and came right out and asked her if she would like to accompany him.

Tina was taken slightly aback but recovered and asked. ‘As what, precisely darling?’ amused at the unexpectedness of the offer.

‘As my research assistant and travelling companion, of course.’

Tina looked at him with half closed eyes while he just stared confidently back.

‘How long will you be gone?’

‘A month or two at the most.’

Tina thought about it for a moment, ‘Why not? I’m due a vacation and it will be such fun.’ With that the matter was settled. Elliott hadn’t expected it to be so easy but he was not complaining. He returned to The Sloane Club after dropping Tina off at her flat, promising to call and to give her plenty of warning of the forthcoming trip.

Back in his room at The Sloane Club he went over his game plan in his mind. There were two good reasons that he needed Tina. One was to provide a perfect cover of innocence. After all, what’s more natural than two young people enjoying a romantic sojourn in such an idyllic location as Cocos Island, he thought as he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. Tina’s undoubted beauty would also be a useful asset when he needed men to take their eye of the ball, so to speak. Latin men, after all, are just as easily seduced by the sight of a beautiful woman as their European counterparts.

The second reason was more pragmatic and had to do with the prospect of finding immense riches. Tina was the only woman Elliott knew who was guaranteed not to want any treasure he might find, however great. Hell, the Devalois fortune is simply too great. Put another way, whatever he managed to find would be chicken feed when you put it up against the 2.5 billion that her family fortune had been estimated at in ‘The Times’s’ Rich List.

Chapter Eight

Costa Rica, 2007

Joe walked into the lobby of his hotel and headed for the lift. The concierge saw him and ran after him arriving as the doors were opening.

‘Señor Martin, a message for you,’ he said handing him a note, ‘it’s urgent.’

He thanked the concierge who walked away heading to his desk. Unfolding the note Joe realized his heart was racing. The message was from McBride. It just said please call me and gave a number. He went up to his room to call the number that turned out to be the Ambassador’s private residence.

‘May I speak with His Excellency please?’ he said as soon as the phone was answered.

‘He’s not in sir,’ replied an English voice, ‘may I know who’s speaking?’

‘My name’s Martin, I received a message asking me to contact him and saying it was urgent.’

‘Mr Martin, the Ambassador said you might call. He has news for you and asked if you could meet him for lunch tomorrow at his club. Said you would know where it is and that he’ll meet you there at noon.’

‘Did he say anything else?’ He was hoping the news was not bad.

‘Just that; lunch at his club at noon. I’m sorry but he didn’t mention anything else.’

Joe thanked him and hung up. Damn, he’d have to wait till tomorrow. A bit strange but couldn’t be bad news. He wouldn’t leave an urgent message and then go off without saying any more. More likely good news and the Ambassador wanted to give it to him in person. That had to be it.

Next morning Joe tried contacting the Embassy but McBride was out; at least his secretary confirmed his lunch appointment at the Club Union. Joe decided that he’d just have to wait it out. Not long to go anyway so he went off in search of breakfast.

At five to twelve Joe entered the Club Union to find McBride waiting, a smile on his face.

He greeted Joe warmly saying that, unfortunately, he did not have much time but that what he had to tell him was sure to please him. As time was short, he suggested they go straight in to lunch. He would not be drawn and Joe decided to humour him. It was obviously good news and a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

McBride and Joe entered the grand dining room of the Club Union to be greeted by the maître d’ who showed the Ambassador and his guest to his usual table by the window. The place was quite crowded; a healthy buzz coming from the other tables reminded Joe he was in a Latin country and not a stuffy Gentleman’s club in London.

They sat down and when they were alone McBride turned to Joe. He looked happy, clearly he was enjoying himself; he’d solved the puzzle and was flushed with success.

‘I have some excellent news for you,’ he said, positively beaming.

‘I rather gathered,’ Joe smiled too, relieved that at last he was going to hear the news he’d been promised.

At that moment the waiter appeared with the menus, the Ambassador asked to be given a few minutes, the waiter retreated and McBride turned to Joe, ‘I do hope you are hungry, they have a very good chef here; the food’s awfully good,’ he mused, with a mischievous look in his eyes.

‘I am rather,’ Joe said holding the menu and wondering how much longer the Ambassador intended to keep him waiting to hear the news. He need not have worried.

‘I have spoken to Capitan Juarez,’ said McBride, ‘and he tells me that his people in Puntarenas have managed to locate someone who knows your nephew.’

Joe received the news with a delighted look on his face. ‘That’s wonderful! Who is he? Did your contact find out more?’ He was looking at the Ambassador with evident interest.

‘Yes, it seems that he is the owner of a local scuba diving club called Ticomar.’ Again he paused, enjoying the effect that his news was having on his guest. ‘Capitan Juarez informs me that your nephew turned up for some scuba diving trips that the school organizes and got involved with an American film crew who are making a documentary about the hammerhead shark. How about that?’

Joe was mighty glad to hear it.

‘Is Tim still at the school?’ He asked rather hopefully.

The Ambassador hated to disappoint him. ‘Well, no, not actually. He talked the Americans into letting him tag-along, unpaid, for a chance to see the filming and be around in case they needed extra help with the diving scenes. Seems he got on rather well with the director, chap called Hewitt, who even joked there might be a small part in the documentary and a chance to make some pocket money so he went off with them to Cocos Island and that was all they knew.’

Joe felt a sudden impulse to forget lunch and head off in search of Tim but knew that would be rude instead he asked, ‘I would like to visit the school personally. Is it far?’

He was thinking that very soon he could put an end to the search and start enjoying the holiday he’d promised himself.

‘No it’s not too far, really. Puntarenas is a favourite weekend seaside resort for the Costa Ricans. I’ll be happy to give you directions.’

It had turned out to be a most productive lunch and Joe couldn’t wait to get going, so when it was over,—and after coffee—he excused himself, thanked the Ambassador once more for his help and hospitality and promised to phone him to tell him how he got on.

He left the Club Union at two and crossed the road to the large central post office where he sent an email to Mary just to keep her up to speed on what was happening, telling her that he would be in touch as soon as he had some more news, which, he added, he hoped would be quite soon. He headed back to the hotel and straight up to his friendly concierge.

‘Buenos días señor how may I help you?’ The concierge offered his most welcoming smile.

‘I need to get to Puntarenas,’ he said, leaning forward on the counter an air of urgency on his face.

The concierge, not knowing Joe’s reason for visiting Costa Rica, suggested he might like to join the ‘Tico Train’ tour from San José’s Estación del Pacífico to Puntarenas Central. Joe’s air of urgency was wasted on him.

‘I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. Could I go by car, would that not be quicker?’ He tried stating the obvious hoping to get a better response.

‘Yes of course sir, Avis, in Paseo Colon is the nearest car rental.’

‘Could you get them for me? I’m going up to my room. Please give me ten minutes and put the call through,’ he headed in the direction of the lift.

Ten minutes later the phone rang, ‘Señor Martin I have your call on the line I am putting you through.’

‘Avis, buenos días,’ a woman answered.

‘Good afternoon, I need to hire a car straight away. Can you help?’

The Avis representative switched to an American English. ‘I think so sir, please let me check.’. After consulting her computer she replied, ‘I have a Toyota Landcruiser that’s ready if that’s okay?’ to which Joe replied that it would be perfect. ‘At what time will you need it sir?’

‘In an hour, say around three thirty.’ He gave her his Visa details after establishing that he could extend the rental return date if necessary.

The visitor’s guide in his room said Puntarenas is a small fishing village on the western coast of Costa Rica. According to the GPS, it was 98km and about one and a half hours from San José; he’d soon have a chance to check it out himself. He arrived at the offices of Avis, and after sorting out the paperwork, collected the keys and the documents and was taken to the metallic grey Toyota that had been brought round and was parked outside their building. He got in, and with the rep’s help, programmed the GPS and waited a few minutes for it to acquire the satellites and calculate the route. A few moments later a woman’s voice with an American accent spoke to him and gave him his first instructions. Joe glanced at the screen and was reassured to see it brightly lit and displaying his position and the route he was to follow in red. The road was as rough as he’d expected but serviceable and he drove the 107 kilometres to Puntarenas arriving at around six in the evening.

He was cruising along the seafront and stopped when he spotted some young men sitting outside a local bar with their diving gear by their side. He asked them if they knew of a school called Ticomar? They said sure, adding that they’d just come from there. They indicated the road to follow and gave him the name of the owner, a man called Victor Figuera.

Joe got back in the car and headed off to find the school. It was in a small cove and little more than a shack. A sign nailed to a coconut tree displayed the company logo of a hammerhead shark and diver swimming alongside; the school’s name, ‘Ticomar’, was at the top of the sign and, underneath, ‘Escuela de scuba, Puntarenas’, with the inevitable website address and telephone number. Joe parked the car and didn’t have to go far to find the owner.

‘Can I help you?’ A tanned youth was putting away some scuba gear in a small shed.

‘I’m looking for Victor Figuera,’ he said.

‘You’ve found him. You a diver?’ Figuera straightened up, he was hoping he might have another customer on his hands and thinking the extra cash would come in handy.

Victor was around twenty-five, looked fit with a muscular agile body which was tanned a deep mahogany; the colour that comes from the outdoor life lived in the tropics.

‘I’ve done some in the past; name’s Joe Martin, my nephew Tim...I heard he’d been with you,’ he searched Figuera’s face for recognition of the name.

Victor didn’t have to think as the local police had been round asking questions the day before.

‘Yeah, Tim, sure, nice guy...good diver too, but you’ve missed him by about three weeks or so.’

‘Right, I need to find him. Bit of family business back in England couldn’t wait till he got back home. Know where I can find him?’ he hoped the answer would confirm what the Ambassador had told him.

‘Sure thing, he’s gone to Cocos Island with a film crew, left on board their own boat, the Sea Tigress, a very nice 115 foot dive cruiser with all the comforts of home. You know the gringos, nothing but the best.’ He grinned at his private joke.

‘How can I get to the Island?’ Joe asked, not knowing how far away it might be.

‘Well, this time of year not many boats go over there,’ Victor said ‘but things are a bit slow around here just now,’ he looked around the empty school, ‘I could take you there if you like...?’ he let the offer hang in the air.

‘How much?’ Joe asked hoping that it would not be too expensive.

‘Six hundred dollars,’ he said, ‘and I’ll bring both of you back if that’s what you want.’

Victor looked at Joe while he considered the offer; then thought he’d help make his mind up.

‘Normal tours run at around three thousand dollars for six days, but you just want to go there, collect your nephew and come back, right? That’s why I’m giving you my bargain price. What you say?’

He could afford the price and in any case he didn’t have time to scour the coast for a better deal.

‘When can we leave?’

‘Well it’s getting late now, we can make an early start tomorrow, say six, and we should be in Cocos Island the day after tomorrow at around midday.’

Joe agreed and gave Victor three hundred dollars cash, the balance on their return. ‘Know anywhere around here I can spend the night?’

Victor pocketed the cash and gave him the name and address of a reasonable hotel in the town. Victor watched him drive off in search of his lodgings. The following morning Joe arrived just before six and, after locking the Toyota, went in search of Victor lugging his old Mulberry suitcase.

Joe found Victor talking to two men, one who he introduced as his partner, Emilio Santos; the other was a client who had turned up after he’d left. He wanted to hire him to go diving in Cocos Island. As he was going there already he agreed to take him on and hoped Joe didn’t mind.

Victor introduced the new passenger, a large man with a hard face. He had two tattoos. The word Noko on the fingers of his right hand and one of a colourful snake coiled around his forearm.

‘William Briggs,’ he said, shaking Joe’s hand, ‘people call me Billy,’ the big man was carrying a load of scuba equipment slung over his shoulder.

There was nothing much Joe could say and one more passenger wasn’t going to make any difference anyway. He saw that Victor seemed a bit embarrassed and was avoiding looking at him.

‘Emilio will be joining us to take turns at the helm,’ he said, picking up Joe’s suitcase and walking towards his boat, the Pacific Dawn.

 ‘Nice boat’ Joe said, casting an appreciative glance at it and trying to make Victor feel better.

‘Thank you,’ he said with undisguised pride, ‘she’s a beauty all right.’ He was leading the way to the end of the jetty, where the boat was moored with Joe and Billy following and Emilio trailing behind.

Victor bored Emilio with details of the hull’s redesign, an improvement supposed to meet the needs of the sport boat market. He’d gone on about its raised gunnels, better safety and comfort. In short he’d convinced himself and his partner that the Radon Signature 26 was the ideal all-purpose boat for the school. Finally they’d taken the plunge, paid a hefty deposit and got a marine mortgage from Dreamboats Inc, in Miami. They were in hawk up to their eyes but, ever the optimist, Victor thought that with one or two good seasons or maybe a bit more, they’d clear the debt and after that it was profit all the way, after expenses of course.

They went on board and Emilio got busy with the final preparations for the trip.

‘Welcome on board, make yourselves at home,’ Victor said, and took Joe’s suitcase below. Billy followed him with his scuba gear. Victor re-emerged and went to the enclosed pilothouse, climbed up onto his chair and fired up the twin Volvo 159 horsepower diesel engines. Emilio cast off the ropes with Joe’s help. Steering with the five-spoke black and chrome wheel Victor manoeuvred the boat as it surged forward out of the quiet waters near the shore and moved out to the open sea. After consulting his chart, he set a course for Cocos Island. Billy had joined them and was leaning over the rail, looking out to sea with an absent expression on his face.

Perched on the forward deck and cradling a pair of Bresser prism binoculars, Emilio caught sight of Joe looking at him. He shouted over the noise of the engines, ‘helps to keep a lookout. Don’t want any surprises,’ which left Joe wondering what possible surprises there could be as he looked out onto a clear sea without a boat in sight.

The Radon was cruising at 30 knots, a comfortable 5 knots inside its top speed. The sea was a little choppy and the wind fresh but that could all change. The crossing from Puntarenas to the Island is not for the faint hearted and Emilio wondered how the two Englishmen would fare if the going got rough. Joe went over to where Victor sat at the controls and asked him if he made the trip out to the island on a regular basis. Victor answered that he took American tourists over and even some Japanese visitors from time to time, but not as often as he’d like.

‘How long will it take us?’

‘About thirty-six hours or so, if all goes well.’

Joe went on deck and looked out at the open ocean wishing they were there already. He couldn’t wait to see Tim’s face when he caught up with him.

The Pacific Dawn was making good time and the fresh sea breeze on his face felt invigorating and so different from the odd weekends spent with friends sailing around Cowes. It got dark, but not before they were treated to a spectacular sunset. After a dinner of arroz y frijoles—the rice and beans dish that is the staple diet of Latin America—washed down with a bottle of Bavaria Gold, Joe decided to turn in and went down below to be met by Emilio, making his way to the pilothouse. Emilio found Victor busy with his charts and listening to ‘Radio Sabrosa’ transmitting from San Jose. Down below, Joe made himself as comfortable as he could in the confined cabin space and tried to get some rest.

At the helm, Victor kept an eye on the sweeping arm of his Sperry Marine VisionMaster radar. It revealed little luminous dots with every sweep of the arm but all a safe distance away from the Radon. Victor told Emilio to get some rest saying he would take the first watch. Emilio agreed and asked to be woken up in four hours. He went below to the second cabin. In the pilothouse, Victor settled down to his usual routine of checking the radar screen and scanning the horizon for the lights of other boats. He saw nothing.

About four hours later he checked his watch. The luminous hands told him that it was time to wake Emilio and get some well-earned rest, but first he checked the chart and established they were on course.

Joe came up on deck a while later just as dawn was breaking. Emilio was seated at the helm and his face glowed green with the light coming from the radar screen. He was twenty-five, same age as Victor and the same colour, but Emilio was a little shorter and stockier than his partner. He had a Popeye the sailor caricature tattooed on his right forearm.

‘Good morning, sleep well?’

‘Yes thank you; took a bit of time though, to get used to the movement of the boat, but yes I was very tired. Is that coffee I can smell?’

Emilio pointed to the thermos flask and a cupboard with several odd cups ranged inside. Joe helped himself to the piping hot black coffee.

‘Getting light,’ he said, looking out over the ocean. He saw Billy sitting on the forward deck, a cup of coffee in his hand. He wondered how long he’d been up or if he’d slept at all.

Day had started with a thin radiant red line stretching over the horizon that quickly extended over the ocean painting it red, then orange, finally fading to pale pink and violet. This was simultaneously accompanied by a riot of colour extending up into the sky revealing streaks of crimson, orange and yellow as the sun rose slowly from the sea and brought a glorious day to a sky sparsely dotted by a few stray clouds that would soon be burnt-off with the heat of the day.

Emilio stretched and stood up after switching off the running lights on the Pacific Dawn.

Victor joined them a little later and relieved Emilio who set about making some breakfast. There were the occasional schools of dolphins swimming alongside as on the previous day and every so often one or two hammerhead sharks turned up for a closer look. The following day Victor scanned the horizon with the binoculars. Billy kept himself apart from the others, which, as far as they were concerned, was okay. There was something about the big guy Victor did not like, and Emilio had noticed it too.

‘Not long to go now, two or three hours maybe, and the island should appear right about there,’ Joe’s gaze followed where Victor pointed in the horizon but there was no sign of land yet, in all directions there was nothing but the ocean.

‘It will start as a grey outline above the water but soon you’ll be able to see it quite clearly.’

Joe was looking forward to seeing La Isla del Coco for the first time. He remembered reading something about it in an old copy of National Geographic years ago but nothing could have prepared him for what he was soon to see. Two hours later, as the Pacific Dawn cut through the waves, Victor handed the helm over to his partner and joined Joe on deck just as the outline of the Island started to appear over the horizon and grew steadily as the boat approached.

Isolated and untamed, Cocos Island rose majestically from the sea, a mysterious emerald-green oasis some few hundred miles north of the equally famous Galapagos Islands. The sight took Joe’s breath away.

The island appeared lush, a tropical rainforest densely populated by an abundance of different species of trees, all competing for space on the island floor. Everywhere Joe looked, an impenetrable jungle looked back, a jungle that reached right down to the shore. He couldn’t imagine penetrating it, never mind climbing to the summit.

Where Cocos Island met the sea, Joe saw mysterious dark caves looking like half submerged eyes staring at him, while above and all around huge waterfalls thundered down in a never ending stream that merged with the sea, a sea so clear that he could see the thousands of colourful fish that lived there. Joe looked up at the sky above and marvelled at the impressive collection of birds of all kinds flying in lazy circles. Where Cocos Island met the sea, Joe saw mysterious dark caves looking like half submerged eyes staring at him. Above and all around huge waterfalls thundered down in a never ending stream that merged with the sea.

From the deck of the Pacific Dawn, Joe wondered if this was how it would have looked to the buccaneers who sought refuge in its uninhabited shores all those years ago. It was exactly midday when Emilio throttled back. The anchor went down dragging the chain behind it with a thunderous roar. They had come into a dive site known as ‘Dirty Rock’.

Some two hundred meters away, the Mare Nostrum, an impressive one hundred and twenty foot long craft, with a beam of twenty-six feet and ten comfortable guest cabins lay at anchor. One hundred meters further on slightly nearer the shore, was the Sea Tigress. Victor brought the binoculars up to his eyes, adjusted them and focused on it. There were a few members of the crew on board. The ‘Sandman Hollywood Dreams Inc’ logo, of a film camera and a girl asleep in a hammock, was clearly visible on the side of the boat.

With Emilio’s help, Victor lowered the small ‘Sea Eagle’ inflatable into the water and started its Mercury outboard engine. Joe boarded and they headed past the Mare Nostrum and on towards where the Sea Tigress lay anchored. Billy stayed behind.

They came alongside and called out:

‘Permission to come aboard?’

One of the crew called back, pointing to the access ladder. Joe was first on board and introduced himself.

‘Good morning, I’m Joe Martin, I think my nephew Tim is with you, is he on board?’

‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Mike. Not just now, he’s out with our director and a small team. They went on a dive ‘bout an hour ago to shoot some underwater scenes. Should be back ‘bout now, care to wait?’

‘Yes thanks; serious boat you have here,’ he commented, which was a bit of an understatement. The Sea Tigress was full of film equipment and looked very new. There were some Deep Thought scuba diving suits and some strange-looking fins. The crew member followed his gaze.

‘Yes, we’re pretty much state-of-the-art here, even have a small projection room where we can see the rushes, do a bit of editing...’ he trailed off as he became aware of the sound of an outboard motor. Joe had heard it too and was searching the sea.

‘There they are now,’ Mike said, pointing at the Zodiac that was heading their way.

Trevor Hewitt, the director, was first up the ladder followed by the rest of the diving team, while the crew of the Sea Tigress helped them get their gear onboard. Joe saw Tim first and when he saw his uncle his jaw dropped.

‘Uncle Joe what the...what are you doing here? How’d you manage to find me?’ Tim’s head was swimming with questions. ‘Oh my God, it’s Mum isn’t it? Is she okay?’

‘She’s fine. Absolutely fine. It’s just...well, you know your mother, she doesn’t hear from her precious boy and starts having panic attacks; she called the cavalry, that’s me by the way, so here I am,’ he said smiling.

Trevor and the diving team had been standing around mystified and when Tim realized it he explained who the tall Englishman was and they all shook hands before going off to the editing room below deck leaving Tim with his uncle to get on with their reunion.

‘You’d better call your Mum right now if you can, it won’t be too late in England. She’s really been worried-sick.’

‘Okay,’ he said grinning, ‘don’t go away’, and set off to use the satellite phone leaving his uncle on deck.

Chapter Nine

2007

Elliott had known he would have to go to Ecuador and pick up the trail where Edward Hannah had left off. It was an indispensable part to solving the puzzle of the lost treasure, so he got a temporary personal loan to cover the cost of the journey and without further ado prepared his travel plans and set off on his voyage.

On arrival in Guayaquil, he hired an interpreter and went to Chachapoyas in search of those who would have been of an age to remember what had happened even though, over fifty years ago, many would have been children. He found an old man who remembered a plane crash. He’d heard later, when he was a bit older, that the plane had taken off from Guayaquil airport bound for Lima but that it had crashed in Chachapoyas and no one had survived.

That part of the story, at least, Elliott knew because of his conversation with Miss Edwina, but he needed to know more, so he sought newspaper stories from that time. He visited the offices of El Universo, a local daily newspaper, and spoke to the editor who was happy to help a fellow journalist from so distinguished a place as the BBC. He gave him access to their archive where he found an article that spoke of the discovery of the C-47 in 1955. With the help of his interpreter he learned that the paper mentioned an Englishman, identified by what remained of his passport, who was amongst the dead, and that a local farmer and his son had discovered the airplane. El Universo even gave the farmer and his boy their fifteen minutes of fame by naming them in their article: They were Ernesto Ortega and his seven-year-old son Julio.

Elliott travelled to Chachapoyas, a remote village in northeastern Peru, shrouded in mystery and lying 2,335 metres above sea level. His interpreter told him that the name derives from the native word ‘Chachapoyacuno’, meaning ‘forest or mountain of mist’.

He managed to trace the family, which was not too difficult as communities in remote areas do not move far and everyone knows everyone else. Ernesto and his wife had died but their son Julio, now fifty-nine, was still alive. He had married and moved his family to Kuelap, a citadel found near the village of Tingo, in Luya province. Like his father before him, he still toiled the land helped by his own child. Elliott turned up with his interpreter to help him with his poor Spanish. He said that he was a friend of the unfortunate Englishman’s family and wanted to know everything that Julio could tell him about the day he and his father had found the plane. Elliott turned to his interpreter.

‘Ask him if he remembers that day?’

The interpreter asked Julio who replied.

‘Si, lo recuerdo muy bien...’

‘Yes Señor Elliott, he says he remembers it well.’

Julio and his father had found the plane while out hunting for rabbits. It was lying in several pieces: The cabin was jammed between two trees with its wings severed, looking like a dead bird. The fuselage had broken in half and the door at the rear of the plane was missing completely. They had approached it carefully as the forest had all but swallowed up the plane. The passengers were in a pitiful state, just skeletons with the ragged remains of clothes. Elliott asked Julio if they had found any possessions and he said that there were a few cases but mostly there was nothing to be found as time, scavengers and the constant rain had destroyed almost everything. His father had called the authorities to the site and the bodies had been given a Christian service and buried in the town’s graveyard. Elliott pressed Julio saying that there were things that were of sentimental value to his friend’s family and that he would gladly pay to have them back.

Hearing this, Julio said that the only thing they had been able to salvage was a suitcase that had, somehow, not opened during the plane crash. They had taken it home but had only found a few photographs, an old envelope, a book and some glasses. There was no money or anything valuable and, as they could not read, they had taken the book to the local schoolteacher who recognized a few words and said he thought it was written in English, but that he could not read it, so he had returned the book to them. Elliott thought it was a long shot but asked through his interpreter if Julio still had the case. Julio said that, after his father died, he had thought about throwing it away but his father had always insisted on keeping it in case somebody showed up one day to claim it and pay a reward. Julio had put it away in a safe place and there it had remained to this day, just the way they had found it. Elliott said that he would like to claim it and that the dead man’s family had empowered him to pay a large reward. Julio fetched the suitcase and Elliott saw, from the faded initials ‘E.H.’ on one corner of the case that this was what he had been praying for. He gave Julio one thousand Soles leaving him astonished and with more money than he’d seen in his entire life.

The first thing Elliott did when he got his hands on Edward Hanna’s suitcase was take it to his room in the cheap guesthouse where he was staying during his short visit to Chachapoyas. He went through the contents and found some letters from Miss Edwina to her brother and one in a stamped and sealed envelope addressed to his sister that Hannah had not got around to posting. His sister would be glad to have that.

He looked in the elasticised side pocket of the suitcase and found a small brown hardcover notebook, he opened it and a folded sheet of paper fell out. Elliott picked it up, opened it, and there they were, the now familiar list and coordinates, an exact match of the book in his possession. Elliott felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling him. He sat down to read a series of Hannah’s notes.

Elliott discovered the origins of the book there and then.

There was a page and a half on Dieter Klein, in a sort of shorthand but very easy to interpret. A letter from Julian Keating to his brother had been clipped to the next page. He read it and whistled softly, taking in the information.

He now took a rolled-up chart, and stretched it out using his knee and both hands to pin it down to the bed. It was from Stanfords and it had a position plotted on it in red ink. The same position Charlie had plotted on his map.

This was one more piece of the puzzle: Nobody goes to the trouble of plotting a position on a chart just for the hell of it. There was something there and from all he knew, it had to be the looted contents of the missing carriage.

The Gold Virgin and the Gold Train, a chance to kill two very precious birds with one stone, thought Elliott, but there was a choice to be made, Julian’s map of Our Lady of Lima, or the Gold Train...treasure maps were the stuff of boy’s books whereas the coordinates were much more scientific; then he thought that the Gold Virgin had waited so long to be rescued, she could wait a little longer.

Elliott’s trip to Ecuador had been a success and the time had finally arrived to put all his plans into action. As soon as he returned he had lunch with Tina and brought her up to speed, saying he needed a month to get things sorted. He’d kept in touch on the telephone and had given her a week to get ready. The day for the long awaited trip had finally arrived and he could not wait to get going. Elliott had booked a taxi to take him to Trowbridge railway station where he took a South West train to Waterloo and on arrival in London travelled by taxi to The Sloane Club where he spent the night. The following morning he awoke early, the two suitcases he’d packed the night before were waiting by the door. He left the club in a cab and stopped to collect Tina from her London flat and they continued to Gatwick together. They went to the BA desk in the North Terminal to collect their tickets. Tina had a card for the VIP lounge and, as they still had some time before their flight was called, they decided to spend the time in comfort.

Victor had been standing with Emilio while Joe had been tied up with his reunion with his nephew. He tapped Joe on the shoulder to ask if he intended to stay or head back to Puntarenas.

Joe wondered...after all it was a hell of a long way to come just to turn round and head on back. Especially now that Tim’s mum knew all was well.

‘It’s very tempting. You haven’t got an extra berth?’ he said, half joking.

Tim looked a bit surprised, ‘I think we can manage that; I’ll clear it with Trevor. Sure you’re up for it...?’

Joe decided it would be a pity to leave this place without seeing it properly and besides, Victor had another client and Billy had said he would be there a few days. If he decided to cut his trip short he could always go back with them when they left. He told Victor he needed to go to his boat to pick up his things and pay him the three hundred dollars he still owed him.

Victor took him back to the Sea Tigress and returned to rejoin Emilio. When they got back, Billy was having a beer and sorting through his scuba gear, he was keen to go diving as soon as possible.

Back onboard the Sea Tigress, Tim took Joe down to his cabin where he dumped his suitcase. He would unpack later.

Half an hour later, Tim knocked on his uncle’s door on his way up. ‘Lunch is up Uncle Joe; see you on deck.’

PART TWO

Chapter Ten

By the time he was fifteen, Esteban Blanco had killed three men and was serving a five-year sentence in ‘Bella Vista’, a man’s prison located in the small town of Copacabana.

He’d been born in Itagüí in 1958, the youngest son of Juan and Margarita Blanco and brother to Flor and Irene. He’d moved to Medellin with his family while still young, when his father bought a convenience store in El Quinto, a street in the Barrio de Antioquia, that he ran with his mother’s help. The children attended the local school and, though the Blanco’s couldn’t be called rich, they had an above average lifestyle and were respected members of the community.

All that came to a sudden end when Esteban was thirteen years old.

Ignacio ‘Nacho’ Jimenez was a hoodlum who’d joined Diego Fernando Murillo’s AUC when he was still a kid, but the powerful far-right militia had gone from an organization backing the army in their fight of far-left guerrillas to one of unruly thugs specializing in contract killings, extortion and drug trafficking. Nacho had grown up and set up his own protection racket focusing on soft targets and had decided that Blanco’s store was overdue for a visit; he went calling with a couple of friends.

Nacho’s first meeting with the storeowner and his wife hadn’t gone well. Juan was no pushover, he was a man who had built his business on hard work and sacrifice and wasn’t about to hand his earnings on a plate to the first gangster who walked in the door. He’d sent him packing and thought he’d never see him again.

Esteban was staring at the three men standing in the doorway of the family bedroom of their apartment over the shop. They’d appeared out of nowhere just as the family were getting ready for bed. He stood rooted to the spot wondering how they’d managed to get in, his eyes going from one man to the next. His sisters had seen them too and moved to a corner of the room with their mother. His father stepped forward and put himself between him and the intruders, ready to defend his family.

‘Buenas noches señora,’ the one who’d come before, the one, who’d called himself Nacho, said to his mother. She was horrified. He seemed taller than she remembered and was leering. Next to him a shorter crazy-looking man was also eying the family, turning often towards Nacho as if asking to be let loose from some invisible leash. His eyes had found Flor, the eldest daughter, who’d backed away; her mother wrapped her arms around her children and held them tight. The crazy held a long knife with his right hand and was nudging Nacho, his eyes pleading to be allowed to do what he wanted. The third man, as big as Nacho, hadn’t said a thing but was keeping a close eye on the family.

‘My friend here, I think he likes your daughter.’ His leer had turned to an ugly smirk. ‘He’s a mute; not good with words but good with that knife of his—aren’t you, Loco?’ He laughed. The crazy was drooling, his shinning eyes still glued to Flor.

‘You think I should let them get friendly? Think your little girl would like that?’ He was asking Juan who had not been able to take his eyes of Loco for a second.

‘What do you want?’ He asked. He was sweating and felt nauseous.

‘You know what I want,’ Nacho said in a voice somewhere between a threat and a plea. In the small room and with the door blocked by the three men Juan was trapped. Nacho didn’t need a weapon. Loco and Chico were his weapons, but he was a creature of habit who didn’t feel comfortable without his knife. He caressed the blade testing its sharpness with his fingers. He drew a little blood and licked his finger.

‘Sharp!’ he said, his face twisted by an ugly smile. ‘I made you a good offer my friend, protection for a reasonable price. You should have thought of your family before turning me down.’

Loco had been following the conversation with undisguised pleasure. Like a rabid dog on a short leash that couldn’t wait for his master to set him loose.

Juan was outnumbered; worse still, he had his wife and children to worry about. Still he hoped to bluff his way out. He kept his voice steady and cooler than the desperate situation deserved.

‘Maybe I was hasty...’ Juan started to say. Nacho was shaking his head slowly, the long blade resting against the palm of his left hand.

‘Por favor...’ Juan started to say.

‘Por favor,’ Nacho repeated his voice mimicking and mocking. ‘Too late my friend. Sometimes you need to make an example. Keeps people in line. Makes them behave...’ he’d turned to Loco who’d been slowly working himself up. Flor’s fear was turning him on. Sex was far from his mind. No girl had ever liked him. They all used to laugh at him so he’d turned to pain. Other people’s pain, that was what he was good at and he enjoyed it.

‘When you said no to me that was disrespectful, that was the wrong answer my friend.’

Nacho turned to Loco like a father giving a toy to his favourite child, he pointed to Flor with his knife.

‘You want her Loco? Go get her.’

The children were crying. Flor had dropped to the floor her legs drawn towards her chest she crouched against the wall. Her mother pleaded with Nacho not to hurt them. Juan moved forward ready to take the fight to them. Nacho’s kick caught him in the stomach and he dropped to the floor like a stone. Without a thought for his safety, Esteban ran to help his father but Chico slapped him with the back of his hand flinging him to the floor. Juan’s wife pounced on his attackers shouting, clawing and beating them with all her strength. Chico turned and punched her on the face with his clenched fist sending her crashing back unconscious to the floor.

‘Get the girl and take her to the bedroom,’ Nacho said to the crazy.

Loco grabbed Flor by the hair and dragged her howling from the floor. His daughter’s screams made Juan draw on what strength he had left in him and he stood up. He saw her being shoved into the bedroom crying and shouting for help. Blinded by an uncontrollable fury Juan made a lunge at Nacho but he was ready for him, the large knife entered Juan’s chest piercing his heart and killing him instantly. He lay dead not six feet from where his wife had fallen.

When Esteban came to he was on the floor. Slowly, he got back on his feet, and then he saw them, his mother and father lying close to each other and very still. He knelt beside them but he knew they were gone. Meanwhile Irene just sat there at her mother’s feet crying quietly. He could hear the men talking in the bedroom; the door was shut and he could not hear his sister’s shouts like before. Esteban left Irene alone and ran out of the room stumbling down the back stairs as fast as his legs would carry him to go get help.

By the time he returned with the police, Nacho and his men were long gone and there was little anyone could do for his father and poor mother. Flor was taken to the local hospital and the police contacted the children’s next of kin. Flor was in hospital for a week while doctors did all they could for her, though it was clear from what had been done to her that she would never bear children. But the young are resilient and in time she would recover from most of the physical scars. The damage to her mind was something else. It was a nightmare that would be with her for the rest of her life.

When she was ready to come home, her brother and sister accompanied by their uncle Raimundo and his wife Ana Maria, went to collect her. Flor heard from her aunt what had happened to her parents and her eyes filled with tears but no sound came from her mouth. She was consumed by a desperate sadness and a sense of loss that was too big for her young mind to comprehend.

Things were never the same again for the children and, so far as Esteban was concerned, on that day his heart turned to stone. He left school and started helping his uncle Raimundo in the running of the store that he had suddenly and so tragically inherited from his brother. The police knew his parents’ killers but they did nothing. When Nacho turned up on Raimundo’s doorstep and repeated the offer that had cost his brother his life, he agreed to pay up.

Esteban was becoming a young man and his hatred of the men who had killed his mother and father had grown. One day, just after his fifteenth birthday, Esteban waited till dark before hiding in the narrow alley alongside the store. He waited for the weekly visit. When Nacho left the shop with his pay-off, Esteban was ready. Nacho entered the alley and walked past his hiding place. Esteban came up silently behind him, summonsed all his strength and pent-up anger and drove an eight-inch blade into his side. Before he even knew who had stabbed him, Nacho’s legs gave way and he fell to the floor. He felt the sharp pain on his side and reached to touch it, looked at his hand covered in blood then up at the boy he knew so well, tried to speak but his mouth filled with blood. Esteban lifted the knife a second time; that was the last thing Nacho ever saw.

It took a week for the police to find the body, long enough for Esteban to track down Loco and Chico. Loco had been first. He’d cut his throat; the blood that gushed from the wound covered his knife hand and went up his arm. His shirt too would have to disappear. He’d been sick right afterwards but the rush of adrenaline had given him a thrill. He was confused by his feelings when he found he’d enjoyed it. He did the same to Chico and got the same rush. The same pleasure when he saw his body slumped at his feet, his life seeping through the gash on his throat. When their bodies were discovered it did not take long for the police to put two and two together and go calling on his uncle.

They had gone to arrest Raimundo but Esteban stepped in and confessed. He said he had done it and would gladly do it again so they took him away. Throughout his trial, Raimundo, his wife and their adopted daughters, sat praying for Esteban to get a sympathetic hearing but luck was not to be on their young nephew’s side. The Judge took Esteban’s age into account and what had happened to his parents and sister but still sentenced him to five years for manslaughter.

His first night in prison would stay with Esteban for many years. Lying awake for hours, scared, hoping that sleep would come and take him away from this nightmare, he heard steps along the corridor. It was late. He wondered who could be walking around at this hour. A shape appeared in front of his cell. All he could see were a pair of legs in prison uniform; the rest was darkness. He was startled when his cell door opened and a tall, muscular man walked in and stood quietly in the shadow, a shaft of moonlight coming through the small window in his cell lit half his face and Esteban caught sight of a crooked smile and cold black eyes. The visitor turned to close the cell door and walked back slowly towards Esteban.

The attack landed him in the Bella Vista infirmary where he stayed for ten days, but when he returned to his cell he did not have to wait long to receive another visit from the same man. The next few weeks he was subjected to pretty much the same treatment. He never knew when it would happen and that made sleeping impossible and, when finally exhausted he drifted into sleep he would see Loco’s face and Nacho looking up at him his mouth full of blood. It was always the same nightmare.

Esteban was sitting alone one day in the stark exercise yard and as far away as possible from the rest of the men, when an old prisoner approached him. He was a large black guy. He’d seen him at meal times and had heard that he was an Americano, a lifer who would die in prison. The man stood in front of him casting a shadow putting Esteban temporarily in the dark. He looked down then squatted beside him.

‘How you holding out son?’ He spoke slowly, in broken Spanish. Esteban did not answer. He just kept looking at the floor hoping that his new found friend would get tired and leave him alone. But he didn’t.

‘Look boy, he said in a low deep drawl, ‘The screws don’t give a rat’s arse what the inmates do to each other, you hear? Hell, that’s how they get their kicks; the only person here who can help you is you.’

Still Esteban said nothing. The American could see in him the tough young kid, not much older than Esteban, who’d arrived in Bella Vista a lifetime ago. He could see he was on the verge of tears but still he toughed it out. He liked that. He’d gone through pretty much the same indoctrination the kid was going through and had found a way to deal with his tormentor in the only way prisoners understood. After that, he’d been left alone. Sure he’d been tough, once...years ago...but prison has a way of mellowing you. He was respected now and even liked by some. Yes, it had been bad but that was then. Still, now and again something would trigger a distant memory and the nightmares would return to haunt him.

‘It won’t stop you know. Not till one of you is dead.’

Esteban looked up slowly and saw the old con’s face close-up for the first time. He had a hard face and cold eyes, ‘I’m okay!’ he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could, ‘I’ll make out.’

The American laughed a hard croaky laugh. ‘I’m okay! I’ll make out!’ he mimicked. ‘Sure you will. Listen to me boy, ain’t much I don’t know about this place and what goes on in here. You either put up with the shit that’s being dished out to you but, from what I know of human nature, that ain’t your bag, or you do something about it—you hear me son? The only way out of this is to make them respect you and to do that you gotta make ’em fear you, that’s all they understand in here.’

Esteban knew what the con was saying was true but what could he do? He had no weapon.

Now he looked the con in the eyes, ‘Can you get me a knife?’

‘A knife! You know what you get if you’re caught with a knife? The screws will make you wish you’d never been born and that’s if you’re lucky and survive to get caught by them.’

Esteban looked beat. ‘All right,” he said, ‘suppose I get you...a knife. How’d you think that will help?’

‘I know how to use it. I’ll find a way. You just get me one, you’ll see.’

The old con had his own reasons for wanting Mario dead but was wondering if this kid was up to it. Still, once upon a time someone had helped him so maybe this would even up the score.

A few days later the old con was at his side again. By now Esteban had had more nightly visits and was at his breaking point.

‘All right boy, you wanted a knife, this is the best I can do, it’s up to you what you do with it, just don’t let anyone see you with it—and, if you’re caught, you didn’t get it from me, understand?’

Esteban nodded as the con slid a thin package wrapped in an old rug. He stuffed it down the front of his trousers and covered it with his prison shirt. As soon as he was alone in his cell, Esteban opened the parcel and saw for the first time an ugly sharp metal object, the thing prisoners call a shank, he stared at it for a minute then wrapped it up again and hid it under his mattress.

The elections for Mayor were due in a month and Francisco Moya was keen to stay in the post. He decided to pay a surprise visit to Bella Vista, take some important people with him. Show them he was in charge. The first the Warden knew they were coming was just after six in the morning, when the guard at the entrance let them in and sent a message to the Warden’s secretary to tell her boss some important people were on the way up. When his secretary announced their presence the Warden was ready for them so when the Mayor, accompanied by a posse of local dignitaries, walked into his office they found him on his feet ready to greet his guests. Moya told him they’d come to see how he ran his prison, and the Warden said he was delighted and invited them to witness the normal morning roll call, when the prisoners came out of their cells to be counted before being allowed to go have their breakfast.

The Warden gave the order to his deputy and the roll call began accompanied by prisoners acknowledging their names and being ticked off the list. When Montalban’s name was called a second time and still did not respond the Warden shot a look at his deputy that left him in no doubt that he was in deep shit.

The deputy took a guard with him and went up the steel staircase to find the prisoner. As they approached Montalban’s cell they heard a loud, high-pitched buzzing sound that seemed to be coming from inside the cell. The guard entered the small cubicle and stopped dead as he took in the sight that greeted him. It was soon evident what the sound was.

The headless corpse lay twisted in the middle of the cell where his killer had dragged it. There was a blood trail leading to it and clouds of large black flies were buzzing excitedly around it. A pool of blood had formed on the cell floor around where the head should have been. Montalban’s trousers were missing and the area where his genitals should have been was a mass of congealed blood. His attacker had hacked his head off and dumped it in a piss-pot by his bed and, not content with that, he had prised his mouth open and stuffed Montalban’s prick into it so that it now looked as if he were trying to smoke a fat stubbed-out cigar. Black blood dribbled from his mouth while the shank that had been used in the attack had been buried up to the hilt into his left eye. The guard gagged as he stared at the grizzly head. The guard’s scream started like a low animal growl and ended in a loud shrill shriek of sheer terror making the Warden and his party of guests look up in time to see a guard run out of the cell, push by the deputy before turning to the cell wall and throwing up.

Death is a frequent visitor to a prison full of murderers and rapists, so when they found Mario Montalban, one of their hardest inmates, dead, they were not exactly surprised; after all there was no shortage of candidates who wanted him dead. The way he died, however, meant that whoever was responsible was capable of exceptional brutality and, what was worse, he seemed to have enjoyed it. Even in the hellhole of a prison they inhabited, that still had the power to shock. The Mayor promised a full investigation but he knew that it was something that nobody wanted. Not he, not the Warden, not even the politicians and local do-gooders. Fact was, Montalban was a lifer, a no good piece of shit that was best dead. Whoever had done it had done the town a favour and, as far as the Warden and his staff, it was one less son-of-a-bitch to worry about. Montalban was scraped off the floor and his body and severed head buried in the prison cemetery with the rest of the dregs of society that ended up in Bella Vista.

Esteban had learned his lesson—prisons are hard places and violence is respected. He soon came to the attention of Rodrigo Ochoa, a violent criminal, gang leader and distant relative of the Ochoa brothers who’d founded the Medellin Cartel. Rodrigo, who was coming to the end of a seven-year stretch, took the young Esteban under his wing, suggesting that he got in touch when he came out of jail.

When Esteban finally left prison five years later he was transformed. Gone was the young boy that had seen his parents brutally murdered and his sister raped. In his place stood a hard man not unlike those who had put paid to his childhood. His uncle Raimundo was there to collect him and take him back to the family home where a welcome home party had been arranged. Esteban was in no mood for parties but couldn’t say no; his family had stood by him through his time in prison, never once deserting him.

As soon as he was able he located Ochoa and went to visit him. Rodrigo greeted him like a long lost son and told him that working like a dog for his uncle was a mug’s game and that, if he joined his gang, he could make his fortune; besides that, no one would ever trouble his family again. People knew him and anyone under his protection never came to harm. This thought appealed to Esteban who saw himself as the man of the house, so far as his sisters Flor and Irene were concerned. He told his uncle that he had found a job that paid better and that he needed to do something to make a life for himself, repay his kindness and look after his sisters. Raimundo was not pleased with his decision but there was little influence he could exercise on Esteban, who grew stronger by the day.

It was not long before Esteban Blanco was running Ochoa’s gang ‘Los Lobos’, and stories of his violent nature became local folklore. The gang’s main activity was trading in drugs and pretty soon he had more money than his uncle. The years that followed saw him grow richer and crueller. His reputation came to the attention of a drugs dealer in Miami who approached him suggesting he became his supplier and offering him funding so that he could buy the coca leaves and process the product himself. A deal was struck and Blanco joined the major leagues.

He started with cocaine sulphate known as pasta or basuco. This sulphate, halfway between the coca leaf and the finished cocaine hydrochloride crystal, was low-grade stuff that Blanco sold in the slums of South America while the pure cocaine hydrochloride ended up in Miami where it was used as a popular recreational drug amongst the young.

When the DEA arrested Jorge Ochoa and interviewed him the world got a glimpse of the business that Esteban Blanco was in and the kind of money that was involved.

It had all started gradually with the first exports to the United States being a maximum of 20 kilos. The DEA were more worried about Marijuana and spent much of their time in the north of the country but, as soon as Marijuana production started in America, their emphasis switched to cocaine. Little by little it became a huge multi-million dollar business, bigger by far than the trade in Marijuana had ever been. By now Blanco’s business was a multi-million-dollar industry; Esteban was part of the Medellin Cartel and partners with Pablo Escobar and Carlos Lehder.

In the beginning Esteban and his partners used Norman’s Cay—an island in the Bahamas owned by Carlos Lehder—as a bridge to get the cocaine into the U.S., flying it in using some pilots just out of Vietnam who’d got involved with the drugs trade.

Esteban and his partners, along with lots of other dealers, started buying drugs from Tranquilandia, which was a bit like a cooperative run by many different people. In 1984 that all came to an end when Mexican security agents arrived by air and took the place without firing a single shot.

The cartel could have defended it by force but they decided to let them take it. After all, it was not the only facility. But after Tranquilandia things got really violent. You could say it was the start of the drug wars in Colombia, and by now Esteban was making a fortune. When things started heating up at Norman’s Cay, Esteban and his partners decided to switch to Cocos Island as a good alternative.

In 2000 Esteban bought ‘La Cañada’, a 20,000-acre estate near Medellin with a sprawling colonial house, and he moved his sisters in with him. Flor and Irene did not know exactly what their brother did; he had American business partners, made a lot of money and gave them expensive gifts. He bought a large apartment in the exclusive Bal Harbour area of Miami and a Falcon 400 private jet to take them there whenever the mood took them. Hadn’t they been through enough heartache to last a lifetime? They were proud of their brother. What the young girls did not know was that Esteban’s position was due to a ruthless bunch of men under his command that did not hesitate to execute their bosses wishes at a moment’s notice, and that meant that people died, disappeared or were tortured irrespective of their age or gender—so long as it suited Esteban’s purpose.

Chapter Eleven

The DEA and Scotland Yard’s drug squad were conducting a massive joint operation that included the CIA, designed to dismantle the largest and most destructive drugs cartel of recent years. Esteban Blanco had been on their radar for a long time.

Andrew Renfrew was Scotland Yard’s drugs’ Tsar who had played host to Edward Garrett of the DEA on many occasions; the level of cooperation between these two men was due more to their personal friendship than mere professional collaboration.

Stories of Esteban Blanco’s cold-blooded nature had started some years ago when he killed a servant just because he had kept him waiting for his mount.

Blanco had worked himself into a rage by the time the hapless Eliseo Pereira finally brought his mount around. Pereira was so nervous that he failed to hold the animal steady, and the horse reared, throwing Blanco to the ground; he shot Pereira at point blank range.

Blanco’s men had disposed of the body, and he also banished Pereira’s wife and their young daughter from their home on his estate. There had been no police investigation and Blanco had not even been questioned.

Reportedly, he was irrational, unpredictable and capable of great cruelty all of which made him extremely dangerous—but there was another side to his nature. When he was not flying into uncontrollable rages he gave huge parties, donated money to the local community, was invited to special events and fêted by the hangers on and sycophants that were always to be found by his side.

While Blanco dealt in drugs, he was not a user. When he was in prison, he had seen what drugs did to people; he was not going to have any of that happen to him or the people he loved, which in his case were his two sisters.

In common with many rich criminals, Blanco aspired to respectability. He had found this by his generous patronage of the arts. He was often to be seen at all the important auctions around the world and, when in London, was equally at home in Sotheby’s or Christie’s buying up Russian icons as they came on the market, to add to his already large collection.

He had managed to distance himself from direct involvement with his illegal activities by means of dummy corporations and middlemen so that, when the authorities investigated, they were inevitably led to dead ends. The law enforcement agencies in London and the U.S. were desperate to link him to any of the many drug busts they were involved with. What they needed was a lucky break and when just such a break presented itself they grabbed it with both hands.

On May 21 2001, the Colombian drug traffickers suffered a major setback when a Peruvian military jet, operating with spotters contracted by the CIA, shot down one of their planes. The operation, backed by Washington, Lima and Bogotá, was part of the plan to get tough on the drug criminals who were exporting cocaine into the U.S.. 

A major cocaine shipment had been halted, disrupting the drugs traffic into the U.S. for a while. It had taken the drug barons a lot of time and effort to get things back on track.

Blanco was on an airstrip that had been cleared in the middle of the Colombian jungle, standing next to a very special plane. The PBY-5A Catalina, whose maiden flight took place in 1935, was one of those iconic aircraft from World War II. Blanco, through an intermediary, had paid good money to a Russian who had done a fine job of restoring it to its original condition. The Soviet version was built under license and powered by two Mikulin M-62 piston engines. It had hydraulically actuated, retractable landing gear for amphibious operation, and tail gun position with a bow ‘eyeball’ turret equipped with twin .30 machine guns. On this occasion the Catalina was being used for a less noble purpose than the defence of its country.

Blanco and his partners ran a neat little operation ferrying cocaine by sea all the way to Cocos Island. From there the cocaine travelled in dummy aqualungs carried back to the mainland, in one of the many scuba diving vessels that operated in those waters, and then, by countless different methods, on to the U.S.. It was a perfect moonless night and the paraffin torches that lined the runway lit the bushes, casting long shadows along the temporary airstrip. They would be moving on soon—it was the only way to keep one jump ahead of the DEA. Esteban was making a rare appearance at the site of one of his illegal activities; this was a special occasion that required his personal attention.

The pilot came over to him and they exchanged a few words before he boarded the plane and started the twin piston engines. Blanco looked on as the strange seaplane, its wings fixed atop its boat-shaped fuselage, started to pick up speed. It took off and banked to the left, the pontoons, hanging down from each wing ready to steady it when landing on water, were clearly visible. The Catalina climbed and was gone, disappearing into an inky black sky.

Blanco’s men extinguished the lantern lights and removed them. Trucks moved in pulling large camouflaged tarpaulins so that traces of the runway would be more difficult to see by the DEA’s spotter planes though, sooner or later, they would be found. They always were which was why they had to keep on the move constantly. Once the Catalina was airborne with its deadly cargo on board, the pilot set a course for Cocos Island.

For your average pilot, night flying with takeoffs and landings from makeshift runways was always dangerous, but Jim McFadden was no ordinary pilot. He sighted the Island at around 3am and brought the seaplane down, its landing lights turning the wake below the plane’s keel into a silvery spray that sparkled like a tray of diamonds. He landed far enough from the dive site known as ‘Lone Stone’ that the sound of the engines would not be heard. He knew the routine off by heart, after all, this was not the first time he’d visited the island except that, this time it was special. He settled down to wait.

Soon it would all be over. As he waited, his mind drifted back to 1991. He had just landed his F-16 fighter, returning from a sortie with his squadron supporting coalition ground troops in Iraq. He was going to the debriefing with the rest of the pilots when his Commanding Officer called him over. Jim learned of his younger brother Ben’s death as a victim of a drugs overdose in Glasgow. Ben had taken time off from his studies in the U.S. and gone back to spend a year with his mother’s family so they could get to know each other better. He’d got involved with the wrong crowd and his first experience with drugs turned out to be his last. He had been found in a doorway by a passer-by who had called an ambulance and he‘d been taken to Glasgow Royal Infirmary where he had been pronounced dead on arrival. He was twenty.

Jim was devastated by his brother’s death and that same year he left the Air Force. He took some time off and stayed with his parents in their New York apartment, helping them through this terrible time. His mother, a Scot who had married an American ex-Vietnam Navy veteran, had taken Ben’s death particularly badly, blaming herself for suggesting the visit in the first place.

Six months went by before Jim decided to join a friend who worked for the Los Angeles Fire Department flying the specially adapted Catalina seaplane fighting forest fires, as a way to exorcise his demons. It didn’t work.

In 1993, Jim approached the U.S. Department of Justice’s Drug Enforcement Administration in Washington. He offered his services to the DEA as an ex-Air Force pilot with experience in a variety of planes—and proven nerve under fire—but it was his experience with the Catalina that had interested the DEA. Jim had been added to their armoury in their fight against the drugs cartels. It was thus that a year later they had arranged for McFadden, through a series of trusted underground contacts, to become a DEA deep cover operative working for Esteban Blanco in Medellin.

Now sitting in the cockpit of the Catalina bobbing gently in the sea around Cocos Island on a moonless night in 2007, he knew that all those years of dedicated work and holding back his anger while being forced to help his brother’s killers ply their evil trade was about to pay off.

A burst of light from the shore brought him back to the present. Someone in a small Zodiac was signalling and McFadden answered with three short bursts of light from a hand-held halogen torch. In response, the Zodiac’s engine started and a few minutes later came alongside. A dark figure threw him a line that he secured to the Zodiac. The same shadowy figure then towed the Catalina to a safe harbour where it could be offloaded away from any prying eyes. Not that there would be any at that time of night and on that side of the Island.

Natalia Dzhabrailova left Chechnya in 1991, aged fifteen, during the collapse of the Soviet Union, with her parents and her younger sister Zamira. They were granted asylum in the UK and settled in Weybridge, an affluent town in the county of Surrey. Her father, Dmitry, was a wealthy businessman who had prepared well in advance having, so to speak, read the writing on the wall. He had managed to take enough money out of the Soviet Union and deposited it in a numbered Swiss bank account, thus ensuring him and his family a comfortable life in their adopted country. Their house in St George’s Hill was large, secure and impressive.

 Natalia’s father had ensured that she was well provided for. She had used the funds at her disposal and her considerable beauty, charm and good manners to get a job in Sotheby’s in the Russian department. She had worked, trained and studied hard and left Sotheby’s at the age of 22 to set up on her own as an expert specializing in Russian icons. Natalia made a good living but, having inherited her father’s genes, she was ambitious and, wanting to amass great wealth, had conceived a little sideline.

It had started when one of her compatriots had shown her a particularly fine, late 16th century icon of doubtful provenance. Her fellow countryman had explained that he needed to convert the icon into cash and had asked for Natalia’s help. She knew well what a Pandora’s box she’d be opening and that once opened, like the genie in the bottle it would be no more possible to close it than put the genie back. Her natural sense of adventure and risk-taking, coupled with her desire for wealth and power had won the day. She had arranged for the icon to be sold to a collector who was not particular about matters relating to origin. Natalia had been paid a handsome commission and, more importantly, her private clientele had grown, informed by an insider’s network that functioned by word of mouth and special recommendation. She was extremely happy because, not only did she get all the special transactions that could not be routed through the usual channels, she was also protected by her powerful clients anxious to look after a valuable asset—in a way that is more commonly reserved for heads of state, rock stars and Hollywood royalty.

Elliott first saw Natalia in May of 2006. He’d been accompanying a friend who’d had dealings at Sotheby’s and they were just going in through the auction house’s back entrance in George Street when an astonishingly beautiful woman was coming out. She walked past them without as much as a look in their direction, said goodbye to Tom the commissionaire, and got into the Swiss registered, tungsten silver, left-hand-drive, Aston Martin Vanquish that was parked on a yellow line by the back door. Elliott and his friend stared as she dropped into the plush red leather driver’s seat and, knees together, swung her long legs gracefully into the car and closed the door. The whole procedure had taken five seconds to accomplish but Elliott was still seeing it in slow motion. The Aston’s engine roared into life and she drove off in the direction of Hanover Square.

Elliott followed the car until it was out of sight and, when he turned around, he noticed that the commissionaire was looking at him and chuckling.

‘She has that kind of effect on all the fellows round here, don’t worry, you’re not alone.’

‘Who on earth is that?’

‘That, sir, is Natalia Dzhabrailova, and she’s a frequent visitor to Sotheby’s,’ said Tom, making a valiant effort to pronounce her surname. Elliott nodded and walked into the famous auction house accompanied by his friend.

Peter was an old mate and Elliott liked his dry sense of humour so he just smiled when he’d said, ‘I’ll not be long,’ adding, ‘try not to touch anything,’ before going through a door marked ‘private’. Elliott was left in the elegant waiting room surrounded by auction catalogues neatly arranged on an antique mahogany table.

Elliott sat down but no sooner had Peter disappeared than he went straight up to the reception desk where he asked to speak with Miss Natalia. The receptionist said he had just missed her. Elliott looked flustered and told her he had arrived late for a first meeting and was so sorry he’d missed her. He asked if there was any way he could contact her and gave the receptionist his best imploring look. The receptionist thought, one more poor sap but said that, since he already had an appointment, she supposed it would be all right if she gave him Miss Dzhabrailova’s mobile number. Elliott had struck lucky and went back to the waiting room, picked up a catalogue and leafed through it waiting for his friend to return.

The next morning, and after a few phone calls to the right people had given him some background information on Natalia, Elliott decided to make the all important call. He fully expected to get blown out of the water but...what is it they say? Faint heart never won fair maiden; so he thought, well. here goes nothing...

‘Natalia Dzhabrailova, who’s speaking?’ The voice had a faint Slavic overtone.

‘Elliott Shepherd, I’ve been recommended to you by a business acquaintance,’ and Elliott mentioned a name he knew she’d know because Tom, his favourite Sotheby’s commissionaire, had told him he was a regular client of hers.

‘How is Sir James Shelton?’

‘He’s well, I think....I don’t know him as a friend, really—more business you know...’ and she knew what he meant all right, Natalia could tell a scam a mile off and this one was not even a good one.

‘How can I help you?’

‘Well, it’s complicated. Could we meet? I’d feel better speaking face to face.’ After a moment’s hesitation and curious to see where this might lead she said, ‘All right, we could meet at Sotheby’s tomorrow. I am there in the morning.’

‘Sorry to be so mysterious but I’d prefer somewhere a little more private. Do you know the Polo Bar at the Westbury? It’s just across the road in....’

‘Sure, shall we say eleven?’

‘That’s perfect, thank you.’ She hung up. When Elliott clicked off his mobile he had a smile on his face like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

Natalia put her Nokia back in her handbag. She was amused and intrigued. Who was this Elliott Shepherd? She was used to men hitting on her and wondered if that’s what this was. Curiosity got the better of her and she turned up for her meeting at the Westbury seven minutes late, just long enough to make him wonder if he’d been stood up. She looked around the bar and noticed Elliott at a table by the window just as he saw her and stood up to go greet her. From the relatively short distance that separated them, Elliott could see that his initial attraction had not been misplaced.

Natalia was 5’8’ tall, with shoulder length black hair, fair complexion, a heart-shaped face with startlingly black eyebrows rising in thick arcs above slanting eyes of the palest blue; a slightly upturned nose and a faint, tiny scar above her top lip, a remnant from a childhood accident, that contrived to make her mouth all the more desirable. She smiled a friendly smile that animated her whole face and Elliott got the impression that, for a few seconds, the Polo Bar had actually got brighter.

‘Mr Shepherd, I presume?’

‘Miss Dzhabrailova,’ Elliott said smiling, ‘it’s a great pleasure to meet you and thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice.’

Natalia was wearing ballet pumps, a black leather jacket over a white silk blouse open at the neck showing a glimpse of white silk-lace bra covering her firm breasts. She wore blue skinny jeans that accentuated her long sexy legs.

‘Mr Shepherd, I must congratulate you on your pronunciation of my name. Have you been practicing?’ She seemed to be teasing.

‘Since we spoke on the phone,’ he said smiling, ‘but please, call me Elliott.’

He led her to his table and could not help noticing that every male in the Polo Bar was trying his best not to look at her.

The waiter came over and Natalia ordered a Vodka Martini, Elliott ordered the same and the waiter left leaving them a few moments to study each other waiting to see who would be first to break the silence. Then all at once they spoke together and the ice was broken amidst smiles and laughter.

They had become firm friends who saw each other often and now, on a frosty November morning, Elliott found himself at the same Polo Bar waiting for Natalia to arrive which she did, right on time. Elliott went over to her and kissed her.

‘Natasha,’ he greeted her using the Russian informal version of her name, ‘you are more gorgeous every time I see you. How do you manage that?’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere,’ she said smiling her lovely bright smile as she sat down in the chair that Elliott held back for her.

The Vodka Martinis arrived and Elliott told her what he had in mind for her special private collectors. When he finished she looked at him seriously.

‘There are one or two buyers worth considering for your Gold Lady and to them price will not be an issue. Just tell me when you’re ready and leave the rest to me.’

Natalia left the Westbury and caught a cab to her London flat in Pont Street. She needed to be alone and think through what she had heard from Elliott. The moment he’d told her, an idea had leapt into her mind about a way to solve a very persistent problem. A problem that started early in 2006 when she was approached by a gentleman from Scotland Yard. He had been monitoring Natalia’s activities in pursuit of her sideline and told her that he was interested in some of her connections and one person in particular. He explained to her that her life could be made considerably harder if she chose not to cooperate or, as he put it, do her civic duty, so she cut a deal whereby the fraud squad agreed to leave her pretty much alone in exchange for her assistance in the matter of Esteban Blanco. Getting the bloodhounds at Scotland Yard off her back, however, would mean an act of serious disloyalty to her friend that she knew Elliott would not forgive her for. Disloyalty was not one of her failings. There had to be a way out. She just needed more time to think.

Chapter Twelve

Esteban Blanco loved women. He met them, wined them, dined them, bought them expensive presents and, of course, he fucked them. He’d fucked more women than he could count but he’d never made love to a single one. Come to that, he’d never been in love.

He was driving back to La Cañada in his Grand Cherokee when he spotted her by the side of the road, a redhead back-packer in shorts and hiking boots, she looked like an American. He pulled over by her side, wound down the window and gave her a big smile.

‘Where you going?’

‘Armenia,’ she said, setting her rucksack down for a moment.

‘I can give you a ride as far as Manizales if you like?’

She thought about it for a moment, she’d accepted lifts in the country before and everyone had been kind and friendly. He looked respectable so she said thanks, put her bag in the back seat and got in.

‘Have you been visiting friends in Medellin?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘I don’t know anyone there. I’m just visiting your lovely country for a year and travelling around South America. I came with two friends of mine from Ireland who spent Christmas with me but they’ve gone back home.’

‘Travelling alone can be a bit dangerous,’ he said.

‘So some people say but everyone’s been very kind.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. So, why are you going to Armenia?’

‘I’ve heard there are some really beautiful places to see there, big ranches and coffee plantations.’

‘You interested in farming?’

‘I was raised on a small farm on the outskirts of Dublin, a place called Brittas Bay in County Wicklow.’

‘I have never been to your country but it must be very beautiful.’

‘What makes you say that, if you’ve never been?’ she said smiling.

‘Well, for a start, they have very beautiful women there.’

‘Are all Latin men like you?’ she said. ‘Always paying compliments?’ She felt herself blushing and, to cover up her embarrassment added, ‘I’m Cathleen by the way’.

‘Hola Cathleen, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Esteban, and no, we’re not all the same.’

She was pretty and self-assured. Esteban had never met anyone from Ireland, man or woman, come to that, and never encountered anyone quite like her before.

Cathleen was a BAgrSc graduate from The Faculty of Agriculture at University College Dublin on her gap year before going home to work in the family farm. She was interested in South America and had chosen Colombia as the place to start her tour.

‘Why don’t you let me be your guide for today? I could show you around my farm. I grow coffee and have some cattle too. You might find our farming methods interesting.’

‘I’m sure of that but you must have more important things to do.’

‘On a Sunday?’

‘I’d forgotten what day it is. I’ve completely lost track of time,’ she said laughing.

From the moment he’d stopped and spoken to her, Cathleen decided she liked Esteban. She was like that. She trusted her instincts and they had not let her down...so far. So she accepted his kind offer and they chatted on while he drove. The sun was up and the whirr of the air conditioning and the movement of the car were making her sleepy. She must have dozed off because when she awoke she found Esteban staring at her. The jeep wasn’t moving and had pulled into a clearing by a large, leafy tree.

Cathleen felt a bit embarrassed for having dropped off and the way Esteban was looking at her wasn’t helping, ‘We there?’ She asked and stretched her arms to wake up.

‘No. I was getting a bit tired too and stopped for a rest. Want a cold beer?’

Cathleen straightened her hair and sat up straight. She noticed Esteban eyeing her legs and felt a strange sensation. Esteban must have noticed it too because he smiled and pulled a beer from the fridge in the jeep and handed it to her.

The cold liquid went down well as she drank from the bottle. She looked at Esteban and held his eyes. He slid towards her and pulled her face to him kissing her hard. Before she knew what was happening he was on her side and before either realized it they were kissing and making love. When it was over they looked at each other and before Esteban could say anything Cathleen said:

‘Well I guess that means we’re proper friends now,’ and she started laughing and giggling.

‘I guess we are at that!’ he said and he too laughed in a way he did not think he was capable of.

A chance meeting with a total stranger and not a situation that had not arisen before, hell no, but not like this. Somehow, this felt different.

‘Look Cathleen, as I said, I live not far from here and if you haven’t got any special plans, how about I show you around?’

‘I’d love you to show me around,’ she said, and from the look on her face, she really meant it.

When they arrived at La Cañada, Cathleen could not believe what she saw. They’d been on his land for a while. Just miles and miles of fertile land, grazing cattle and men on horseback—men and cattle—everywhere cattle, cattle and still more cattle. Then they drove through fields planted with row upon row of coffee trees that seemed to stretch on forever. Eventually they came to a large gatehouse. An armed guard greeted his boss respectfully while casting a furtive glance in her direction. Esteban said, ‘Buenos dias Pablo. Todo bien?’ The guard replied that all was well. Esteban exchanged a few more words with him in Spanish, said adios and drove on through. The road to the house was about a mile long and wound itself around large trees and colourful bushes. The air held the fragrant smell of ripe mangoes mixed with the smell of orchids growing wild by the edge of the road.

‘Esteban, this place, it’s enormous and so...so beautiful. Is it all yours?’

‘Yes. All mine, and my sisters too.’

‘And your wife’s...?’

‘No wife,’ he laughed, ‘just two sisters; you’ll meet them soon.’

Cathleen moved into La Cañada in January 2001 and became great friends with Flor and Irene. She practised her Spanish and they their English—somehow they managed to understand each other. Cathleen loved to entertain them with stories about Ireland, the beautiful countryside, the shops, boys and, in short, everything that young women love to talk about. Esteban loved what was happening and began to experience a change in him. He smiled a lot and found less and less reasons to be angry and more and more reasons to be happy. He did not know what was happening. Of course, he had never been in love before.

Cathleen waited until June before telling her parents about Esteban. Naturally they were concerned, what parent wouldn’t be? Cathleen was sensible and down-to-earth but she was in a strange country with strange customs and she could easily be hurt. She had kept in constant contact with them but had managed to avoid telling her parents about any romantic entanglement, preferring to keep to safe subjects like the friends she’d made and the places she’d visited. Six months on and still at La Cañada, she felt the need to be straight with her parents and when, on the anniversary of their meeting, Esteban proposed, she accepted gladly. He had taken her on his private jet to Peru. He wanted to show her Machu Picchu, and chose the Pre-Colombian Inca site as the place he would ask Cathleen to be his wife. He joked that he felt he’d died and gone to heaven and that this place, over 2000 metres above sea-level was the closest place to heaven that he knew. It was the perfect setting for an incurable romantic and Cathleen was swept off her feet.

Esteban arranged a spectacular wedding. The 9/11 attacks had made headlines around the world and Cathleen’s mum, who was particularly scared of flying, wasn’t happy getting on a commercial flight. Esteban told Cathleen not to worry and sent his jet to Dublin airport to collect her parents, her sister Claire and two of her closest friends to bring them back to Colombia for the wedding.

Saturday, 22nd December 2001 was the date Cathleen and Esteban chose for their romantic wedding. The guest list was amazing—there were Colombian politicians and American businessmen with their wives and even one or two famous faces from Hollywood who had made the trip to be with the happy bride and groom. The O’Hara’s were mightily impressed and thought the whole event had been grand. They could not wait to see the photographs and to show them to their friends in Ireland.

Nine months later Esteban and Cathleen’s daughter, Esperanza, was born.

Chapter Thirteen

Since he learned that the treasure of the Gold Train could be lying at the bottom of the sea, Elliot had been vexed by the problem of how to rescue it from its watery grave. He had to admit that he was out of his depth in more ways than one. What he needed was specialist advice. He’d considered asking Natalia for her help more than once. She was well connected and she was a friend. On an impulse he dialled her number.

‘Natasha, I’ve got something I’d like to discuss with you,’ he said when she picked up his call, ‘Would it be possible for us to meet?’

‘Now that’s a coincidence, I’ve been meaning to call you. As it happens, I too have something I need to talk over with you. When were you thinking of meeting?’

‘Soon as possible,’ he replied, and asked, ‘Where are you now?’

‘I’m driving, just coming out of Richmond Park on my way to London.’

‘Well, there’s no time like the present. Why don’t you wait for me in Richmond Green, just opposite the theatre, I can be there in forty minutes or so—we can have a drink and a chat. How’s that sound?’

She said fine and he left Oriel’s where he’d just finished lunch. Elliott headed off to catch the tube from Sloane Square. He got to platform 1 in time to catch a Richmond, District Line train and jumped on board just as the loud Jamaican voice coming over on the PA was saying: ‘Mind the closing doors.’

Natalia parked her car on a meter and sat on a park bench opposite Richmond Theatre. She was reading a programme she’d found on the bench that was advertising Tim Supple’s Indian production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, she thought it would be worth seeing. She looked at her watch, and she’d been there half an hour; Elliott should not be long. When she looked up, she saw him making his way over to her from the direction of the station.

‘Hi Natasha; been waiting long?’

‘Not really, about half an hour,’ she said, ‘you were quick.’

‘I was lucky. Got a tube straight away. Let me buy you a drink,’ he said, ‘I know a pub on the square that’s quite nice.’

They got to The Princes Head overlooking the green and Natalia went to get a seat outside while Elliott got the drinks. He came out holding two beers and joined her.

‘Cheers!’ he said touching his glass to hers’.

‘Cheers, she replied, ‘so what’s so important you need to talk to me today?’

Elliott explained that he was involved in a marine salvage operation and the fact that the sort of equipment he needed was more specialized than what was readily available in normal scuba diving shops.

‘I need some specialist equipment. Really bespoke I mean and I thought you might know someone...discreet, that you could recommend.’

‘Okay. I’ll see what I can do,’ she said, ‘but why someone...discreet?’

‘Fair question,’ he said, ‘remember the Gold Virgin I told you about? I’ve located her and, well...I don’t want to have to give answers to awkward questions. Fair enough?’

‘Fair enough. What makes you think I can help?’

‘Don’t be modest. You’re well connected. Better than me for sure. Even if you can’t help, you probably know someone who can. Besides we’re friends and I thought I’d start with you, okay?’

Natalia considered this, it was a situation she was familiar with and one she had often had to deal with. ‘Okay. I think know just the man. I’ll set up a meeting soon, I promise.’

‘Fine. Thank you,’ he said, ‘I really appreciate it. Now, what did you want to talk to me about?’

Her plan had been bubbling away since the Scotland Yard detective had approached her but felt uneasy mentioning it to Elliott even though, as he himself had said, they were friends. Natalia was careful who she confided in regarding her private and business life, but she reasoned, one good turn deserves another. Besides, Elliott was at the centre of her plan.

‘The fact is that the police are sort of interested in what I do,’ she said smiling rather sheepishly, ‘to put it bluntly they have me over a barrel, they know about a few deals I’ve done where I’ve sold the odd art treasures that aren’t exactly...well, you know...anyway they implied they could make things pretty hot for me but offered me a way out...’

‘Who’s been a naughty girl then?’ He couldn’t resist teasing her.

‘It’s serious Elliott. It would break mum and dad’s heart. Dad would not forgive me if he found out, he’s always given me anything I want,’ she said, ‘but you know me, I’ve always wanted to stand on my own two feet. Is that so bad?’

Elliott could see she was upset, ‘don’t worry princess,’ he said, ‘I’m a fine one to talk. I’m also in a bit of a pickle,’ and he told her about his little problem with Briggs.

‘I suppose you’ve got a contact,’ he said, ‘how about giving him a call? Say I want to meet him.’

She made the call and a meeting was arranged. Three days later, on a particularly dull Monday in May, they met Andrew Renfrew in the Serpentine.

Elliott had been expecting to meet a detective from the Met and not Scotland Yard’s drugs Tsar, the man in charge of disrupting the drug barons operating in the UK. Renfrew was a powerful man but this was 2007 and his budget was limited. Funds were being diverted to the continuing war on terror. Elliott explained that he was involved in a difficult salvage operation that required substantial funding and technical help.

Renfrew didn’t need a lot of unnecessary explanations. It was clear that Elliott’s operation was not something he could go to his bank with. In any case, Renfrew was under a lot of pressure to get results. If he was to get more government funds for his department he needed a major drugs bust and he would listen and talk with anyone that might be able to help him. He got right down to business and said that, in exchange for Elliott’s help, he could make his funding problems disappear and, as a bonus, would throw in the logistic support he needed.

‘We’re not in the salvage business Mr Shepherd, what you find is between you and the Costa Rican government. We just need to get rid of a large drugs problem so if you help us we’ll help you; it’s that simple.’

Natalia went on to explain the plan she had already shared with Andrew. Elliott gave a low whistle.

‘Natasha, remind me not to cross you,’ he said.

Elliott thought it over and decided that there was no downside to this offer but it had a definite upside in that, having the law on his side would ensure that his next meeting with Johnny Briggs would be under much more pleasant circumstances. He said yes and shook hands on the deal.

Andrew Renfrew suggested a meeting to introduce Elliott to the man who would be helping him when he reached Costa Rica, and gave him a date to come to his office at New Scotland Yard in ten days time. Elliott had never been there and welcomed the opportunity to get a closer look at the famous institution, A fortnight later he presented himself for his 10am appointment. He entered the large office, with views over Victoria Street and Westminster Abbey, to be greeted by Renfrew and a young man.

‘Good morning Mr Shepherd,’ he said ‘good of you to come. May I introduce you to Tim Martin? He will be your contact in Costa Rica.’

‘Good morning Mr Martin, I’m Elliott,’ he said, inviting him to drop the ‘Mister’.

‘Pleased to meet you Elliott; I’m looking forward to working with you. It sounds as if it might be quite exciting.’

‘I rather think it might, though not too exciting I hope. Do you know Costa Rica?’

‘I have been there on a few occasions though not lately I must say. Beautiful country.’

Renfrew had been listening patiently to the conversation.

‘Well you two will have plenty of time to get to know each other better. In the mean time is there anything else that you might need?’ he said turning to Elliott.

‘As it happens there is. I need to find a good reliable engineer with specialist knowledge of deep-sea salvage.’

‘You need to speak with Helmut Mueller in Zurich,’ Renfrew said, ‘I will arrange it and contact you with the details. You better give me a contact number where you can be reached.’ Elliott gave Renfrew his mobile number and email address.

Herr Mueller, a softly spoken man in his thirties, lived in a second floor apartment in Hohlstrasse, near the three-star Hotel Regina. His English had a faint accent Elliott couldn’t quite place. Mueller ushered him into his office and, after offering Elliott a cold beer, asked: ‘How can I help you Mr Shepherd?’

Elliott explained that the problem consisted in recovering a large heavy box from the seabed and raising it to the surface. He would have the help of another man in accomplishing the task but he didn’t know the exact size of box he’d be dealing with.

‘Interesting, said Mueller, ‘You don’t know the exact size of the box...that is an important consideration.’ The engineer seemed distracted as if he were already considering possible solutions. ‘Still, you will be two in the water and that makes life much easier. I have worked on similar problems but I will need time to come up with the best answer. When do you need this by?’

‘Would a month be sufficient?’

‘A little longer, say second week in July, if that’s acceptable?’

Elliott agreed and then asked for an idea of what the price would be but Herr Mueller said that he was on a retainer from Mr Renfrew who’d told him to give Mr Elliott whatever he required and bill him instead. Elliott was more than happy with that arrangement. He checked out of the Regina, and took a taxi to the airport, satisfied with the result of his short visit to Zurich.

Elliott contacted Andrew Renfrew to thank him for the introduction and to tell him the time schedule he had agreed with Mueller. Renfrew said that was fine, but advised him that his travels around Europe were not quite over yet. He needed him to visit Florence in order to commission a very special work; it was a task that he needed Elliott to undertake as the need for secrecy was paramount. Renfrew could not go himself as he could not take a chance of leaking their plan to the cartel. In an organization the size of The Yard there was always that risk.

Elliott landed at Galileo Galilei international airport in Pisa onboard a BA flight, cleared customs and got a taxi to Piazza Santo Spirito in Florence. Renfrew had arranged for him to meet Giovanni Puglia at Caffè Ricchi. Signor Giovanni was in his sixties; he was wiry, tanned with strong hands that were used to handling the tools of his trade. Elliott stood outside the caffè studying the faces of the clientele and was soon able to recognize him from a photograph that Renfrew had provided. After introducing himself Signor Giovanni suggested that they go on to his workshop near Piazza Di Cestello.

Elliott left the studio having entrusted Renfrew’s very special project into the capable hands of this master craftsman. Halfway through completion of the work, Signor Puglia contacted Andrew Renfrew who arranged for a second visit by a specialist whose expertise was required before the task could be completed.

Six weeks later, Elliott paid another visit to Zurich and was able verify that Herr Mueller was as excellent an engineer as Renfrew had claimed. His order was crated and dispatched to a secure warehouse in Wandsworth owned by Scotland Yard.

Elliott did not need to travel to Florence again but when he visited the Yard’s special warehouse and set eyes on the work he had commissioned he was most impressed by the skill and craftsmanship of Signor Puglia.

Chapter Fourteen

New York 2007

A special auction of 16th century Russian icons was due to take place in Sotheby’s, in Manhattan at the corner of 72nd Street and York Avenue, in a week’s time.

Esteban Blanco’s special invitation had arrived a month previously and he had had his personal assistant reserve his usual suite at The Carlyle Hotel. Blanco was a regular guest when visiting The Big Apple and liked the hotel’s location on the Upper East Side, one block from the Whitney Museum of American Art and Central Park. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was just five blocks away, and the Guggenheim and Lincoln Center were within a mile. In other words, it was the ideal hotel for a patron of the arts.

The President & Managing Director of The Carlyle had provided something special for each guest: a complimentary copy of the latest Sotheby's catalogue with a Sotheby's bookmark, and a direct telephone link to the famous auctioneers from the hotel room telephone as well as complimentary invitations to all their auctions and previews.

Blanco phoned The Pierre and asked to be put through to Natalia Dzhabrailova. After three rings she answered the call.

‘Good afternoon Natalia,’ he said, ‘it’s Esteban Blanco. I’ve just arrived in New York and wanted to thank you personally for all your help in securing that rather special icon last month.’

‘Esteban. Hello, I’m glad you’re happy,’ she said, ‘but that’s not necessary, it’s what I get paid for isn’t it?’

‘Certainly, but I am a considerate man you know, I believe in the personal touch,’ he joked.

‘I know you are, but as I said, there’s really—’

‘I’m staying in my usual hotel,’ he cut in, ‘why don’t you come up to my suite? We can have a drink and discuss a new acquisition I’d like you to handle for me. Let’s say in an hour?’

There was no point arguing, ‘I’ll be there,’ she said.

Andrew Renfrew came over to where she was standing, still holding the receiver.

‘All right Natalia, now we bait the hook and hope our big fish is hungry.’

She was booked in a Superior Room and Renfrew had the one next door. The connecting door stood open. ‘From now on best don’t open your door to anyone without checking with me first,’ Renfrew said, ‘just knock once and I’ll be with you in a second.’

She was apprehensive about her meeting. She wondered what Blanco might know and wasn’t keen on the idea of walking into the lion’s den, but Renfrew reassured her he would not be far from her at anytime during her meeting. Still, up till now all her meetings with Blanco had been in public places, hotel rooms hadn’t been part of any deal. She took the lift down to the lobby and walked straight out the front door where the doorman got her a cab from the waiting rank. She tipped him and got in the taxi while the doorman leaned down to tell the driver to take her to The Carlyle, leaving The Pierre with Renfrew following at a safe distance in another yellow cab. Natalia was still uneasy about her forthcoming encounter with Blanco.

She was smartly dressed in a Donna Karan black and white print jacket and black wool trousers. She was not wearing a wire; it could be potentially dangerous, Renfrew had said. Instead he had given her a stylish ring that she wore on her middle finger. It had a hidden button that would send a signal Renfrew would pick up from the Hotel Lobby—a sort of panic alarm that she hoped she would not need.

Natalia entered the Carlyle and went to the reception desk. She asked for Mr Blanco and gave the receptionist her name. She didn’t look around. The receptionist punched a few numbers on the house phone and waited; when someone answered, she announced the visitor and was told to send her up. Natalia left to take the elevator to the 5th floor.

She approached two giant men posted on either side of the door to rooms 515–17. They both wore tailored suits and had Bluetooth earpieces. Natalia guessed from the bulges on their jackets that they concealed weapons the hotel management would not have approved of.

She was shown into a large Art Deco one-bedroom suite with over 1,200 square feet of space, a king bed, a large dining area, kitchenette and two full bathrooms, including one four-fixture bathroom containing a separate soaking tub. She’d heard about the tub and hoped Esteban would not ask her to share a soak in it.

She found Blanco in a triple-sized living room with a state-of-the-art entertainment system, standing in front of the plasma screen fiddling with the remote. He switched it off, put the remote down on the coffee table and came over to greet her.

‘Natalia, preciosa you look wonderful. As always,’ he said stepping forward to welcome her, his mouth smiling. He was not her type, quite the opposite in fact, but she greeted him with a friendly smile and he kissed her on both cheeks.

Esteban Blanco was forty-nine years old; five foot seven inches tall, clean-shaven, black hair combed back and held in place with brilliantine. His temples had started to turn grey. His face was Latin and angular with cruel black eyes, a nose that had been broken more than once and a mouth that seemed permanently set in a twisted grin. Blanco’s body was dark skinned, fit and smelled strongly of expensive cologne. He wore a light grey sharkskin single-breasted Brioni suit, black silk shirt open at the neck revealing the heavy gold chain and crucifix that he always wore. The gold Rolex Oyster Perpetual was just visible under the French cuffs of his shirt. Natalia took all this in and thought he looked the perfect James Bond villain.

Esteban took her jacket revealing the light grey cashmere sweater she wore underneath that hugged her body tightly. He showed Natalia to a comfortable chair in the large sitting room and sat opposite her. Natalia could feel his gaze, roaming slowly around her body, settle finally on her face. ‘Natalia, I’ve missed you,’ he said, ‘you really should take me up on my offer and come to Colombia. I’d make sure you have a very good time!’ The voice soft as velvet, the meaning clear, she’d looked away, eyes searching for something, anything other than his face. ‘Vodka Martini?’ He was asking and she turned to nod a thank you.

A few minutes later a large man arrived carrying a tray with their drinks, and setting them on the large coffee table, looked at his boss for a hint of further instructions. Esteban gave him a curt look and the man left. Esteban handed Natalia a glass and took his own, a highball filled with his favourite whisky; holding it up to toast, he said, ‘Salud!’

Esteban took a sip and swirled it round his mouth savouring it before swallowing, once more his eyes on hers.

‘I have been most impressed with the service you’ve provided so far,’ he said, ‘the three icons you have recommended will be valuable additions to my collection and I trust you to get them for me in tomorrow’s auction.’

Waiting for Blanco to continue, Natalia said nothing, her face attentive. He paused to consider what he wanted to say. ‘I know that you have helped important people acquire precious works of art, before they are offered to the rest of the world at public auctions...’ he looked at Natasha in a way that conveyed that he knew what she did for her special customers. She was composed, calm but her heart was racing. He went on, ‘I hope you know that, as a serious collector, I am always in the market for something special and would hope to be kept informed...’ he let the words hang giving Natalia time to consider what he was saying.

Here it comes she thought, will he take the bait? She had to be careful, make it sound normal, matter of fact.

‘I know your interest lies with Russian icons,’ she said, ‘I hadn’t thought to mention the special projects that interest my other clients.’ Natalia said inviting his reaction, which she got immediately.

‘I am a man who appreciates hearing things first Natalia.’ He was leaning forward, uncomfortably close; the smell of his cologne making her dizzy. ‘How can I make a decision if I am not in possession of the facts?’ His eyes seemed to be reinforcing the point he’d just made.

‘Is there a special project that you are involved with that I should know about?’

She waited, seeming to consider what she was about to say. ‘I’m not sure if this would be of interest—’ she begun.

‘Let me be the judge of that, please,’ he cut in.

‘Very well,’ she said slowly and almost reluctantly.

At first she told the tale of a search for a treasure and a valuable relic. When she finished Blanco looked at her for what appeared to be an eternity, his hands clasped while he considered what she’d just told him. She was feeling distinctly uneasy and slightly flushed, wondering if the air conditioning was not working when he said:

‘You are an extraordinary person Natalia. I mean it. If things are as you say, and I have no reason to doubt you, I am most certainly interested in your current venture. I will make it worth your while to ensure that this “find” ends up in my collection and no one else’s.’

Blanco had taken the bait. It was clear from the shine in his eyes and his body language. Natalia realized she’d been holding her breath and she let it out slowly.

‘Señor Blanco,’ she begun, ‘you have been very good to me I must say, but there are other interested parties I would have to...’ Blanco held up his hand and beckoned one of his men over. He spoke to him softly in Spanish. When the man left he said:

‘Natalia, I think I know a little about life. And, in my experience money talks.’ His man was back carrying a silver metal briefcase that he gave to his boss before leaving. Blanco had placed the case on his lap and was tapping it gently with his hand.

‘Inside this case is $100,000,’ he said, his eyes studying her looking for a reaction, ‘consider it a small down payment against what you will get when I am in possession of the gold Virgin,’ and he gave her the case that Natalia accepted with just the right amount of reluctance, quickly brushed aside by Blanco with a wave of his hand. He thought, now, she’s mine.

Blanco waited for Natalia to leave the suite and called one of his men.

‘Vinni, come here.’

Vinni entered the room to where his boss sat. Tony Vinni was a small weasel of a man. A Puerto Rican immigrant, dark skinned with black shifty eyes beneath bushy eyebrows, he moved as if he were trying to hide from something. He was a natty dresser who favoured Armani and Canali; today was the turn of Canali.

‘See where she goes, who she meets, then report back to me...and Tony, make sure you are not seen.’

‘Sure boss,’ he said and asked before leaving, ‘Where will you be?’

‘I’m going to my tailor’s, you can call me on my cell phone, now get going or you’ll lose her.’

Vinni was the last man you’d think of for the job of surveillance but the fact was that he was good at it. He didn’t exactly blend into the background but however he managed it he always delivered the goods, which was why Blanco had given him this assignment.

In the lobby, Andrew Renfrew sat reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal. He had told Natalia that he would be close at hand but that she should not acknowledge him in any way and that they should meet back at their hotel. Natalia walked past Renfrew without a single glance in his direction. From where he was he could see her speaking to the doorman through the hotel’s main entrance doors. He was about to get up when a small man went past him in a bit of a hurry. Renfrew noticed that he was making an effort to catch up with someone and saw him speak with the doorman who pointed in the direction of Natalia’s parting cab. The man hailed a cab and followed her with Renfrew close behind in a third cab heading back to The Pierre.

Back in her room, Natalia answered a discreet knock on her connecting door and Renfrew entered.

‘You were followed. One of Blanco’s men I’m sure and not too good at surveillance either.’

‘Damn it! There I was thinking that I had carried it off and that he’d swallowed the bait.’

‘Don’t worry. Blanco’s the kind of man who would not trust his own mother.’

‘What do I do now?’

‘Nothing. It’s business as usual. What we have to make sure of is that we don’t give him cause for concern. Relax I’ll be near you, but always at a safe distance.’

Blanco’s man had followed Natalia back to her hotel, and now reported back to his boss on his mobile—and asked for further instructions. Blanco told him to be very discreet but find out who was in the rooms either side of Natalia’s. Vinni took a blank piece of paper from one of the desks in the hotel lobby, folded it, put it in an envelope and sealed it. He took it over to the concierge and asked for it to be delivered to Miss Dzhabrailova’s room straightaway. He walked away and waited. A few minutes later the concierge called a bellhop over, gave him the envelope and his instructions and the boy left heading for one of the elevators.

Vinni followed and stood by the door. He got in with the bellhop who asked him what floor he wanted. He said, ‘you go ahead son,’ and made a show of looking for his room key muttering something about what floor he was on; he saw the boy press 7 and he then asked him for the seventh floor.

‘Same as me, sir,’ the boy said. The doors closed with a soft whine and the elevator headed upwards.

Vinni smiled at him and waited for the elevator to stop. When they arrived on the seventh floor he got out and dithered a little looking for something inside his coat pocket while the bellhop turned left and walked to one of the doors leading to a Superior Room. He followed and walked past the boy heading towards what the boy would think was his own room. Natalia opened the door and he gave her the envelope. She tipped him and he left.

Once inside and with the door closed, Natalia looked at the envelope bearing the Hotel’s logo and opened it. She was looking at it with a perplexed expression on her face when Renfrew walked over to her.

‘Something interesting?’

‘Well, that’s just it! There’s just a blank sheet of the Hotel’s notepaper but there’s absolutely nothing written on it! Do you think this is someone’s idea of a joke?’

‘Far from it,’ he replied, ‘I rather think our Mr Blanco is not quite as gullible as we may have thought.’

Vinni waited for the bellhop to appear on another errand and followed him into an empty elevator.

‘Seventh sir?’ He said. The door shut and he took a $100 bill from his pocket. The bellhop looked at the bill.

‘What do you need sir?’

‘Names,’ he said.

Blanco left the hotel for a quick visit to his tailor of choice. The Brioni store at 57 East 57th Street was one of his favourite places to relax and the manager, Vincenzo Fiero, greeted him like a long lost friend.

‘Signor Blanco; welcome, what brings you to our door?’

‘Vincenzo, my friend, I’m in need of a little pampering and where better than Brioni?’

‘Signor Blanco, you’re not going to get an argument from me,’ he said smiling.

While he’d been chatting he’d noticed a woman standing at one of the counters talking to a salesman. She had her back to him. A tall brunette wearing a black pencil skirt with a split back that showed off her long sexy legs. Black high heel shoes accentuated her shapely calf muscles. She was studying two ties, trying to make a decision on which one to pick. Blanco turned to Fiero.

‘Who’s the lady?’

The manager lowered his voice.

‘That’s Joel McKenzie’s wife.’

‘Senator Joel McKenzie! That’s his wife?’

And the manager nodded.

‘He’s not as dumb as he looks.’

Blanco stared at her back. She had great legs and a great ass but still...a Senator’s wife could be trouble, he thought, and I don’t need that kind of heat at the moment. Pity.

Just then she turned around and Esteban thought fuck, she’s got great tits too! She saw him looking at her and smiled before turning and heading for the door.

‘Back to business Vincenzo, back to business; show me one or two of the latest fabrics. I heard there’s a great super 180 from Loro Piana and you know I love the ones from Segna and Guabello.’

An hour later he had ordered a dozen lightweight suits for Colombia, each with two pairs of trousers plus a load of shirts and some printed-silk ties. That should hold me he thought. He thanked Vincenzo and left the shop. His car was waiting for him and as he got in, his cell phone rang.

Vinni had found out that the room to Natalia’s right was unoccupied while to her left there was man called Andrew Renfrew. He called his boss, and shortly after Blanco dialled a number from a public call box. The pay-as-you-go cell phone rung and a voice answered.

‘We have to meet. Usual place in one hour.’ He hung up.

Blanco was seated at a back table in Così’s Restaurant, opposite Paramount Plaza on 51st and Broadway, when Richard Bland walked in. He saw Blanco, went right over and sat down.

‘I cannot stay long,’ he said, in a low voice, ‘What’s this about?’

Blanco replied that their operation might be compromised but he needed to be sure. He explained about Natalia’s next-door neighbour, told him that he had had her followed and that they had met in Central Park. It seemed too much of a coincidence so he had had them followed some more and their relationship appeared pure business but his gut still told him something was not right.

‘I need you to make some enquiries and get back to me with some background on this Andrew Renfrew.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘For fifty thousand dollars you’ll need to do better than that. The money’s been transferred to the usual account,’ he said, ‘it’s urgent, so don’t let me down.’

The hard look he’d given him said it all. Bland got up, walked straight out of the restaurant and flagged a taxi; Bland knew Blanco was not someone he should disappoint.

Bland was Blanco’s inside man at the DEA. His information proved startling and made him re-evaluate his opinion of Natalia. Naturally it was possible that this Renfrew had something on her and was using it to get to him. After all, he was aware of Natalia’s profitable sideline. He would wait until after the auction, let her get the icons for him and then have a little chat. As for what to do with Renfrew, that was another matter. People disappeared all the time but not British cops, that wasn’t good for business. No, he would have to keep him busy and at arm’s length, maybe arrange a diversion to put this bloodhound off the scent. In the meantime, he thought, I need to listen in on some private conversations.

The ‘English Garden Bowl’ a beautiful floral arrangement from ‘Flowers On First’ was delivered to Natalia’s room with a card from Blanco saying simply ‘Good luck for tomorrow’ and signed ‘Esteban’. Concealed carefully in the basket was a powerful OzSpy FM room transmitter, with a crystal clear pick up and high stability over 1200 meters.

Natalia left the elevator and walked to her room. As she was about to go in, Andrew’s door opened. He stepped out and looked at her touching his index finger to his mouth and beckoning her to follow him. Natalia said nothing, her brow furrowed, her eyes questioning. She joined him in the corridor and he told her that he had observed the flowers being delivered and had taken the precaution to sweep her room for bugs. He’d found one but left it in place. He said that they needed to meet somewhere they could talk out of earshot of Blanco’s people. He thought they might have been followed in Central Park so he suggested the Empire State Building’s observation deck on the 86th floor where they could get lost amongst the tourists.

Renfrew had also chosen the Empire State Building because all visitors had to go through a security check. Anyone following them there would have to be unarmed.

Andrew saw Natalia arrive and walked over to her. He took her to the side overlooking the Chrysler building where she pretended to admire the view.

‘I cannot trust Blanco not to be onto me and I do not want him to think you are a willing collaborator.’

‘So what do we do?’ she asked; a worried look on her face.

‘The room is bugged so they will be listening to our conversations. Let’s use it to let him know that I’m forcing you to help me get to him and that you, most reluctantly, have to go along; it won’t mean you’re completely out of the woods but it will be safer that way.’

They went through a bit of a script and Andrew told her to just go along with whatever he said and do a bit of playacting for Blanco’s benefit.

When they left, Andrew asked her to give him a head start. Natalia said she would pop into Bergdorf’s before going back to the hotel and they set off in separate taxis.

Vinni hailed a cab and followed Renfrew. He phoned Blanco who told him to record any conversations from the room.

Renfrew saw the same little man who’d brushed past him at the Carlyle get in the cab behind his and smiled. At the hotel, there were no messages for him at Reception so he went up to his room. Natalia arrived in her bedroom an hour later and Vinni heard what sounded like a knock and then a woman’s voice saying:

‘Come in.’

He heard Renfrew enter the room and say: ‘I expected you a lot sooner. Where did you go?’

‘Shopping, at Bergdorf Goodman, okay?’ She said sounding irritated.

They proceeded to have a conversation that would leave no doubt in the eavesdroppers’ minds that Natalia was an unwilling participant in Renfrew’s operation. Vinni phoned Esteban and told him briefly all he had found out. Blanco was satisfied and gratified that his initial instinct about Natalia had not been wrong. He was just going to have to plan something unpleasant for Mr Andrew Renfrew—and fuck the consequences.

Esteban’s car was waiting at the hotel’s entrance and he climbed into the back seat. His driver had instructions to take him to Sotheby’s, where he was due to meet with Natalia to discuss some final details before the auction. Blanco’s car pulled up outside a very crowded Sotheby’s main entrance and he got out.

Natalia went over to greet him. She wore a classic black Chanel wool suit.

They went inside to the preview room where Esteban was able to verify the lot that she would bid for on his behalf. The three icons were: ‘Crucifixion’ by Dionissius (late 15th–early 16th century), ‘In Thee Rejoices All Creation’ (Dionissius School, early 16th century), and ‘St. Florus and St. Laurus’ (Moscow School, 16th century). The bidding for the icons would attract the usual collectors but was not the main event.

They went inside to the preview room where Esteban was able to verify the lot that she would bid for on his behalf. The three lots were ‘Crucifixion’ by Dionissius,(late 15th early 16th century) depicting the crucifixion of Jesus on the cross, witnessed by the host of heaven and the people of the earth. Jesus is the central figure and has been painted in Dionissius’s characteristic elongated style. With His arms wide open, He is shown as the willing sacrifice whose death will atone for the sins of the world. It was a beautiful work of art and Esteban wanted it badly. The other two, though less impressive, would be a wonderful addition to his collection.

‘I want them. You have carte blanche on the purchase price,’ he said.

In addition to the sale items, Blanco had an icon that he wanted to part with and entrusted Natalia with its sale.

Blanco stayed for the auction of ‘Still Life with Jug and Icon’ by Mikhail Larionov (circa 1910), with an estimate of 1–1.5 million dollars and ‘Picnic’ (1920) by Boris Kustodiev, with an auction house sale estimate of $600,000 to $800,000. With many Russian oligarchs seeking to buy great works of art from their own country, the bidding was fierce and there were already twenty telephone bids, with more expected as the auction progressed. When Esteban’s lots came up Natalia secured the three icons for Blanco without having to pay over the odds.

Blanco was delighted and invited her to dinner at Le Bernardin, New York's internationally acclaimed seafood restaurant. Natalia accepted, as it would not do to have Blanco suspect anything was amiss. Andrew Renfrew reassured her he would be close by in case of trouble.

Esteban’s car stopped outside the main entrance on 51st Street just before 7th Avenue. His two bodyguards stepped out of the car and opened the door for Natalia and Blanco. Esteban helped Natalia out of the car and they went inside.

New York is not short of fabulous exotic restaurants but none of them manages to radiate the glamour and class of Manhattan the way this one does. Blanco was in his element, and Natalia was happy to let him take the lead; he suggested the Chef’s Tasting Menu accompanied by a selection of specially chosen fine wines.

Dinner was served and Blanco was the perfect host asking her to tell him of any new acquisitions, ready to ask all the relevant questions and listening attentively to the answers she provided. He suddenly asked her how she was doing with their special project. Natalia was instantly on her guard but dismissed his question politely and said that she was making good progress; that he could expect some news soon.

‘It’s just that a man in my position hears many things...It’s a big bad world out there,’ he said, looking concerned, ‘I just want you to know that I like you and can offer you protection...if you should need it, that is.’

‘Why on earth would I need protection?’ She asked keeping her voice as calm as possible.

‘Well, let’s just say that, if anyone tries to strong-arm you, you know where to reach me.’

Natalia smiled and thanked him. ‘You’ll be the first to know.’

After dinner Blanco invited her back to his suite for a nightcap but she declined.

‘Another time then’ he said, ‘at least let me take you back to your hotel’.

They arrived at The Pierre and Blanco opened the car door for Natalia, he kissed her hand and wished her goodnight.

Blanco went directly to where Vinni was parked and got in the back of the large black van with dark tinted windows where he had set up his listening post.

‘Hi Tony, what’s happening?’ he said, sitting down next to him.

‘Nothing yet, boss,’ Vinni replied, twiddling some knobs to get better reception.

In her room Natalia and Andrew prepared to give another Oscar winning performance.

‘How did it go?’ He asked.

‘Fine, just fine, Blanco was pleased with the icons that he bought,’ she said, ‘I really think you’re barking up the wrong tree here, I just don’t know what you think you have on him, but he does not look like a worried man to me.’

‘Well, we’ll see’ Renfrew said, ‘if he’s clean he’s got nothing to worry about.’

‘And if he’s not?’

‘That’s one problem you will not have to worry about.’

They talked some more just so Blanco would feel sure that Natalia was being coerced by the Yard in their hunt for him.

‘I have some paperwork to do,’ he said, his voice serious, ‘I guess you must be tired too, so if you don’t mind, I think I will just go back to my room.’

They said goodnight and he left, giving Natalia the thumbs up.

Chapter Fifteen

2007

The Mare Nostrum, built in Italy in the Codecessa Shipyard in Viareggio, lay at anchor in Puntarenas, its Costa Rican flag fluttering in the gentle sea breeze. Andrew Renfrew had chartered it for a fortnight and put it and a full Costa Rican crew at Elliott’s disposal. The Captain had been told that he was part of a documentary team that would be filming for a holiday company later that month. Elliott was there to do some advance research.

The payment for the charter had been made from a bank account in the Bahamas that Scotland Yard kept when discreet funding for special ops was required.

Elliott and Tina were taken onboard by the Mare Nostrum’s tender with a crewmember at the helm. Once installed in their cabins the big ship’s anchor was raised and the Captain set a course for Cocos Island where they arrived, two days later.

Elliott needed to do a bit of snooping and had gone ashore earlier. He’d gone inland; just deep enough to protect him from prying eyes and found a high point where the dense forest provided adequate cover. He scanned the deck of the Sea Tigress with his binoculars. There were a lot of divers on board, but on the way to Cocos Island he’d received a message from Renfrew telling him that Tim Martin would be amongst them. He scrutinised the faces of the men on deck and then he saw him, now all he had to do was get on board the Sea Tigress. The problem was he couldn’t just sail up under some lame pretext; it had to look totally innocent. He decided it was time to bring Tina into play. He had been observing the activities of a tall, good-looking, middle-aged man. After three days of hanging around Elliott noticed that, when the cast disappeared to film, he was left to his own devices and often took a small Zodiac to go to a secluded beach and do a bit of exploring on his own. Elliott decided that a chance encounter with the beautiful Tina could be arranged and that it would be the perfect way to gain access to the film unit’s boat without raising suspicion.

Tina had timed things to perfection as Joe arrived at his private beach he found her kneeling down studying some turtles that had come in from the sea and were struggling up the beach to lay their eggs.

‘Hello.’

Tina turned shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand and was surprised and rather pleased to see that the tall man Elliott had said would be there was also very attractive. This she hadn’t expected.

‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he apologised.

‘You didn’t...you’re English,’ she said, more a statement than a question.

‘That obvious is it?’ he said smiling, taking in the astonishingly beautiful young woman that stood before him. He went over to her and stretched his hand to greet her.

‘My name’s Joe Martin; I didn’t expect to meet anyone else here.’

‘Me neither, I’m Tina, that’s my boat over there by the way,’ she said, pointing to the Mare Nostrum.

It was Joe’s turn to explain.

‘I’m a recent arrival. I’m staying with my nephew; he’s working with the film crew on the Sea Tigress.

‘Lucky him,’ she said, ‘we arrived just three days ago. I’ve seen them coming and going but I haven’t met any of them yet. What are you doing here?’

‘That’s a long story,’ he said, ‘initially I came looking for my nephew and, now I’ve found him, I’ve decided to stay on for a bit; see the Island.’

‘Not a bad idea,’ she said, ‘so you’re not involved in the filming?’

‘Not at all,’ he laughed, ‘I’m afraid I don’t have much to contribute to the creative process so I try to keep out of their way.’

‘So, he was lost? Your nephew, I mean,’ she said getting back to what Joe had said.

‘Not quite.’ He was looking at Tina thinking she was beautiful, her gorgeous body perfectly tanned and, to cap it all, she was charming. ‘His mum, you see, she’s a bit prone to panics and hadn’t heard from him in a while so...’

‘You sprang to the rescue?’ She was smiling, amused.

‘You could say that. I must say I’m glad I did, this is like a piece of heaven.’ Things were definitely looking up. He thought it would be great to spend some time and get to know her better and Cocos Island seemed the perfect setting.

‘How exciting’ she said, ‘and you get to see the film crew at work. I’ve always wondered how a film-unit operates. You’re very lucky you know.’ She was thinking, if he’s as intelligent as he’s handsome, he’ll know I’m fishing for an invitation.

Joe wondered if she was travelling alone or maybe with a man, it was a bit forward but still...

‘Are you alone?’ he said, ‘not being nosy, it’s just that I didn’t notice anyone else...’

‘No, you wouldn’t, I mean, I’m here with a friend who’s doing some research on Cocos,’ she stressed the word friend, ‘and he’s always pottering around in the Island—it’s one of the most protected places on earth, so he tells me. Looks like we’re in the same boat.’

‘I might be able to wangle an introduction...If you’d like to get a closer look at the making of a shark documentary, that is?’

Tina gave Joe her best smile, thankful her ruse had worked.

‘That would be marvellous...I could do with a bit of excitement and my friend would be very interested too; are you sure? We wouldn’t want to impose.’

Joe had hoped that she’d leave her friend behind but this was better than nothing; so he assured her that there was nothing to fear, joking that the sharks were all in the sea.

‘Well, if you’re sure we’ll be safe,’ she said with a cheeky grin, ‘how can a girl refuse?’

Elliott awoke to a cloudless sky. The Pacific Ocean shimmered with light reflecting off the crests of gently breaking waves, sparkling like jewels on a sea of the deepest blue. During the night Cocos Island had been bathed in one of its customary tropical showers and now in the heat of the sun, a hazy steam cloud rose slowly upwards from the trees and melted gently into the atmosphere. The island looked mystical, remote and ready to give up its secrets.

The crew of the Mare Nostrum helped Elliot into the Zodiac. He had a hand-held GPS receiver with him, programmed with the location from Wilhelm’s coordinates, and headed in the direction of the ‘Lone Stone’ site.

Standing on deck, Tina watched him go. The morning sun was up and its heat bore down on him, relieved only by a gentle breeze. The sea was transparent and the sun’s rays penetrated, lighting up schools of colourful fish that swam together slowly before turning sharply as one. Elliott steered the Zodiac in a true course to what he hoped would be the pot of gold at the end of his personal rainbow.

He arrived at the appropriate position and found himself wishing he could postpone the moment, and at the same time hurrying to put on his wetsuit.

Elliott would be using a CCUBA or closed circuit underwater breathing apparatus, as opposed to the Aqua-Lung type equipment he was more used to. It was quieter and the lack of bubbles would make him blend more easily with his environment—and more difficult to detect if there were any other divers close by. ‘Well this is it,’ he thought, and dropped the anchor; it went down with a splash. His aim was to establish if there was anything to be seen in the clear waters where the map said the treasure lay waiting.

Elliott was an experienced diver and had logged many hours during his time in South America; in some ways this dive was no different to many he had done before, except for the fact that he would be diving alone, something that is never advisable.

He sat on the edge of the Zodiac, flipped backwards into the sea and disappeared beneath the waves. Instantly he found himself in a beautiful and quiet environment; he checked the GPS and started swimming.

He was alert. On the edge of deep waters you can expect to find big predators, the top guys of the sea; white tip reef sharks, whale sharks, huge yellow fin tuna, enormous marlin and sailfish, giant mantas, hammerheads and everything in between. He kept an eye out for ‘cleaner fish’ swimming together, knowing that when they’re around it’s a sure bet that something big will appear.

He was well into his dive, swimming smoothly and effortlessly keeping an eye out for danger. Lone Stone’s profile indicated 98 feet maximum depth with a total bottom time of 67 minutes. Swimming with just his weight belt on he noticed a vertical crack in the reef, about 25–30 feet high and perhaps five feet wide. With shimmering sunlight streaming down from fissures in the top he could see that it was packed with fish hiding from the current. There were silver snapper, yellow grunt, red cardinal fish, and a couple of big trumpet fish in one vertical school, all swaying gently together in the surge.

Elliott’s calculations told him he’d arrived at the correct location but still he saw nothing. He’d been down for around twenty-five minutes searching around the area when he saw the coffer. It was white and there were what appeared to be serial numbers along one of its sides. It looked to be around four by two on plan and two metres deep; the size of a small room and in perfect condition. Whatever paint the Germans had used it had not deteriorated noticeably in the intervening years. There was a Swastika just below the serial number and, as he swam around it, he saw that the pattern repeated on the other sides of the box. It was hermetically sealed so whatever was inside it should be in as good a condition as the day it went in. Dieter’s brother had plotted those coordinates and they were spot on.

On the surface a zodiac was heading to where Elliott’s boat was anchored.

Elliott had been down thirty minutes and was swimming ninety feet below the surface when he saw it, the unmistakable shape of a large Hammerhead shark swimming not twenty feet away on a parallel track to him. Sharks are unpredictable and can sense distress in the water.

The hammerhead ranks seventh among the sharks most dangerous to humans; Elliott was taking no chances, and he knew he’d be no match for this perfect killing machine. Find a hiding place and lie low for a bit, he thought. Give the shark nothing to keep him there and perhaps he’ll go away. He felt a sudden bump on his back as if something large had nudged him. Fear swept through his body with a rush of adrenaline so big he thought he’d explode. He spun around quickly expecting to find that another shark had brushed past him but what he saw was totally unexpected and much more frightening. A headless body floating with its arms outstretched dangling in front of him; his hands seemed to be calling. Something familiar made him take a closer look. The fingers had something written on them. He looked closer and saw the word ‘Noko’, and then it hit him. He was staring at Billy Briggs. But how the hell did he get there and what happened to him? In the rush of the moment Elliott had not noticed that half of his body was missing. He recoiled at the sight. Some powerful jaws had torn him in half at the waist. He’d lost all his blood and just a thin trickle oozed out of the trunk staining the sea around him. Elliott’s first thought was to get away as fast as possible. Sharks can detect the smallest amount of blood and though he could only see one hammerhead now, Billy’s body was the perfect bait and the sea around him could soon be full of sharks in a feeding frenzy. He kicked with his flippers as hard as he could, driven by fear and the instinct to survive. He had to put as much distance between himself and Billy. Soon he witnessed what he had predicted would happen as first one then more sharks arrived to feast on Brigg’s nephew, or what was left of him. The water clouded over and Elliott swam harder getting away from the ghastly spectacle.

Twenty or so feet from the bottom he saw a huge jagged rock that looked like a giant shark’s tooth buried in the sand. Laying just the other side of it half hidden, covered in seaweed and crawling with crabs and crayfish were the remains of a brigantine. Its broken masts lay at odd angles across what was left of its deck. Schools of blue and gold snapper and Mexican goatfish swam in and out of gun ports that looked like empty eye sockets surveying the remains of what had once been a proud fighting ship, its forty-pound guns silent for two centuries or more.

Elliott approached the ship and swam over its deck; the gentle swell pushed the masts this and that way with a scraping sound akin to a deathly lullaby. He was struck by the idea that this could be Thompson’s ship.

Time and the sea had claimed much of her and laid bare her structure that, half buried in the sand, looked like the ghostly white ribs of an animal.

He swam towards the prow where he found the ship’s carved figurehead. It was that of a woman, her long hair flowing and her ample bust pointing forward. It lay resting on the ocean floor, partly rotted and disfigured by the abundant sea creatures that had colonized her. He looked for anything that would identify the ship, but there was nothing.

He swam around to the opposite side and was rewarded with a partially decayed name but what remained was enough to confirm that this was probably the final resting place of The Mary Dear. It was worth investigating further.

The thrill of the find had pushed Billy’s death and the hammerheads from Elliott’s mind. If there were treasure to be found it would be in the Captain’s safe; he swam aft to where he knew the Captain’s cabin would be. This part of the ship had fared better. It was eerie to imagine that Thompson would have spent many hours pacing around this cabin and he looked around, half expecting to come face to face with the buccaneer, cutlass in hand, coming to cut his throat. Instead, he saw many boxes, coffers of varying size, some with rusting padlocks still attached. Others had rotted through, littering the floor with gold coins that shone in the beam of Elliott’s torch as if they had been freshly minted. Part of the floor had given way to a heavy item. Elliot forced himself to leave the Aladdin’s cave that he had found and swam down to see what else he might discover. He turned to find, standing at an angle and partially obscured by debris from the wreck, Our Lady of Lima staring right at him. Her gold body looking as new as the day it was taken away from its rightful place and stowed in Thompson’s cabin. Elliott could not believe his luck.

He had hit the jackpot. Finding one treasure was prize enough but this...this was too much to hope for. He had to get back to the surface and hoped that the hammerheads were still busy with Billy.

Elliot checked how much bottom time he had left. He was at a depth of ninety feet. He’d started feeling a bit euphoric and then he started to worry. Was it the excitement of finding the treasures that was making him giddy or a partial failure of the ‘scrubber’ on the rebreather? If it was he would not get much warning. Partial failure usually led to ‘break through’—if the partial pressure of oxygen got too low he wouldn’t have to worry about sharks getting him because he’d die of anoxia; if it got too high he’d get oxygen toxicity and he’d be just as dead.

He decided to stop worrying about his equipment and began a slow ascent towards the waiting Zodiac. Elliott looked up and saw the shape of the boat’s bottom surrounded by an aquamarine halo of sea and light streaming in long shafts that lit up a myriad of colourful schools of fish blissfully unaware of any impending danger.

Elliott emerged beside the empty boat and hauled himself aboard. It was only when he was onboard that he saw Billy’s inflatable anchored beside him and started shaking. He was cold, terrified and relieved to be out of the sea; and he felt lonely sitting there wondering how on earth Billy had managed to follow him and how he’d met his death.

Elliott needed to pull himself together. He did not feel safe yet. He weighed anchor, started the small outboard motor and set a course for home. As he was leaving he looked back at the place where Billy had met his end and shivered again at that thought and the knowledge that soon he would have to return and dive in that very same spot. For now he was glad to be out of the water and heading back to the safety of the Mare Nostrum.

Elliott was elated with his discovery. The fact was that he had been expecting to find the treasure of the Gold Train and had convinced himself that it would be there but that did not mean that in the back of his mind he had not feared that his search might come to nothing. Seeing it there with his eyes made all the time spent searching for it worthwhile.

Later that evening Tina and Elliott met in his cabin and she told him she was sure they could expect an invitation to go onboard the Sea Tigress in the very near future. Elliott hoped she was right as, all things considered, everything appeared to be going to plan...more or less, but the sight of Billy’s corpse had shaken him. He was glad that Tina did not have to know about it.

At nine the following morning Joe delivered the invitation personally and suggested they aim to get there at midday for a pre-lunch drink.

Elliott and Tina were welcomed onboard by Trevor Hewitt who suggested that they might enjoy a look around the boat before having a drink and a bite of lunch on deck.

‘Would you care to give me the grand tour?’ Tina said, taking hold of Joe’s arm.

‘It will be my pleasure,’ he bowed in mock deference and led her aft and away from where Elliott stood with his nephew Tim. As soon as they were alone Elliot said.

‘What’s your uncle doing here? Renfrew didn’t mention him to me.’

‘Just a small complication that I wasn’t expecting either but don’t worry, it will not interfere with what we have to do.’

‘I’ve got a bit of news for you too. I went down to the dive site. It’s all there...and more.’

‘More?’

‘Yes. Something I’ve been searching for...hoping for, but didn’t expect to find there and certainly not then. It was quite a bonus really.’ He told Tim everything, everything except Billy’s ghastly death. That was not something anyone needed to know.

Timothy Martin was recruited by MI6 while still at university. He had been trained in various aspects of covert ops and had even had a stint in bomb disposal while on a tour of Iraq. A veteran of many operations, his job was something that he’d kept well hidden from his mother and father. He felt bad about not confiding in his father, and when he died it was too late. He had the same guilty feelings about not confiding in his uncle Joe too, who after all was a military man, but the Official Secrets Act made no allowances for family.

‘So, you say you’ve located the items to be retrieved. How deep are they?’

‘I have. They’re at a depth of around 90 feet but with the gear I have on board and your help it should not be too difficult.’

‘Good. I’m just helping out here part time so I’m available whenever you like. When are you thinking of going?’

‘Soon as possible I guess. There aren’t any thunderstorms predicted over the next three days. I checked with the captain.’

‘We could try tomorrow, if you’re up to it?’

‘Sure,’ said Elliott. ‘By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How come you hooked up with these guys?’

‘Bit of luck actually; I went to Victor, the guy who brought you, with the idea of getting him to bring me here but he had a party of divers to look after. I got talking to the film crew and managed to get them to take me on; otherwise it would have been a bit tricky and could have delayed me.’

‘That was lucky then,’ Elliott said, ‘I think I’ll get Tina to keep your uncle occupied; that should do the trick. I’m sure he won’t mind.’

‘I think I can guarantee that,’ Tim said grinning, ‘well, tomorrow it is. I’ll go over to you and we can set off soon as you like.’

Chapter Sixteen

YASENEVO. Mention that name to most Russians and you’ll probably get a blank stare. Mention it to anyone in the KGB and you’ll get a very different reaction.

SMERSH, meaning ‘Death to Spies,’ or Smert Shpionam—a phrase said to have been coined by Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin himself—was made up of five sections. The first worked inside the Red Army, ferreting out dissident soldiers and summarily executing them. The second collected information, and during wartime, was responsible for dropping agents behind enemy lines. The third section was responsible for collating and disseminating information and issuing orders. The fourth investigated suspects and had the authority to make arrests. The fifth section was made up of three-man tribunals of high-ranking soviet officers who heard cases and passed judgment. All sentences by the tribunals were final and, if execution was ordered, carried out immediately.

As far back as the Bolshevik revolution of 1917, this feared organisation was responsible for finding, blackmailing, kidnapping, or killing anyone who opposed the Communist regime, especially defecting Russians or Russians opposing the regime who lived abroad. Non-Russians too, who proved to be particularly antagonistic to the Soviets, were also selected for action by SMERSH.

The old Soviet Union might be gone and the directorate names changed over and over, but espionage and counter-intelligence efforts—and attitudes—continued. The head of Foreign Operations was Yuri CheyNokov.

Seated in his office, he was in the process of writing his monthly report for President Putin that included an update on recent terrorist atrocities against the United States. His phone rung and he answered it. The voice on the phone told him news that confirmed what he had been expecting. He was prepared. He hung up and dialled a number.

‘Dobroye utro. May I speak with Mr Yakov?’ he said.

‘I am sorry but there is no one here by that name.’

‘My apologies, I must have the wrong number.’ CheyNokov hung up.

Alexéi Alexéievich had answered the call. He’d recognized the voice and the codeword ‘Yakov’. It meant a drop had been arranged at a specific location, one of many around the Moscow city centre. Alexéi put on a heavy overcoat, fur hat and gloves and left his small apartment in Chapaevsky Lane in the Leningradsky Prospekt area, and after a short walk arrived at the Metro station Belorusskaya. He bought a ticket to Park Kultury a station near Maxim Gorky Park.

He boarded the metro and finding the compartment full, stood by the door until they got to Kievskaya where many people got off and he was able to get a seat. Soon he was at Park Kultury heading northwest over the river Moskva to Gorky Park. As soon as he entered the park he mingled with families and young children. He found the usual bench, sat down and waited until he was alone before reaching underneath the seat, locating the envelope that had been taped there and extracted it in one quick fluid movement. He stashed it inside one of the large pockets of his overcoat and retraced his steps back to his apartment.

Alexéi Alexéievich was born in Kiev in 1960 and joined the Russian army in 1979. He was a dedicated party member whose ruthless, almost zealous approach to army life and love of unarmed combat, at which he was extremely adept, had set him apart from the rest of his comrades. He was of medium height and build, his blond hair cropped short, army style; and was extremely fit. If he had a distinguishing feature it was that he was un-remarkable, blessed with a forgettable face. Only his slate-grey cold eyes said this was a man one would not wish to meet.

Alexéi came from peasant stock and had been brought up in a Christian home. He was devoutly religious and it had once been thought that he would join a monastery. His ruthless nature, so at odds with his Christian beliefs, did not bother him; it was as if he were two people.

He was promoted and approached to join the KGB in 1985, where he found his true vocation. Yuri CheyNokov knew all about Alexéi, and that included his religious inclinations. He had a personal nickname for him, though he never used it to his face: He used to call him The Monk because he thought his devious character was not unlike that of Rasputin. When he decided that the time was right for him to start in covert operations, Yuri CheyNokov chose Grigori as Alexéi’s codename, Rasputin’s Christian name. There followed years of dedicated service and he became an invaluable asset. He had never been photographed and no one in the west had ever seen him—that is, those who had, were not around to tell the tale—but a Russian transmission intercepted by GCHQ had rendered his code name, Grigori. And to many an agent in the west, he became a bogyman to be respected and feared.

Following the resignation of Colin Jackson as the Director of Central Intelligence, President Bush’s administration immediately pointed to Republican Nathan King, as its handpicked nominee. According to the White House, the rush to name a replacement was driven by worries of a possible terrorist attack on America in the wake of Jackson's untimely departure.

When Dwayne Young received a call requesting him to attend a special meeting with the DCI, he was surprised. He did not get this type of request often. Whatever the Director wanted to say was usually left to the monthly meeting or secure telephone conversations and internal files that arrived from Langley. This had to be important. He got his secretary to book him on a late night flight to Washington and got on with the rest of his day. At seven in the evening he left his temporary office accommodation, his headquarters in 7 World Trade Center having been destroyed during the 9/11 attacks, and went home to pack an overnight bag. As he walked in the house he bumped into his wife Jenny coming out of the living room.

‘Hello hun, you’re early. Is everything okay?’ She went over and kissed him.

‘Yeah, fine; gotta go to D.C. tonight, I’m afraid. Sorry about the short notice.’

‘What, right now? Will you be gone long?’

‘No, it’s just an overnight thing, I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Want me to fix you something? Do you have time?’

‘About an hour before I have to leave, and yes please honey; one of your club sandwiches would be great.’

Dwayne drove himself to LaGuardia and left his car in the overnight car park. After the short flight he landed at BWI where an agency car and driver was waiting for him. After loading his overnight case in the trunk they left the terminal and headed east on Elm Road toward Governor Harry R Hughes Drive. Dwayne was tired, and was wondering what the DCI would want to see him about that required a special trip. The driver was making good progress and had taken the exit onto I-495 heading towards Silver Spring. Dwayne must have dozed off because, when he opened his eyes, the driver was pulling up to the entrance of the Marriott Hotel on Old Chain Bridge Road, his usual hotel when visiting Langley. The driver left saying he would return to collect him at 9am the following morning. Dwayne thanked him and went to check-in. Tomorrow he would find out what all this was about; he had to admit that he was intrigued and not a little apprehensive. He unpacked and went to bed soon after. He wanted to be well rested for whatever lay in store.

The following morning Dwayne was up early, and after a quick breakfast he was ready for the driver. Drawing up outside CIA headquarters, as he had done on numerous occasions in the past, Dwayne was reminded of the first time he’d visited the building. He’d been told it had been the dream child of former DCI Allen Dulles back in the 50’s who had visions of a college campus-style environment where intelligence officers could meet and work. It was an enormous and imposing building surrounded by large parking lots and landscaped areas where employees could relax when not on duty. It was impossible not to be impressed by this man-made monolith and the memory had stayed with him to this day. Dwayne arrived at the private office of the DCI to be greeted by his personal secretary.

‘Good morning, Mr Young, did you have a good flight?’

‘Just fine Mary, thank you. Got in late last night,’ and then he nodded at his bosses closed door.

‘He told me to tell you to go right in when you arrived, he’s been expecting you.’ He walked up to the closed door, knocked twice and heard a faint voice say to come in. 

Nathan King’s office in the CIA’s HQ eight miles outside the District was a home from home. When Dwayne Young entered he found the new Director of Central Intelligence studying a file marked Classified.

‘Good morning Dwayne, I was about to have some coffee, will you join me?’

‘Yes sir, I’d like that very much thank you.’

The Director spoke into his intercom.

‘Mary, two coffees when you have a moment, please.’

The DCI looked up from the file. ‘Dwayne’ he said, closing the file and pushing it away from him. ‘I have just finished a very difficult conversation with the President.’ He paused letting the information sink in. ‘He wants to know what we’re doing about the classified information that’s been haemorrhaging from here, only he put it in somewhat stronger language.’

Dwayne registered the stressed look on his boss’s face.

‘Yes Sir, I know, we’re doing everything we can to get to the bottom of it.’

Young was Section Chief in charge of Operation Shooting Star and had been under intense pressure for over three months to find and neutralize whoever was responsible.

‘I don’t need to tell you how urgent this is Dwayne, I need action immediately, the President isn’t going to forget this. He’ll just pile on the pressure, remember he’s up for re-election, he’s made the SDI project his baby and this failure on our part, as he put it, to stop the leak will be used by his enemies to crucify him. It’s costing lives; damn it; our people’s lives, and I need it to stop right now!’

Dwayne was aware there was a mole in their midst but didn’t know who it was; nobody did for that matter. What he did know was that valuable information known only to a handful of people in the department was finding its way to Moscow.

‘It’s the strangest thing sir, we’ve tapped all the usual sources and we have come up empty.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in Mary, just set them down on the coffee table and we’ll help ourselves. Thank you.’

His secretary put down the tray and left, closing the door behind her. Dwayne poured his boss his usual strong cup of black coffee and handed it to him before helping himself. Nathan King took a sip of his coffee before continuing.

‘Dwayne, there’s something else...something to complicate matters, if that’s possible. William Wild.’

‘Yes Sir, I know about him of course. He’s come out of nowhere to run for president. Calls his party The American Unification Party. He’s got the gun lobby on side, is offering more money to the pensioners, more policing, more education more everything. Surely no one’s taking him seriously, he’s a regular Santa Claus and not a word about how he’s going to fund it all.’

‘You left out bring our boys back from Iraq, but yes, as you say, it’s Christmas come early. I’m hearing bad rumours though. It’s all to do with who’s funding his campaign. There’s no proof but we think its drugs money. This guy’s a liberal in the loosest sense of the word. He’s talked about lowering the classification of marijuana and other softer drugs. Hell, he even has all the kids in the campuses hailing him as the new messiah. He’s in his early forties, dresses younger and, for my money: he’s a dark horse.’

‘Well yes, it’s the American dream, “all men created equal” and all that, I’ve heard the rumours and so far that’s all they are, but still...’

Nathan King was silent for a moment marshalling his thoughts and when he spoke to Dwayne he looked like a troubled man.

‘I’m not saying he’s got a chance but can you imagine if the mob had their guy in The White House? There’s very little they would not do to achieve that and we sure as hell know they have the money.’

‘Right sir, I’ll get on it.’

‘Yes, but discreetly. If something is brewing let’s not spook them before we get to know who’s behind it. Concentrate on getting the mole for now.’

‘It might get a bit ugly, but I have an idea that I think might just work.’

‘Dwayne, do what you have to, but do it fucking soon.’

The meeting finished an hour later and a worried Dwayne left Langley to catch a flight back to New York.

The nature of the information that was being leaked was such that it was only known, could only be known, to very few people; trouble was they could be in any of the agencies that took part in the monthly situation meetings. Dwayne knew this but had refused to consider it. All of those people were his colleagues, some were his friends damn it, and the idea that lurking amongst them could be a traitor was not something he had been prepared to accept.

Not, that is, until now.

The next routine meeting was not for another month and he needed immediate action. He could not use his own department’s resources for fear of alerting the mole, so he’d decided to do some snooping and called his oldest friend to invite him to dinner that same evening.

Jenny Young was not surprised when her husband said that he’d invited Milton and his wife Kathy to dinner. Dwayne had met Milton when he joined the FBI before the opportunity to join the CIA had cropped up. It had been a good career move and he had taken it but he and his wife had remained friends with the O’Brians. When they arrived for dinner at eight, Kathy followed Jenny into the kitchen and Dwayne took Milton to the den for a drink. They were both bourbon drinkers and Dwayne pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses out of the bar cabinet, some ice from the small fridge, poured a generous measure into each glass, and handed one to his friend.

Milton was tall and thin. He was two years older than Dwayne and looked so much like Joe Friday, the character so ably portrayed by Jack Webb in the fifties hit series Dragnet, that his friends in the department would constantly rib him with the phrase that the detective made famous: ‘All we want are the facts Ma’am’, but all similarity ended with his outward appearance. Unlike his television counterpart, Milton was not at all dry and had a great sense of humour, something that made him a favourite with the men and women he worked with.

‘What’s up buddy?’ Milton said taking his drink.

‘That obvious, uh?’

‘You could say that, I haven’t seen you like this since we worked that case in Brooklyn in ninety-five. You want to tell me about it?’

Dwayne played with his glass then set it down on the table.

‘Mil, I’ve got a serious problem. It’s a department thing, and I need someone on the outside that I can trust—and you, my friend, have drawn the short straw.’

‘Now you’ve got my attention’ Milton said looking up ‘what’s cooking that you can’t handle internally?’

Dwayne told him and said that it would be a surveillance job on no more than five or six people at the most.

‘I really hate having to ask you to do this for me but I just can’t think of an alternative. I need you to do the job yourself; keep it from everyone at the Bureau, I just don’t want any tip-off that could spoil my chances of getting to the bottom of this.’

Just then Kathy walked in followed by Jenny.

‘You two look like you’ve been caught with your hands in the cookie jar’ she laughed.

‘No peace for the wicked,’ Dwayne joked, looking at Milton for support. ‘Okay, guess you girls are feeling lonely, right? Can’t be away from your fellows too long before withdrawal symptoms set in,’ he teased.

‘You wish! You’re not expecting us to get our own drinks are you?’ She said in mock disbelief, ‘next thing you’ll be expecting dinner!’

‘I’ll get the drinks’ said Dwayne ‘you get the dinner.’

Milton had joined in the fun but his mind was already troubled by what his friend had said. Still it could wait till tomorrow and he determined to enjoy the dinner that Jenny had prepared.

Chapter Seventeen

Milton O’Brian phoned Dwayne and arranged to meet him for a drink at Rudy’s Bar and Grill on 9th Avenue. Milton liked this place, a throwback from the 1930s that served cheap beer. They had agreed to meet at 8pm in the backyard garden, if a concrete box can be called a garden. Dwayne was into his second beer listening to the jukebox cranking out old jazz and classic rock when Milton arrived and pulled up the chair opposite.

‘One of the names on your list is Edward Garrett.’

‘Sure. I’m having to look at everyone...please don’t say he’s...’

‘No, but what do you know of his assistant, Richard Bland?’

‘I’ve met him a few times; so?’

‘I’ve been doing a bit of snooping and checking on the list you gave me...’

Dwayne was thinking that recruiting Mil had been a very good idea and waited for him to go on.

‘You didn’t mention it in your brief, but just to be thorough, I decided to add their immediate staff too. Well, I followed Bland and got lucky. He went into Cosi’s diner and I caught him having a heart-to-heart with a man in the back of the restaurant. When he left I followed the other guy and got a picture of him, ran it through our system and came up with a name that you might know—Esteban Blanco.’

Of course Dwayne had heard of Blanco, his name was top of the hit parade at the monthly meetings.

‘Now that’s interesting, he’s a guy the DEA have been after for years. He’s part of that big cartel headed by Diego Montoya who was recently arrested by the Colombians; thing is, Blanco’s slippery as an eel. Could you hear what they were saying?’

‘Nope, and he wasn’t there very long. They exchanged a few words and he left. Anyway I thought it would be a good idea to find out where they could have met. Turns out Ed Garrett and Bland had been working on a joint operation with Scotland Yard and Interpol making good progress on busting the Colombian drugs trade.’

Dwayne raised an eyebrow and Milton read his mind.

‘I called in a few favours, okay,’ Milton went on. ‘Well, as I was saying, Ed got a tip-off from the Yard and that’s when things got started.’

‘What things got started?’

‘Well it so happened that the DEA’s office in New York had asked the CIA if they had anything on Blanco, and it transpired that the Agency had been keeping an eye on him because of a recent trip he’d made to Moscow to meet some Russian mafia involved in drugs and prostitution so, when in 2006 Blanco came to New York on one of his usual trips, the CIA went to interview him and Garrett asked Bland to tag along and this is where it gets interesting.’

Milton told Dwayne about how Blanco received them in his suite. It was routine, they’d told him, and he had been able to satisfy them by answering all their questions in an assured manner and backing his answers with cast iron alibis.

‘Now I’m guessing but here’s what I figure happened. Bland’s not a rich guy but I’ve since found out he likes fine things; things he can’t afford. Blanco was staying at his usual hotel, the Carlyle...you been there? No...? Well it’s really something, you know, swanky...it would not escape Blanco if Bland was impressed with his lavish surroundings and I bet he figured he’d be mighty useful if he could put him on the payroll. They probably gave him their cards; it’s normal procedure in case he remembered something and felt he could not live without getting it off his chest, know what I mean? It’s only my guess, but I’d bet a year’s pay that he called Bland, had a meeting and recruited him. Well, what do you think?’

Dwayne was taking all this in and wondering where it might be leading and how, or if, it might fit in with the new Presidential candidate when Milton said:

‘Anyway, I decided to stick with Bland and, just yesterday I followed him when he took a walk in Central Park. He met a guy I didn’t recognize but who looked strangely familiar; I could not swear to it but I would not mind betting if was Blanco in some sort of disguise. They spoke for a minute and Bland handed him an envelope. The following day I staked out the Carlyle and at around eleven Blanco came out. I tailed him; his driver took him to Sotheby’s.’

Dwayne thought this over. ‘Okay... so he goes to Sotheby’s. So what? He’s got business there; he buys, he sells… still, I don’t know...stick with it, Mil; let’s see where this leads.’

Esteban Blanco met with Bland and it was clear to him that his new employee was eager to cooperate and show he was worth what he was paying him. Bland had been right on the money on the information about Renfrew; now Blanco wondered what the hell else he had come up with that was making him so excited; he just wasn’t expecting him to come up with something this fantastical.

‘Esteban’ he began ‘I think I know of a way to make you a lot of money’ he paused to see how this was going down but Esteban looked short on patience so he went on ‘I have a nephew who’s a scientist working with Tim Mitchell on the SDI programme, you know...?’

‘Hold on’ Esteban cut in ‘who’s this Mitchell guy and what’s this SDI bullshit?’

Bland looked almost affronted ‘Tim Mitchell? He’s one of the top five scientists in his field in the world today. He was the former NASA chief engineer and the Bush administration’s choice that replaced acting director Fred Gregory. He’s in charge of the Strategic Defence Initiative Organization today.’

Blanco appeared none the wiser so Bland explained some recent history to him. All about how back in ‘83 President Ronald Reagan had proposed SDI, or the so-called ‘Star Wars’. The system focused on strategic defence rather than the prior strategic offence doctrine of mutual assured destruction that went by the aptly named acronym MAD.

Blanco nodded to go on, he’d not known any of this before but listening a bit more wouldn’t hurt.

‘I know you have contacts in the Russian mafia,’ Bland went on ‘and they have their contacts in the KGB.’

Bland pointed out how they could use American and Russian paranoia to make some serious money. He pointed out that since the fall of the Soviet Union the Kremlin had remained as focused as ever on their old enemy the U.S.A., and on building their own Star Wars defence system—and this required first class intelligence. Bland told Blanco that the Americans and the Russians each wanted as much information as possible on each other’s version of SDI and the Soviets were prepared to pay big bucks for it.

‘I figure I can get the inside track on how far they’ve got on the SDI research and do a deal with your friends in Moscow.’

‘Just how do you propose to get your nephew, what’s his name, to cooperate? I mean he’s hardly going to hand over top-secret information just because you’re his uncle.’

‘Hell no, I know Ian. He’s got a trophy wife with expensive tastes; she’s a bit of a bimbo. He’s bellyached about it to me in the past often enough, he’s always saying, “who the hell does she think I am? Donald-fucking-Trump?”.’

Blanco thought it over. What the fuck have I done? Employed a nutcase that’s what, but he said: ‘Okay, talk to your nephew, see if he’ll bite.’

Bland decided it was time to put his proposition to his nephew but he had to do it somewhere away from Ian’s home. There was no point letting Ian’s wife, Laura, know what he was up to. He called Ian at his home. Laura answered the phone.

‘Hi Laura, it’s Richard, how are you?’

Laura took a second to place the voice. She had not seen or heard from her husband’s uncle since the last Thanksgiving when Richard had put in an unexpected appearance.

‘Hi Richard,’ she said, ‘it’s been a long time...’

‘Yeah I know. I’m bad at keeping in touch but I thought I’d take that husband of yours out for a change. Got some tickets to a Yankees game and I know he’d like to go if he’s free. Is he in?’

‘For a Yankees game he’d cancel his funeral’ she laughed. ‘Hold on, I’ll get him.’

Bland heard Laura calling her husband and, soon after, Ian was on the line.

‘Uncle Richard, this is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Didn’t Laura tell you?’

‘No, she said she’d leave you to tell me. Said something about not wanting to ruin the surprise. What surprise?’

‘Well, it’s just that I have two tickets for the Yankees-Red Sox game and...’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No. It’s next Saturday if you’re not too busy?’

‘No, I’m not busy, and yes I’d love to go. Thank you. Where do we meet?’

‘Come to my place and leave your car. I’ll drive us to the Bronx, we’ll grab a quick bite to eat before the game and have dinner afterwards. How’s that sound?’

‘Like Christmas come early. Thanks Uncle Richard, I owe you.’ They chatted a few more minutes and then said good bye.

The game was scheduled to start at 7.05 and Ian arrived at his uncle’s apartment on Riverside Drive, in plenty of time. It was only five minutes to the stadium by car on a good day. Ian walked into the apartment block and spoke to the man in reception who called up to Bland’s apartment and announced him.

‘It’s on the fifteenth floor, apartment 151. The elevators are just there,’ he said pointing to a bank of six elevators off the main lobby.

‘Hi Ian, come in,’ Bland said when he answered the knock on his door.

Ian walked into the smart apartment. He admired his uncle. He knew a little of what he did, but in reality, that was exactly what Bland wanted him to know.

‘Drink?’ Bland said.

‘Bourbon please.’

‘Jack Daniels okay?’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

Bland got busy with the drinks and Ian went over to the massive plate-glass window to admire the panoramic view over the Hudson.

‘Great place you have here, Uncle Richard. Laura would kill for a place like this.’

‘Yeah well, you have a great place too.’

‘Try telling that to Laura.’

Bland was already familiar with tales of Laura but he was not going to spring the news he had for him just yet.

After the game, which was a resounding win for the Yankees, they left Richard’s box and went to have dinner in Bland’s favourite restaurant whenever he went to see a game and didn’t fancy hot dogs or nachos in the Yankee Stadium concession stands.

Bland was driving and heading south.

‘Where are we eating?’ Ian said.

‘You like chicken?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Charles’ Southern Style Kitchen. It’s a great place and it’s near here, which is good, because I’m starving,’ Bland said turning right at towards the 145th Street Bridge.

After a few more twists and turns they arrived at 2841 Frederick Douglass Boulevard. The place was crowded and the smell of food was delicious. They found a table and after a quick look at the menu they ordered their food.

When it arrived, the chicken was moist and tasty; they accompanied it with French fries and a side dish of salad that they shared. They were drinking beer.

‘Good Ian?’

‘Delicious, this is a great place,’ he said, tucking into a piece of chicken.

‘Well it’s not fancy but the chicken is the best I’ve found in New York.’

The evening had gone the way Bland had expected and now he decided he could broach the subject he’d been dying to talk about.

‘So Ian, how’s life?’

Ian knew what his uncle was asking. The last time he’d seen him had been at Thanksgiving. Ian had had a blazing row with his wife before leaving home to go to their parent’s house, and by the time they got there, their mood had not improved. Bland had taken his nephew aside and Ian had told him all his troubles at home.

‘Life is pretty much the same as when we last spoke. Laura...well, you know Laura.’

Bland could see that a cloud had descended over Ian. One moment he’d been a happy guy out for a relaxing evening and now he’d been reminded about the reality of his life. So Bland pressed him.

‘I know Laura. What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, Uncle Richard, I think I just can’t afford her and she’s so unreasonable. I mean, she knows what I earn and I’m punching well over my limit.’

‘How much trouble are you in, Ian?’

Ian paused for a second, looking at his plate. He wondered why his uncle was asking these questions but he knew that, if anyone could help him, his uncle was that man.

‘A lot. Credit cards are maxed to the limit and I’m borrowed out. Tell you the truth I’m not sure what I’m going to do.’

Bland paused for a moment. This had to be said just right.

‘You tried talking to your boss? Maybe get a raise?’

‘No. There have been a few cuts in the department and to tell you the truth I’m lucky to still have a job. The market’s pretty bad right now, if I lost my job that would be it.’ Ian seemed to shudder at the prospect.

‘There’s a way you could make enough money to clear all your debts and have enough to keep Laura happy for the rest of your life.’

Ian could not believe what he’d just heard and was wondering what his uncle could mean.

‘That would be a miracle. What do you mean?’

‘Let’s get out of here. We’ll have coffee in my place and then I’ll tell you.’

All the way back to Bland’s place Ian had tried to get his uncle to tell him what he meant but all he’d say was he’d tell him when they got home. Ian was beginning to believe that salvation might be around the corner and that was exactly what his uncle wanted him to think.

They were in Bland’s apartment and he had poured a brandy each before settling into his armchair. Ian was looking at the glass in his hand and wondering what was coming.

‘How far would you go to get out of the shit, Ian?’

The question took him by surprise. It sounded as if something extraordinary would be required but there was a hint that it might also not be entirely on the level.

‘How far? Pretty far. The fact is I love Laura despite her demands and the fights. It’s only the money. If I had enough we’d be happy; so I guess I would be prepared to go pretty far. What do you mean though? You’re not suggesting I rob a bank?’ he joked.

‘No Ian, that will not be necessary but, what I’m going to suggest is not without risk.’

Bland explained what Ian would have to do and what the rewards would be. In a nutshell he was to give away his country’s secrets and would get a small fortune in return. That was treason or high treason or fucking madness but he was desperate and this was a once in a lifetime opportunity or an opportunity that he might live to regret for a lifetime.

‘Okay, Uncle Richard, what do I have to do?’

Bland breathed a sigh of relief and realized he had not been at all certain what his nephew’s reaction would be despite all his bold talk with Blanco.

The plan was risky but straightforward. When Bland and his nephew needed to communicate it was easy, after all there’s still no law saying that family members cannot talk to each other. Blanco and Bland would then have a meeting in some out of the way place where they could discuss the nature of the information on offer. In order to get it to the buyer a simple plan was implemented. When there was valuable information to be sold, Bland would convert it into a microdot and he would give it to Blanco who would then fix it to one of the icons that he had bought. Blanco would then put the icon with the microdot up for sale where it would be bought by one of his colleague’s contacts in Moscow acting as a middleman and posing as a collector of Russian art. From there the information was sold to the KGB. A certain element of trust was needed—after all, he would get paid after they had got what they wanted, but he felt that no sensible buyer would double-cross him and cut off an invaluable supply line.

The very next sale at Sotheby’s was soon to take place in New York and Esteban Blanco was in town for it. Milton’s information meant that whatever was going on was connected to the icons. That meant he had to get his hands on them somehow so he decided to enlist the cooperation of the Art Crime Team. This small team of a dozen agents was set up in 2004 and is based at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C.. Milton called Andy Schwartz, one of the agents, and told him he needed his services. He told him that he was part of an ongoing investigation and could not go near the icons because it could tip off the people he was after. He needed to know what was special about these icons and Andy was the best man for the job. The director in charge of the Sotheby’s sale was delighted to cooperate to get the matter resolved as soon as possible—and without anything leaking to the press, spoiling what was likely to be one of the best auctions on the calendar.

Andy borrowed the icons for the next sale and sent them to a specialist department who had no difficulty in finding the microdot. On this occasion it named an agent in Budapest, a link in a chain feeding information to the CIA on the progress that the Russians were making on their own Star Wars project. They knew the KGB would make sure that the chain was broken.

It was decided not to tamper with the microdot but to pull the agent in question before the KGB could get their hands on him.

The Russian Embassy’s reception in Baiza Street, Budapest, had been a lavish affair. At just after nine thirty Robert Waynard thanked his host for a delightful evening and set off to walk the short distance to his apartment in Révay Street.

Waynard’s housekeeper, Mrs Day, answered the doorbell to find a gentleman with a white stick and sunglasses standing outside the front door.

‘Can I help you sir?’

‘Is this the home of Robert Waynard?’ The gentleman asked.

‘Yes sir, but I am afraid that he’s not in. Is he expecting you?’

‘Not exactly, he and I are old school friends. I saw him three years ago before the accident...’ he said pointing to his glasses...‘I’m here for a special lecture at the university and got his address from the British Embassy.’

‘I’m so sorry sir. Do please forgive my manners; would you care to come in and wait for him, I’m expecting him soon.’

‘That’s very kind,’ replied the blind man.

The visitor swept the cane left to right, tapping the doorframe on both sides to get his bearings, and stepped into the hall.

‘Most kind, I hope I’m not inconveniencing you, if you have anyone with you I’ll be happy to wait for him until he arrives and let you get on.’

‘Don’t you worry sir, I’m quite alone I’ll just close the door and take you into the sitting room.’

Mrs Day turned and closed the door. She died before getting a chance to say another word, her neck broken. He held her with one arm to stop her falling to the floor while he looked around for a suitable place to deposit her body. There was a broom cupboard next to the cloakroom that he opened with his free hand. He lifted her into it—her small frame fit perfectly—and he shut the door.

Grigori went around the apartment quickly opening the doors to all the rooms on the ground floor. He soon found Waynard’s study. It was a comfortable narrow room; as you entered, the walls on either side housed an impressive collection of books that were shelved from floor to ceiling. There were library steps on the left and two comfortable armchairs either side of a small coffee table, in front of the fireplace that had been lit by the housekeeper in preparation for her master’s arrival. At the end of the study, directly opposite the door, there was a beautiful Queen Anne desk with a leather blotter and an old cigar box on top. The reading lamp on the desk was switched off; the only light was the one flickering from the cheery flames as they crackled and popped on the hearth.

Behind the desk there was a green leather button-back library chair that looked like a modern reproduction and was at odds with the rest of the décor. The room was welcoming and smelled of leather and expensive cigars. Alexei noted the heavy floor to ceiling curtains that, when drawn, formed an alcove with the bay window. He stepped behind the curtains, drew them tightly shut and settled down to await Waynard’s arrival.

He did not have long to wait, fifteen minutes or so before he heard the sound of the front door opening and a voice calling for Mrs Day as Rupert Waynard took his coat off and hung it on the coat stand followed by his white silk scarf.

‘Mrs Day!’ he called out ‘I’m back and I really could do with one of your nice cups of tea,’ he said, raising his voice so that she could hear him from the kitchen. He got no reply and shouted:

‘Mrs Day—tea, please...I’ll be in my study.’

Waynard entered his study and stopped to pick up a copy of the Times from the small coffee table where Mrs Day left it for him every day. He proceeded to the desk and stopped dead halfway when he heard the front doorbell ring.

‘Mrs Day,’ he shouted, ‘front door bell, will you please answer it and see who it is?’

No reply. ‘Where is that blasted woman,’ he said, and turned quickly on his heels and set off to open the door.

Behind the curtain Grigori’s fingers relaxed their hold on the rope that he had expertly twisted around both wrists. He waited patiently hoping that whoever the caller was he would be seen off in a hurry.

‘Good evening,’ Waynard said to the two men on his doorstep and the next thing he knew they had each grabbed him under the armpits, lifted him off the ground and bundled him into a waiting car, three other men who had been sitting in the car rushed past him and into the house. His abductors dumped him unceremoniously in the back seat sitting themselves either side of him as the car’s driver put it into gear and set off at great speed.

‘Sorry about the rough treatment, there was no time to explain things properly; Edward Garrett wants you back home. I’m afraid our Russian friends are onto you.’

Once inside, the three men spread out to search the house.

‘The place is empty,’ said one.

‘Not quite,’ Replied a colleague who was standing by the door gazing into the broom cupboard.

At Bland’s next meeting with Blanco he decided to tell him his most audacious scheme to date.

‘Esteban, I’ve come up with an idea that would throw open the doors to the American drugs market for you and your cartel and take the DEA heat off you and your friends.’

‘No shit, Richard,’ he said, ‘this, I want to hear. What’s this brilliant new idea of yours and how the hell would it make life easier for me with the DEA?’ Lately he’d been getting a bit pissed off with his employee and couldn’t help a touch of sarcasm that did not escape Bland’s attention.

‘We know your people are funding William Wild’s Presidential campaign.’

He waited to see if that revelation got his attention and when it didn’t, went on.

‘What would you say if I told you I have an idea that would make it possible for him to win?’

‘I’d say you’re mad! Wild’s an outsider now. Sure we’re backing him and he will be a good friend in the future but certainly not this time round, this time it’ll be another Republican or a Democrat same as always.’

‘Sure, that would be right under normal circumstances, but there are many that see in Wild a bit of the JFK magic. He’s charismatic as hell, appeals to the young and also to middle America, who are angry when they see so many of our boys coming back in body-bags because they’ve been sent to fight wars in far-off places. Places like Iraq and Afghanistan where they think we have no business. “Look after America first” is their thinking. They’re fed-up with the U.S. being the world’s policeman!’

‘And your idea is?’

‘If we had another 9/11 or Oswald type incident, Wild could be swept into office on a wave of patriotic fervour. We could get a message through the media that we’re reaping what we’ve sown and that what the country needs is a President who is more interested in keeping America safe rather than saving the rest of the world.’

Esteban thought Bland had finally flipped. Whether an assassination or another twin towers these were not operations one could pull off at the drop of a hat even if one wanted to. Maybe Bland was unhinged but he thought he’d press him some more to see just how far he was prepared to go.

‘That’s one hell of an ambitious project you’re proposing my friend.’

Bland could imagine what Blanco was thinking but counted on his greed to come to his aid.

‘I know what’s at stake Esteban, but just imagine, owning your very own President of the United States of America.’

The sheer audacity of it all made Blanco laugh out loud. What the hell was he thinking about? One moment he’s just happy to get some extra cash for a rainy day and the next...a President of the United States.

‘I’m not saying that I’d get involved in your scheme, but, just for the hell of it, how do you propose to pull this off? You know there’s no one in my organization that would be suitable for this kind of job.’

‘Sure I know that, but for the Russians it would be a different matter.’

‘Why would they be interested?’

‘Well, there’s what many are calling the New Cold War for starters. Putin recently threatened to target nuclear missiles on the Ukraine if it joined the “Missile Defence System” that the U.S. is trying to build in central and Eastern Europe. Having a U.S. President that isn’t interested in pursuing an interventionist foreign policy would leave Putin a pretty clear hand in the Middle East; after all he has been much more assertive in promoting Russian interests in that region than Yeltsin did in his time. There would be other benefits too, particularly if the U.S. started to pull their military bases out. Many of these have recently sprung up in countries that are too close to Russia for comfort and Putin is said to be quite sensitive to what he considers a provocative stance by the U.S..’

Blanco thought it a harebrained idea but what the hell.

‘Okay. You put some flesh on the bones of your idea then; let’s talk again.’

Chapter Eighteen

Initially the business revolved around trading information on SDI for cash, but Bland had managed to convince him that his latest idea was worth pursuing. After a few weeks, Esteban Blanco decided the time was right to pay his friends in Russia a little visit.

They met in a mansion outside Moscow in a part of town he’d never been to. The entrance gate was manned by security staff. They were allowed through and drove for around two hundred meters to the front of the stately home. The property that sat on its own grounds, surrounded by mature trees and gardens, was designed in 1903 by Ivan Fomin in the Art Nouveau style and was magnificent. Fomin had decorated his work with plaster flowers and majolica inserts and the same floral motifs had been used in the iron gates they had come through.

Fomin had used his own designs to furnish the property but there were also furniture pieces by Rennie Mackintosh and Joseph Maria Olbrich and paintings by Koloman Moser and others.

Blanco was led into an elegant study where the other men who had attended the meeting were waiting.

When Blanco told them about his idea he expected them to laugh, but instead there was a deathly silence, and when they did start laughing it was not at him but with him. He saw a sort of respect in their eyes that had not been there before. Mikhail Yashenko, a thin man with angular features and shrewd eyesspoke:

‘Vladimir, this would seem to be a good opportunity to talk to your friend Yuri CheyNokov. After all, he is perfectly well aware that Esteban—’ he nodded in Blanco’s direction ‘—is the real source of his SDI information. If he is prepared to provide us with the necessary asset to deal with our little problem, I’m sure we can continue to, how shall I put it, keep him up to date with the Americans’ progress and it need not cost him any actual cash.’

Vladimir sipped his vodka and smiled. He was a heavy-set man in his early sixty’s a slavic face with bushy eyebrows that reminded Blanco of Brezhnev. ‘Yes...yes that is something he might be very interested to hear, give me a day or two at the most, and then let’s talk again. Meanwhile, the less people who know about this, the better.’

The meeting disbanded soon after and Esteban returned to Neglinnaya Street and the Ararat Park Hyatt, where his Russian associates had booked him into a comfortable suite.

Blanco had been in his hotel for two days when he got a call from Vladimir inviting him to dinner. They met at Cafe Pushkin. Vladimir had made a reservation and as usual the place was packed. The restaurant was spread over three floors, each with its own ambient theme. Vladimir had reserved four tables on the library level to ensure they had a certain amount of privacy while still being able to enjoy people-watching.

Vladimir was a big eater and he studied the menu with undisguised relish.

‘Esteban, you are going to like this place, the food is great, the best in Moscow. Is there anything you particularly dislike?’

‘Apart from Americans,’ he said, ‘nothing.’

‘Ha! Then trust me and I will order for us.’ Vladmir liked his friend’s sense of humour.

The waiter came and Vladimir ordered a selection of Ukrainian, Georgian and Uzbek dishes and a fine bottle of French wine from the ample wine list. The waiter disappeared with their order.

‘Okay Esteban, he wants to meet you, are you ready?’

‘I have been waiting for that. When?’

‘Tomorrow, I will pick you up at ten and take you there.’

‘Fine, tomorrow, then, and thank you my friend for arranging this.’ Vladimir leaned back in his chair.

‘In that case let us not talk any more business. I have taken the liberty of inviting two friends to join us. I have told them about you and they are excited to meet a Latin man.’

They were soon joined by two of the most beautiful women that Esteban had ever seen; they were charming, intelligent and dressed in designer clothes. Esteban was his usual attentive self and when the meal ended they left with him and joined him in his hotel suite.

The following morning Vladimir arrived in a black Mercedes and Esteban was waiting for him in the hotel lobby.

CheyNokov lived in a smart apartment off Ayvazovskogo Ulitsa not very far from his office. He greeted his guests and ushered them into his study.

‘Mr Blanco it is a pleasure to meet you personally at last.’

‘Mr CheyNokov I am pleased to make your acquaintance. It is always good when one can put a face to the name.’

Vladimir sat quietly listening in on the conversation.

CheyNokov was short and portly, he had a round, chubby face and thick lips that he liked to lick. He was dressed casually. CheyNokov offered his guests a drink which they accepted. He now studied Esteban with the shrewd eyes of an experienced interrogator and when he spoke it was in a quiet relaxed voice.

‘Mr Orlov said you have a proposal for me,’ he said pointing to Vladimir with a wave of his hand, ‘and I am most intrigued to hear what that might be.’

Esteban considered where to begin and decided that, with this man, bullshit would be out of place. ‘Mr CheyNokov, let me come straight to the point. I am sure that your life, like mine, is more or less difficult depending on who the person in The Oval Office happens to be. It is my intention to arrange for a very friendly occupant to be elected to that distinguished post.’

CheyNokov considered what he had just heard. He looked at Blanco and Orlov in turn, wondering what kind of crazy idea this Latin man was proposing and then he cautiously said:

‘Certainly what you say is true, but despite what the press like to say, our relations with The United States are very cordial at present. I am sure that President Putin would not appreciate any action that might jeopardize that.’

‘And there would be no need for that to happen. As the Americans put it we have a fall guy, or rather organization, who should take the honours—after all they like nothing better than to claim responsibility for the world’s great atrocities; we will just be saving them the trouble.’

‘Al-Quaeda. Ah yes, a possibility, certainly.’

‘It is good to know that we are, to paraphrase the Americans again, on the same page.’

Yuri CheyNokov thanked him for his visit and promised that he would give careful consideration to his proposal and that he would not keep him waiting long for an answer.

That same day, Grigori contacted CheyNokov to tell him that Robert Waynard had been saved by the British secret service, doubtless as a favour to their friends in the CIA. Yuri CheyNokov did not ask how he knew it was MI6 and not the CIA who had pulled Waynard, it was enough that he said so. This was the first time that the information he had received had not yielded favourable results and CheyNokov wondered if Grigori’s failure to neutralize the agent had been a lucky break or if his very expensive source at the DEA had been compromised. He would just have to run with it a little while longer. He would know soon enough one way or the other.

Nathan King got the good news from Dwayne Young and lost no time telling the President that the mole had been found and that he would be put to good use to lead the Soviets down the garden path.

Dwayne called Garrett and arranged to meet him outside the office. He told him about Bland and showed him photos that Milton had taken that put him together with Blanco. Ed, not one to be lost for words at the best of times, stared at the pictures in disbelief.

‘The fucking bastard. I can’t believe it. How long have you known this?’

‘Not more than a couple days, I had to tell The President first.’

‘Listen Ed,’ Dwayne said, ‘much as I know you want to wring the little shit’s neck personally, you cannot let him know that you’re on to him. What I am about to share with you only a very few people know—orders of The President—but as things stand I need you in the loop.’

Garrett was curious and angry; how long had his department, and he personally for that matter, been under investigation?

‘You going to tell me when you decided I was in the clear?’

‘Don’t be crazy, you’ve never been a suspect with me but I had to keep you in the dark so as not to compromise the operation.’

‘You could have trusted me a little.’

‘It was a tough call to make and...well, if it had been up to me only...anyway it’s done, we’ve got our traitor, now the question is how do we use him?’

Dwayne told Ed how the operation that had focused on Bland had soon led to Bland’s nephew Ian.

‘Naturally Tim Mitchell has been alerted, they’re watching him but not too closely or it might frighten him off. We want them all when we close the net.’

Grigori flew from Budapest’s Ferihegy International Airport onboard Malév flight 614 and, on arrival at Gatwick got a taxi to his hotel.

The following morning Grigori rose early and set off for his meeting. He arrived at an address in Hornsey Road and stood in front of an ordinary three-storey white house with peeling paintwork. He walked up the four steps leading to the entrance, rung the doorbell and waited. A few minutes later the door was opened by a young man wearing faded blue jeans and a white shirt. His name was Abdul Khan, a devoted Chechen Muslim who attended the North London Central Mosque. He was thin, had dark intelligent eyes and, with his short, black beard and studious looking horn-rimmed spectacles, appeared older than his twenty-four years and looked every inch the college student that in fact he was.

Grigori sat facing Khan in the sparsely furnished living room.

‘My name is Timur Sautiev.’

Khan wanted to ask a thousand questions but instead he remained silent while Grigori outlined his plans.

In 2003, when the North London Central Mosque was still called The Finsbury Park Mosque, Grigori had been sent to infiltrate a cell loyal to the Chechen warlord Shamil Basayeb. He’d engineered a casual meeting with Kamel Rabat Bourahla after following him to a café on the Blackstock Road. Kamel was seated alone in the only remaining table in the café that had an empty seat available. Grigori asked him if the seat was taken and when he said it wasn’t, he sat down and struck-up a conversation.

Grigori told him he was from Chechnya. Much later and only when they had met many times, usually at the same café, he opened up a bit and talked about his hatred of the Russian presence in Chechnya. He’d come to England hoping to escape the oppressive Russian federal security forces, and the rule of the Kremlin-backed local government in Grozny. He said he had no family to worry about and was hoping to make a new life in London. He had little money and was looking for work.

Grigori spoke Chechen fluently and was able to dispel any doubts that Kamel might have had as to his story. After a while, Kamel introduced him to his friends Osman and Yacine. A common bond developed and eventually they felt comfortable enough with him to let him in on their plans so that, when Kamel and his friends went to Chechnya to fight alongside their hero Basayev, Grigori went with them.

1st September 2004 saw the start of the Beslan massacre when a group of at least ten armed Muslim Chechen separatists and supporters took more than 1200 schoolchildren and adults hostage at School Number One in the town of Beslan, North Ossetia-Alania; an autonomous republic in the North Caucasus region of the Russian Federation. On the third day of the standoff, a chaotic gun battle broke out between the hostage-takers and Russian security forces. Three hundred and thirty-four civilians were killed including one hundred and eighty-six children and hundreds more were wounded. The Chechen terrorist Shamil Basayev took responsibility for the hostage-taking. At least two English Algerians participated in the attack: Osman Larussi and Yacine Benalia. Both died in the battle.

Basayev died July 10, 2006 killed by an explosion. The Russians claim the FSB Chechens assassinated him while others claim it was an accidental explosion but, soon after Basayav’s death, Grigori left Chechnya and returned to Moscow.

Grigori finished outlining his plans to the student Abdul Khan. He was always well briefed but, on this occasion, his researchers had let him down. There was something in the young man’s past that he should have been made aware of. Something that, had he known it, would have disqualified Khan and he would never have approached him.

Abdul Khan was eighteen when Yacine Benalia was killed. At that time, Abdul’s surname was Benalia and Yacine was his older brother.

His brother’s part in the Beslan massacre horrified him and made him feel ashamed. He could not understand what could have turned a fun-loving person like his brother into a monster capable of taking the lives of innocent children. He was determined to do all in his power to counter the evil that his brother had done.

As soon as he could, Abdul changed his name to Khan to try to escape the stigma associated with his family name. On February 11, 2006 he attended a rally in London’s Trafalgar Square in protest of the publication of cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad. He was distributing leaflets when he got to talking with a man who said he was a Christian and wanted to know more about Islam and the Muslim’s point of view, because he felt the way to a more peaceful world was through mutual understanding and respect.

Jake Scott was intelligent and articulate and got on well with Abdul. They met after the rally and chatted amiably. After a while and several more social meetings, they became friends. Much later, when Jake deemed that the time was right, Abdul found out that he worked for the British secret service and was involved in counter-terrorism operations. Abdul was passionate about Islam but detested extremists from wherever they may come. He grasped the opportunity to right some of his brother’s wrongdoing and asked Jake if there was any way that he could help. Jake had been waiting for this and he recruited Abdul as an undercover agent of MI6 under his direct control. He would lie low, keep his ears peeled but would not attract attention to himself nor put his life in danger. If he heard something was being planned he would send a text message to a secure number that Jake had given him. He would then be given a time to go to Finsbury Park and make his way to the Arboretum area and sit on a particular bench. He would take with him his book of the Koran to read.

As usual, anyone watching him from afar would see a young, devout Muslim, seeking solitude and reading passages of the Holy Book to himself away from the turmoil of the crowded city.

And again, no one thought anything of the young man in jeans, walking his dog and listening to music on his iPod, some thirty feet away from Khan and no one saw him press a push-button remote control he carried in his pocket, activating the powerful hidden transmitter underneath the bench.

It was not music coming through on Jake’s headphones but Abdul’s clear voice—and what he heard made his blood run cold.

Jake met Simon Cheshire, his section chief at MI6, and brought him up to date with the information he had received from his informant Abdul Khan.

Cheshire put in a call to the Director General who called the PM at No.10, and an emergency meeting of Cobra was convened for 6pm.

The civil contingencies committee, responsible for the handling of national crises, is named after the ‘Cabinet Office Briefing Room A’ located deep in the bowels of Downing Street where it normally meets.

Though often chaired by different people depending on the nature of the emergency, on this occasion the prime minister himself was in charge.

The PM had decided to keep the number of people present as small as possible. He asked the Director General, more commonly known simply as ‘C’ for Chief, to attend. In addition he invited the Commissioner of Police, the Home Secretary and Thomas Wilkins, head of GCHQ; rounding off the small gathering were Simon Cheshire and Jake Scott.

The prime minister brought the meeting to order. ‘Good evening everyone. I think we’ve all had a brief outline as to why we’re here,’ he began, and then addressed Simon directly: ‘C has briefed me be but perhaps you’d be kind enough to fill us all in on the detail.’

‘Certainly Prime Minister, I will be happy to answer any questions afterwards, but I think you will find it interesting to hear a first-hand account from Jake Scott. He’s Abdul Khan’s handler and has a most interesting story to tell.’

He turned to Jake indicating that he had the floor.

Jake opened his notebook and looked around the table trying to decide where to begin.

‘Thank you Sir,’ he said and turned to the PM.

‘Prime Minister...gentlemen,’ he began, ‘It might be best if I start by telling you who this informant is. The man, Abdul Khan, is in fact the brother of the terrorist Yacine Benalia, I am sure you are all familiar with Benalia’s part in the Beslan massacre. But what you may not know is that Abdul was so sickened by what his brother did that he joined us voluntarily in order to, as he put it, make some small restitution and try to put right the wrong that his brother had done. I have tested the man’s resolve and the information he has provided me with in the past and can categorically state that I consider him an unimpeachable source of intelligence at the North London Central Mosque.’

Jake looked around the room and saw that everyone was waiting for him to get to the point. ‘I have been successful in creating a reputation for Khan at the Mosque as a disaffected youth with strong Islamic militant tendencies. His profile has been enhanced by his attendance to meetings where the radical Muslim cleric Abu Hamza has been preaching his message of hate to the west. I have even had him thrown in jail overnight once or twice so that he might come to the attention of the hardliners in his community.’

The prime minister interrupted with a comment. ‘We’re all aware of Abu Hamza and his cohorts but what’s this latest information that Cheshire wishes us to hear?’

Jake decided to move things along. ‘Of course, Prime Minister, a man calling himself Timur Sautiev approached Khan recently. He said that he had fought alongside the terrorist Shamil Basayev and had been there at the Beslan massacre. He’s recruited Khan and told him that he is in the UK as part of a large Al-Qaeda cell who is planning a coordinated attack on London and Washington.’

There was a stunned silence in the room and a sense of expectation as the prime minister spoke once more.

‘Has this “Sautiev” told your man what he intends to do and what the time frame is for the operation?’

‘Yes sir he has. They plan to detonate a smoky bomb in a crowded public place such as a cinema or the underground. The idea is to create terror in the population and use the attack and the threat of more of the same to coerce the British government into leaving Iraq and Afghanistan immediately. I’d like to add at this point that we don’t necessarily buy into Sautiev’s story. I mean, if he’s part of a large cell, why recruit Abdul in the first place? No, we think it more likely that he sees him as an expendable foot soldier. If there is a cell, and that is always possible, then Sautiev—and we have to assume that’s not his real name—will probably want to keep it secret but could be considering using Abdul to start a random terrorist attack of the sort he’s described.’

The prime minister looked around the table to see if everyone else was following.

‘I hope you will forgive my ignorance but what exactly is a smoky bomb?’ The PM looked puzzled and Jake took this as his cue to explain.

‘We all know that a dirty bomb is basically a radiological dispersal device or RDD. Well, the fact is that the RDD is not, strictly speaking, a very efficient killing weapon; not the WMD that some journalists would have us believe. The smoky bomb on the other hand can kill many people if they are in a confined space when the device goes off. Without getting too technical, you will all remember the case of Alexander Litvinenko. He ate, drank or inhaled Polonium-210—we’re not sure which—with predictable results. Well, the terrorist’s solution lies in getting very finely divided Polonium into the air where people can breathe it.’

Cheshire looked at Jake and indicated he still had the floor. ‘Smoky bombs based on alpha emitters might easily be just as dangerous as beta or gamma emitting dirty bombs. Air containing such radioactive debris would appear smoky or dusty, and be dangerous to breathe. A few breaths might easily be enough to sicken a victim, and in some cases to kill. If a smoky bomb exploded in a packed arena or on a crowded tube it could kill dozens or hundreds. It would set off a radiological emergency of a kind not seen before in the UK, and the number of people requiring life support or palliative care until death, would overwhelm the number of beds now available for treating victims of radiation. First responders dashing unprotected into the cloud from such a bomb might be among the worst of the wounded. Fire and police departments around the country will need alpha radiation detectors, since the counters they carry now cannot see alphas.’

Jake looked around the table at the sombre faces of all those present and continued. ‘The problem we face is one of time. The attacks are timed to take place before the U.S. presidential election is decided. That would be on November 4th 2008. Although that’s over a year away, we cannot tell exactly when the attacks will begin. What we do know is that they will take place between now and then. On the plus side, we have an inside line into the terrorist cell if we can keep Khan safe and talking to us.’

The prime minister took over the meeting once more. ‘Thank you Mr Scott; it is clear that we have to tell our American friends what we know so far as soon as possible. We have to keep things away from the media; goodness knows we don’t need a panic right now. Simon, you can call on any resources you need in order to get a handle on exactly who this man Sautiev is. Maybe we can get a photo of him when he’s with Khan. It would be dangerous but handled properly, could save considerable time. Once we know who he is, we might be able to find out which particular cell he’s working with and when we know that we can grab them all.’

The PM spoke to everyone around the table. ‘Please let me know your best guess as to who you think these people may be. I wouldn’t be surprised if they are not amongst the groups you currently have under surveillance.’

The prime minister closed the meeting with a reminder of the importance of keeping the whole affair tightly under wraps, not a word of this must leak out to the press or they would have a field day with it.

They all left the Cobra meeting leaving the PM to return to his private office and place an important call to his friend in the White House.

‘Our people are on it and I will get them to send you chapter and verse on the situation, George. It’ll be on your desk this morning.’

The PM put the phone down. He buzzed his private secretary and asked him to come into his office.

‘William, I need to see the Queen. It’s rather urgent; could you please organize it for me?’

William Burton gave him a quizzical look but saw that the PM was not in a talkative mood.

‘Yes of course Prime Minister,’ he said, and promptly left the room.

President Bush placed a call to Langley and was put through to Nathan King. He then put the U.S. alert level at ‘elevated’, an assessment indicating that the potential threat is credible, and confirming the involvement of WMD.

He then convened all the agencies involved with CONPLAN to attend a meeting at the White House to discuss recent events in Great Britain.

When Milton heard about the security threat, all the ideas that had been rattling around in his head suddenly began to take shape. ‘Why not?’ he thought, the intelligence he’d been picking up, his conversations with his friend Dwayne, the business with the coke baron Esteban Blanco and his nutty idea about the presidential hopeful and once more he thought, why not? Granted, it’s farfetched but stranger things have happened and, working at the Bureau, he damn well should know. He called Dwayne.

‘I know Mil, I’ve heard.’

‘Now don’t shoot me down over this but do you remember my little theory?’

‘Mil, you can’t surely be thinking that Blanco’s tied up in this, can you?’

‘Well...I’m not ready to stand up in court and swear to it if that’s what you’re asking, but it sure as hell deserves some thought.’

There was a pause and Milton could almost hear the gears going round. Then his friend was back.

‘Mil, are you free for dinner tonight?

Chapter Nineteen

HMS Swordfish left the Naval Base at Faslane, the home of the UK strategic nuclear deterrent force, carrying a classified cargo. Commander Alexander Griffiths’s orders were to sail towards Cocos Island and rendezvous with an undercover CIA agent who would land his seaplane at 05º32'N—86º59'W. His orders had come from the First Sea Lord and he in turn had received them directly from the prime minister. HMS Swordfish was on a course of 09º22.100'N 079º53.300'W that would take him to the Caribbean Sea where he would cross the Panama Canal and then set a new course. His instructions were not to surface until he reached Panama. Then he was to proceed submerged until the meeting point with CIA agent McFadden.

Alex Griffiths had been in the Royal Navy for 20 years and taken command of the Trafalgar class nuclear powered attack submarine (SSN), in August 2006. The submarine was his third command, the previous two having been the patrol ships HMS Windsor Castle and HMS Edinburgh Castle.

Before that, his career was spent exclusively within the submarine service. He joined the Royal Navy straight from school and, in the course of his training, won a Herbert Lott Sword as the best Midshipman of his intake at the Britannia Royal Naval College. Once his training at BRNC Dartmouth was complete he served in a variety of nuclear and diesel powered ‘boats’. Earning his Dolphins, the submariners’ coveted badge of qualification, in the nuclear submarine HMS Brilliant, he then spent several years in Oberon and Upholder type Diesel Submarines until that type of boat was withdrawn from service with the Royal Navy in the mid-nineties. Thereafter he returned to the nuclear world. Alex passed the Submarine Command Course, also famously known as the Perisher in 1998, before becoming Executive Officer of HMS Courageous. In the course of his considerable sea time he had covered most of the globe including the Far East, Arctic, Baltic, North and South Atlantic, Caribbean and Mediterranean. The Admiralty’s faith in the ability of this Commander to carry out this very secret and important mission was entirely justified.

The Swordfish was one minute from the dive point and the Officer of the Deck reported to the captain.

‘Ship is rigged for dive, Captain, sounding is one zero zero fathoms and we are one minute from the dive point. Request permission to submerge the ship to one five zero feet and attain a one third trim.’

‘Take her down.’

‘Mark the dive point,’ the navigator called out and the OOD ordered the diving officer to submerge the ship and attain a one third trim.

The diving officer ordered the chief of the watch at the ballast control panel to sound the diving alarm, and dive, dive echoed all over the sub; he then opened the forward ballast group’s main ballast tank vents.

On the submarine all was quiet efficiency. The OOD trained the periscope to examine the bow and saw the geysers blasting upwards indicating that the forward main ballast tanks were venting correctly. He called out venting forward. He did the same for the aft vents calling venting aft as the Swordfish began to sink deeper into the sea.

While the diving officer called out the depth the OOD did a surface search for close surface contacts and then trained the periscope aft again. As soon as the waves had covered the aft deck he called out deck’s awash and listened as the diving officer continued calling out the depth. When the sail submerged he called sail under. Frothy waves were now coming closer to his view and when they washed over the scope he called, scope’s awash and soon after, scope’s under.

The Officer of the Deck now took a moment to do a circle search with the scope’s view trained upwards towards the surface and then he trained the scope to the bow, clicked up the periscope grips and reached up to rotate the steel ring surrounding the optic module clockwise. He heard the whoosh of the hydraulics and the optic module disappeared into the periscope well. The OOD called: ‘Lowering number two scope.’

The angle of the deck was about 5 degrees and the diving officer ordered the planesmen to pull up at a depth of 150 feet, ordered all ahead one third and the planesmen to zero their planes. The whole procedure had taken twenty minutes and the Swordfish now set a course for the first leg of their secret rendezvous point some miles away from the Cocos Island.

Cocos Island was in total darkness and very quiet, the only sound the lapping of the waves as they washed in and out of the shore. The air smelled fresh with just a hint of gasoline coming from the Zodiac’s outboard engine. McFadden wore night vision goggles that lit everything with a weird green haze. He recognized the swarthy man walking towards him as the one that had towed him with the Zodiac and had helped him anchor the Catalina onto a gangplank. He walked carefully pointing a torch to the ground lighting the way. Before he reached him, McFadden had him in his sight and fired a single shot from a Walther PPK fitted with a silencer. The dull splat made by the gun did not carry much beyond where McFadden was standing. He lost no time loading the body onto the Zodiac and now reversed the process towing the seaplane out.

When he considered he was in deep water he tied a weight around the man’s waist, untied the guide line and fired four shots at the Zodiac which deflated and sunk after a few minutes. McFadden dumped the cargo of cocaine that was destined for Miami into the sea.

Blanco tried to make contact with his man on the island to check if the shipment had arrived but, when he got no answer, Blanco figured he’d taken the drugs and was on the run. This happened from time to time but he always caught up with them. The men died slow and painful deaths. Not many people tried to steal from him once the word got around. He gave an order and the wheels were set in motion.

On the island, McFadden started the Catalina’s engines. The sea was calm with only a slight swell and the seaplane moved smoothly over the water. He held the wheel straight as the aircraft bounced and bumped on the waves, the controls getting progressively lighter until the Catalina left the water and started climbing into the night sky heading for his assignation with HMS Swordfish. When the coordinates on his GPS told him he’d arrived at the correct location, he began a wide turn circling looking for the submarine but all he could see in the beam of the aircraft’s searchlights was darkness. He approached from the west skimming the surface of the sea before setting the plane down and racing along the waves. The Catalina slowed down gradually, settling into the water before coming to a complete stop.

McFadden feathered the propellers and let them idle, waiting for the submarine to make contact.

Sitting on the inboard seat the young helmsman gripped the stick, the submariner’s nickname for the wheel.

A lieutenant in the control room said: ‘Make your depth eight zero feet.’

The sailor pulled the wheel slowly to his chest, taking the sub up to 80 feet below the water's surface so the Swordfish could raise its periscope. The control room was quiet except for the diving officer who called out the depths as the sub ascended.

‘One zero zero feet...nine five feet...’ The sailor pushed the wheel forward and the sub began levelling out. The planes now had to move in the opposite direction to slow the ascent so the sub didn't overshoot and broach the surface.

He trained the scope aft to check that the ballast tanks were venting properly and announced scope’s breaking.

The lieutenant had his face pressed to the periscope eyepiece, as its lens above sprouted from the water. He swivelled around with the periscope pasted to his face.

‘One close contact,’ he said.

Standing off the subs portside the outline of the Catalina was clearly visible bobbing gently on the water.

From the cockpit, McFadden looked about searching for signs of the sub; he thought he spotted something moving on the surface of the water just for an instant then all was black. A moment later it was there again. He could just make out the periscope of the Swordfish running along churning the water in its wake before the sail began to appear and soon the unmistakable silhouette of a submarine broke through the surface, its huge black shape like a giant whale standing off some 200 meters away.

The sub signalled three short bursts of light and McFadden replied with two short bursts followed by two long ones.

The hatch opened and red lights were switched on, illuminating the tower and topside around the bridge. McFadden could see two sailors, armed with what looked like automatic weapons and then an officer who appeared to be staring at the plane.

McFadden trained his night vision binoculars and saw the Swordfish Commander, looking straight at him through his own pair.

From the submarine, the seaplane and everything around it appeared eerily bright enveloped in a green sunrise. The sub’s Commander could see the pilot clearly. Now the tricky part of the operation had to begin.

Commander Griffiths ordered a Zodiac to be launched and a few minutes later the submarine’s crew was manhandling a large crate onto the inflatable. Four armed sailors sat opposite each other at the bow and another four at the stern next to the helmsman. McFadden looked at the boat as it moved towards him, dangerously low in the water. He readied himself to receive them.

It came alongside and McFadden waited for a sailor to throw him a line that he caught and tied to a hook on the Catalina. He did the same with the rope from the stern and the Zodiac now rocked gently on the sea held fast to the pontoon on the portside.

McFadden helped the sailors secure lines to the crate and then to the hook attached to the cable dangling from the jib on the Catalina’s electric hoist. He started the motor, its electric whine sounding incongruous during the otherwise quiet operation that was taking place. The hoist took-up the slack. The crate began to move and they manoeuvred it through the door and into the back of the plane that had been cleared of seats to make space for cargo.

Once the operation was complete the sailors on the Zodiac untied the lines that had held them tethered to the Catalina, said goodbye to McFadden wishing him luck and headed back to the waiting submarine.

McFadden revved the two Mikulin M-62 piston engines and put the Catalina into the wind. He closed his right hand on the throttles and powered up feeling the plane surge forward gathering speed.  McFadden applied more power as the plane began to leave the water bouncing on the waves before finally leaving the sea behind and banking steeply.

From his cockpit McFadden caught a brief glimpse of the red light coming from the sub while Commander Griffiths went below, pulling the hatch shut behind him.

McFadden circled once and caught sight of the submarine just as the sail began to submerge beneath the waves and disappeared. He levelled the Catalina and set a heading that would take him back to Medellin.

Chapter Twenty

Elliott and Tim left the Mare Nostrum on board a large Zodiac powered by twin Mercury 250 HP OptiMax outboard engines. The special equipment that Elliott had commissioned from Herr Mueller was safely stowed onboard and would be deployed once they arrived at the dive site. It was a beautiful morning. Elliott should have been happy but the day reminded him too much of his previous trip and what had happened to Billy. He could not help a sense of foreboding, and he tried to push it out of his mind. Even with Tim’s help, despite what he’d told him, this would not be easy, he just hoped that Tim was as good a diver as Renfrew had led him to believe.

As they neared Lone Stone they were relieved to see that they were the only people there. All the activity was centred on where the film unit were shooting that, as luck would have it, was on the opposite side of the island.

Elliott wondered if Herr Mueller’s contraption would work as well as he’d said it would. Elliott had not had an opportunity to test it and had only had a chance to examine it in Renfrew’s Wandsworth warehouse. Elliott liked the fact that it was a simple concept, with very little that could potentially go wrong. Well it’s too late now to make any changes, he thought, so it had better work.

Tim was at the helm and Elliott navigated with the aid of the GPS. He heard the engine note change and felt the boat slow down. When they stopped they lowered two anchors, one for the Zodiac and the other to be used for the salvage operation.

There are many robots used in deep-sea salvage operations, but the treasure Elliott was after lay in relatively shallow waters and Mueller’s design had taken that into account. It had to be light and capable of being handled by two men. It was effectively a light steel construction of interlocking struts that formed four oblong sections. These would need to be fixed to the coffer using an ingenious system of hydraulically operated clamps that would attach themselves like limpets to the side of the crate. Four compressed air canisters were fixed to each section that, when activated, inflated a flotation collar made up of four independent segments that went around the perimeter of the crate. The inflation of the collar was controlled by a computer that sensed resistance to lift and adjusted the level of inflation of the individual sections allowing for the coffer to be lifted evenly on a level keel.

Once assembled, Elliott took two sections down with him and Tim followed with the other two.

This time the dive was uneventful and Elliott hoped that everything else would go just as smoothly. When they reached the coffer they anchored three sections to the seabed and between them proceeded to fix the first oblong section to one side of the crate. This required them to adjust the size of the oblong by undoing nuts and bolts and sliding them along and locking them into place. Elliott appreciated for the first time the benefits of keeping things simple, and the Swiss engineer had certainly provided it. Elliott worked with Tim to complete encasing the crate on all sides and they were now ready to inflate the flotation collar. Elliott armed the handheld computer and pressed the red button. There was an instant hiss as the compressed air was released from the canisters and began to flow into the different segments surrounding the coffer. The case shifted sending puffs of sand up that clouded the water around it. It had only moved slightly and remained buried in the sand. Elliott and Tim took up positions on opposite sides of the crate and began to rock it to and fro. After a few minutes the crate began to lift throwing up a larger cloud of sand that enveloped them. As the crate ascended Elliott and Tim rose with it and, as soon as it was possible, they attached another clamp fitted with an eyelet ring to the bottom of the crate and hooked the spare anchor to it. They continued their ascent and when they were five metres from the surface they secured the anchor chain so that the crate would not float to the surface but remain suspended at that level. With Tim’s help Elliott retrieved four smaller anchors from the Zodiac and attached them to each corner of the crate so that when they reached the bottom they held it steady and stopped it drifting with the current.

When the time came to retrieve Our Lady of Lima the task was undertaken with the degree of reverence and care that such a precious relic deserved. She lay at an angle and partially buried in the ocean floor but Tim and Elliott were able to straighten her to an almost vertical position. They then cleared the area around her and slipped a circular ‘lifejacket’ along the length of the statue that was then tightened with a harness. They started with a partial inflation and the statue began to float loose of the seabed. They had to get it out of what had once been Thompson’s cabin. Elliott and Tim guided it through a large gap on the side of the brigantine and when it was clear of the ship, they inflated the jacket fully and its precious cargo ascended quickly towards the surface. When the statue was level with the coffer they stopped it and secured it to one of the sides of the crate.

The whole process had taken just over one hour and that whole time they had not seen a single shark or another diver. It had been a textbook operation and Tim and Elliott were elated.

Before swimming to the surface, Elliott switched on the positioning beacon attached to one of the oblongs surrounding the crate, and as he did so a small red light began to pulsate at regular intervals. Elliott checked his GPS and confirmed that the signal was correct. He gave Tim the thumbs up and together they set off for the surface and their waiting Zodiac.

Commander Griffiths had been ordered to remain close to Cocos Island to await a signal from Tim Martin telling him that the special cargo was ready to be collected—and giving him the radio frequency of the homing beacon that would enable him to find it. The message came in the afternoon and was delivered to his cabin. He read it and immediately set about proceeding to the designated location. He was anxious to recover the consignment and return to base. The retrieval of the coffer containing loot from the Gold Train was covered under international treaties and conventions relating to salvage. The Gold Virgin, part of the Lima Booty was not considered salvage but fell under a category governed by Admiralty Law. Commander Griffiths had his orders. It was not for him to worry about the rights or wrongs of the operation, he would leave that to the politicians and lawyers. With the operation successfully completed he was just happy to be going home.

At their last meeting Sautiev had told Abdul Khan that before the month was over they would need to meet to go over the final details of his plan. Jake Scott had asked Khan to await his call and to let him know when Sautiev contacted him. He was to use any excuse but had to get him to the Arboretum in Finsbury Park. They wanted to take his picture and, if possible, record his voice. Khan was worried but agreed.

When Sautiev called he was ready.

‘We have to meet,’ said the familiar voice.

‘Yes. Where and when?’

‘Ten tomorrow; at the café.’

‘I don’t know. It’s too crowded; too many people. I’m sorry... I’m a bit nervous,’ he said.

Khan did sound nervous but he didn’t like plans or meeting places that he had not organized. Still, he was experienced and it was natural for the young man to be nervous, after all he had never done anything like this before. Talk of sacrifice is one thing, it’s quite another to put it into practice.

‘Where did you have in mind?’

Abdul hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. Somewhere less crowded.’ He paused. ‘There’s a place I go to when I want to be alone. It’s peaceful and I read the Holy Koran there.’

‘Where is this place?’

Khan told him and there was a long pause before he answered.

‘If it will make you happier we will meet there but I need another day. Let us say the day after tomorrow at 10 in the morning.’ When he hung up Abdul realized he was sweating and the familiar nauseous feeling had returned.

Abdul contacted his handler and Jake told him not to worry, assuring him that he would be well protected. They would be nearby though quite invisible.

As soon as Sautiev put the receiver down he started thinking. He liked being in control and something about the conversation with Khan had got him worried. He’d decided he would pay a visit to the park. If after that he was still concerned, the meeting place could be changed at the last minute and if anyone were onto him it would give him a chance to escape. When he arrived at the location that Abdul had suggested he felt reassured. It was quiet and deserted. Anyone who looked as if they should not be there would be easily spotted and he felt that the meeting could go ahead as planned.

The moment Jake took Abdul’s call he set a plan in motion that had been prepared the first time that he had decided on the location for his ‘walks’ in the park.

A team of workers had arrived early one day to put a circular screen of around ten feet in diameter with a Finsbury Parks Maintenance sign to deter the curious proclaiming ‘Drainage Works in Progress’, apologising for the inconvenience. When they were done at the end of the day they left behind a perfect ‘hide’ that, coupled with a directional mic would be an ideal surveillance point where one man could remain undetected all day if necessary. It was accessed via a neatly concealed and camouflaged trap door set in the grass. A fit person could get in and out in seconds. It was just a case of waiting until the coast was clear. Inside, the walls were lined with special corrugated sheeting and the floor was timber decked. A comfortable swivel chair stood in the middle. There was a small table and a mini periscope had been installed that could be raised to peer directly at anyone sitting on the bench or anywhere near it, on a radius of 360 degrees. A camera with a powerful zoom could be fitted to the periscope allowing the operative to take as many photographs as were required. A heavy-duty battery was used to run an air conditioning unit and a light.

On the day of the meeting, Sautiev arrived an hour early and found five policemen near the location of his meeting with Khahn. He was about to turn around and leave but decided to stay a few moments longer, thinking that perhaps Abdul had arrived earlier too and the police had grabbed him. He then saw a bunch of rowdy young men and women that appeared to have been there all night. They had blankets with them and looked like hippies who’d spent the night making love and smoking pot.

The police left taking the revellers with them and Sautiev saw them go. What he did not see was the young man who slipped deftly down a trapdoor and into the hide.

Sautiev waited and, at precisely 10am, saw Abdul walking towards the park bench carrying The Holy Book with him.

Sautiev scanned the park and it was quiet. Not a soul in sight. He approached Khan who was seated on the bench.

‘As-Salam Alaikum,’ he greeted him.

‘Alaykum As-Salaam,’ replied Khan with a slight bow of his head.

Sautiev sat beside him and said this would be their last meeting. Instructions would be left for him taped to the underside of the bench they were now using. It would happen sometime during the coming week and he should visit the park at the end of each day to check. After that all he had to do was follow instructions and Allah would be with him.

In the hide Jake Scott was busily taking photographs of the two men on the park bench and the recorder was running.

Sautiev was the first to leave, and half an hour later, Abdul Khan left and walked home. Scott waited another two hours checking through the periscope that there was no one else about. Finally he emerged from the hide as silently as he had entered it, carrying a small briefcase and stopped to remove the mic from underneath the bench before going to collect his car from a nearby car park.

Jake Scott sat facing Simon Cheshire in the latter’s office at MI6. Cheshire sat behind his desk with his back to an excellent view of the Thames and the Houses of Parliament.

‘All right Jake. What have we got?’

‘It’s better than I ever dreamed possible Sir, a complete conversation and about one hundred photos, all first class.’

‘That’s wonderful news. Let’s have a listen then.’

Jake set up the CD player and soon they were listening to the conversation that Jake had recorded.

‘Let’s get this to GCHQ straightaway. Let them do a crosscheck with their intercepts and see if we get lucky. At least we have pictures of this Sautiev character and that should make life a lot easier.’

GCHQ, the Government Communications Headquarters located in Cheltenham, provides signals intelligence to the UK government and the armed forces and works under the guidance of the Joint Intelligence Committee. Established just after WW1 as The Government Code and Cypher School, it was known as GCCS up until 1946 when it was changed to its present acronym.

Jake Scott sent the contents of the CD as an encrypted file and five hours later they heard back from GCHQ. Their luck had improved: They had intercepted a voice that they believed to be that of a KGB assassin for whom they only had a codename. The voice of Timur Sautiev on the recording was a perfect match for the man they called Grigori.

Chapter Twenty-One

Esteban Blanco was returning home early from New York onboard his private jet.

Up until the construction of the new José María Córdova International Airport, Olaya Herrera Airport had been the sole international airport serving Medellin but now, with one exception, it only served national flights. When the Colombian airline ACES ran into financial difficulties in 2003 their national partner Avianca took over their routes and moved the entire operation to the new airport. This left some excellent facilities at Olaya Herrera looking for a buyer. Esteban Blanco moved in and bought a large hangar and offices that he now used as a permanent base for his Falcon 400.

‘Natalia,’ he said, ‘what a pleasant surprise. What’s the reason for your call? Good news I hope.’ He kept his voice friendly with no hint of the turmoil raging inside him.

‘Good morning Esteban, where are you? I called the Carlyle but they said you’d gone, so I called your mobile.’

‘And here I am. You’ve caught me in the Falcon, on the way home. But you said you’ve got good news?’

‘I didn’t say but, actually, it is very good news Esteban. I can tell you that my client has found the Gold Virgin relic and he’s keen for the sale to proceed. He has mentioned a price of fifty million U.S. dollars that he would accept.’

There was a pause as Blanco took in the information and the hefty price tag. He’d been expecting a high price but this was higher than even he had anticipated.

‘That’s a pretty steep price considering that he cannot offer it on the open market.’

She had been expecting to negotiate and was ready for him.

‘My client is well aware of that problem but he trusts me to get him the best price. I’m calling you because you have first refusal. If we cannot agree on a deal I will return the $100,000 advance, of course.’

‘Where is the statue at present?’

‘I asked my client but he did not think it wise to say. He assured me that it is safe and can be delivered once the money has been transferred.’

After some consideration, Blanco figured the statue was worth all of that.

‘Very well Natalia, I accept, but I will need to see it before I part with the money.’

‘My client anticipated that and has said that he would accept half the money as a sign of good faith and the balance once you have checked the goods. He says you will not be disappointed.’

‘Your client is a tough negotiator, but okay. If it is all he claims it to be he can have the balance as soon as I have seen it and approved but if it is not I will expect a full refund and you can find him another buyer. Agreed?’

‘Agreed. Thank you, Esteban. I will email you the account number now. It is a Swiss bank account.’

‘Of course.’ Why am I not surprised, he thought. ‘As soon as I have it I will arrange the transfer.’ He hung up.

Esteban placed a call to one of his banks in the Cayman Islands. One of his expensive attorneys in the U.S. had recommended the Caymans saying that, despite its small size and population, they were home to a well-developed offshore financial centre and besides, the counter money-laundering regime embodied in the legal, supervisory, and regulatory systems of the islands suffers from serious systemic problems that they could exploit, but what had really appealed to Esteban was the privacy that these banks offer their customers—ensuring their identities are kept secret.

Esteban received the encrypted email almost immediately and forwarded it to his bank, asking for the funds to be transferred immediately. Thirty minutes later he had a reference number confirming that his instructions had been carried out. Blanco dialled a number.

‘Natalia,’ he said as soon as he heard her voice, ‘the funds have been transferred.’

‘Thank you Esteban. Give me thirty minutes. I’ll call you back.’

Half an hour later she was back telling him where ‘Our Lady of Lima’ would be waiting to be collected. Esteban thanked her and hung up. He contacted McFadden with instructions including precise coordinates where he was to land and await further orders.

Esteban sat back. He was pleased. At least that operation had gone well but, as far as everything else went, it could be said that the shit had well and truly hit the fan. He went over the events of the last few hours.

It had started with a phone call from Richard Bland. He had been agitated, almost hysterical. He said he’d seen an internal memo on a meeting with heads of the CIA, DEA and the guy from Scotland Yard, Andrew Renfrew. He told him he was calling to warn him they have enough to detain him and they feel it is enough to indict him. Bland told him it had been Wild. The memo said he’s been under investigation and sold them out to save his skin. Bland told him that, if he moved quickly, he might still get out but he had to leave the country immediately, any delay and it would be too late.

Bland was scared, said he didn’t know if they suspected him but so far he thought he was okay. Blanco had tried to find out what Wild had told them, tried to get a handle on what they had on him but Bland had said he was in a public call box in the lobby and didn’t want to arouse suspicion if anyone caught him using a public phone booth. He was panicking; said he had to go and had added ‘you too Esteban. You have to get out, leave now, now!’ He was out of control, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Esteban decided he could not risk it and was about to call reception to ask them to prepare his bill but changed his mind. Bad move, he thought, better just leave. He could settle his bill once he was out of U.S. airspace. He didn’t need his clothes. They always laundered his stuff and kept it for him to be ready for when he stayed with them next. Instead he phoned his pilot and told him they would be leaving immediately and to do whatever was necessary so there were no undue delays. He hung up and packed a small briefcase with essential items. Then he called his driver and had him wait at the door. He’d decided to make it look innocent, like he was just off to another business meeting. They were bound to be watching him. He told his driver to drop him off at Sotheby’s main entrance and then to drive round the back and pick him up. As they pulled out, a black sedan two cars back pulled out behind them. They had a tail. This little ruse might work and meantime, it would give his pilot time to get the necessary clearances.

His driver had pulled up at the back entrance and Blanco got in, this time going to JFK in Queens. Shouldn’t take too long, he’d thought and told his driver to step on it but keep within the speed limit. He didn’t need a traffic cop to pull them over.

Now flying at thirty-five thousand feet, cocooned in his comfortable private world, a glass of his favourite scotch in his hand, Esteban felt safe. There would be plenty of time to sort this out. He had expensive lawyers; let them work for their money for a change. Once in Colombia he would call a few friends...judges, senators and others, all influential people. He’d soon sort this out and it would be business as usual.

What had led Bland to make that frantic call to Blanco had started innocently enough. He had been wandering round the office when his pager rang. He checked it and called his secretary from one of the internal phones.

‘Ed’s looking for you, better not keep him waiting,’ she said in that cocky voice of hers. Stupid bitch, he though, still better go see what’s up. Could be interesting. Could be worth money...in the right quarters…and he smiled to himself.

He went up to Garrett’s office on the top floor and Ed’s secretary told him to go straight in, saying ‘Mr Garrett’s waiting for you,’ so he knocked on the door and walked in.

‘Richard, there you are. Come in. Sit down’ his voice was flat and neutral.

The moment he entered the room Bland knew he was in trouble.

He saw Dwayne Young and Andrew Renfrew standing by the window but what threw him completely, what drained every ounce of blood from his head, was the sight of his nephew sitting there looking equally stunned and white as a sheet.

‘I believe you two know each other,’ Ed said.

At that point Bland’s legs almost gave way and he just made it to the chair. Everyone in the room was looking at him including Ian who seemed to be hoping he could pull a magic wand out from somewhere and make him disappear.

‘I can explain...’ he began but before he could go on Ed stopped him with a gesture of his hand. He threw a large manila envelope across the desk at him. Bland looked at it wondering what he was supposed to do with it but then picked it up and opened it.

Inside were several black and white photos of himself and another man that he recognized. He went cold. The photographs were pin-sharp, beyond discussion and as incriminating as anything could be. His mind was racing. There had to be something he could say or do. Something that would make this nightmare go away. And there was, but not what he was hoping for.

‘Now listen to me Richard, this is how it’s going to go, okay?’ Ed said, ‘the only place you’re going to is jail and for a long time if I have anything to do with it. But not just yet.’

Richard’s mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. It was as if his vocal cords had been ripped out of his throat. His mouth was dry, as if it was full of sand. He needed a drink badly but wasn’t about to ask for one.

‘We know everything Richard. Everything. Your nephew here, well he’s been most helpful, a real canary. What you’re going to do, and note that this is not a request—’ Ed was saying and clearly enjoying himself, ‘—is place a very important phone call. Now I don’t know how good an actor you are Richard but I figure you’re pretty good, I mean, you fooled me and a lot of your colleagues in here.’

Bland’s mouth had stopped moving but his brain was working furiously. He was sure he knew what was coming and that it meant he was going to get fucked. He was going to have to cooperate and there was no escaping that fact. He had to choose between his old bosses and Blanco. Between the two, Ed had to be the better choice. The idea of falling into Blanco’s hands was enough to make him want to throw up.

Better to put a bullet in his head, at least it would be over quickly. But he wasn’t going to get that choice.

‘What do you want me to do?’ 

Chapter Twenty-Two

Blanco landed in Olaya Herrera Airport and the pilot taxied to his hangar where his driver was waiting with the Cherokee. He got in and told him to get him to La Cañada as fast as possible.

When he arrived he was told that Señor McFadden had called. He had news for him. Blanco thought he better get that business out of the way first and called him back on the satellite phone.

‘McFadden,’ he said, ‘you wanted to talk to me?’

‘Yes Señor Blanco. I have the cargo onboard. I am on my way back to La Cañada. I expect to land there in four hours.’

‘Good work,’ he said, ‘I’ll be here when you arrive.’

Esteban Blanco spent the next hour on the phone speaking to all the members of the cartel. He told them there was a serious problem that affected them all. They had to meet and the sooner the better. They all agreed but there were difficulties to overcome regarding the schedule. One of them was in Chicago, another one in Habana with Castro. They couldn’t just drop everything. It was agreed that they needed three days and a time was set for the following Sunday at La Cañada. They were all invited to lunch. To lighten the mood, Blanco told them he’d acquired a very special piece and that they were sure to be impressed but wouldn’t tell them what it was. They all figured it had to be another icon. That was typical; even when they were in trouble, Esteban still found time for his fucking icons—but most kept that thought to themselves.

Esteban heard the sound of the Catalina and went out in time to see McFadden approaching the runway. He’d had it built as soon as he got the house; it wasn’t long enough for the Falcon but fine for the Catalina and the smaller Cessna and Piper Comanche his associates used. It was around two hundred meters from his house and, by the time the Catalina touched down and rolled down the runway, Blanco was already in his jeep on his way to meet him. He was excited, he would not deny it. This would be by far the jewel in the crown of his collection, if it lived up to its billing. It would make one hell of an anniversary present for Cathleen. One hell of a surprise for when she got back from their place in Miami. She was due to fly back in a week’s time with their daughter Esperanza and his sisters. It had been a girls’ outing that he’d thought they’d enjoy, particularly as he was going to be in New York.

He pulled up beside the Catalina as McFadden was opening the cargo door. Some of Esteban’s men were standing by, ready to remove the crate. His cell phone rang and a glance at the handset told him it was the call he’d been expecting. The caller said it was bad news. He was sorry to tell him that his friend Señor William Wild had met with an unfortunate accident. Seems it happened in Miami. He’d been celebrating with some of his supporters and fundraisers at a penthouse party and he fell off the balcony. Twenty stories down to the pavement below; he made quite a mess. The caller said nobody saw it happen and he was sorry to be the one to give him the sad news. Esteban thanked him for his thoughtfulness and hung up. He was smiling as he went to meet McFadden.

‘Hola Jim,’ he greeted him. ‘Any problems?’

‘None Señor Blanco; piece of cake,’ he said as they shook hands.

Blanco was smiling like a kid with a new toy and he still hadn’t unwrapped it! A red Ford pick-up truck was parked beside the plane, its tailgate open, waiting for its precious cargo. Blanco supervised the crate being loaded onto the back of the pick-up and followed it back to his house. He couldn’t wait to get it inside. He’d made a special place for it in his spacious living room, where he was going to hold the meeting with his friends from the cartel. They would be able to enjoy it while discussing the serious business that had brought them together.

As soon as Our Lady of Lima was unpacked Esteban was overwhelmed by it. Even before he’d had it placed on the podium he’d had made, he was dazzled. The statue seemed to have a life of its own, a brilliance that sent rays of light bouncing off the walls in a rainbow of colours. It was quite simply the most astounding thing he had ever seen. The men who’d brought it in, unpacked it and placed it in its place of honour stood gaping and the more religious crossed themselves. McFadden had to agree that it was a work of art.

Ana Pereira got an unexpected visitor. An Americano who spoke Spanish just like her. He said he had good news. Said he was there to help her with her financial problems. That he knew she was struggling since being exiled from La Cañada, but that it didn’t have to be like that. She didn’t know who he was or how he’d come to be at her door. She was at a loss for what to do, so he suggested they go inside and he’d explain it all to her.

‘Your parents,’ he began ‘they’re dead.’ It was a statement of fact.

‘Si Señor, but how do you know that?’

‘I know a lot about you Ana,’ he said, ‘more than you can imagine, but don’t worry; you’re not in any trouble,’ he assured her. He went on to explain to her what she would have to do to change her life completely. It would mean some danger but not too much and it would help to bring down a very bad man. The man who’d killed her father all those years ago. Ana had been a child when it happened and was thankful she’d not witnessed it, but the memory still hurt and she remembered what it had done to her mother.

‘But how will I explain the money? People talk,’ she said, ‘and I don’t know anybody rich.’

‘Just tell them you got it from your Uncle Sam,’ he said smiling.

First though, she would have to get into Blanco’s house, but how?

‘Do you know anyone there?’

‘My aunt Amparo; she’s the cook’

‘Couldn’t you get her to say she needs help in the kitchen? Get her to take you on to see how you’d work out. In a household like that, the cook can take that kind of decision and nobody will question it,’ he said, ‘Blanco probably doesn’t even notice the people that work for him.’ Ana wasn’t sure, but it was worth a try.

Her aunt did the shopping for the house on a Tuesday and Ana knew it, so when the day came, she waited for her outside the butchers shop. She asked her if it would be possible to work in the house and her aunt replied she would have to see. She knew Ana wasn’t rich and was always looking for ways to earn some extra money and besides, she was her only niece.

Blanco sent for the cook. When she came into his study he told her he had guests for lunch the following Sunday and when he said they would be ten and that their drivers would also need to be fed, she took the opportunity to say she would need extra help in the kitchen. She told him that she had a niece that might be able to help if it would be all right. Blanco hardly paid attention.

‘You deal with it Amparo,’ he said, ‘you know best.’

HMS Swordfish approached the Gulf of Panama passing Pearl and Taboga Islands, entering at Balboa and sailing underneath the Puente de las Americas. Soon after, it docked on the right next to Avenida Roosevelt. A special agent of the DEA met the submarine and its cargo was removed and taken to a bonded warehouse belonging to the U.S. government.

As soon as it was possible, the submarine continued through the canal passing the Miraflores and Pedro Miguel locks before entering Gatun Lake. Twelve hours after leaving the docks it emerged at Colon on the Atlantic Ocean and headed home to Faslane.

When Yuri CheyNokov heard the news he immediately tried to contact Grigori to abort the mission. With William Wild dead, there was no mission; he just hoped he was in time. His death had made the front pages of all the broadsheets and tabloids around the world. The autopsy was underway and already the tabloids were making a meal of it with speculations growing by the minute. Was he under investigation? Was he involved in drugs? Had it been a jealous husband? And on and on it went. Needless to say all the major TV networks were having a field day! Yuri CheyNokov was tuned to CNN getting the American reaction to the story as it unfolded. Still no contact with Grigori but then, he had wanted it that way. Keeping the assassin at arm’s length ensured that the usual sources that had infiltrated the KGB didn’t break his cover. He was more useful to Yuri CheyNokov like that, but still he could have done with calling him on a mobile, however that was not even a possibility and what was scaring him was that he knew that, once unleashed, Grigori would complete his mission no matter what. That thought terrified him.

After his meeting with Khan, Grigori had left the country. He had to collect the device that had been specially prepared for him and was waiting in Moscow. He would need to get it into the UK and this time he had to make sure he was not stopped. This was an important assignment, the most important of his career, and it deserved extra attention. He would not fail.

Since Bland’s arrest all airports, seaports and land frontier customs entry points had been put on high alert. Grigori’s picture was on Scotland Yard’s computer database and on The Met’s. The Americans had done the same. There was always the chance they might pick him up entering or leaving another country and for that reason Interpol had been alerted. Naturally all of the high level of activity had not gone unobserved by the KGB. The UK and U.S. governments had invited the Russian ambassadors in London and Washington to comment but they had nothing to say. ‘This has nothing whatsoever to do with us,’ was the official line and they were sticking to it.

Ana was in the kitchen helping her aunt with the preparations for lunch. Sunday had come round faster than either of them would have liked but for different reasons. Ana had not confided in her aunt preferring to keep things to herself. It would only make her aunt nervous; she reasoned that the fact that she herself was a mass of nerves would be put down to worry and inexperience because Señor Blanco had been insistent that the lunch should be perfect and would not tolerate any hitches.

Ana wore an apron with two large pockets, inside one of the pockets and wrapped in a small tea towel she carried a small cellular phone. No one would know she had it but she had to carry it with her at all times.

It was 9am and still early, the guests would not be arriving much before midday but there was still much to do. They were in charge of the kitchen and would not be serving; there were employees for that and all were Blanco’s bodyguards. He didn’t trust any faces that he didn't know or had not been vouched for by a member of his team.

At La Cañada the guests were starting to arrive. First to get there was Jose Ortega in the back of his BMW 540i ‘protection’ car, a bullet-proof luxury sedan with some very special modifications. It had cost him a fortune but that didn’t bother him, he wanted the best and figured this was it. Soon the others started to appear, nobody wanted to be left out or miss on any of the conversations that would be taking place the moment they walked in the door.

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘Good morning.’ Tim said when he saw them walk into the hotel lobby. They had been out for some last minute shopping prior to leaving Costa Rica.

‘Morning,’ said Tina, ‘we’re ready for the journey home.’ She turned to Joe, a happy smile on her face. It was evident that they were getting on famously, a fact that made Tim happy, especially as his uncle was too much of a loner. They made a good couple despite the age difference.

Just then Elliott came out from the lift and went over to greet them.

‘Hi everyone. Hi Tina,’ he said and gave her a kiss on both cheeks. Tina was looking radiant and very happy to be in Joe’s company. Yet again she was living up to her reputation of liking the older man.

Tim turned to his uncle and said. ‘Well Uncle Joe, you can tell mum she can stop worrying, I just have one or two loose ends to tie up and then I’ll be back home.’

‘I’ll tell her, but I can’t promise she’ll stop worrying,’ he said smiling, ‘you know your mum.’

‘Elliott, I think we better get going if we’re going to get them to the airport in time; traffic can be murder at this time of day,’ Tim said.

Their luggage was already stowed in the boot of a large Toyota Landcruiser and, a few minutes later, they left the hotel to make their way to Juan Santamaria International airport.

It was just after midday when Elliott and Tim got back to San Jose. Elliott had checked into the same hotel that Joe had used and went up to his room to freshen up, leaving Tim to wait for him in the Bar Bufo Dorado. When he came down twenty minutes later Tim spotted him and raised his hand to beckon him. The bar was busy. Away in one corner, a giant TV screen with the sound turned down low was screening a local match between Saprissa and Alajuelense; a group of men were glued to the set. A John Coltrane track from the ‘Blue Train’ album was playing in the main bar. Elliott sat down and before he could say anything, a waiter materialized out of nowhere and asked if he wanted a drink.

Tim was drinking a Whisky Soda.

‘I’ll have the same, but just ice. No soda.’

The waiter left and a few minutes later he was back with his whisky.

Elliott took his glass. ‘Cheers. Here’s to a successful operation,’ they touched glasses.

‘Part successful operation,’ Tim reminded him ‘we’re not quite there yet!’

Sure enough, Elliott knew there was more to the operation than the recovery of the Lima Booty and the treasures of the Gold Train but, for him, it was success enough.

‘So what now, Tim?’ he said, taking a sip of his drink.

‘Now we wait. But you’re right. Your part is over and you’ll soon be off though you’ve not quite got rid of me yet.’

‘I didn’t know I was trying to do that,’ Elliott said smiling. He’d grown fond of Tim and would quite like to stay friends.

Tim explained that his special cargo had arrived in Panama and that he’d been instructed to escort him there and take him to the bonded warehouse to reunite him with his property.

Elliott could not believe that he would soon be back in the presence of the crate containing the looted carriage from the Gold Train. The thrill had made him almost forget that he was a millionaire. Yes, a millionaire! The advance payment from Esteban Blanco had seen to it. He didn’t need any more wealth than that. As to Göring’s loot, he wasn’t so sure what he would do with it and kept reminding himself that he didn’t need the money. The one thing he was sure of was that he was going to open the crate and look inside. He didn’t know what he would find and wondered what could be so valuable that it was worth the lives of Joseph Keating and Edward Hannah and the misery caused to their families, not to mention the suffering of the Jews whose property it ultimately was.

The following morning Elliott checked out and his luggage was waiting in the lobby when Tim arrived.

‘Morning Elliott; packed and ready I see. C’mon I’ve got a car outside.’ He turned to the porter who was standing by ready to help carry it to the car. They set off for the airport to catch a Lacsa flight to Panama City, and on arrival were met by a field agent from the local DEA office. The agent was young and drove a new Ford Taurus. He seemed to be well acquainted with the local traffic, nipping in and out of the lanes.

The warehouse was in a large, guarded compound and their escort drove up to the gatehouse to be met by an armed guard. After showing him his ID and the guard casting a curious eye at Tim and Elliott, he lifted the barrier and they went through. At the end of a long tarmac with lines of warehouses on either side, they arrived at one that stood alone and about fifty meters away from the others.

‘We’re here,’ their young driver said, stopping the car outside a large pair of sliding double gates that went from the ground to a height of around twenty feet.

The warehouse itself was painted a dull grey colour. One of the gates had a small door with a bell button. The agent rung it and a few moments later it was opened by a uniformed guard. They stepped inside into a vast gloomy space. It was cooler than it was outside and seemed to be air-conditioned. The guard threw a switch and suddenly the place was brightly lit and they could see whole isles with sections of large pallets stacked virtually floor to ceiling. It was a pitched roof and the trusses spanned from one end to the other.

There were forklift trucks parked here and there and Elliott stood taking it all in. He didn’t know what he’d expected but he was sure this wasn’t it. There was no mystery to it. No atmosphere.

‘I’ll just arrange to get your crates brought over,’ the agent said, and he turned to the guard who headed to the small office they’d passed when they came in.

Chapter Twenty-Four

La Cañada was a hive of activity. The last of the members of the cartel had arrived and gone straight in to the living room. All who entered came face to face with the gold statue. Its effect was amazing. They stopped and gawped and then went off to join their friends gathered in a group surrounding Esteban, who was busy holding court. They all congratulated him on his magnificent acquisition and they meant it. The icons were okay, if you liked that sort of thing, but this was in a different league altogether. They reasoned that paintings were fine and they understood they had a value but gold, diamonds, emeralds and rubies...that required no explanation! It had turned into a social gathering. For the time being they seemed to have forgotten the situation that had brought them together. Liquor was flowing like water and there was an element of healthy competition with the stories that were being bandied about regarding big deals done or about to happen.

Esteban Blanco was giving last minute orders to his men. They were more used to handling weapons than drinks trays and looked awkward as they passed among the guests offering everything from French Champagne to good old-fashioned whisky.

One of the bodyguards went into the kitchen to find Amparo preparing more dishes, helped by her young niece. He gave her an appreciative look and turned to the cook. ‘Don Esteban says to serve lunch in half an hour.’ He left with a last look at the young woman.

Ana had heard the guard’s announcement and she looked more flustered than usual. Amparo saw it and chided her, ‘Vamos muchacha que no es para tanto! It will soon be over and you can go home with a lot more money than you had this morning.’

Ana wondered what her aunt would have said if she’d known exactly how much more money. Certainly more than the 60,000 pesos she’d been promised even if that was twice the normal rate her friend Maria was getting working for a gringo family in Medellin.

Esteban was approached by one of his men saying that lunch was served.

‘I hope you guys are hungry because I’m not going to let you upset my cook.’ They all laughed and followed him into the dining room.

Grigori travelled by car from Libya and entered Algeria and then Morocco where he boarded a cargo ship and got into Spain without much of a problem. He had hired a car in Cartagena and driven into France using a route he’d travelled before that avoided border crossings. He’d arranged for a private yacht to take him to England. It would be a night crossing but the yacht was well equipped with the latest navigation equipment; the owner was from Marseille and his boat was moored near Calais. He’d done this before. It was good money with no questions asked. When they approached the English coastline near Dover, he dropped anchor and lowered an inflatable into the water. Grigori put his suitcase into the boat and started its small outboard engine. As he neared the coast he cut the engine and rowed the rest of the way. He hid the inflatable in a sheltered cove and set off on foot. It was 2am and the area was deserted. Just a few farmhouses here and there dotted the landscape. Not a single light coming from their windows.

Grigori was dressed in casual clothes. A brown wool jacket over a checked flannel shirt and corduroy trousers to make himself look ordinary, like a local and he’d disguised his face as much as possible with a flat cap he wore pulled down over his face.

He approached the farmhouse in the dark. There was a faint stirring and suddenly a dog came bounding up to him barking, it was an Alsatian and its paws landed on Crigori’s chest pushing him to the ground. A minute later the dog was dead, its neck broken.

In the house the farmer had heard something in his sleep as in a dream but then it had stopped. He was a heavy sleeper and since his wife’s death he slept alone. He had a small holding and got casual labour from the town to help him run the farm. They usually arrived at five.

Grigori eased the window latch with the point of a large knife and gently pushed the kitchen window open. He went through quietly and stood looking around getting his bearings, listening. The sound of loud snoring led him to the bedroom door. It was ajar. He walked in quietly. A floorboard cricked and he stopped. The farmer rolled over. Another three steps and he reached the side of the bed standing beside the snoring farmer. He took a pillow and placed it over his head. A few minutes later the farmer’s legs had stopped thrashing and Grigori was able to step away.

He took the farmer’s wallet that he found on the bedside table beside him and walked out of the bedroom heading for the hall where he found a bunch of keys hanging from a hook by the door. He took the car keys and left the house shutting the door behind him. The car was an old green Morris Traveller. It was unlocked. Grigori put his luggage in the back seat and got in.

There was a small torn piece of cloth on the front passenger seat that he used to wipe the condensation that had formed on the windscreen and he then did the same to the rear-view mirror. He made himself comfortable. He put the key in the ignition and cranked the engine. It made a whining noise but did not start. He noticed that the fuel gage had moved the moment he’d turned the key and was showing the tank was three quarters full. He pulled the choke out halfway and pressed the accelerator to the floor. He tried again and this time, after a few seconds, it started. He eased the pressure on the pedal and let it idle until it warmed up. After ten minutes the engine sounded good and he pushed the choke back in. He found the light switch and turned the headlamps on, compared to a modern car the light was dim but sufficient. A slight drizzle had started and he tried the wipers. They worked after a fashion but smeared the window so he tried a few squirts of water to clear them. He was ready.

He put the car into first gear and moved off slowly, bouncing down the windy unmade track that led to the gate. Once on the main road he turned left. There were signs pointing to West Hougham in the opposite directions and he figured that must be the location of the farmhouse he’d just left. He saw a sign saying B2011 and then got onto the A20. He pressed on heading past Ashford and didn’t stop until he got to just outside Canterbury.

It was still early and there was hardly any traffic on the road. Grigori pulled into a lay-by to stretch his legs and relieve himself. He carried on past Canterbury and got onto the A2. He was doing well and the little car was working like a charm. Now at last he saw signs to the M2 and London. He smiled to himself everything was going to plan. He came off at junction 5. A police car came up behind him, blue lights flashing and shot past him, siren blaring and disappeared from sight. Grigori kept on observing all the speed limits and at The Ridgeway he joined the A249. After a while he was on the M20 and heading to London.

In Moscow Yuri CheyNokov was going crazy. Unable to contact Grigori, he’d kept President Putin out of the loop but he didn’t know how long he’d be able to keep that up. It was not a conversation he looked forward to. Where was that fucking Monk?

A second meeting of Cobra had been convened. The same people that had been present before were there again. As before, Jake Scott had been asked to provide an update. There was not much to add. Several intercepts by GCHQ revealed that the Russians were as worried as they were. The UK was on the highest level of alert but no one wanted to come clean with the public for fear of the panic that would cause.

Khan had been alerted. If Sautiev, as he knew Grigori, made contact he was to contact Jake immediately. The park bench in Finsbury was also under surveillance with officers manning the hide in shifts.

The U.S. too was on high alert and messages between the PM and the White House were flowing backwards and forwards at an alarming rate.

Yuri CheyNokov sat at his desk racking his brains. He knew Grigori. Knew what he was capable of and the zeal with which he approached his assignments. That, after all, was why he used him. He tried to think what he might do, what he might try. The final details of the plan had been left to him. It was better as he would be able to adapt to the circumstances and be more flexible and effective. It the end the plan consisted of creating mayhem and panic in the civilian population.

Then Yuri CheyNokov had a thought. He needed to know if there was any high profile function due to take place in London over the coming days. He placed a call to the relevant department and almost immediately came the answer that yes, it had been in the pipeline for weeks. Various events to mark and commemorate the bicentenary of the abolition of slavery were being co-ordinated by the UK government, supported by an advisory group made up of academics, religious leaders, community groups and representatives from museums and other cultural bodies. ‘Is there one event in particular that stands out from all the others?’ he asked. There was a pause and then came the reply he’d feared. A national service of commemoration organized by ‘Set All Free’, a group set up by Churches Together in England; the service was due to be attended by the Queen and Tony Blair.

‘Where?’ he asked; his voice getting louder ‘I’m sorry Comrade Director,’ came the reply, ‘I should have said. The event is due to take place next Sunday at midday in St. Paul’s Cathedral in London.’

 Yuri CheyNokov sat down and stared at the receiver wondering if he should call President Putin or wait a little longer.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Lunch had been a success. Now the real business would begin. It would be tough and there would be consequences. It would probably cost them money but they’d all been there before. Esteban threw his napkin on his plate, pushed his chair back noisily and stood up. His colleagues turned to face him.

‘Well I hope you’ve enjoyed your meal and are feeling refreshed,’ he said, ‘because we have some tough decisions to make. Please bring your drinks with you and let’s move back to the living room, we’ll be more comfortable there.’ The other men stood up as Blanco was leaving the dining room, they picked up their glasses and followed him along the corridor.

Amparo and her niece were in the kitchen when the same man who had come in before told them that Don Esteban had said to prepare the coffee as soon as possible. As he was leaving he looked at Ana and winked. Ana’s heart missed a beat. The time was drawing near. It was time to speak to her aunt.

Twenty minutes later, three men came in to collect the trays they had prepared and took them to the living room. Ana’s admirer was not among them.

Ana opened the kitchen door and peered out. The large living room door was closed. There were the muffled sounds of men arguing coming from inside. There was no one in the corridor. Everyone must be outside. She turned back to look inside the kitchen; her aunt was just behind her. Ana reached inside her apron and unwrapped the mobile she had been given. She did as she was told. She moved a small lever that freed a red button and pressed it. Inside the living room, Signor Puglia’s brilliant golden reproduction stood looking serenely on the agitated meeting that was taking place; deep inside her, the Virgin’s heart was beating.

Ana and Amparo went out of the front door and ran into Ana’s admirer.

‘Where are you two going?’

The two women looked flustered but Ana decided to play to her strength.

‘Don Esteban has said that his guests will be staying to dinner. We have to go into town to buy more provisions but we need someone to take us,’ she said smiling at him. He didn’t have to be asked twice, he opened the front door of his Toyota 4X4 and held it open for Ana while Amparo sat in the back. He got behind the wheel and drove out of La Cañada heading for the town’s local shops.

They had been to the butcher and now the women were in the greengrocer when it happened. A dull boom like a giant crack of thunder echoed across the town rattling windows and making everyone stop and stare into the distance. From the direction of La Cañada, a black cloud had started to form.

The driver of the 4x4 was looking at it; his brow furrowed, and anxiously turned his head towards the shop searching for the women, hoping they had heard the blast and would come out to see what had happened. The cloud was growing taller and blacker. Where the hell were they? He ran into the shop but the women weren’t there. He ran back out. He had to get back to the house.

Inside what had been the living room the scene was one of utter devastation. The force of the explosion blew the windows out sending a shower of broken glass flying out in all directions. Simultaneously a fire had started that, left unchecked, threatened to become an inferno. The bodyguards who’d been nearest the house were blown ten feet by the force of the explosion. Their ears were bleeding from the force of the blast, the pain unbearable, faces cut and bruised from the flying glass shards. Others who’d been further away had been luckier and, when they felt the hot wave hit them, were able to turn away. They had not yet taken in what had happened. As soon as they realized that their bosses were in the room that had just blown up, they ran towards the house. Bursting into the room, the first thing that hit them was the searing heat, that and the sprinklers that had come on making it feel as if they’d walked into a tropical storm in the middle of hell.

The sight that greeted them was one of carnage. There were bodies and body parts strewn everywhere. The men picked their way amidst the wreckage holding soaked handkerchiefs to their faces while angry red flames licked the walls devouring the furniture, curtains and icons that had adorned the room and everything else in their path. The intense heat and acrid smell was overpowering. Thick black smoke clouds were curling up the walls and spreading across the ceiling, sucking the oxygen out of the room making it difficult to breathe. The walls and floor were spattered and slippery with blood and smeared with what looked like entrails, guts and brains. The Gold Virgin had completely disappeared and the walls and ceiling glistened with the light reflected by hundreds of gemstones and chunks of gold buried in them. Some of the faces of the corpses were shredded and unrecognizable while others had simply melted into a mass of featureless flesh.

A decapitated head had ended up on top of the shattered piano, staring sightlessly at the ceiling; its grotesque mouth devoid of lips wore a hideous twisted grin. The only sounds that could be heard were those of the sprinklers and the men shouting and cursing as they searched amongst the devastation for anyone resembling their bosses.

In the end they left the room, forced to give up, driven away by the heat and the flames. The sight that they had been forced to witness and the stench of death would live with them for many months to come.

Jim McFadden had known about the operation and was flying over the farm when the bomb exploded. Even from a height of 3,000 feet and in the closed cockpit of the Catalina he had heard the explosion and seen the column of black smoke rising up into the sky. He circled once. He could see people running around in all directions. It looked chaotic. Part of the roof was missing but from that altitude and with the smoke it was impossible to get any detail. In the distance he could see a convoy of fire engines approaching the farm followed by what looked like police vehicles, their blue lights flashing. He turned away heading to a prearranged place where he would land the plane. A car would be waiting and an airline ticket. Pretty soon he would leave Medallin, his mission accomplished. He felt happy and his thoughts turned to his brother. The drugs barons had paid. It wasn’t enough, he thought, but it was something. Looking at the convoy as it arrived at La Cañada he was sure that whatever else they might find, one thing was certain, everyone in the room was dead.

The first to pick up the news was Radio Tiempo in Medellin. They had received a phone call from an anonymous source saying that there had been an explosion at a big hacienda and that there were many dead. He had hung up before they had had a chance to get any further information out of him. They had interrupted the program to report the breaking news and immediately had sent a reporter to get closer to the scene to see what else he could discover.

A Journalist at El Colombiano was listening to the radio and ran into the editor’s office. Pretty soon he was on his way to La Cañada to investigate and send his report back to the paper. The same had happened with the TV stations and Tele Medellin and CNC Medellin were on the case. The first the rest of the world heard about it was when CNN picked it up and ran the story. 

‘...The home of Don Esteban Blanco, a wealthy farmer and industrialist, has been destroyed by a fire that started after a huge explosion. The cause of the explosion is, as yet, unknown. Fire services and the police are in attendance.’

Ed Garrett placed a call to Andrew Renfrew who was back at his desk in Scotland Yard.

‘Have you heard?’ He said as soon as he answered.

‘I’m watching it on CNN now. What do we know?’

‘Seems everyone’s dead,’ said Garrett, ‘but we’ll know more when we talk to our man on the ground; that won’t be long now.’ They talked some more on the need to meet as soon as possible. When Garrett hung up he got a call from Dwayne Young.

‘Hi Ed, I’m getting a lot of information coming in now from our field office. Some disturbing news,’ he said, ‘It’s not confirmed but it appears that Blanco might have survived.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Ed was saying, his voice alarmed. ‘He couldn’t have, everyone in that room would have died instantly.’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ he said ‘but that’s what I’m hearing. He might have stepped out of the room and been elsewhere. If he was he’s one lucky son-of-a-bitch.’

‘Where’s your information coming from?’

‘We’ve got one of the bodyguards on the payroll. He was there. Says he saw Blanco come out of the house. He was white as a sheet, shaking with rage, his face a mask of fury. Says he’s never seen him like it and wouldn’t want to be within a mile of him at this moment.’

‘Fuck! What the hell am I going to tell the DOI? I’m due there tomorrow morning.’

‘We’re all in the same boat. We need to meet ASAP.’

‘I think it’s going to have to wait until I get back from Langley, unless you want to come over.’

‘That might be the best idea. I’ll get a flight and see you there.’

Their brains were buzzing with half bits of information and speculation. The situation had the makings of a gigantic cock-up.

Elliott could not contain his excitement but he didn’t have to wait long. Soon a man in overalls arrived and went over to a forklift, got in and shot off at speed down an aisle. He came back ten minutes later with a timber crate roughly the size of a large coffin. Our Lady of Lima, thought Elliott. Excitement began to take hold of him; he felt a surge of adrenaline as he stared at the crate and imagined its precious contents.

He’d been busy studying the crate and didn’t notice that the forklift driver had returned carrying a much larger timber crate crisscrossed with metal tapes like the smaller one and secured with metal seals that would have to be broken in order to get inside and view the contents.

The forklift driver walked over to the agent and spoke to him briefly.

‘Well, these are it. Would you like to open them now?’

Elliott was standing next to Tim and looking at the driver. Tim turned to him.

‘It’s your property,’ he said, ‘so it’s your call. Want to open them now?’

‘Do bears shit in the woods?’ he wanted to say. Instead he just nodded and the driver went over to the forklift to get some tools and then set to work.

First to open was the smaller crate. The figure had been wrapped in a soft material and protected with polystyrene pellets that now cascaded to the floor at its feet like a small avalanche. Tim joined in with a pair of small wire cutters that he used to cut the thin bonds securing the outer wrapping. When it came off the four men gasped, their eyes transfixed by a sight that was truly mesmerizing. The forklift driver crossed himself, his eyes staring in disbelief. Tim and Elliott were awed. The fact was that the Gold Virgin and Child statue was even more beautiful here than they had remembered it when they’d last seen it buried in the wreckage of the Mary Dear. The warehouse light was catching its sides and bouncing of the various gems. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds and diamonds refracted light turning the warehouse into a makeshift grotto. The Gold Train loot was bound to be a disappointment after this, thought Elliott but still he had an almost morbid curiosity to view its contents.

The man in overalls was working hard again. Armed with a crowbar, he was now taking the outer casing apart helped by Tim with the wire cutters. What was now revealed was the crate Elliott and Tim had seen at the bottom of the sea near Cocos Island. It had the stencilled numbers around the side as well as the sinister swastika markings. It was a thrilling sight. They couldn’t help but think of the journey it had made from war-torn Nazi Germany to end up in a warehouse in Panama City.

Elliott approached it slowly. The others stood back, almost reverentially. This was his moment. More than any other, this was it. He was about to see for the first time what until now he had only been able to imagine.  The treasure that had cost Edward Hannah his life. He turned around to face the others and saw them smiling back and waiting for him to proceed. The lid was hinged on one side and had a large padlock that would need to be removed. Elliott turned to the forklift man, who handed him the crowbar. No one else was going to rob him of this moment. Elliott inserted the large crowbar between the padlock and the ring attaching it to the crate. He pushed hard. Nothing. It didn’t budge. He looked around; everyone was looking at him; their faces excited, expectant. He turned back and applied more pressure. This time he felt it move, heard the metal crick and then with another mighty push followed by a large crack like a pistol shot, the padlock flew off and Elliott turned around to see a bunch of happy people clapping at him.

Elliott turned back and inserted the crowbar between the crate and the lid. It was heavy but he was able to lever it slightly. He got his hands underneath and lifted the lid, pulling it open he sent it swinging in an arch exposing its contents.

Elliott stood motionless, his hands and feet felt like lead, his heart had stopped and his head was spinning. His eyes were staring inside Göring’s coffer trying to understand what he was seeing. Where were the treasures from the Gold Train? The fabulous paintings and the gold ornaments that Dieter had described? What had happened to them? But no answers came, only questions as he beheld a terrifying sight.

Clamped to the base of the crate with large steel nuts and bolts and occupying most of its area was what appeared to be a torpedo warhead. It rose up from the base reaching almost to the top of the crate. Black and shinny it stood open; its outer casing removed; it revealed its evil heart. A tangle of thick wires were visible going from one obscure place to another but just three emerged from the casing, connected to three separate terminals by large brass wing-nuts they led to a large old- fashioned mechanical clock that had been bolted to the inside of the crate. The three wires were colour-coded, red, black and blue. The moment he’d opened the lid and revealed its frightful contents the clock’s second hand began sweeping around the large white dial...TICK...TICK...TICK...

Elliott was transfixed. He could not speak, the hand swept past the 15-second mark before he knew it and then 30 seconds and on it went TICK...TICK...TICK counting the seconds to the inevitable end and still he could not move, the effect of the hand’s jerky movement was hypnotic. Elliott’s mind raced to try to make sense of it all. He was attempting to fit the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle whose final picture he would not live to see. As it neared the 50-second mark he tried to think of something memorable, something out of his short life that he could cling to; the image of his mother putting him to bed, his father reading him a bedside story seeped into his mind. He was calm, resigned, accepting the cruel joke that some unknown person had decided to play on him. A hand suddenly appeared over his right shoulder; it held a pair of wire-cutters. The hand moved swiftly, expertly and cut the black wire stopping the hand with five seconds to go...TICK.

Elliott felt Tim’s hand on his shoulder and jumped as if he’d received an electric shock. He heard Tim say.

‘Lucky I’m the curious type, isn’t it?’

Sitting at his desk in Scotland Yard, Andrew Renfrew faced a problem. Did he tell Natalia that Blanco was alive or not? Whichever way he looked at it he wasn’t sure, it was a case of damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. He knew that the chances of Blanco turning up in the UK were small but he did have money and resources and his hand might have a very long reach. If he told her, whichever way he put it, she’d be spooked and that was putting it mildly—terrified would be a more appropriate word. Still he had to do something. Morally the decision was clear and he was sure that he would have to tell her. It was just a matter of getting the timing right.

In Miami, Cathleen was in the living room of her Bal Harbor apartment amidst the trappings of wealth and luxury. She was devastated. Esperanza had her arm around her and was crying too as were Flor and Irene. They had been walking around a mall doing some last minute shopping when they’d see their house on a large TV screen with the CNN banner headline scrolling underneath. There was no sound but something terrible had happened so they had hurried out of the mall to their waiting car. They had arrived at their apartment and switched on the TV immediately. The news was bad. They had tried to call La Cañada but the lines were down. Cathleen tried Esteban’s mobile and got his voicemail message instead. The sound of his voice got her crying again.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Simon Cheshire’s phone rang; the voice on the other end was that of a man he knew well. The double agent known as Wilber Brown—though his real name was different and he had not used it in many years—was a trusted contact controlled by MI6 to spy on the KGB. Cheshire used him with discretion because he knew where his true loyalties lay. Wilber wanted to meet. Said it was important so they agreed to meet at 3pm that afternoon at Mr Mathew Jones’s place. Cheshire checked his watch. He still had time to grab a sandwich and a coffee before the meeting. Jones’s place wasn’t far.

He got a cab and asked to be dropped off at the Hyde Park Gate entrance and entered Kensington Gardens at 2.50. He walked the short distance to a park bench and sat down next to a middle-aged man wearing spectacles and smoking a pipe.

‘Good afternoon.’ Cheshire greeted him with a friendly smile.

‘Good afternoon,’ he replied, ‘most kind of you to see me at such short notice.’

‘You said it was important.’

‘It is. The chaps at KGB headquarters are very worried. Seems they’ve lost an asset that they are keen to get back or, failing that, neutralize.’

‘That’s the Russians for you,’ Cheshire said; ‘subtlety is not their style.’

‘Not their nature, more like, however, this asset has been asked to carry out a most dangerous mission; one that could have serious political repercussions.’

‘And they’ve had a change of heart?’

‘Precisely. Now, it appears that when they refer to their asset as lost a more accurate description would be “misplaced”, but it has become a matter of the utmost urgency to find him and, as I said before, neutralize him by whichever means are possible.’

‘I see...’ Cheshire said, ‘and how might we be of assistance?’

‘Someone familiar with this asset’s M.O. has had a hunch.’

‘A hunch,’ Cheshire repeated to himself and to the man he said, ‘what exactly might that be?’

Cheshire left the bench that was dedicated to the memory of Mr Mathew Jones, leaving Smith puffing on his pipe. There wasn’t a moment to lose. He took out his mobile and called Jake Scott.

Grigori got to the outskirts of London and found a small repair garage. He left the car with them, saying that he wanted a full service. He gave a false name, address and telephone number. He told the owner that he would be going abroad and would return in one week. That would give him plenty of time to carry out the service. On his return he would collect the car and pay for the work.

He left to get a tube train to St. Paul’s station and walked to a small guesthouse near the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Shoreditch High Street. He booked in with the dead farmer’s Visa card and went up to his room. He had no luggage, just the two briefcases; it was an overnight business trip, he had told the clerk. He set off upstairs to his room. In one of the briefcases he had some old clothes. He went to the en-suite bathroom and changed. When he emerged he was in the grey robe of a Franciscan Monk that he’d slipped over his normal clothes. He carried one of the briefcases in one hand and a tourist map of London in the other. He left the hotel making sure that the clerk in the front desk did not see him.

Grigori reached St. Paul’s and paused outside the West Front Entrance taking in the magnificent masterpiece created over three hundred years previously by Sir Christopher Wren. Grigori was familiar with the building having visited it many times in the past but it never failed to stir his soul. He entered and walked past the nave and stood beneath the glorious dome, his eyes searching for the Whispering Gallery ninety-nine feet above his head. It would be here that he would leave the device. The great height would ensure maximum spread and dispersal of the material.

‘Good afternoon father.’

Grigori turned to find a greeter looking up at him. She was smiling and offering to give him whatever assistance he required. He thanked her but said that he had little time, adding that he just had to visit the Whispering Gallery before returning home. He bowed, smiling, and moved away. She turned to see him disappear towards the staircase and the 259 steps he would need to climb. Grigori decided he would have to complete the task as soon as possible and then leave. There would be no time for special refinements.

Jake Scott answered his mobile. Even before he’d heard the caller’s voice he had a premonition that this would not be good news. He was not disappointed. Cheshire told him to get to St. Paul’s Cathedral immediately and that a small team of plainclothes armed response officers and a couple of bomb disposal experts would meet him at the West Front Entrance. They were to be as quick as possible and search the place thoroughly but avoid creating a panic. Chesire told him that someone was planning to plant a device there and to be careful of a confrontation that might force him to detonate it. As the call ended Jake was already heading towards St. Paul’s in an unmarked car, its blue light flashing and its siren silent.

He got to the Cathedral and met the team outside. They went in, their eyes adjusting to the dark environment. The Cathedral was not crowded. Seeing them standing beneath the dome and huddled in a small group as if wondering where to begin, the greeter approached them to see if she might help.

Jake Scott asked her if she had seen anything suspicious or if anyone had asked her for any information recently. She looked surprised. Why was this young man asking questions and then she saw the Warrant Card that he was showing her. She looked back up at him more confused than before.

‘Can you please try to think,’ he said, ‘has there been anything out of the ordinary?’

She appeared to hesitate. ‘Well, it’s not very busy today but I just had a Franciscan Monk who said he wanted to visit the Whispering Gallery and I saw him go up but—’

Jake and his men were already running, heading for the stairs.

From above, Grigori had witnessed the arrival of the men and wasted no time. He’d secured the briefcase behind a pier out of sight and headed back down the staircase, in his pocket a small automatic fitted with a silencer. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he saw the men still speaking with the greeter who seemed to be rubbing her chin and thinking. He exited through the South Transept.

One look around the Gallery told Jake that there was no one there. He left the bomb disposal experts to look for and deal with the device if they found it. He headed back downstairs followed by three men from the firearms team. When they got to the ground floor they found the greeter there who pointed to the South Transept exit.

‘You just missed him,’ she said. ‘He was in a big hurry.’

Jake exited St. Paul’s running fast and stopped outside, adjusting to the light. His men joined him and they cast an eye around the immediate area.

‘There he goes,’ he said and took off running as fast as he could, followed by the rest of the team.

Grigori looked back and saw them. He turned back and continued running but the heavy robe was uncomfortable and was slowing him down. People were stopping to stare at the sight of a man of the cloth running at full pelt being pursued by four men on foot. They were now in Chandos Place heading towards Agar Street.

Grigori saw Jake closing in and brought out his gun. Jake dropped to one knee just as Grigori fired. The bullet buried itself in the wall just above his head sending stone chippings raining down on him. Jake was up again and running, not bothering to see if the rest of his men were behind him.

Grigori ran across the Strand, skirting between rows of slow-moving traffic and headed for Charing Cross Station. Jake saw him. If he went down into the tube it would be a disaster, with so many people and a desperate man with a gun. He couldn’t let him get there. He started running faster. A Metropolitan Policeman appeared from a side street and saw the group running after the Monk. The man chasing the monk was shouting something at him but the policeman couldn’t make out what he was saying. Everyone had stopped to stare at the extraordinary sight. Was this a film? Where were the cameras? People could not believe what they were seeing. Suddenly the policeman turned to face the Monk as he ran towards him. He raised his hand as if ordering him to stop. Grigori levelled his gun and shot him between the eyes. People started screaming and running for cover. Jake had his revolver in his hand; dropped to one knee; holding his weapon with both hands, he took aim. The shot rang out like a loud bang from a car backfiring. Grigori flew forward, knocked off his feet by the impact of the bullet hitting him on the back. He laid spread eagle on the pavement. Jake ran towards the fallen body of Grigori, reached him and kicked the gun from his hand. He bent down searching for a pulse. There was none. The rest of his men had caught up with him and a passing squad car from The Met had stopped. There were mobiles ringing, police officers had started to cordon off the scene and were asking the public to move-on. Tourists on the top deck of passing buses were gawping and taking photos and video with their cameras and mobile phones. Jake removed his jacket and draped it over Grigori’s face. He called Cheshire and brought him up to date.

‘Jake, listen to me, this is important,’ Cheshire was saying, ‘Grigori must have got to London somehow and there might be other devices, you must find out where he’s been staying and fast.’ He hung up.

One of the other men had searched Grigori and found a wallet with some money and a credit card as well as a key in his pocket; it was of a nearby hotel and they could get to it quickly but they had to wait for a second bomb disposal expert to arrive before entering his hotel room. The reception clerk was being interviewed and looked bewildered. No he didn’t know who the man was. They got a lot of businessmen with little or no luggage. No, it was not unusual. He paid with a credit card, again, not unusual.

‘Is this it?’ Jake asked, and the clerk looked at the card and replied, ‘Yes that’s it. That’s the card he used, we don’t have a chip and pin facility so he signed instead. I have a counterfoil.’

They told him they might have to ask him more questions but it was just a formality. He wouldn’t be able to help any more.

They ran a check on the card but it had not been reported stolen.

‘Get a hold of Barclays,’ he said to one of the men, ‘it’s their card, see if they can tell us who this J.C. Tailor is.’

A few minutes later they had an address and Jake asked the same man to get in touch with the local police and get them to check it out.

He phoned Cheshire to tell him that there had not been a second device; he could almost hear him let out a sigh of relief.

He phoned Cheshire to tell him they had neutralized the device and had not found any others; he could almost hear him let out a sigh of relief.

‘Thank you Jake and well done. Please thank the rest of the team, well done all of you.’

An hour later Jake was told they’d found the owner of the card. He would not need it any more.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Elliott had been back in England one week, and his head was still spinning from all that had happened. His first call had been to his mum and dad and they had reacted the way he knew they would, no fuss. But still that was what they were like and he loved them all the more for it. He’d been to see them and stayed three days promising to return soon.

Elliott met Natasha and took her to dinner at The River Café on the north bank of the Thames in Hammersmith. Throughout the evening she didn’t stop asking questions and he didn’t stop talking. They drank, ate, talked, laughed and smiled at each other a lot. Since his return they had seen each other more than usual and were getting on famously. Elliott had promised to take her on a visit to the cottage in Trowbridge and to take her around Bath. It would be a break from London and a chance to just relax.

Dinner over, Elliott took her back to her London apartment and saw her go in and shut the door. Soon he saw the light come on in the living room and he drove off down Pont Street, and at the lights turned left into Sloane Street, heading in the direction of The Sloane Club.

It was a little past midnight when she walked into the living room. She was smiling thinking about the great evening she’d had when the phone rang. She rushed to pick it up.

‘Elliott?’

‘Hello Natalia,’ the voice was Renfrew’s and she was suddenly serious and worried. What could he be phoning about this late?

‘Natalia, where have you been?’ he said, ‘I’ve been calling you for hours.’

‘I went to dinner,’ she said annoyed, ‘why? What’s the matter?’

‘Now listen to me Natalia, I don’t want you to worry,’ he said but her stomach had already begun to knot.

‘He’s what? Could you repeat what you just said?’ She realized she was shouting.

‘I said Blanco is alive. We don’t know how but he wasn’t killed with the others. He must have been out of the room when the explosion happened. He was lucky.’

‘Lucky!’ she said. ‘And what does that make me? Dead?’ She was shouting again.

‘Natalia please calm down. This isn’t helping. I have a man watching your flat; if he comes near you he’ll get him.’

‘Now you’re worrying me,’ she said. ‘Where is Blanco?’

‘He’s in England. Maybe in London, but we don’t know. We’re looking for him but, as it stands even if we find him we can’t hold him for long. Just take him in for a routine interview. Thing is Natalia, he hasn’t broken any laws that we can get him for. If anything he’s a victim who’s just lost a lot of friends and had his house blown up.’

‘A lot of comfort you are,’ she said.

‘Try to get some sleep. Let us do the worrying,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow but in the meantime be careful who you let in your house.’ He hung up.

As soon as she put the receiver down she realized she was shaking. The news that she’d just heard had terrified her. What if Blanco had worked things out? He’s not stupid. Shit, she thought, what am I going to do? She went over to the window and peered out, looking for the man Renfrew said he’d posted to protect her but she couldn’t see anyone. She wondered if Elliott knew. She’d call him and find out. Why hadn’t he called? Her head hurt and she tried to think straight.

‘Hola Natalia.’ The voice coming from the bedroom made her freeze. She felt her hair standing on end. She was sweating but she couldn’t move, her voice had deserted her.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Blanco was saying leaning on the doorframe to her bedroom. ‘Nice place you have here by the way,’ he said looking around the room, but Natalia still could not find a voice. Her mind was racing. She was trapped with nowhere to run.

At last she said, her voice trembling, ‘Esteban...what are you doing here? How did you get in?’

‘You sound surprised,’ he said ‘aren’t you glad to see me?’

‘Yes, of course it’s just that...well...’ she trailed off flustered and at a loss for words.

‘I came to get you,’ he said. ‘I’ve planned a long trip for us. A sort of happy reunion if you like but the thing is we’ve got to leave right now.’

‘Right now? Esteban I can’t. I mean not right now. It’s late,’ she said, ‘I’m tired’

‘You can sleep on the plane,’ he said pointing a gun at her chest.

Back at home Renfrew couldn’t sleep. It was a bloody mess. He put a call to his man outside Natalia’s flat. No answer. He checked the number and tried again. Still no answer. Renfrew dressed quickly while dialling for backup. He needed a squad car to pick him up outside his home in Wandsworth. The police car was there in five minutes. Renfrew was waiting outside.

The man Renfrew had selected to guard Natalia was found down the stairs that led to the basement flat. He was sitting with his back to the wall. He’d been shot at close range. He was dead. A few minutes later an ambulance arrived and lights started to come on in the windows of the apartments surrounding Natalia’s home.

A search of her apartment revealed nothing; nothing except the fact that she was gone. There was no sign of a struggle. No clue as to where he might have taken her, but Renfrew knew. He was feeling as guilty as hell for not having warned her before and worse still for the dead officer.

He knew Blanco was dangerous and should have had her flat under surveillance sooner; he’d not forgive himself if anything happened to her. There was no time to lose, if they left now they would arrive before Blanco and Natalia, after all, he would not be driving fast, not if he didn’t want to attract attention at that time of night.

Renfrew left in an unmarked car; no siren just flashing lights. At that time of night it would not take long. When he had received the call from Ed Garrett telling him that Blanco had escaped the blast and was headed for the UK, he had immediately contacted air traffic control at Swanwick Centre with instructions to tell him the moment the Falcon entered UK airspace and the airport and time it was due to land. It had been Luton and they were heading there travelling fast. Renfrew was sure he would get there first.

On his way to Luton he contacted the airport police and gave instructions of what he wanted them to do.

Blanco’s car arrived and he headed straight for the hangar and his waiting plane. The door was open and the hangar in semi darkness. His headlights lit the plane and he caught a brief glance of his pilot in the cockpit. He would soon be airborne and able to enjoy Natalia’s company totally undisturbed. He’d often fantasized about that and now it was about to happen.

He went to the back of the car and opened the boot. Natalia was there, her mouth taped, her hands and feet bound. She looked a mess. He undid the knot to remove the rope that tied her feet and pulled her out of the boot. Her legs ached from the journey and tingled as blood started to flow again. She was dragged to the waiting plane and pushed up the steps. Just the sight of the familiar interior of the Falcon and the smell of the plush leather seats made him feel better. He could imagine what he would do to Natalia and could not wait for the moment the plane took off and he had his prize all to himself.

Blanco pushed her into a seat and closed the rear door. He went over to her and pulled the tape roughly from her mouth. Natalia gasped for air. Her lips red and the lipstick smeared excited Blanco whose eyes were shining like a wolf predator eyeing his prey before the final pounce.

‘Don’t go away’ he said, his mouth twisted in an ugly grin, he turned around leaving her there and moved forward to the cockpit.

Antonio, his pilot, was leaning forward over the controls preparing to start the engines and get underway which was exactly what Blanco had told him to do the moment he arrived.

From her seat, Natalia saw Blanco going towards the cockpit. Her heart was pounding and she was crying. She knew she was dead and was terrified by what she expected to happen to her before Blanco killed her and put an end to the nightmare.

Antonio turned around.

‘Good evening, Señor Blanco.’

Blanco was already reaching for his gun. Andrew Renfrew pointed a revolver straight at his head.

‘I really wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’m terribly out of practice and this thing might just go off.’

From the bedroom at the rear of the plane an armed officer in a bullet-proof vest was moving forward towards the cockpit, an automatic weapon held expertly in his hands. As soon as Blanco had been cuffed the officer opened the rear door and other policemen came on board to remove the prisoner.

Natalia was leaning forward on her seat, her head on her lap; she was crying but this time from relief.

Ever since he’d stared death in the face, Elliott had wondered about the loot from the Gold Train. What had happened to it? Clearly the bomb had not been meant for him though the thought gave him little comfort and Wilhelm Klein wasn’t around to ask him. It was puzzling. He had to go back to the notes Keating had made during his interrogation of Dieter Klein. He was thumbing through the pages searching for something he remembered reading; the memory of it was nagging him. At the time it had hardly registered but now... he saw it written in Keating’s clear handwriting: ‘...but before Göring could do anything to him an American destroyer saved him the trouble and depth charged him in the North Atlantic. Wilhelm and his entire crew lost their lives.’

The moment he’d seen it he’d known what he would do. There had to be records kept of U-boats that had been made and those that had been lost. It had not been simple, but he was used to research and did not give up easily. He found out that U-1977 had not been depth-charged and had in fact survived the war. It had ended its days, like so many captured boats did, as a target sub for the U.S. Navy.

Following another hunch had led him to Hungary and Dohány Street outside the imposing entrance to the Budapest Great Synagogue—the second largest synagogue in the world, Elliott remembered reading in a tourist guide—as he gazed up at the two onion-shaped domes that sat on top the twin, forty-three meters high, towers. The towers symbolize the two columns of Solomon’s Temple, another historical nugget he’d picked up in the same guide, and he marvelled at the impressive structure thinking that nothing you could read could possibly do it justice. Its Byzantine-Moorish style reminded him of monuments he’d seen during his visits to the Middle East. He went inside. Elliott had telephoned explaining that he was a freelance journalist who had been commissioned to write an article about the Nazi occupation and it had been suggested that, if he came to the synagogue, he would be able to meet the gentleman who could help him. He happily agreed and the date was entered in the diary of the synagogue.

The richly decorated interior stretched before him. He went to the information desk and introduced himself saying that Mr Rubens Weiss was expecting him. A few minutes later a white-haired elderly gentleman with a slight stoop appeared. He was small, around five foot three or so Elliott guessed, and dressed in casual clothes. His thin face wore a nose that was larger than necessary; the thick glasses perched on the end gave him a slightly birdlike look. He appeared quite sprightly for the eighty-eight years of age that Elliott knew him to be. He was retired but during the war and at the end of it he had been an assistant to the chairman of the Association of Hungarian Jewish Communities.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said, ‘you must be Mr Shepherd.’

‘Good afternoon, it’s kind of you to see me, but please call me Elliott.’

‘Very well, Elliott, how may I help you?’ His voice was thin and old.

‘I understand that you were here during the war and afterwards when the Americans came. I’m writing an article about that terrible period in history with particular reference to the Jewish experience and there are not many people able to provide a first-hand account.’ Elliott was slightly embarrassed by the implication and Mr Weiss noticed and nodded understanding.

‘You’re quite right of course, people like me are an endangered species.’ He said it with a conspiratorial wink. ‘And you’re right, they were terrible times.’ He paused a moment lost in thought and then continued. ‘Some people say we should not forget but for those of my generation, for those of us who lived through it that is, there is little chance of that. We will never forget.’ He was pensive again and then said, ‘Today’s young...’ and again he paused searching for words that would not offend ‘I don’t say they are ignorant, in fact I’m just happy they were not there. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.’ He was quiet for a moment then said, ‘Tolerance. That’s the great lesson we must all learn.’

‘Yes. Tolerance and understanding of past mistakes, so they are never repeated Elliott said.’

‘There speaks a young man. I envy you your youth and optimism but tell me, what is this really about?’

Elliott was taken aback by the suddenness of the question and its directness. The old man was very astute and somehow had guessed that he had an ulterior motive.

‘Forgive me’ he said ‘I believe I owe you an explanation.’ And he told him briefly about his research into the Gold Train and his reasons for trying to make sense of the motives behind his narrow escape in the warehouse in Panama.

‘Fascinating,’ said Weiss when Elliott had finished his story. ‘I was a young man then of course but I remember it vividly. I lost my family you know. So many of us did. Family and so many friends, all lost...it was a sad time.’

‘I know the story of the Gold Train,’ Elliott said bringing him back to the present, ‘and in a small way I have played a part in that story and I wonder if you might be able to shed some light...’

The old man was looking at him through intelligent watery eyes that, magnified by the thick spectacle lenses, seemed to read right into his soul. ‘So that’s what’s troubling you,’ he said, a mixture of comprehension and sympathy etched on his wrinkled face. ‘Yes, I can understand why you would be interested, why don’t we sit here and talk a while?’ he said, leading him to a quiet pew.

‘It was in 1953 when he came,’ he began, ‘he’s dead now and soon I will be too, so I guess there’s really no harm in telling you. He was a German, tall, handsome, aristocratic with a military bearing and, as it turned out, a Jew. He’d been a highly decorated captain of a U-boat.’

‘Wilhelm Klein,’ Elliott said, quietly almost to himself.

‘Yes. When the war ended he surrendered to the Americans. He had no family, his mother and father having died in Switzerland some time after escaping from Germany. He didn’t know if his brother was alive or dead but he believed he was dead. He said that Herman Göring had entrusted him with a cargo of stolen property belonging to the Jews of Budapest, but he had not followed orders and had hidden the contents where he could recover them after the war, aiming to return them to their rightful owners if he survived. What he did with the original consignment you already know.

‘He went into partnership with an American in the salvage business and made his money that way. He wished he could have returned the stolen property sooner but it had not been possible.’

To Elliott everything now made perfect sense. He thanked Mr Weiss and left the synagogue a happy man.

The first thing Elliott did on getting back to London was to contact Natasha. She’d had to give a statement to the police and that had been enough for them to hold Blanco on a charge of kidnapping and now the forensic team had examined the bullet extracted during the autopsy performed on the officer that Blanco had shot and confirmed the more serious charge of murder. Andrew Renfrew was delighted and so too were Ed Garrett and Dwayne Young.

Natasha had been very happy to see Elliott and he had asked her for a favour. He wanted to see a lady and wondered if she would mind accompanying him. Natasha had said that he didn’t need a chaperone but when he had told her whom it was she had laughed and said of course she’d go with him.

Miss Edwina was still as bright as a button and very happy to see him. She was happier still when he gave her the letter her brother had never managed to send. They left her reading it and Elliott imagined that it would not be the last time she read that letter.

Natasha had seen a side to Elliott that she rather liked and she told him so.

The next meeting was one he could not take Natasha to.

‘Who wants to see me?’

‘Says his name’s Elliott Shepherd, boss.’

‘Send him in,’ he said, his face somewhere between surprised and furious.

Elliott walked into Johnny Briggs’s office carrying a large leather briefcase and saw him sitting behind his desk, puffing on a cigar. Everything in the room was the same the only thing that was missing was Billy. In his place there was another goon. Not as large as Billy but then no one could be. A glance at the fish tank reminded him that Noko was still there and could be brought out.

‘Good morning, Mr Briggs.’

‘Don’t you fucking good morning me’ he said ‘where the fuck have you been, where’s fucking Billy and where’s my fucking money?’

‘Did you send him after me?’ There was no point playing dumb; he knew Billy had to have been following orders from his uncle.

Elliott watched Briggs making up his mind. He was trying to decide what to tell him and in the end he said: ‘I had to protect my investment.’

Elliott told him the whole story and watched as Johnny’s face went through all the colours of the rainbow. He didn’t look happy.

‘It was an accident,’ he repeated.

‘An accident you say. How the fuck do I know you’re telling me the truth?’

‘Because I’m here.’

Briggs had to admit he had a point. Elliott was looking at Briggs and seeing him in a new light. He seemed to be genuinely sad at the realization that his nephew was dead. For some reason the idea that Briggs might have emotions, that he might be capable of experiencing sadness had never entered Elliott’s head.

He put the briefcase on the desk. Briggs was still stunned by the news he’d just heard. Automatically he reached for the case, flipped the catches and opened it. The sight of two hundred and twenty grand left him speechless.

‘You gave me ninety days,’ Elliott said, ‘by my reckoning I’m ten days early.’

Epilogue

Padre Ignacio Mora had been taking a nap. He was getting old, and lately, he’d been wondering how much longer he could go on celebrating Holy Mass, but he enjoyed the service and seeing his devout congregation always gave him a lift. There was a knock at the door and one of his altar boys entered.

‘What is it Antonio?’ he said, ‘I’m not late for Mass am I?’

‘No Father, but I think you better come to see this,’ the young boy said, walking out of the door and heading towards the altar.

The good priest nearly fainted when he saw the large gold statue sitting majestically at the altar. ‘Our Lady of Lima’ had finally been returned to her rightful home. Mora’s eyes filled with tears and he dropped to his knees and started to pray.

‘It’s a miracle.’ he whispered.

Andrew Renfrew was in his office. He was standing by the window looking down at the crowds in Victoria Street. It was November and cold outside, the sky that typically grey leaden colour that London is famous for at that time of year, but at least it wasn’t raining. Men and women hurrying on their way to work, tourists with maps starting their round of visits to all the historical sites were heading to Westminster Abbey. He heard the gentle knock on his door and turned around in time to see his secretary walking in with a pile of letters and files that she placed on his desk.

‘Tea’s coming,’ she said walking out of the room.

‘Thank you Celia,’ he said to her disappearing back.

He sat down and started flicking through the pile. Stuck amongst the brown and white envelopes and fat files with yellow post-it notes marked ‘urgent’ that his secretary had attached, the brightly coloured postcard stood out like a sore thumb. He picked it up and studied the picture of an exotic setting in the Caribbean. A beautiful beach and beautiful people and he suddenly felt warm as if the tropical sun had wafted in through some open window to embrace him. He turned it over. Wish you weren’t here it read; and on the top left hand corner in small print, Sandy Lane Hotel, Barbados.

‘Cheeky bugger,’ he said smiling to himself as his secretary walked into the room carrying his morning cuppa and chocolate digestive and caught him talking to himself.

At the helm of his newly acquired Italian, high-tech 95-foot luxury sloop, Elliott felt great. The salty sea spray hit his face as the sleek aluminium body of his elegant sailboat cut through the waves. He felt alive and invigorated as never before.

‘What’s keeping you?’ he shouted.

‘Coming right up,’ Natasha said emerging from below carrying a tray with two large Vodka Martinis. She looked fabulous wearing a miniscule white bikini against her golden tan. Elliott could not think of anywhere on earth he would rather be, and as the sun began to set, its dying rays caught the stern of the boat, briefly lighting the name of ‘The Mary Dear.’