4
“IT WAS GOOD OF YOU to fly back at such short notice, colonel,” said Sir Alan Redmayne, as if he’d had any choice.
The SAS commander had been handed a telegram the moment he stepped off the Buckingham in New York. A car had whisked him to JFK, where he boarded the first flight back to London. Another car and driver were waiting for him at the bottom of the aircraft steps at Heathrow.
“The cabinet secretary thought you would want to see this morning’s papers,” was all the driver said before setting off for Whitehall.
IN YOUR HEART YOU KNEW HE’D LOSE was the headline in the Telegraph. The colonel turned the pages slowly, but there was no mention of the Buckingham, or any article filed under the name of Derek Hart, because if there had been, despite Lyndon Johnson’s landslide election victory over Barry Goldwater, it would surely have led the front page.
The Buckingham did make the center pages of the Daily Express, with a glowing report from the paper’s travel correspondent, extolling the pleasures of crossing the Atlantic on the latest luxury liner. The Daily Mail had pictures of their twelve lucky readers posing in front of the Statue of Liberty. Another twelve free tickets offered for some future date ensured that there was no reference to any inconvenience caused by the Home Fleet.
One hour later, having had no change of clothes or a chance to shave, Colonel Scott-Hopkins was sitting opposite the cabinet secretary in his office at No.10 Downing Street.
The colonel began with a detailed debrief before answering Sir Alan’s questions.
“Well, at least some good came out of this,” said Sir Alan, taking a leather attaché case from under his desk and placing it on top. “Thanks to the diligence of your SAS colleagues, we located an IRA warehouse in Battersea. We also recovered over twenty-three thousand pounds in cash from the boot of the taxi that took Martinez to Heathrow. I suspect that Kevin ‘four fingers’ Rafferty will soon be known as ‘three fingers’ if he can’t explain to his area commander what happened to the money.”
“And Martinez? Where is he now?”
“Our ambassador in Buenos Aires assures me that he’s frequenting his usual haunts. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him or his sons at Wimbledon or Ascot again.”
“And Doherty and his compatriots?”
“On their way back to Northern Ireland, not on a luxury liner this time, but on a Royal Navy ship. Once they dock in Belfast, they’ll be transported straight to the nearest prison.”
“On what charge?”
“That hasn’t been decided yet,” said Sir Alan.
“Mrs. Clifton warned me that a journalist from the Telegraph had been sniffing around, asking far too many questions.”
“Derek Hart. The damn man ignored the IMF loan story that Giles fed him, went ahead and filed his copy on the Home Fleet incident the moment he set foot in New York. However, there were so many ifs and buts in the piece it wasn’t difficult to convince the editor to spike it, not least because he was far more interested in finding out how Leonid Brezhnev, an old school hard-liner, managed to replace Khrushchev in a surprise coup.”
“And how did he?” asked the colonel.
“I suggest you read tomorrow’s Telegraph.”
“And Hart?”
“I’m told he’s on his way to Johannesburg to try to get an interview with a terrorist called Nelson Mandela, which might prove difficult, as the man’s been in prison for more than two years, and no other journalist has been allowed anywhere near him.”
“Does that mean my team can be stood down from protecting the Clifton family?”
“Not yet,” said Sir Alan. “The IRA will almost certainly lose interest in the Barrington and Clifton families now Don Pedro Martinez is no longer around to pay the bills. However, I still need to convince Harry Clifton to assist me in another matter.” The colonel raised an eyebrow, but the cabinet secretary simply rose and shook hands with the SAS commanding officer. “I’ll be in touch” was all he said.
* * *
“Have you made up your mind?” asked Seb as they strolled past the Boathouse Café on the east side of Central Park.
“Yes,” said Samantha, letting go of his hand. Seb turned to face her and waited anxiously. “I’ve already written to King’s College and told them I’d like to take up their offer to do my PhD at London University.”
Seb leapt in the air with undisguised delight and screamed “Great balls of fire!” at the top of his voice. No one gave them a second look, but then they were in New York. “Does that mean you’ll move in with me once I find a new flat? We could even choose it together,” he added before she could reply.
“Are you sure that’s what you really want?” asked Samantha, quietly.
“I couldn’t be surer,” said Seb, taking her in his arms. “And as you’ll be based in the Strand, while I’m working in the City, perhaps we should look for a place somewhere near, like Islington?”
“Are you sure?” Sam repeated.
“As sure as I am that Bristol Rovers will never win the Cup.”
“Who are Bristol Rovers?”
“We don’t know each other well enough for me to burden you with their problems,” said Seb as they left the park. “Perhaps given time, a lot of time, I’ll tell you about eleven hopeless men who regularly ruin Saturday afternoons for me,” he added as they reached Fifth Avenue.