Best Kept Secret

36





DURING THE SECOND leg of the journey to Buenos Aires, Harry completed the file on Don Pedro Martinez.

After the war, the subject bided his time in Argentina, sitting on a mountain of cash. Himmler had committed suicide before coming to trial at Nuremberg, while six of the henchmen on his list were sentenced to death. Eighteen more were sent to prison, including Major Bernhard Krüger. No one came knocking at Don Pedro’s door claiming their life insurance.

Harry turned the page to find that the next section of the file was devoted to the subject’s family. He rested for some time before he continued.

Martinez had four children. His first born, Diego, was expelled from Harrow after tying a new boy to a boiling-hot radiator. He returned to his native land, without an O level to his name, where he joined his father and, three years later, graduated with honours in crime. Although Diego wore pinstriped, double-breasted suits tailored in Savile Row, he would have spent most of his time in a prison uniform if his father hadn’t had countless judges, police officers and politicians on his payroll.

His second son, Luis, immatured from boy to playboy during one summer vacation on the Riviera. He now spent most of his waking hours at the roulette tables in Monte Carlo, gambling with his father’s five-pound notes in an attempt to earn them back in a different currency.

Whenever Luis had a good run, a flood of Monegasque Francs would find their way into Don Pedro’s account in Geneva. But it still annoyed Martinez that the casino was making a better return than he was.

The third child, Bruno, was not a chip off the old block, as he displayed far more of his mother’s qualities than his father’s shortcomings, although Martinez was happy to remind his London friends that he had a son who would be going up to Cambridge in September.

Little was known about the fourth child, Maria-Theresa, who was still at Roedean, and always spent the holidays with her mother.

Harry stopped reading when Miss Carrick set up a dinner table for him, but even during the meal, the damn man lingered in his mind.

During the years after the war, Martinez set about building up his bank’s resources. The Family Farmers Friendly Bank operated accounts for those clients who possessed land but not money. Martinez’s methods were crude but effective. He would loan farmers any amount of money they required, at exorbitant interest rates, as long as the loans were covered by the value of the farmers’ land.

If customers were unable to make their quarterly payment, they received a foreclosure notice, giving them ninety days to clear the entire debt. If they failed to do so, and almost all of them did, the deeds for the land were confiscated by the bank, and added to the vast acreage Martinez had already accumulated. Anyone who complained received a visit from Diego, who reshaped their face; so much cheaper and more effective than employing lawyers.

The only thing that might have undermined the avuncular cattle baron image Martinez had worked so hard to cultivate in London was the fact that his wife Consuela finally came to the conclusion that her father had been right all along, and sued for divorce. As the proceedings took place in Buenos Aires, Martinez told anyone in London who asked, that Consuela had sadly died of cancer, thus turning any possible social stigma into sympathy.

After Consuela’s father failed to be re-elected as mayor – Martinez had backed the opposition candidate – she ended up living in a village a few miles outside Buenos Aires. She received a monthly allowance, which didn’t allow her many shopping trips in the capital, and no possibility of travelling abroad. And sadly for Consuela, only one of her sons showed any interest in keeping in touch with her, and he now lived in England.

Only one person who was not a member of the Martinez family warranted his own page in Harry’s file: Karl Ramirez, whom Martinez employed as a butler/handyman. Although Ramirez had an Argentinian passport, he bore a striking resemblance to one Karl Otto Lunsdorf, a member of the 1936 German Olympic wrestling team who later became a lieutenant in the SS, specializing in interrogation. Ramirez’s paperwork was as impressive as Martinez’s five-pound notes, and almost certainly came from the same source.

Miss Carrick cleared away the dinner tray and offered Captain May brandy and a cigar, which he politely declined, after thanking her for the turbulence. She smiled.

‘Turned out not to be quite as bad as the captain had originally thought,’ she said, masking a grin. ‘He asked me to let you know that, if you’re staying at the Milonga, you’d be most welcome to join us on the BOAC bus, which would allow you to avoid Mr Bolton’ – Harry raised an eyebrow – ‘the man from Bristol, who’s absolutely convinced he’s met you somewhere before.’

Harry couldn’t help noticing that Miss Carrick had glanced at his left hand more than once, on which a pale band of skin clearly indicated that a wedding ring had been removed. Captain Peter May had been divorced from his wife Angela for just over two years. They had two children: Jim, aged ten, who was hoping to go to Epsom College, and Sally, aged eight, who had her own pony. He even had a photograph of them to prove it. Harry had handed his ring to Emma for safe keeping just before he departed. Something else she didn’t approve of.



‘London has asked me to make an appointment to see a Captain Peter May at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ said the ambassador.

His secretary made a note in the diary. ‘Will you require any background notes on Captain May?’

‘No, because I haven’t a clue who he is, or why the Foreign Office wants me to see him. Just be sure to bring him straight to my office the moment he arrives.’



Harry waited until the last passenger had disembarked before he joined the crew. After he’d been checked through customs, he walked out of the airport to find a minibus waiting at the kerb.

The driver placed his suitcase in the baggage hold as Harry climbed on board to be greeted by a smiling Miss Carrick.

‘May I join you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ she replied, moving over to make room for him.

‘My name’s Peter,’ he said as they shook hands.

‘Annabel. What brings you to Argentina?’ she asked as the bus made its way into the city.

‘My brother Dick works out here. We haven’t seen each other for far too many years, so I thought I ought to make the effort as it’s his fortieth birthday.’

‘Your older brother?’ said Annabel with a grin. ‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a mechanical engineer. He’s been working on the Parana Dam project for the past five years.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘No reason you should have. It’s in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Well he’s going to get a bit of a culture shock when he comes to Buenos Aires, because it’s one of the most cosmopolitan cities on earth, and certainly my favourite stopover.’

‘How long will you be here this time?’ said Harry, wanting to change the subject before he ran out of details about his recently adopted family.

‘Forty-eight hours. Do you know Buenos Aires, Peter? If you don’t, you’re in for a real treat.’

‘No, this is my first time,’ said Harry, word perfect so far. Don’t lose your concentration, Sir Alan had warned him, because that’s when you’ll slip up.

‘So what route do you usually fly?’

‘I’m on the transatlantic hop – New York, Boston and Washington.’ The anonymous man from the Foreign Office had settled on that route because it took in three cities Harry had visited on his book tour.

‘That sounds like fun. But make sure you sample the night life while you’re here. The Argentinians make the Yanks look conservative.’

‘Anywhere in particular I should take my brother?’

‘The Lizard has the best tango dancers, but I’m told the Majestic has the finest cuisine, not that I’ve ever experienced it. The crew usually end up at the Matador Club on Independence Avenue. So if you and your brother find you’ve got time on your hands, you’d be welcome to join us.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harry as the bus drew up outside the hotel. ‘I might just take you up on that.’

He carried Annabel’s case into the hotel.

‘This place is cheap and cheerful,’ she said as they checked in, ‘so if you want a bath but don’t want to wait for the water to heat up, it’s best to have it last thing at night, or first thing in the morning,’ she added as they stepped into the one lift.

When they reached the fourth floor, Harry left Annabel and stepped out into a badly lit corridor before making his way to room 469. After he’d let himself in, he discovered the room wasn’t a great improvement on the corridor. A large double bed that sank in the middle, a tap that dripped brown water, a towel rail that offered one face cloth, and a notice informing him that the bathroom was at the end of the corridor. He recalled Sir Alan’s note, We’ve booked you into a hotel Martinez and his cronies would never consider visiting. He’d already realized why. This place needed his mother to be appointed as the manager, and preferably yesterday.

He took off his peaked cap and sat down on the end of the bed. He wanted to call Emma and tell her how much he missed her, but Sir Alan couldn’t have been clearer: no phone calls, no night clubs, no sightseeing, no shopping; don’t even leave the hotel until it’s time to visit the ambassador. He put his feet up on the bed and lowered his head on to the pillow. He thought about Sebastian, Emma, Sir Alan, Martinez, the Matador Club . . . Captain May fell asleep.