The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  Nervously, Jake touched his inside pocket to be sure the envelope was still in place. Confident that no one was following him, he no longer bothered to look out of the cab’s rear window. He was tempted to check inside the envelope, but there would be time enough for that once he was back in the safety of his apartment. He checked his watch: 7.21. Ellen and the children wouldn’t be home for at least another half-hour.

  ‘You can drop me about fifty yards on the left,’ Jake told the driver, happy to be back on familiar territory. He cast one final glance through the back window as the taxi drew into the kerb outside his block. There was no other traffic close by. He paid the driver with the dimes and quarters he had shaken out of his daughter’s Snoopy moneybox, then jumped out and walked as casually as he could into the building.

  Once he was inside, he rushed across the hall and thumped the elevator button with the palm of his hand. It still wasn’t working. He cursed, and started to run up the seven flights of stairs to his apartment, going slower and slower with each floor, until he finally came to a halt. Breathless, he unbolted the three locks, almost fell inside, and slammed the door quickly behind him. He rested against the wall while he got his breath back.

  He was pulling the envelope out of his inside pocket when the phone rang. His first thought was that they had traced him somehow and wanted their money back. He stared at the phone for a moment, then nervously picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello, Jake, is that you?’

  Then he remembered. ‘Yes, Mom.’

  ‘You didn’t call at six,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mom. I did, but . . .’ He decided against telling her why he didn’t try a second time.

  ‘I’ve been calling you for the past hour. Have you been out or something?’

  ‘Only to the bar across the road. I sometimes go there for a drink when Ellen takes the kids to the movies.’

  He placed the envelope next to the phone, desperate to be rid of her, but aware that he would have to go through the usual Saturday routine.

  ‘Anything interesting in the Times, Mom?’ he heard himself saying, rather too quickly.

  ‘Not much,’ she replied. ‘Hillary looks certain to win the Democratic nomination for Senate, but I’m still going to vote for Giuliani.’

  ‘Always have done, always will,’ said Jake, mouthing his mother’s oft-repeated comment on the Mayor. He picked up the envelope and squeezed it, to see what $100,000 felt like.

  ‘Anything else, Mom?’ he said, trying to move her on.

  ‘There’s a piece in the style section about widows at seventy rediscovering their sex drive. As soon as their husbands are safely in their graves it seems they’re popping HRT and getting back into the old routine. One of them’s quoted as saying, “I’m not so much trying to make up for lost time, as to catch up with him.”’

  As he listened, Jake began to ease open a corner of the envelope.

  ‘I’d try it myself,’ his mother was saying, ‘but I can’t afford the facelift that seems to be an essential part of the deal.’

  ‘Mom, I think I can hear Ellen and the kids at the door, so I’d better say goodbye. Look forward to seeing you at lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘But I haven’t told you about a fascinating piece in the business section.’

  ‘I’m still listening,’ said Jake distractedly, slowly beginning to ease the envelope open.

  ‘It’s a story about a new scam that’s being carried out in Manhattan. I don’t know what they’ll think of next.’

  The envelope was half-open.

  ‘It seems that a gang has found a way of tapping into your phone while you’re dialling another number . . .’

  Another inch and Jake would be able to tip the contents of the envelope out onto the table.

  ‘So when you dial, you think you’ve got a crossed line.’

  Jake took his finger out of the envelope and began to listen more carefully.

  ‘Then they set you up by making you believe you’re overhearing a real conversation.’

  Sweat began to appear on Jake’s forehead, as he stared down at the almost-opened envelope.

  ‘They make you think that if you travel to the other side of the city and hand over a $100 bill, you’ll get an envelope containing $100,000 in exchange for it.’

  Jake felt sick as he thought of how readily he had parted with his $100, and how easily he had fallen for it.

  ‘They’re using tobacconists and newsagents to carry out the scam,’ continued his mother.

  ‘So what’s in the envelope?’

  ‘Now that’s where they’re really clever,’ said his mother. ‘They put in a small booklet that gives advice on how you can make $100,000. And it’s not even illegal, because the price on the cover is $100. You’ve got to hand it to them.’

  I already have, Mom, Jake wanted to say, but he just slammed the phone down and stared at the envelope.

  The front doorbell began to ring. Ellen and the kids must be back from the movie, and she’d probably forgotten her key again.

  The bell rang a second time.

  ‘OK, I’m coming, I’m coming!’ shouted Jake. He seized the envelope, determined not to leave any trace of its embarrassing existence. As the bell rang a third time he ran into the kitchen, opened the incinerator and threw the envelope down the chute.

  The bell continued to ring. This time the caller must have left a finger on the button.

  Jake ran to the door. He pulled it open to find three massive men standing in the hallway. The one wearing a black T-shirt leapt in and put a knife to his throat, while the other two each grabbed an arm. The door slammed shut behind them.

  ‘Where is it?’ T-shirt shouted, holding the knife against Jake’s throat.

  ‘Where’s what?’ gasped Jake. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t play games with us,’ shouted the second man. ‘We want our $100,000 back.’

  ‘But there was no money in the envelope, only a book. I threw it down the incinerator chute. Listen, you can hear it for yourself.’

  The man in the black T-shirt cocked his head, while the other two fell silent. There was a crunching sound coming from the kitchen.

  ‘OK, then you’ll have to go the same way,’ said the man holding the knife. He nodded, and his two accomplices picked up Jake like a sack of potatoes and carried him through to the kitchen.

  Just as Jake’s head was about to disappear down the incinerator chute, the phone and the front doorbell began ringing at the same time . . .

  OTHER BLIGHTERS’ EFFORTS

  IT ALL BEGAN innocently enough, when Henry Pascoe, the First Secretary at the British High Commission on Aranga, took a call from Bill Paterson, the manager of Barclays Bank. It was late on a Friday afternoon, and Henry rather hoped that Bill was calling to suggest a round of golf on Saturday morning, or perhaps with an invitation to join him and his wife Sue for lunch on Sunday. But the moment he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he knew the call was of an official nature.

  ‘When you come to check the High Commission’s account on Monday, you’ll find you’ve been credited with a larger sum than usual.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ responded Henry, in his most formal tone.

  ‘Quite simple really, old chap,’ replied the bank manager. ‘The exchange rate moved in your favour overnight. Always does when there’s a rumour of a coup,’ he added matter-of-factly. ‘Feel free to call me on Monday if you have any queries.’

  Henry wondered about asking Bill if he felt like a round of golf tomorrow, but thought better of it.

  It was Henry’s first experience of a rumoured coup, and the exchange rate wasn’t the only thing to have a bad weekend. On Friday night the head of state, General Olangi, appeared on television in full-dress uniform to warn the good citizens of Aranga that, due to some unrest among a small group of dissidents in the army, it had proved necessary to impose a curfew on the island which he hoped would not last for more than
a few days.

  On Saturday morning Henry tuned in to the BBC World Service to find out what was really going on on Aranga. The BBC’s correspondent, Roger Parnell, was always better informed than the local television and radio stations, which were simply bleating out a warning to the island’s citizens every few minutes that they should not stray onto the streets during the day, because if they did, they would be arrested. And if they were foolish enough to do so at night, they would be shot.

  That put a stop to any golf on Saturday, or lunch with Bill and Sue on Sunday. Henry spent a quiet weekend reading, bringing himself up to date with unanswered letters from England, clearing the fridge of any surplus food, and finally cleaning those parts of his bachelor apartment that his daily always seemed to miss.

  On Monday morning, the head of state still appeared to be safely in his palace. The BBC reported that several young officers had been arrested, and that one or two of them were rumoured to have been executed. General Olangi reappeared on television to announce that the curfew had been lifted.

  When Henry arrived at his office later that day, he found that Shirley, his secretary – who had experienced several coups – had already opened his mail and left it on his desk for him to consider. There was one pile marked ‘Urgent, Action Required’, a second, larger pile marked ‘For Your Consideration’, and a third, by far the largest, marked ‘See and Bin’.

  The itinerary for the imminent visit of the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs from the UK had been placed on top of the ‘Urgent, Action Required’ pile, although the Minister was only dropping in on St George’s, the capital of Aranga, because it was a convenient refuelling stop on his way back to London following a trip to Jakarta. Few people bothered to visit the tiny protectorate of Aranga unless they were on their way to or from somewhere else.

  This particular Minister, Mr Will Whiting, known at the Foreign Office as ‘Witless Will’, was, The Times assured its readers, to be replaced in the next reshuffle by someone who could do joined-up writing. However, thought Henry, as Whiting was staying at the High Commissioner’s residence overnight, this would be his one opportunity to get a decision out of the Minister on the swimming pool project. Henry was keen to start work on the new pool that was so badly needed by the local children. He had pointed out in a lengthy memo to the Foreign Office that they had been promised the go-ahead when Princess Margaret had visited the island four years earlier and laid the foundation stone, but feared that the project would remain in the Foreign Office’s ‘pending’ file unless he kept continually badgering them about it.

  In the second pile of letters was the promised bank statement from Bill Paterson, which confirmed that the High Commission’s external account was 1,123 kora better off than expected because of the coup that had never taken place that weekend. Henry took little interest in the financial affairs of the protectorate, but as First Secretary it was his duty to countersign every cheque on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government.

  There was only one other letter of any significance in the ‘For Your Consideration’ pile: an invitation to give a speech replying on behalf of the guests at the annual Rotary Club dinner in November. Every year a senior member of the High Commission staff was expected to carry out this task. It seemed that it was Henry’s turn. He groaned, but placed a tick on the top right corner of the letter.

  There were the usual letters in the ‘See and Bin’ pile – people sending out unnecessary free offers, circulars and invitations to functions no one ever attended. He didn’t even bother to flick through them, but turned his attention back to the ‘Urgent’ pile, and began to check the Minister’s programme.

  August 27th

  3.30 p.m.: Will Whiting, Under-Secretary of State at the Foreign Office, to be met at the airport by the High Commissioner, Sir David Fleming, and the First Secretary, Mr Henry Pascoe.

  4.30 p.m.: Tea at the High Commission with the High Commissioner and Lady Fleming.

  6.00 p.m.: Visit to the Queen Elizabeth College, where the Minister will present the prizes to leaving sixth-formers (speech enclosed).

  7.00 p.m.: Cocktail party at the High Commission. Around one hundred guests expected (names attached).

  8.00 p.m.: Dinner with General Olangi at the Victoria Barracks (speech enclosed).

  Henry looked up as his secretary entered the room.

  ‘Shirley, when am I going to be able to show the Minister the site for the new swimming pool?’ he asked. ‘There’s no sign of it on his itinerary.’

  ‘I’ve managed to fit in a fifteen-minute visit tomorrow morning, when the Minister will be on his way back to the airport.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes to discuss something which will affect the lives of ten thousand children,’ said Henry, looking back down at the Minister’s schedule. He turned the page.

  August 28th

  8.00 a.m.: Breakfast at the Residence with the High Commissioner and leading local business representatives (speech enclosed)

  9.00 a.m.: Depart for airport.

  10.30 a.m.: British Airways Flight 0177 to London Heathrow.

  ‘It’s not even on his official schedule,’ grumbled Henry, looking back up at his secretary.

  ‘I know,’ said Shirley, ‘but the High Commissioner felt that as the Minister had such a short stopover, he should concentrate on the most important priorities.’

  ‘Like tea with the High Commissioner’s wife,’ snorted Henry. ‘Just be sure that he sits down to breakfast on time, and that the paragraph I dictated to you on Friday about the future of the swimming pool is included in his speech.’ Henry rose from his desk. ‘I’ve been through the letters and marked them up. I’m just going to pop into town and see what state the swimming pool project is in.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Shirley, ‘Roger Parnell, the BBC’s correspondent, has just called wanting to know if the Minister will be making any official statement while he’s visiting Aranga.’

  ‘Phone back and tell him yes, then fax him the Minister’s breakfast speech, highlighting the paragraph on the swimming pool.’

  Henry left the office and jumped into his little Austin Mini. The sun was beating down on its roof. Even with both windows open, he was covered in sweat after driving only a few hundred yards from his office. Some of the locals waved at him when they recognised the Mini and the diplomat from England who seemed genuinely to care about their well-being.

  He parked the car on the far side of the cathedral, which would have been described as a parish church in England, and walked the three hundred yards to the site designated for the swimming pool. He cursed, as he always did whenever he saw the patch of barren wasteland. The children of Aranga had so few sporting facilities: a brick-hard football pitch, which was transformed into a cricket square on May 1st every year; a town hall which doubled as a basketball court when the local council wasn’t in session; and a tennis court and golf course at the Britannia Club, which the locals were not invited to join, and where the children were never allowed past the front gate – unless it was to sweep the drive. In the Victoria Barracks, less than half a mile away, the army had a gymnasium and half a dozen squash courts, but only officers and their guests were allowed to use them.

  Henry decided there and then to make it his mission to see that the swimming pool was completed before the Foreign Office posted him to another country. He would use his speech to the Rotary Club to galvanise the members into action. He must convince them to select the swimming pool project as their Charity of the Year, and would press Bill Paterson into becoming Chairman of the Appeal. After all, as manager of the bank and secretary of the Rotary Club, he was the obvious candidate.

  But first there was the Minister’s visit. Henry began to consider the points he would raise with him, remembering that he had only fifteen minutes in which to convince the damn man to press the Foreign Office for more funding.

  He turned to leave, and spotted a small boy standing on the edge of the site, trying to read the words chiselled on the fou
ndation stone: ‘St George’s Swimming Pool. This foundation stone was laid by HRH Princess Margaret, September 12th, 1987.’

  ‘Is this a swimming pool?’ the little boy asked innocently.

  Henry repeated those words to himself as he walked back to his car, and made up his mind to include them in his speech to the Rotary Club. He checked his watch, and decided he still had time to drop into the Britannia Club, in the hope that Bill Paterson might be having lunch there. When he walked into the clubhouse, he spotted Bill, seated on his usual stool at the bar, reading an out-of-date copy of the Financial Times.

  Bill looked up as Henry approached the bar, ‘I thought you had a visiting Minister to take care of today?’

  ‘His plane doesn’t land until 3.30,’ Henry said. ‘I dropped by because I wanted to have a word with you.’

  ‘Need some advice on how you should spend the surplus you made on the exchange rate last Friday?’

  ‘No. I’ll have to have a little more than that if I’m ever going to get this swimming pool project off the ground – or rather, into it.’

  Henry left the club twenty minutes later, having extracted a promise from Bill that he would chair the Appeal Committee, open an account at the bank and ask head office in London if they would make the first donation.

  On his way to the airport in the High Commissioner’s Rolls-Royce, Henry told Sir David the latest news about the swimming pool project. The High Commissioner smiled and said, ‘Well done, Henry. Now we must hope that you’re as successful with the Minister as you obviously have been with Bill Paterson.’

  The two men were standing on the runway of St George’s airport, six feet of red carpet in place, when the Boeing 727 touched down. As it was rare for more than one plane a day to land at St George’s, and there was only one runway, ‘International Airport’ was, in Henry’s opinion, a little bit of a misnomer.

  The Minister turned out to be a rather jolly fellow, insisting that everyone should call him Will. He assured Sir David that he had been looking forward with keen anticipation to his visit to St Edward’s.