We Promise Not to Tell

by Albert Able

  Kawasaki nodded imperceptibly but remained inscrutable as usual.

  ******

  I tried to fathom it all out, yet here I was, the streetwise hotelier who had smelled out every scam ever to exist in the catering world; who had recently cut his teeth on the perils of capital funding. Yet my mind was still ringing with the confusion of facts, as the ‘Gold Fever’ still raced like adrenalin in my veins.

  “So just what did you think I could do to help you? “ I asked innocently.

  Jacque smiled warmly. “I need a driver and someone who speaks decent French.” Jacque leaned forward “I understand that you have both skills?”

  “I do, but I don’t quite see how...” I queried.

  Jacque raised his hand. “Firstly and with great respect, the less you know about the current situation the better don’t you agree?” Jacque Kyoto smiled convincingly “I do however promise to make your reward commiserate with the part you play. You are just going to have to trust me, is that okay with you?”

  My instincts gave me a chilly tingle of warning as a vision of the dead truck drivers in the cave briefly flashed through my mind, still I ignored it.

  The gold was apparently being driven from Marseille to the outskirts of Paris, where it would be securely stored until arrangements had been made for it to be officially shipped for smelting.

  “The first part of your job will be to hire a car and to thoroughly familiarise yourself with the route to the Brinks Mat depot near Charles De Gaulle Airport,” Jacque raised his hands questioningly “I do not want any errors; like getting lost?” he raised his eyebrows; Jacque Kyoto was not joking.

  “I don’t visualise any problem so far” I responded cautiously.

  Jacque assured me that he had already made arrangements for the gold to be received at Brinks Mat and that once I was confident about the route; I was expected to drive the lorry to the depot and hand it over.

  “Question” I asked respectfully. “Why do you need me why can’t the current truck driver just complete the journey?”

  “Okay, I have been advised that the current drivers are Korean and do not speak French, they may not even have European driving licences for all I know,” he shook his head in disbelief “I did not organise that end of the plan. However I am not prepared to take any risks with them getting lost or getting involved in an accident in Paris traffic and most importantly I need a driver that is credible for the hand over at Brinks,” once again he gave that little nod of his head “I feel certain that a non French speaking Asian driver almost certainly without proper papers, is not the best way to present a load of gold to Brinks Matt for storage, do you?”

  My instinct told me that something was even more out of line but...

  “So tell me about yourself.” Jacque changed the subject expertly. “My friend tells me you are Italian?” Jacque smiled briefly at Jerry O’Donnolly who had sat in silence throughout the whole evening systematically gorging on the numerous plates of exotic foods and wines.

  Jerry grinned back at me. “Half Italian actually, right?”

  “That’s right, mother Italian father American; it’s a long story.”

  “We have nothing but this evening.” Jacque sat back.

  It was I imagine, as though I had been on physiatrist’s couch, as the whole story of my life poured out to the silent audience. I told them about my early battles to survive, right up to extracting myself from the grip of the corrupt bank manager. I included Connie’s in-separable place in my life and her own struggles to breakaway from the austere life in Poland.

  “It seems that we all have the need to take a little bonus from this life eh?” Jacque Kyoto politely filled the silence at the end of my life story. “So now I suggest that we go to bed, we must be on the road early tomorrow.”

  I bade them good night and took a cab back to my hotel but sleep did not come easily; I knew there had to be something wrong about the whole set-up but with the remains of the infectious ‘Gold Fever’ still surging in my veins I did not really want to find out what it was.

  The next morning I found myself at the wheel of a smart new black Citroen; hired using the Business Credit Card supplied by Jacque Kyoto in the name of Anglo French Imports.

  Maybe it had been some instinctive attempt to get out of the project but when I met up with Jerry O’Donnolly in the morning I told him. “Hey Jerry this is most embarrassing and you’re never going to believe this but I’ve forgotten my driving licence and won’t be able to hire the car without it.”

  Completely un-phased “Don’t worry you can use mine,” Jerry replied reassuringly “they don’t take any notice, just fill out the name and number, you’ll see.” Jerry pushed the licence into my hand.

  Jerry was right; they accepted the licence the clerk hardly even glancing up at me as he concentrated on completing the hire contract. The credit card was also accepted without question. I was committed.

  We collected the others and set off on the pre-planned route. The bodyguard, the po-faced Kawasaki and Jacque Kyoto, armed with a note pad and pen ready “to log the best route” so he said, sat trying to be inconspicuous in the back, whilst Jerry O’Donnolly sat in the passenger seat holding the map.

  We tried several different routes and approaches to the Brinks Mat turn off; at the gate to Depot, Jacque discreetly took several photographs with a Polaroid camera. Eventually and apparently satisfied, he instructed me to return to their hotel.

  Impatient to get the job completed I asked Jacque. “So when do we met with the lorry and its ‘cargo’?” As we had become used to describing the secret load of gold.

  Jacque Kyoto looked at his watch. “It will be either late this afternoon or early tomorrow morning, you all have to understand that we are now permanently on call.”

  I groaned inwardly; after a long tedious day tussling with Paris traffic I was tired and as the ‘Gold Fever’ had now almost all drained away, I simply wanted to get back to England.

  We ate dinner early at the Nikko Hotel restaurant that evening. My second Japanese meal did not seem quite so spectacular as the first, even though Jacque tried his best to lavish the most exotic items from the menu on us.

  After the meal we retired to the booth in the quiet lounge again more of the fiery lacquer appeared but the conversation did not flow as it had on the previous evening as Jacque spent most of his time involved in several heated telephone calls.

  Eventually he seemed to relax and returning to the booth announced looking at his watch. “Gentlemen it is all set for tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. We will meet here at eight thirty sharp.”

  I arrived at the Nikko in good time to find Jacque already waiting by a taxi at the entrance; there was no sign of his companions or Jerry O’Donnolly.

  Jacque approached me his face expressionless. “Marcus my friend, there has been an unforeseen problem and we are having to abandon the project. I am sorry for all the trouble you have gone to. It was truly good to meet you but now I regret we must leave.” Jacque Kyoto shook my hand firmly turned and ducked into the waiting taxi.

  Standing there on the steps of the Nikko Hotel watching the taxi disappear into the Paris traffic, I was surprised to say the least, yet strangely relieved, knowing that I would not now have to drive that lorry into Brinks Matt.

  I will always remember that day, the 27th November, because as I entered the arrivals hall at Heathrow on my return from Paris, my heart literally jumped a beat before pounding painfully in my chest as my attention was riveted to the newspaper headlines.

  ‘Britain’s Biggest Ever Robbery’ all the news stands shouted out their dramatic message. ‘Three Tonnes of Gold Bullion valued at Twenty Six Million Pounds.’ ‘Stolen from Brinks Mat Depot just outside Heathrow Airport”

  It was late that night before I finished telling Connie every detail of my amazing experience.

  “Still the schoolboy adventurer.” She mocked, shaking her head in mild admonishment but then smiled as only Connie can and held my
hand with understanding. I on the other hand was so unbelievably embarrassed by my astonishing naivety at having been so easily sucked into the situation.

  I never heard of Jacque Kyoto or his companions again; Jerry O’Donnolly’ s body was found floating in the Seine a couple of days later. I reasoned that he must have known much more about the operation than I had at first realised.

  History of course will show that several men were eventually arrested and given long jail sentences for the robbery at Brinks Mat London.

  I on the other hand am now convinced that after the robbery in London the gold was transported to France where in order to disguise its concentrated weight it was transferred into a much larger container somewhere in Paris and with audacious bravado, delivered to Brinks Matt near Charles de Gaul Airport Paris where it was legitimately stored and then forwarded, probably to a Far East destination, to the real organisers behind the robbery.

  Happily I was not the driver of that lorry; just it seems, the decoy.

  The gold was never found and I still endure the nightmares to this day.

  About eighteen months later I received a small package, about the same size as a half pound chocolate bar but much heavier. To my astonishment it contained an un-marked Gold Ingot; which I still have and treasure to this day. The unsigned card accompanying it bore a simple message.

  ‘As promised ‘Your just reward’. Thank you’

  Chapter 25 - Marcus

  Our City Express hotel was working smoothly and beginning to show a modest profit but operated in a different market to the budget hotels we were developing. The ‘Top Floor’ however continued to produce valuable income and occasional moments of amusement.

  We had accepted the contract to manage Raines Bullock’s ‘Three Towers’ hotel, for the bank; mainly because as we were getting closer to opening our the first of our own purpose built ‘Highway Express’ hotels, it gave us an excellent opportunity to set up a training unit for our personnel. Secondly at that particular point in time with three other hotels close to completion and a further three in build, we were desperately tight on liquidity and so the fees we earned provided a timely addition to our beleaguered cash flow.

  The bank held the first mortgage on Three Towers and therefore as the biggest creditor had agreed a moratorium with the other creditors to have the hotel managed out of its difficulties, rather than put it into administration, where everyone involved would inevitably take a much heavier loss.

  Max Harris with his ‘Max’s Restaurant’ chain operated the food and beverage contract for our own hotel and so we naturally invited him to participate in the Three Towers management contract.

  When taking an hotel over in these circumstances it is paramount that you start with a brigade of essential staff to keep the business running.

  It was seven thirty in the morning when Connie and I entered the front door of Three Towers accompanied by Max, Stan and our own team of key personnel.

  Max vanished into the kitchens with his brigade and I approached the Reception desk and asked for the Duty Manager. The porter slouched at the desk in his shirtsleeves; he was unshaven and without a tie and looked up disinterestedly from the sandwich he was holding.

  “You must be joking, no one like that’s here at this time of day mate.” He took a large bite and frowned suspiciously at the sandwich.

  I opened the low gate and entered the reception. “This is my authority,” I flashed the letter from the bank in his general direction before folding it and slipping it back into my pocket “I am taking control of this business on behalf of the creditors.”

  The porter looked shocked and stood up his mouth full of un-chewed bread as he suddenly realised what was happening.

  “At what time does the reception staff come on duty?” I demanded.

  The porter swallowed some of the food and mumbled “Eight o’clock Sir.”

  I called one of my young ladies forward. “Stella are you familiar with this telephone system?”

  “It doesn’t look too difficult, I am sure Janet and I will soon get all this under control.” She waved to a companion who joined her.

  “Good, then we'll interview the receptionists as soon as they arrive.” I said to Stella and then turned back to the porter. “I take it you are the night porter?”

  The man had swallowed his mouth full and discreetly dumped the rest of the sandwich in the waste paper bin.

  “I am Sir,” he was no fool and instantly recognising professional authority “you’ll have to forgive me Sir 'fings ain’t been running proper around here for a long time now.” The night porter stood to attention expecting to be fired on the spot.

  “What’s your name?” I demanded sternly.

  “Dave Sir, Dave Green.” He confirmed buttoning up his shirt.

  Actually I thought he looked like a decent enough fellow and was obviously a victim of Raines Bullocks deplorable regime. “What time are you supposed to back on duty tonight?” I asked a little less severely.

  “Well actually I’m off tonight Sir but if it helps, I don’t mind doing an extra night, the uvver night porter quit yesterday.” Dave Green was a professional and recognised the new situation in an instant.

  “Okay Dave” I agreed. “and if you’d come in half an hour early, I’d like a chat before you start, is that okay?”

  “That’s okay Sir, seven thirty then?” Dave Green picked up his jacket and passed a clipboard to Stella; winked cheekily. “That’s the house list luv.”

  Stan stayed with Stella at reception and was soon sifting through the guest accounting system.

  Whilst I attempted to track down the Duty managers, Connie hurried up to the housekeeper’s room on the first floor.

  It was very important that every department knew that there was a new management team in charge, ensuring that all the systems continued to function for the benefit if the guests.

  Max entered the kitchens like a conquering General at the head of his brigade to find just one elderly lady busily cooking bacon in the grill and watching over several eggs frying on a scruffy griddle. Max didn’t have to issue any instructions; his team knew exactly what was expected of them.

  One of his white-coated chefs stepped forward slipping his white hat into place as he moved; he looked briefly at the orders on the spikes and snapped a few instructions at the second white-coated chef already gently pushing the astonished woman away from the griddle.

  “You won’t be needed now; we’ve got it all under control.” Max smiled at the elderly woman. “Thanks for your help, you can get back to your laundry now Luv.”

  Max had done his homework and knew that the breakfast brigade had walked out two days ago and but for the loyalty of one of the laundry staff, the guests would not have been served with any breakfast food.

  In the restaurant the new team of smiling happy faces and the cheery Good morning Sir or Madam was a welcome surprise for the guests who had endured the sullen non-communicative attitude of the former waiting staff.

  By the end of that first day I had pretty well assessed every department and successfully installed the new regime.

  Max discovered that the head chef only graced the hotel with his presence for a few hours each day, whilst secretly holding down a second well-paid position at a local restaurant where he also supplied an abundance of cheap produce, for his own benefit and naturally all at the expense of the Three Towers Hotel.

  This chef had even persuaded the wholesalers to deliver goods, invoiced to Three Towers, direct to the restaurant where he was working. Max wanted to resolve the matter in his own inimitable heavy-handed style but I persuaded him to follow my idea and sue the chef, the restaurant and the wholesaler, a procedure, which eventually resulted in a significant return for the hotel and its creditors.

  Only one of the kitchen brigade did we eventually retain, that was Louisa the young Portuguese pastry chef who at the time of our takeover of the hotel had been in hospital; in fact no one knew that she existed until she a
ppeared a couple of days later.

  Chapter 26 - Connie

  Two days after we had taken over the management of the Three Towers hotel I was on early duty and so Max and the new head chef were not around when Louisa reported for duty and so took the opportunity I interviewed her myself and as a result agreed to keep her in the team.

  Over the next few months I gradually learned just why Louisa Teixiera was different. Born on the Portuguese Island of Madeira she was one of seven orphaned children, her father, a conscripted soldier was tragically killed in that bloody Colonial conflict in Angola.

  It wasn’t long before a stepfather appeared on the scene and sired two more children for the family. Unfortunately he also succeeded in raping the thirteen-year-old Louisa and her older sister.

  In spite of being threatened with her life by the stepfather, the older sister reported the rape to the police who eventually managed to successfully bring charges against the stepfather and have him committed to ten years in prison; as it turned out he only served one year before being reprieved by volunteering to serve in the manpower starved army.

  The family shed not a single tear when they learned that he had been killed in action.

  Louisa and her sister were both pregnant as a result of the rape. The elder sister was sixteen and against her mother’s wishes, managed to secure a back street abortion but Louisa was obliged to bear the child. In fact she responded to the situation with surprising courage and enthusiasm; the economic reality however became apparent once the child was born. Louisa’s mother was already working at three different jobs amounting to almost fourteen hours a day and so the new arrival added an unbearable strain to their collective frugal lives.

  Once her pregnancy became obvious Louisa no longer attended school and since her sister had left home in frustration to find a different life; Louisa became fully employed looking after the family whilst their mother toiled at her menial jobs.