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found, but it does not say what the man’s real name was. Let’s see if they have
identified him yet.”
A huge, jam-stained hand reached for the telephone receiver and dialed
in several numbers. “I want to speak with Colonel Clavijo right away. This is
Astor Gordero speaking.”
Police Colonel Rafael Clavijo was an old crony of The Fat Man’s and was
one of the Newton’s Prefect celebrants on Gordero’s private rail car that had
traveled to Cordoba.
“Colonel, Astor here. Tell me, have you made a positive identification on
that terrorist in Barracas?”
“Yes, yes, of course. The police department is very efficient, and in this
case, very lucky. Two sets of identification were found bearing the same address
in Tucumán, a terrorist hotbed. We checked them out and they came up
positive. The documents belong to a pair of brothers, it would seem. Lavalle
was the dead man’s name, Jean Pierre Lavalle. The other man, Serge Lavalle, is
still unaccounted for. He may be a hostage, or he may turn up in some ditch.
It certainly is nice when this scum eradicate their own. Gives me more time
for the finer things in life. I will keep you posted, Astor. Anything else I can
do for you?”
“You have been most helpful, as always, Colonel. We will dine together
soon. I will see to it! Good-bye, Rafael.”
“Lavalle, Celeste Lavalle’s brother! Florencia always refers to her as ‘that
communist slut,’ for she makes her leftist leanings very clearly known. The
university had alerted the police about her,” Stoltz enthused as his precise mind
assembled the pieces of the puzzle.
“Then it would seem that Lonfranco De Seta has made the acquaintance
of the Lavalle brothers, and perhaps they have converted him to their terrorist
ways,” Astor added. “Get some men down to Barracas right away and see what
else you can find out through our other sources. If Lonnie De Seta has turned
into a terrorist, it will make his elimination even easier than we expected. I
want to see Rojo Geary as soon as possible. Not here, but at the usual location.
Good work, Wolfie! Make sure you give the wire tap operator a raise for his
fine work.”
Astor Gordero threw his linen napkin down on the table and rose from his
breakfast. He patted his enlarged girth with both hands and smiled contentedly
to himself.
“Isn’t it funny how life works out sometimes, Wolfie? I was expecting
to have a lot of trouble removing the elder De Seta brother from the family
structure, but if things unfold as I suspect, we will have less work to do on him
than any of the others. If the police don’t find him, Rojo Geary will. Then it
will be ‘rest in peace, Señor Lonfranco De Seta.’ The family fortune is falling
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JAMES McCREATH
into our hands even more easily than I had anticipated. This good news calls
for some champagne! Herr Stoltz, would you kindly crack a bottle of our finest,
while I call down for some hors d’oeuvres? Fate really does work in strange ways!
Come, let us toast the pending acquisition of the De Seta financial empire!”
294
Chapter twenty-One
London, England. May 6, 1978.
“Two fingers for Sir Reggie!” someone yelled above the din.
“Two fingers? Bloody hell, crack the jeroboams!” was Sir Reginald
Russell’s retort.
Instantly the sound of corks popping reverberated throughout the dank,
cramped confines. Paper coffee cups were filled to overflowing with Moet &
Chandon’s finest bubbly. Mud-splattered, half-naked players rubbed shoulders
with gentlemen in Savile Row overcoats and suits. The air was thick with cigar
smoke, sweat, and backed-up latrines. Sir Reggie gulped down the contents of
an entire vessel in one swallow.
“More! Fill it up again, Monteith, and keep filling it up until I bloody
well fall on my keister.” Another paper chalice was drained in a heartbeat.
“Again, Monteith. Be spry with that bottle, you old sod!”
Archibald Monteith reacted to the request with a steady hand that spilt
nary a drop of the precious liquid. Replenished, Sir Reggie allowed himself to
slump against a dirty brick wall.
“Forty years! Forty bloody years! We’re back now though, we’re really back!
Monteith! Keep the cup filled, man. Is that too hard a task to perform?”
Monteith knew his retainer too well, though. He could always find some
trivial matter to busy himself with that would allow him to ignore his Lordship’s
requests for more alcohol. The ex-Royal Marine medic was now absorbed in
topping up some of the board of director’s cups. Sir Reggie understood. The two
men had an unspoken agreement, the result of many years spent in each other’s
company. When Sir Reginald Russell began drinking, Archibald Monteith
assumed the ultimate control of how much and when to holler ‘enough!’ This
had enabled his Lordship to avoid countless embarrassing situations.
“Two fingers, huh! I prefer the taste of the bubbly. Think I could get used
to it, too,” Sir Reggie mumbled to himself as he drank in the atmosphere of
the fetid cavern. Two fingers of his favorite Glen Moray single malt Scotch had
most often been consumed to dull the pain of frustrating defeats during the
long climb back to the top. ‘The top’ being a return to the first division ranks
of the English Football Association.
Today they had made it back, back after forty years in the shadows. “The
Canaries are back!” he shouted to no one in particular. That was certainly cause
JAMES McCREATH
enough to crack the huge bottles of champagne that Monteith had hidden
in the dressing room after the interval. The score had been tied at nil, but
Sir Reggie just had a feeling. All they needed was a tie, one point, to clinch
promotion. The Canaries did better than that, though. They won, 2-0, sending
the home crowd into a long-awaited frenzy.
“The Isle of Dogs will be howling tonight!” he laughed out loud.
Now the real work would begin, and Reginald Russell knew it all too
well. It was one thing to attain promotion to the FA first division, but it was a
totally different thing to represent yourself well and avoid being embarrassed
by the ‘Gods of English football.’
Manchester United vs. Canary Wharf in a first division fixture? Surely
some people would take it as a misprint, a jest. Those poor souls didn’t know
their FA history. Canary Wharf had been there many times, to Old Trafford,
to Highbury, to White Hart Lane. The Canaries had competed since 1897,
never missing a season. There had been many peaks and valleys . . . deep, deep,
valleys, but now they were back. Back where Sir Reggie wanted them, back
where they belonged.
Someone in the crowd called for a few words from their patron, and with
that, Sir Reggie tried to disappear into the shadows, heading for the therapist’s
door.
“Come on, me Lord. All’s they want is a few words. Just tell them how
proud of them you are. Come on, here he is, here’s Sir Reggie for you.”
&
nbsp; Monteith led the chairman of the board of directors to the trainer’s wooden
crate and gave Sir Reggie an arm up.
The assembled mass cheered wildly. Sir Reggie motioned for them to stop,
only encouraging them further.
“Please, gentlemen. Gentlemen, please! Thank you, thank you. Allow me
a few words of thanks. To the board of directors for their judgment and support,
to the working press for remembering history, to manager Randal Horton and
his staff for a fine strategy and the perseverance to see it bear fruit, and last, but
certainly not least, to you, the Canary Wharf players. You were the ones that
made our dreams come true. Thank you, thank you all. Now gentlemen, a toast
to the Canaries! Three cheers, hip hip hooray, hip hip . . .”
As he was partway through the cheer, Sir Reggie remembered one person
who he had forgotten to thank, the person perhaps most responsible for the
team, and himself, being where they were today. He whistled loudly for silence
as the last hooray echoed above the unusual scene.
“Gentlemen, your attention for one more moment, if you will. There is a
very special person that I forgot to acknowledge, and I think you all know the
influence this person has had on me. For obvious reasons, this lovely creature
is not in the room with us at the moment, lest she be scared out of her wits
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by those dangling participles that seem to escape their towels every so often.
However, my daughter, Mallory, is the one person who instilled in me the will
to bring the Canaries back to the first division. I can tell you in all honesty that
it was her unflinching spirit and daily enthusiasm that transformed me into a
man possessed with accomplishing this feat. Now, Monteith, get me a full cup,
for I am going to find the lady and give her some of the celebratory reward.
Carry on, gentlemen!”
To the sound of a hearty “here, here,” Sir Reggie leapt from his pedestal
with two full cups of cheer, Monteith having relented and given his Lordship a
cup of his own with which to join his daughter in celebration.
It was an arduous journey to the exit, numerous well-wishers and story
seekers blocking the way. The English press had been full measure in their
support of the Canaries ascension, for tradition and history were what made
English football so unique. The Canaries were one of the old-guard teams,
and as such, were shown the respect Sir Reggie felt they should be accorded.
Each scribe seemed to want a personal word from the chairman as he struggled
toward the door. Reggie politely sidestepped all requests and pushed onward,
but he stopped dead in his tracks when he came upon Lawton MacRae.
The man cut a striking pose, sitting astride a dust bin, a Marlboro cigarette
and bottle of Bass Ale keeping him company. He was stripped to the waste, but
had retained his match shorts, stockings, and cleats. A large, toothless grin was
plastered on his weathered face.
He was the eldest of the lot. Their captain. Experience personified! Thirteen
seasons with the club, all in the netherlands of the charts. Third division, then
second. Really never a thought of the big league, not until Mallory Russell got
involved. Then it all changed, and Lawton MacRae was there to see it happen.
“Lawton, hail fellow, Lawton. How does it feel, man? We made it, made
it to the big time again!”
“Aye, gov’nor, it feels right smug, it does at that!”
“There’ll be a bonus in your stocking, Lawton! Enjoy yourself, you’ve
earned it.”
Then it was on through the crowd and finally out into the passageway.
She stood in the shadows, almost invisible. The body moved first,
intercepting the intruder.
“Right, Sir Reginald. Lady Russell, it’s your father.”
With that, the plainclothes Marine sergeant withdrew to the shadows
himself. According to proper military protocol, the sergeant should have
addressed his superior officer by his rank, Lieutenant Colonel, but Reginald
Russell forbade military decorum when he was in civilian clothing.
“Reggie, isn’t it wonderful? They’re tearing up the turf, and the singing .
. . it sent shivers up my spine.”
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JAMES McCREATH
The commotion from the pitch was still reverberating down the player’s
tunnel as a triumphant father and daughter stood relishing the moment. Sir
Reggie gave his daughter a loving smile.
Even in the half-light there was no mistaking her beauty. Her long blond
hair was tucked neatly into a tam, accentuating her fine cheekbones and flawless
complexion. Her eyes remained a mystery, however, hidden behind dark glasses
that afforded her the anonymity she felt she required on occasions such as these.
It was false security, for everyone in the football circles knew or knew of Mallory
Russell. Sir Reggie’s favorite, the real brains behind the Canary Wharf revival,
the best-looking and shrewdest woman connected with football in all of Great
Britain! This was really her moment, and Sir Reggie knew it well.
“Mallory, darling, I’ve brought you some good cheer, and a heartfelt
‘hoorah’ from the gentlemen inside.” Sir Reggie embraced his only daughter,
trying not to spill his champagne all over them.
“You’re to blame for all of this, you know,” he chastised her ruefully.
“All this noise and mess. And now, what are we going to do? I can see the
headlines already in August . . .‘Notts Forest Feasts On Canaries,’ or how about,
‘Liverpool Makes Canary-Paté Out Of First Division Pretenders!’ There are no
legs left in there, darling, although I must say, there are several other parts of
the body that seem in excellent condition! Oh, sorry.” Sir Reggie never missed
an opportunity to instill some of his famous bawdy humor into a discussion.
“Father!” Mallory recoiled in mock disgust. “Their legs will be fine, the
good ones, at least. As for the rest, it’s up to us to bring in some new blood, real
footballers. We’ll use the best we’ve got, but if we have to play with the rest of
this lot, heaven help us!”
It was at that moment that the seed was planted, the seed of an idea that
would change their lives. It had to do with the ‘new blood, the real footballers.’
Neither of the Russells could know that Mallory’s comment would cast the
die on a long, arduous journey. The events that were about to unfold had their
conception in that dimly lit passage.
“The board will have to meet early next week to plan a strategy, and we’ll
want to have that architect there with the plans for the east stands. What was
his name?”
“Hughes, father, John Hughes,” Mallory replied impatiently.
“Right, Hughes! You would think that I could remember that after all
this time. Well, it looks as if it’s a go, the expansion of the Bird Cage. Neville
Strathy had a word with me at the final whistle. The financing is all in place.
With board approval, we can start construction this month!”
He embraced his daughter once more, positively beaming with enthusiasm
and good cheer.
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way to the feeling that the Canary Wharf Football Club was now poised on
the brink of its new destiny. Sir Neville Strathy, chairman of the National
Westminster Bank, had been a schoolboy chum of Reginald Russell’s at Eton
in the 1930s. The old boy network came in handy at times, and Sir Reggie had
kept all his banking, accounting, and legal business with fellows that he knew
from the ‘old days.’
It was Strathy’s financial clout that was about to allow the Canaries to
expand their ancient home stadium, lovingly known as the Bird Cage, to
standards expected of a first division football team. Strathy had been a Canary
supporter ever since the two men had met, but he had always told his friend
that it was necessary for the team to achieve entry into the English league first
division before he could be of any real assistance. That time had come, and Sir
Reggie was about to call in his marker.
The Canary Wharf Football Club had been founded in 1897 by
Reginald Russell’s grandfather, Sir Arthur Grainger Russell, thirteenth Earl of
Weymouth. It had been a gentleman’s wager with shipbuilding magnet Arnold
F. Hills, proprietor of the Thames Ironworks, that prompted young Arthur
to form a semi-amateur team made up of stevedores, dock workers, tugboat
crewmen, and ferry sailors. These men were all employed in the area of Canary
Wharf, situated on the Isle of Dogs in London’s east end.
The arrogant Mr. Hills had formed his own club two years earlier, primarily
to give his shipbuilders a heightened sense of pride in their company. Mr. Hills
also believed that the sport could be a healthy outlet for his employee’s physical
and mental well-being. The popularity of the team astonished its founder, with
thousands of people turning out to watch the amateurs at Browning Road,
East Ham.
Hills, an ardent Victorian capitalist, saw a chance to increase the prestige of
his company’s name, as well as make a tidy profit from this football enthusiasm.
He set out to find a location for a proper stadium that would capture the
imagination of the entire nation. His quest for a site ended in 1897, when
Hills announced that he would construct the most magnificent recreational
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