Be Careful What You Wish For

by Jeffrey Archer

“Yes, but only for a few minutes. And be warned, darling, he’s covered in plaster and bandages, so you might not even recognize him.” Emma took his hand and led him up to the first floor, where they came across a woman dressed in a dark blue uniform who was bustling around, keeping a close eye on the patients while giving the occasional order to her staff.

  “I’m Miss Puddicombe,” she announced, thrusting out her hand.

  “Matron to you,” whispered Emma. Harry shook her hand and said, “Good day, Matron.”

  Without another word, the diminutive figure led them through to the Bevan Ward to find two neat rows of beds, every one of them occupied. Miss Puddicombe sailed on until she reached a patient at the far end of the room. She drew a curtain around Sebastian Arthur Clifton, and then withdrew. Harry stared down at his son. His left leg was held up by a pulley, while the other one, also encased in plaster, lay flat on the bed. His head was swathed in bandages, leaving one eye to focus on his parents, but his lips didn’t move.

  As Harry bent down to kiss him on the forehead, the first words Sebastian uttered were, “How’s Bruno?”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry to have to question you both after all you’ve been through,” said Chief Inspector Miles. “I wouldn’t unless it was absolutely necessary.”

  “And why is it necessary?” asked Harry, who was no stranger to detectives or their methods of extracting information.

  “I’m yet to be convinced that what happened on the A1 was an accident.”

  “What are you suggesting?” asked Harry, looking directly at the detective.

  “I’m not suggesting anything, sir, but our back-room johnnies have carried out a thorough inspection of the vehicle, and they think one or two things just don’t add up.”

  “Like what?” asked Emma.

  “For a start, Mrs. Clifton,” said Miles, “we can’t work out why your son crossed the central reservation where he so obviously risked being hit by an oncoming vehicle.”

  “Perhaps the car had a mechanical fault?” suggested Harry.

  “That was our first thought,” replied Miles. “But although the car was badly damaged, none of the tires had burst, and the steering-wheel shaft was intact, which is almost unknown in an accident of this kind.”

  “That’s hardly proof of a crime being committed,” said Harry.

  “No, sir,” said Miles, “and on its own, it wouldn’t have been enough for me to ask the coroner to refer the case to the DPP. But a witness has come forward with some rather disturbing evidence.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “She,” said Miles, referring to his notebook. “A Mrs. Challis told us she was overtaken by an open-top MG which was just about to pass three lorries that were in convoy on the inside lane, when the front lorry moved into the outside lane, although there was no other vehicle in front of him. This meant that the driver of the MG had to brake suddenly. The third lorry then also moved across into the outside lane, again for no apparent reason, while the middle lorry maintained its speed, leaving the MG with no way to overtake or move to the safety of the inside lane. Mrs. Challis went on to say that the three lorries kept the MG boxed in this position for some considerable time,” continued the detective, “until its driver, without rhyme or reason, careered across the central reservation straight into the face of the oncoming traffic.”

  “Have you been able to question any of the three lorry drivers?” asked Emma.

  “No. We’ve been unable to track down any of them, Mrs. Clifton. And don’t think we haven’t tried.”

  “But what you’re suggesting is unthinkable,” said Harry. “Who would want to kill two innocent boys?”

  “I would have agreed with you, Mr. Clifton, if we hadn’t recently discovered that Bruno Martinez didn’t originally intend to accompany your son on the journey to Cambridge.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Because his girlfriend, a Miss Thornton, has come forward and informed us that she had planned to go to the cinema with Bruno that day, but she had to cancel at the last moment because she’d caught a cold.” The chief inspector took a pen out of his pocket, turned a page of his notebook and looked directly at Sebastian’s parents before asking, “Do either of you have any reason to believe that someone might have wanted to harm your son?”

  “No,” said Harry.

  “Yes,” said Emma.

  3

  “JUST MAKE SURE you finish the job this time,” Don Pedro Martinez almost shouted. “It shouldn’t prove too difficult,” he added as he sat forward in his chair. “I was able to stroll into the hospital unchallenged yesterday morning, and at night it ought to be a whole lot easier.”

  “How do you want him disposed of?” asked Karl, matter-of-factly.

  “Cut his throat,” said Martinez. “All you’ll need is a white coat, a stethoscope and a surgeon’s knife. Just make sure it’s sharp.”

  “Might not be wise to slit the boy’s throat,” suggested Karl. “Better to suffocate him with a pillow and let them assume he died as a result of his injuries.”

  “No. I want the Clifton boy to suffer a slow and painful death. In fact, the slower the better.”

  “I understand how you feel, boss, but we don’t need to give that detective any more reason to reopen his inquiries.”

  Martinez looked disappointed. “All right then, suffocate him,” he said reluctantly. “But make sure it lasts for as long as possible.”

  “Do you want me to involve Diego and Luis?”

  “No. But I want them to attend the funeral, as Sebastian’s friends, so they can report back. I want to hear that they suffered every bit as much as I did when I first realized it wasn’t Bruno who’d survived.”

  “But what about—”

  The phone on Don Pedro’s desk began to ring. He grabbed it. “Yes?”

  “There’s a Colonel Scott-Hopkins on the line,” said his secretary. “He wants to discuss a personal matter with you. Says it’s urgent.”

  * * *

  All four of them had rearranged their diaries so they could be at the Cabinet office in Downing Street by nine the following morning.

  Sir Alan Redmayne, the cabinet secretary, had canceled his meeting with M. Chauvel, the French Ambassador, with whom he’d planned to discuss the implications of Charles de Gaulle’s possible return to the Elysée Palace.

  Sir Giles Barrington MP would not be attending the weekly Shadow Cabinet meeting because, as he explained to Mr. Gaitskell, the Leader of the Opposition, an urgent family problem had arisen.

  Harry Clifton wouldn’t be signing copies of his latest book, Blood Is Thicker Than Water, at Hatchards in Piccadilly. He’d signed a hundred copies in advance to try to placate the manager, who couldn’t hide his disappointment, especially after he’d learned that Harry would top the bestseller list on Sunday.

  Emma Clifton had postponed a meeting with Ross Buchanan to discuss the chairman’s ideas for the building of a new luxury liner that, if the board backed him, would become part of the Barrington shipping line.

  The four of them took their seats around an oval table in the cabinet secretary’s office.

  “It was good of you to see us at such short notice,” said Giles from the far end of the table. Sir Alan nodded. “But I’m sure you can appreciate that Mr. and Mrs. Clifton are worried that their son’s life might still be in danger.”

  “I share their anxiety,” said Redmayne, “and allow me to say how sorry I was to learn of your son’s accident, Mrs. Clifton. Not least because I feel partly to blame for what happened. However, let me assure you that I have not been idle. Over the weekend I spoke to Mr. Owen, Chief Inspector Miles and the local coroner. They couldn’t have been more cooperative. And I have to agree with Miles, there just isn’t enough evidence to prove that Don Pedro Martinez was in any way involved in the accident.” Emma’s look of exasperation caused Sir Alan to quickly add, “Nevertheless, proof and not being in any doubt are often two very differe
nt animals, and after learning that Martinez wasn’t aware that his son was in the car at the time, I concluded that he just might consider striking again, however irrational that might seem.”

  “An eye for an eye,” said Harry.

  “You could be right,” said the cabinet secretary. “He clearly hasn’t forgiven us for what he sees as stealing eight million pounds of his money, even if it was all counterfeit, and although he may not yet have worked out that the government was behind the operation, there’s no doubt that he believes your son was personally responsible for what took place in Southampton and I am only sorry that, at the time, I did not take your understandable concern seriously enough.”

  “I’m at least grateful for that,” said Emma. “But it’s not you who is continually wondering when and where Martinez will strike next. And anyone can stroll in and out of that hospital as easily as if it were a bus station.”

  “I can’t disagree,” said Redmayne. “I did so myself yesterday afternoon.” This revelation caused a momentary silence that allowed him to continue. “However, you can be assured, Mrs. Clifton, that this time I’ve taken the necessary steps to make sure that your son is no longer in any danger.”

  “Can you share with Mr. and Mrs. Clifton the reason for your confidence?” asked Giles.

  “No, Sir Giles, I cannot.”

  “Why not?” demanded Emma.

  “Because on this occasion I had to involve the home secretary as well as the secretary of state for defense, so I am therefore bound by Privy Council confidentiality.”

  “What sort of mumbo jumbo is that?” demanded Emma. “Try not to forget that we’re talking about my son’s life.”

  “Should any of this ever become public,” said Giles, turning to his sister, “even in fifty years’ time, it will be important to show that neither you nor Harry was aware that ministers of the Crown were involved.”

  “I am grateful, Sir Giles,” said the cabinet secretary.

  “I can just about stomach these pompous coded messages you two keep passing to each other,” said Harry, “as long as I can be assured that my son’s life is no longer in danger, because if anything else were to happen to Sebastian, Sir Alan, there would only be one person to blame.”

  “I accept your admonition, Mr. Clifton. However, I am able to confirm that Martinez no longer poses a threat to Sebastian or any other member of your family. Frankly, I’ve bent the rules to breaking point to make sure that it’s literally more than Martinez’s life is worth.”

  Harry still looked skeptical, and although Giles seemed to accept Sir Alan’s word, he realized that he would have to become prime minister before the cabinet secretary would reveal the reason for his confidence, and perhaps not even then.

  “However,” continued Sir Alan, “one mustn’t forget that Martinez is an unscrupulous and treacherous man, and I have no doubt he will still want to seek some form of revenge. And as long as he abides by the letter of the law, there’s not much any of us can do about it.”

  “At least we’ll be prepared this time,” said Emma, only too aware what the cabinet secretary was getting at.

  * * *

  Colonel Scott-Hopkins knocked on the door of number 44 Eaton Square at one minute to ten. A few moments later, the front door was opened by a giant of a man who dwarfed the commanding officer of the SAS.

  “My name is Scott-Hopkins. I have an appointment with Mr. Martinez.”

  Karl gave a slight bow, and opened the door just enough to allow Mr. Martinez’s guest to enter. He accompanied the colonel across the hall and knocked on the study door.

  “Come in.”

  When the colonel entered the room, Don Pedro rose from behind his desk and looked at his guest suspiciously. He had no idea why the SAS man needed to see him so urgently.

  “Will you have a coffee, colonel?” asked Don Pedro after the two men had shaken hands. “Or perhaps something a little stronger?”

  “No, thank you, sir. It’s a little early in the morning for me.”

  “Then have a seat, and tell me why you wanted to see me urgently.” He paused. “I feel sure you’ll appreciate that I’m a busy man.”

  “I am only too aware how busy you’ve been recently, Mr. Martinez, so I’ll come straight to the point.”

  Don Pedro tried not to show any reaction as he settled back into his chair and continued to stare at the colonel.

  “My simple purpose is to make sure that Sebastian Clifton has a long and peaceful life.”

  The mask of arrogant confidence slipped from Martinez’s face. He quickly recovered and sat bolt upright. “What are you suggesting?” he shouted, as he gripped the arm of his chair.

  “I think you know only too well, Mr. Martinez. However, allow me to make the position clear. I’m here to ensure that no further harm comes to any member of the Clifton family.”

  Don Pedro leaped out of his seat and jabbed a finger at the colonel. “Sebastian Clifton was my son’s closest friend.”

  “I have no doubt he was, Mr. Martinez. But my instructions could not be clearer, and they are quite simply to warn you that if Sebastian or any other member of his family were to be involved in another accident, then your sons, Diego and Luis, will be on the next plane back to Argentina, and they won’t be traveling first class, but in the hold, in two wooden boxes.”

  “Who do you think you’re threatening?” bellowed Martinez, his fists clenched.

  “A two-bit South American gangster, who, because he’s got some money and lives in Eaton Square, thinks he can pass himself off as a gentleman.”

  Don Pedro pressed a button underneath his desk. A moment later the door burst open and Karl came charging in. “Throw this man out,” he said, pointing at the colonel, “while I get my lawyer on the line.”

  “Good morning, Lieutenant Lunsdorf,” said the colonel as Karl began to advance toward him. “As a former member of the SS, you’ll appreciate the weak position your master is in.” Karl stopped in his tracks. “So allow me to also give you a word of advice. Should Mr. Martinez fail to abide by my terms, our plans for you do not include a deportation order to Buenos Aires, where so many of your former colleagues are currently languishing; no, we have another destination in mind, where you’ll find several citizens who will be only too happy to give evidence concerning the role you played as one of Dr. Himmler trusted lieutenants, and the lengths you went to in order to extract information from them.”

  “You’re bluffing,” said Martinez. “You’d never get away with it.”

  “How little you really know about the British, Mr. Martinez,” said the colonel as he rose from his chair and walked across to the window. “Allow me to introduce you to a few typical specimens of our island race.”

  Martinez and Karl joined him and stared out of the window. On the far side of the road stood three men you wouldn’t want as enemies.

  “Three of my most trusted colleagues,” explained the colonel. “One of them will be watching you night and day, just hoping you’ll make a false move. On the left is Captain Hartley, who was unfortunately cashiered from the Dragoon Guards for pouring petrol over his wife and her lover, who were sleeping peacefully at the time, until he lit a match. Understandably, after leaving prison he found it difficult to secure employment. That was until I picked him up off the streets and put some purpose back in his life.”

  Hartley gave them a warm smile, as if he knew they were talking about him.

  “In the middle is Corporal Crann, a carpenter by trade. He so enjoys sawing things up, wood or bone, it doesn’t seem to make any difference to him.” Crann stared blankly through them. “But I confess,” continued the colonel, “my favorite is Sergeant Roberts, a registered sociopath. Harmless most of the time, but I’m afraid he never really settled back into civvy street after the war.” The colonel turned to Martinez. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him that you made your fortune collaborating with the Nazis, but of course that’s how you met Lieutenant Lunsdorf. A tidbit I don’t think I�
��ll share with Roberts unless you really annoy me, because, you see, Sergeant Roberts’s mother was Jewish.”

  Don Pedro turned away from the window to see Karl staring at the colonel as if he would have been happy to strangle him, but accepted that now was not the time or place.

  “I’m so glad to have caught your attention,” said Scott-Hopkins, “because I now feel even more confident that you’ll have worked out what is in your best interests. Good day, gentlemen. I’ll show myself out.”

  4

  “THERE’S A GREAT deal for us to cover on today’s agenda,” said the chairman. “So I would appreciate it if my fellow directors would keep their contributions short and to the point.”

  Emma had come to admire Ross Buchanan’s business-like approach when chairing the Barrington Shipping Company board meetings. He never showed favor to any particular director, and always listened carefully to anybody who offered a view contrary to his own. Occasionally, just occasionally, he could even be persuaded to change his mind. He also possessed the ability to sum up a complex discussion while making sure that everyone’s particular view was well represented. Emma knew that some board members found his Scottish manner a little brusque, but she considered it no more than practical, and sometimes wondered how her approach might differ from his, if she were ever to become chairman. She quickly dismissed the thought and began to concentrate on the most important item on the agenda. Emma had rehearsed what she was going to say the night before, with Harry acting as chairman.

  Once Philip Webster, the company secretary, had read the minutes of the last meeting and dealt with any questions arising, the chairman moved on to the first item on the agenda: a proposal that the board should put out to tender the building of the MV Buckingham, a luxury liner that would be added to the Barrington fleet.

  Buchanan left the board in no doubt that he felt this was the only way forward if Barrington’s hoped to continue as one of the premier shipping companies in the land. Several members of the board nodded in agreement.