Although it was clear from the description given by the chief steward on The Night Scotsman that Lunsdorf had been responsible for throwing—he turned a page of his file—Miss Kitty Parsons, a well-known prostitute, out of the train in the middle of the night, there wasn’t a fighting chance of getting a beyond-reasonable-doubt verdict against the former SS officer while the poor woman remained in a coma. Despite this, the wheels of justice were about to be set in motion.
Sir Alan didn’t much care for cocktail parties and although he received a dozen invitations a day to attend everything from the Queen’s garden party to the Royal Box at Wimbledon, nine times out of ten, he penned the word No in the top right-hand corner of the invitation and left his secretary to come up with a convincing excuse. However, when he received an invitation from the Foreign Office to a drinks party to welcome the new Israeli ambassador, Sir Alan had written Yes, if free in the top right-hand corner.
The cabinet secretary had no particular desire to meet the new ambassador, whom he’d come across as a member of several delegations in the past. However, there would be one guest at the party with whom he did want to have a private word.
Sir Alan left his office in Downing Street just after six and strolled across to the FCO. After offering his congratulations to the new ambassador, and exchanging pleasantries with several others who wished to pay him court, he moved deftly around the crowded room, glass in hand, until his prey was in sight.
Simon Wiesenthal was chatting to the chief rabbi when Sir Alan joined them. He waited patiently for Sir Israel Brodie to begin a conversation with the ambassador’s wife, before he turned his back on the chattering crowd, to make it clear that he did not want to be interrupted.
“Dr. Wiesenthal, can I say how much I admire your campaign to hunt down those Nazis who were involved in the Holocaust.” Wiesenthal gave a slight bow. “I wonder,” said the cabinet secretary, lowering his voice, “if the name Karl Otto Lunsdorf means anything to you?”
“Lieutenant Lunsdorf was one of Himmler’s closest aides,” said Wiesenthal. “He worked as an SS interrogation officer on his private staff. I have countless files devoted to him, Sir Alan, but I fear he escaped from Germany a few days before the Allies entered Berlin. The last I heard he was living in Buenos Aires.”
“I think you’ll find he’s a little closer to home,” whispered Sir Alan. Wiesenthal edged nearer, bowed his head and listened intently.
“Thank you, Sir Alan,” said Wiesenthal after the cabinet secretary had passed on the relevant information. “I’ll get to work on it immediately.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, unofficially of course, you know where to find me,” he said as the chairman of the Friends of Israel joined them.
Sir Alan placed his empty glass on a passing tray, rejected the offer of a sausage on a stick, said good night to the new ambassador and made his way back to number 10. He settled down to go over his outline plan once again, making sure that every “i” was dotted and every “t” crossed, aware that his biggest problem would be timing, especially if he hoped to have both of them arrested on the day after Lunsdorf disappeared.
When he finally crossed the last “t” just after midnight, the cabinet secretary decided that, on balance, he still would have preferred a benevolent dictatorship.
* * *
Major Alex Fisher placed the two letters on his desk, side by side: his letter of resignation from the board of Barrington’s, next to a letter from Cedric Hardcastle that had arrived that morning, offering him the chance to continue his role as a board member. A smooth transition, as Hardcastle described it, with long-term prospects.
Alex remained torn as he tried to weigh up the pros and cons of the two alternatives. Should he accept Cedric’s generous offer and keep his place on the board, with an income of £2,000 a year plus expenses, and every opportunity to pursue other interests?
If he resigned from the board, however, Don Pedro had promised him £5,000 in cash. On balance, Hardcastle’s offer was the more attractive alternative. But then there was the question of the revenge Don Pedro would exact if he backed out of his agreement at the last minute, as Miss Kitty Parsons had recently discovered.
There was a knock on the door, which came as a surprise to Alex, because he wasn’t expecting anyone. He was even more surprised when he opened it to find Diego Martinez standing there.
“Good morning,” said Alex as if he’d been expecting him. “Come in,” he added, not sure what else to say. He led Diego through to the kitchen, not wanting him to see the two letters on his study desk. “What brings you to Bristol?” he asked and, remembering Diego didn’t drink, filled a kettle with water and put it on to boil.
“My father asked me to give you this,” said Diego, placing a thick envelope on the kitchen table. “You won’t need to count it. That’s the two thousand you requested in advance. You can collect the rest on Monday, after you’ve handed in your letter of resignation.”
Alex made a decision; fear outweighed greed. He picked up the envelope and placed it in an inside pocket, but didn’t say thank you.
“My father asked me to remind you that after you’ve tendered your resignation on Friday morning, he expects you to be available to talk to the press.”
“Of course,” said Fisher. “Once I’ve handed the letter to Mrs. Clifton”—he still found it difficult to call her the chairman—“I’ll send out the telegrams as we agreed, return home and be sitting at my desk waiting to answer any calls.”
“Good,” said Diego as the kettle boiled. “So we’ll see you on Monday afternoon in Eaton Square, and if the press coverage for the AGM has been favorable, or should I say unfavorable”—he smiled—“you’ll get the other three thousand.”
“You won’t have a cup of coffee?”
“No. I’ve delivered the money, and my father’s message. He just wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind.”
“What could possibly have made him think I might do that?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Diego. “But remember,” he added, looking down at a photograph of Miss Kitty Parsons on the front page of the Telegraph, “that if anything does go wrong, it won’t be me who’s on the next train to Bristol.”
After Diego had left, Alex returned to his study, tore up Cedric Hardcastle’s letter and dropped the pieces into the wastepaper basket. No need to reply. Hardcastle would get the message on Saturday, when he read his resignation letter in the national press.
He treated himself to lunch at Carwardine’s, and spent the rest of the afternoon settling several small debts with various local tradesmen, some of which were long overdue. When he returned home, he checked the envelope to find he still had £1,265 in crisp five-pound notes, with another £3,000 to come on Monday if the press showed sufficient interest in his story. He lay awake rehearsing some statements that he hoped would have the journalists licking their lips. I fear the Buckingham will have sunk even before it’s set out on its maiden voyage. Appointing a woman as chairman was a reckless gamble, and I do not believe the company will ever recover from it. Of course I’ve sold all my shares, I’d rather take a small loss now than a bath later.
The following morning, after a sleepless night, Alex rang the chairman’s office and made an appointment to see her at ten o’clock on Friday morning. He spent the rest of the day wondering if he’d made the right decision, but he knew that if he turned back now, having taken the pirate’s penny, the next person who would be knocking on his door would be Karl, and he wouldn’t have come down to Bristol to hand over the other three thousand.
Despite this, Alex was beginning to think he might just have made the biggest mistake of his life. He should have thought the whole thing through. Once his letter was published in any newspaper, his chances of ever being asked to join another board were nonexistent.
He wondered if it was too late to change his mind. If he told Hardcastle everything, would he give him £1,000 in advance, so he could pay Martine
z back in full? He would call him first thing in the morning. He put the kettle on and switched on the radio. He wasn’t paying much attention, until he heard the name Kitty Parsons. He turned the volume up to hear the newsreader say, “A spokesman for British Railways confirmed that Miss Parsons died during the night, not having woken from her coma.”
39
Thursday morning
ALL FOUR OF them realized they couldn’t go ahead with the operation unless it was raining. They also knew that there was no need to follow him, as Thursday was his day for shopping at Harrods, and his routine never varied.
If it was raining on a Thursday, he would leave his raincoat and umbrella in the store’s cloakroom on the ground floor. He would then visit two departments, the tobacconist’s, where he would collect a box of Don Pedro’s favorite Montecristo cigars, and the food hall, where he would stock up with provisions for the weekend. Even though they had done their research thoroughly, everything still had to work to the split second. However, they did have one advantage: you can always rely on a German to keep to a timetable.
Lunsdorf came out of 44 Eaton Square just after 10 a.m. He was wearing a long black raincoat and carrying an umbrella. He looked up at the sky and put up his umbrella, then strode purposefully in the direction of Knightsbridge. This was not a day for window-shopping. In fact, Lunsdorf had already decided that, once he’d purchased everything he needed, if it was still raining he would take a taxi back to Eaton Square. They were even prepared for this.
Once he stepped inside Harrods he went straight to the cloakroom, where he handed his umbrella and raincoat to a woman behind the counter who gave him a small numbered disc in exchange. He then made his way past perfume and jewelry before stopping at the tobacco counter. No one followed him. After he’d picked up his usual box of cigars, he moved on to the food hall where he spent forty minutes filling several shopping bags. He returned to the cloakroom just after eleven and, peering through the window, saw that it was what the British call raining cats and dogs. He wondered if the doorman would be able to flag down a taxi. He put all the bags down and handed the brass disc to the woman behind the cloakroom counter. She disappeared into a back room and returned a moment later carrying a lady’s pink umbrella.
“That’s not mine,” said Lunsdorf.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” said the assistant, who appeared flustered, and quickly returned to the back room. When she eventually reappeared, she was carrying a fox wrap.
“Does that look like mine?” demanded Lunsdorf.
She went back inside, and it was some time before she reappeared, this time with a bright yellow sou’wester.
“Are you bone stupid?” Lunsdorf shouted. The attendant’s cheeks flushed and she remained rooted to the spot, as if paralyzed. An older woman took her place.
“I do apologize, sir. Perhaps you’d like to come through and show me which are your coat and umbrella,” she said, lifting the counter top that divided the customers from the staff. He should have spotted her mistake.
Lunsdorf followed her into the back room, and it only took him a few moments to spot his raincoat hanging halfway along the rack. He was just bending down to retrieve his umbrella when he felt a blow to the back of the head. His knees buckled, and as he sank to the floor three men jumped out from behind the coat rack. Corporal Crann grabbed Lunsdorf’s arms and quickly tied them behind his back, while Sergeant Roberts shoved a gag in his mouth and Captain Hartley tied his ankles together.
A moment later, Colonel Scott-Hopkins appeared wearing a green linen jacket and pushing a large wicker laundry basket. He held its top open while the other three bundled Lunsdorf inside. Even with him bent double, it was a tight fit. Captain Hartley threw in the raincoat and umbrella, then Crann slammed down the lid and fastened the leather buckles tightly.
“Thank you, Rachel,” said the colonel, as the cloakroom assistant held up the counter top to allow him to wheel the basket out on to the shop floor.
Corporal Crann went out on to the Brompton Road ahead of them, with Roberts only a yard behind. The colonel didn’t stop as he wheeled the basket toward a Harrods van that was parked outside the entrance, with its back doors open. Hartley and Roberts lifted the basket, which was heavier than they’d anticipated, and slid it into the van. The colonel joined Crann in the front, while Hartley and Roberts jumped in the back and pulled the doors closed.
“Let’s get moving,” said the colonel.
Crann eased the van into the center lane and joined the morning traffic moving slowly down the Brompton Road toward the A4. He knew exactly where he was going because he’d carried out a dry run the day before, something the colonel always insisted on.
Forty minutes later, Crann flashed his headlights twice as he approached the perimeter fence of a deserted airfield. He barely had to slow down before the gate swung open, allowing him to drive on to the runway where a cargo plane with its familiar blue and white insignia awaited them, its ramp down.
Hartley and Roberts had opened the van’s back doors and jumped out on to the tarmac even before the corporal had switched off the ignition. The laundry basket was yanked out of the van, pushed up the ramp and dumped in the belly of the aircraft. Hartley and Roberts walked calmly out of the plane, jumped back into the van and quickly pulled the doors closed behind them.
The colonel had kept a watchful eye on everything that was going on and, thanks to the cabinet secretary, he wouldn’t need to explain to a vigilant customs officer what was in the basket or where it was destined. He returned to his seat in the front of the van. The engine was still running, and Crann quickly accelerated away as the door closed.
The van reached the open perimeter gate just as the plane’s ramp began to rise, and was back on the main road by the time it started to taxi down the runway. They did not see it take off as they were going east and the plane was heading south. Forty minutes later, the Harrods van was back in its place outside the store. The whole operation had taken just over an hour and a half. The regular delivery man was waiting on the pavement for his van to be returned. He was running late, but he would make up the lost time during the afternoon shift, without his boss being any the wiser.
Crann stepped down on to the pavement and handed him the keys. “Thank you, Joseph,” he said, shaking hands with his former SAS colleague.
Hartley, Crann and Roberts all took different routes back to Chelsea barracks, while Colonel Scott-Hopkins went back into Harrods and headed straight for the cloakroom. The two cloakroom assistants were still standing behind the counter.
“Thank you, Rachel,” he said as he took off the Harrods jacket, folded it neatly and placed it on the counter.
“My pleasure, colonel,” replied the senior cloakroom attendant.
“And may I ask what you’ve done with the gentleman’s shopping?”
“Rebecca handed all his bags into lost property, which is company policy when we don’t know if a customer will be returning. But we saved these for you,” she said, taking a package from under the counter.
“That’s very considerate of you, Rachel,” he said, as she gave him a box of Montecristo cigars.
* * *
When the plane landed it was met by a reception committee who waited patiently for the ramp to be lowered.
Four young soldiers marched into the aircraft, wheeled the laundry basket unceremoniously down the ramp and dumped it in front of the chairman of the reception committee. An officer stepped forward, unbuckled the leather straps and lifted the lid, to reveal a battered and bruised figure, bound hand and foot.
“Remove the gag and untie him,” said a man who had waited almost twenty years for this moment. He didn’t speak again until the man had recovered sufficiently to climb out of the basket and on to the tarmac. “We’ve never met before, Lieutenant Lunsdorf,” said Simon Wiesenthal, “but let me be the first to welcome you to Israel.”
They didn’t shake hands.
40
Friday morning
DON PEDRO WAS still in a daze. So much had happened in such a short time.
He’d been woken at five o’clock by a loud, persistent banging on the front door, and was puzzled why Karl didn’t answer it. He assumed that one of the boys must have come home late and forgotten his key again. He got out of bed, put on a dressing gown and went downstairs, intending to tell Diego or Luis just what he thought about being woken at that hour in the morning.
The moment he opened the door half a dozen policemen burst into the house, ran upstairs and arrested Diego and Luis, who were both asleep in their beds. Once they had been allowed to dress, they were bundled off in a Black Maria. Why wasn’t Karl there to assist him? Or had they arrested him as well?
Don Pedro ran back upstairs and threw open the door to Karl’s room, only to find his bed hadn’t been slept in. He walked slowly back down to the study and rang his lawyer on his home number, cursing and banging his fist repeatedly on the desk while he waited for someone to pick up the phone.
A sleepy voice eventually answered, and listened carefully as his client incoherently described what had just taken place. Mr. Everard was now awake, with one foot on the floor. “I’ll get back to you the moment I know where they’ve taken them,” he said, “and what they’ve been charged with. Don’t say a word about this to anyone until you’ve heard back from me.”
Don Pedro continued to bang his fist on the desk and to shout obscenities at the top of his voice, but nobody was listening.
The first call came from the Evening Standard.
“No comment!” bellowed Don Pedro, and slammed the phone down. He continued to follow his lawyer’s advice, giving the same curt reply to the Daily Mail, the Mirror, the Express and The Times. He wouldn’t even have answered the phone if he hadn’t been desperate to hear back from Everard. The lawyer eventually called just after eight to tell him where Diego and Luis were being held, and then spent the next few minutes stressing how serious the charges were. “I’m going to apply for bail for both of them,” he said, “although I’m not all that optimistic.”
Be Careful What You Wish For Page 30