Be Careful What You Wish For

by Jeffrey Archer

  48

  DON PEDRO ROSE just after two, and not because he couldn’t sleep.

  Once he’d dressed, he packed an overnight bag and went downstairs to his study. He opened the safe, took out the remaining £23,645 and put it in the bag. The bank now owned the house and all its contents, as well as the fixtures and fittings. If they hoped he was going to repay the rest of the overdraft, Mr. Ledbury was welcome to make a trip to Buenos Aires where he would receive a two-word response.

  He listened to the early morning news on the radio, and there was no mention of the Buckingham in the headlines. He was confident that he could slip out of the country long before they realized he’d gone. He glanced out of the window, and cursed when he saw the relentless rain bouncing off the pavement, fearing that it might be some time before he was able to find a taxi.

  He switched off the lights, stepped outside and closed the door of number 44 Eaton Square for the last time. He looked up and down the road, not at all optimistic, and was delighted when he saw a taxi that had just switched on its For Hire sign, heading toward him. Don Pedro raised an arm, ran out into the rain and jumped into the back of the cab. As he pulled the door closed he heard a click.

  “London Airport,” said Don Pedro, sinking into the back seat.

  “I don’t think so,” said the chauffeur.

  * * *

  Another man, just two cabins along from Harry, was also wide awake, but then, he wasn’t trying to get to sleep. He was just about to go to work.

  He climbed off his bed at 2:59 a.m., fully rested, fully alert, walked over to the large trunk in the middle of the cabin and lifted its lid. He hesitated for only a moment, then as instructed he flicked the switch, setting in motion a process from which there could be no turning back. After making sure that the large black second hand was moving, 29:59, 29:58, he pressed a button on the side of his watch and lowered the lid of the trunk. He then picked up the small carrier bag by his bed that contained everything he needed, turned off the light, opened the cabin door slowly and stared out into the dimly lit corridor. He waited for a moment until his eyes were focused. When he was certain there was no one around, he stepped into the corridor and quietly closed the door.

  He placed a foot gingerly on to the thick, royal blue carpet and padded silently down the corridor, ears attuned for the slightest unfamiliar sound. But he heard nothing other than the gentle rhythm of the engine as the ship plowed steadily through still waters. He stopped when he came to the top of the grand staircase. The light was a little brighter on the stairs, but there was still no one to be seen. He knew the first-class lounge was one deck below, and in its far corner was a discreet sign: Gentlemen.

  No one passed him as he made his way down the grand staircase, but when he entered the lounge he immediately saw a heavily built man slumped in a comfortable chair, legs askew, looking as if he had taken full advantage of the free alcohol on offer to first-class passengers on the first night of the maiden voyage.

  He crept past the dormant passenger, who was snoring contentedly, but didn’t stir, and continued toward the sign on the far side of the room. As he walked into the lavatory—he was even beginning to think like them—a light came on, which took him by surprise. He hesitated for a moment, then remembered it was just another of the ship’s proud innovations that he’d read about in the glossy brochure. He crossed to the washbasins and placed his carrier bag on the marble top, unzipped it, and began to take out the various lotions, potions and accessories that would remove his alter-ego: a bottle of oil, a cut-throat razor, a pair of scissors, a comb and a pot of Pond’s face cream would all contribute to bringing down the curtain on his opening-night performance.

  He checked his watch. He still had twenty-seven minutes and three seconds before another curtain would rise, and, by then, he would just be part of a panicking crowd. He unscrewed the top of the bottle of oil and dabbed it on his face, neck and forehead. After a few moments he felt the burning sensation that the make-up artist had warned him about. He slowly removed the gray balding hairpiece and placed it on the side of the washbasin, pausing to look at himself in the mirror, pleased to be reunited with his thick, red, wavy hair. Next he peeled off the wine-flushed cheeks, as if he was removing a plaster from a wound that had recently healed, and finally, with the help of the scissors, he cut into the double chin that the make-up artist had been so proud of.

  He filled the basin with warm water and scrubbed his face, removing any signs of scar tissue, glue or coloring that remained obstinately in place. After he’d dried his face, the skin still felt a little rough in places, so he applied a layer of Pond’s cold cream to complete the transformation.

  Liam Doherty looked at himself in the mirror to see that he had shed fifty years in less than twenty minutes; every woman’s dream. He picked up his comb, restored his red quiff and then placed what was left of Lord Glenarthur’s visage into the bag and set about removing his lordship’s apparel.

  He began by unfastening the stud on the stiff Van Heusen white collar, which had left a thin red line around his neck, yanked off the Old Etonian tie and dropped them into the bag. He replaced the white silk shirt with a gray cotton one and a thin string tie that all the lads on the Falls Road were now wearing. He slipped off his yellow braces, allowing the baggy gray trousers to fall in a heap on the floor, along with his stomach—a cushion—then bent down and untied the laces on Glenarthur’s black leather brogues, kicked them off and put them in the bag. He took out a pair of the latest slim-fitting drainpipe trousers and couldn’t help smiling as he pulled them on; no braces, just a thin leather belt he’d picked up in Carnaby Street when he was in London on another job. Finally he slipped his feet into a pair of brown suede loafers that would never have trodden a first-class carpet. He looked in the mirror, and saw himself.

  Doherty checked his watch. He had eleven minutes and forty-one seconds left before he had to reach the safe haven of his new cabin. No time to waste, because if the bomb went off while he was still in first class, there would only be one suspect.

  He stuffed all of the lotions and potions back into his bag, zipped it up and hurried across to the door, opened it cautiously and peered out into the lounge. No one to be seen in either direction. Even the drunken man had disappeared. He strode quickly past the empty chair where only the deep imprint of a body remained to suggest that someone had recently been there.

  Doherty hurried across the lounge to the grand staircase; a second-class passenger in first-class surroundings. He didn’t stop until he reached the third deck landing, the demarcation zone. When he climbed over the red chain that divided the officers from the other ranks, he relaxed for the first time; not yet safe, but certainly out of the combat zone. He stepped on to a green cord carpet and jogged down a narrower staircase for four more flights, until he reached the deck where his other cabin awaited him.

  He went in search of cabin 706. He had just passed 726 and 724 when he spotted an early morning reveller trying to place a key in a lock without much success. Was it even the man’s own cabin? Doherty turned his head away as he walked past him, not that the reveller would have been able to identify him or anyone else when the alarm went off.

  When he reached cabin 706 he unlocked the door and stepped inside. He checked his watch: seven minutes and forty-three seconds before everyone would be woken, however deeply they were sleeping. He walked across to his bunk and lifted the pillow to find an unused passport and a new ticket that transformed him from Lord Glenarthur to Dave Roscoe, 47 Napier Drive, Watford. Occupation: painter and decorator.

  He collapsed on to the bunk and glanced at his watch: six minutes and nineteen seconds, eighteen, seventeen; more than enough time. Three of his mates would also be wide awake waiting, but they wouldn’t speak to each other again until they all met up at the Volunteer on the Falls Road to enjoy several pints of Guinness. They would never talk in public about tonight, because their absence from their usual haunts in west Belfast would have been not
ed and make them suspects for months, probably years to come. He heard a loud thump on a door further down the corridor, and assumed the reveller had finally given in.

  Six minutes and twenty-one seconds …

  Always the same anxieties whenever you have to wait. Had you left any clues that would lead straight to you? Had you made any mistakes that would cause the operation to end in failure and make you a laughingstock back home? He wouldn’t relax until he was on a lifeboat and, better still, on another ship heading toward another port.

  Five minutes and fourteen seconds …

  He knew his compatriots, soldiers in the same cause, would be just as nervous as he was. The waiting was always the worst part, out of your control, no longer anything you could do.

  Four minutes and eleven seconds …

  Worse than a football match when you’re one–nil up but you know the other side are stronger and well capable of scoring in injury time. He recalled his area commander’s instructions: when the alarm goes off, be sure you’re among the first on deck, and the first in the lifeboats, because by this time tomorrow, they’ll be searching for anyone under the age of thirty-five with an Irish accent, so keep your mouths shut, boys.

  Three minutes and forty seconds … thirty-nine …

  He stared at the cabin door and imagined the worst that could possibly happen. The bomb wouldn’t go off, the door would burst open and a dozen police thugs, possibly more, would come charging in, batons flailing in every direction, not caring how many times they hit you. But all he could hear was the rhythmical pounding of the engine as the Buckingham continued its sedate passage across the Atlantic on its way to New York. A city it would never reach.

  Two minutes and thirty-four seconds … thirty-three …

  He began to imagine what it would be like once he was back on the Falls Road. Young lads in short trousers would look up in awe as he passed them on the street, their only ambition to be like him when they grew up. The hero who had blown up the Buckingham only a few weeks after it had been named by the Queen Mother. No mention of innocent lives lost; there are no innocent lives when you believe in a cause. In fact, he’d never meet any of the passengers in the cabins on the upper decks. He would read all about them in tomorrow’s papers, and if he’d done his job properly there would be no mention of his name.

  One minute and twenty-two seconds … twenty-one …

  What could possibly go wrong now? Would the device, constructed in an upstairs bedroom on the Dungannon estate, let him down at the last minute? Was he about to suffer the silence of failure?

  Sixty seconds …

  He began to whisper each number.

  “Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six…”

  Had the drunken man slumped in the chair in the lounge been waiting for him all the time? Were they now on the way to his cabin?

  “Forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six…”

  Had the lilies been replaced, thrown out, taken away? Perhaps Mrs. Clifton was allergic to pollen?

  “Thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven, thirty-six…”

  Had they unlocked Lord Glenarthur’s room and found the open trunk?

  “Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six…”

  Were they already searching the ship for the man who’d slipped out of the toilet in the first-class lounge?

  “Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen…”

  Had they … he clung to the edge of the bunk, closed his eyes and began counting out loud.

  “Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…”

  He stopped counting and opened his eyes. Nothing. Just the eerie silence that always follows failure. He bowed his head and prayed to a God he did not believe in, and immediately there followed an explosion of such ferocity that he was thrown against the cabin wall like a leaf in a storm. He staggered to his feet and smiled when he heard the screaming. He could only wonder how many passengers on the upper deck could possibly have survived.

  The story continues in

  VOLUME FIVE OF THE CLIFTON CHRONICLES

  Coming 2015

  For further details visit

  www.panmacmillan.com

  or

  www.jeffreyarcher.com

  ALSO BY JEFFREY ARCHER

  NOVELS

  Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

  Shall We Tell the President?

  Kane & Abel

  The Prodigal Daughter

  First Among Equals

  A Matter of Honor

  As the Crow Flies

  Honor Among Thieves

  The Fourth Estate

  The Eleventh Commandment

  Sons of Fortune

  False Impression

  The Gospel According to Judas

  (with the assistance of Professor Francis J. Moloney)

  A Prisoner of Birth

  Paths of Glory

  Only Time Will Tell

  The Sins of the Father

  Best Kept Secret

  SHORT STORIES

  A Quiver Full of Arrows

  A Twist in the Tale

  Twelve Red Herrings

  The Collected Short Stories

  To Cut a Long Story Short

  Cat O’ Nine Tails

  And Thereby Hangs a Tale

  PLAYS

  Beyond Reasonable Doubt

  Exclusive

  The Accused

  PRISON DIARIES

  Volume One—Belmarsh: Hell

  Volume Two—Wayland: Purgatory

  Volume Three—North Sea Camp: Heaven

  SCREENPLAYS

  Mallory: Walking Off the Map

  False Impression

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JEFFREY ARCHER was educated at Oxford University. He has served five years in Britain’s House of Commons and nineteen years in the House of Lords. All of his novels and short story collections—including Best Kept Secret, The Sins of the Father, Kane and Abel, and False Impression—have been international bestselling books. Archer is married with two sons and lives in London and Cambridge.

  www.JeffreyArcher.com

  Facebook.com/JeffreyArcherAuthor

  ©Jeffrey_Archer

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR. Copyright © 2014 by Jeffrey Archer. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Michael Storrings

  Cover photographs: man © Edyta Pawlowska/Shutterstock.com; woman © RetroAtelier/Getty Images; ship © Onne van der Wal/Corbis; London skyline © Peter Zelei/Getty Images; New York skyline © Nine OK/Getty Images

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-03448-9 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-03447-2 (e-book)

  e-ISBN 9781250034472

  First Edition: March 2014