“Bravo,” said the ambassador, after double-checking it. “I only wish you were a member of my staff. Now, as we can assume the Soviets will have read the note I left at your hotel, perhaps we shouldn’t disappoint them.” He pressed a button under his desk and a few moments later the doors opened again and two members of staff dressed in white linen jackets and black trousers entered, pushing a trolley.
Over a breakfast of hot coffee, brown toast, Oxford marmalade, and an egg that had been produced by a chicken, the two men chatted about everything from England’s chances in the forthcoming Test series against the South Africans—Harry felt that England would win, the ambassador wasn’t convinced; the abolition of hanging—Harry in favor, the ambassador against; Britain joining the Common Market—something they were able to agree on. They never once touched on the real reason they were having breakfast together.
When the trolley was removed and they were once again alone, Trevelyan said, “Forgive me for being a bore, old chap, but would you be kind enough to carry out the exercise one more time?”
Harry returned to the ambassador’s desk and wrote out the list for a third time.
“Remarkable. I now understand why Sir Alan chose you.” Trevelyan led his guest out of the room. “My car will take you to the airport, and although you may think you have more than enough time, I have a feeling the customs officials will assume I have given you something to take back to England and you will therefore be subject to a lengthy search. They are right, of course, but fortunately it’s not something they can get their hands on. So all that is left for me to do, Mr. Clifton, is to thank you, and suggest that you do not write out the list until the wheels of the aircraft have left the tarmac. You might even feel it advisable to wait until you are no longer in Soviet airspace. After all, there’s bound to be someone on board watching your every move.”
Sir Humphrey accompanied his guest to the front door and they shook hands for a second time before Harry climbed into the back of the Rolls-Royce. The ambassador remained on the top step until the car was out of sight.
The chauffeur dropped Harry outside Sheremetyevo airport, two hours before his flight was due to take off. The ambassador turned out to be correct, because Harry spent the next hour in customs, where they checked, and double-checked, everything in his suitcase, before unstitching the lining of his jacket and overcoat.
After they had failed to find anything, he was taken to a small room and asked to remove his clothes. When their efforts failed yet again, a doctor appeared, and searched in places Harry hadn’t even considered before, but certainly wouldn’t be describing in graphic detail in his next book.
An hour later, his case was reluctantly given a chalk cross to show it had been cleared, but it never did turn up in London. He decided not to protest, even though the guards at customs also failed to return his overcoat, a Christmas present from Emma. He would have to buy an identical one from Ede & Ravenscroft before he drove back to Bristol as he didn’t want his wife to find out the real reason Sir Alan had wanted to see him.
When Harry finally boarded the plane, he was delighted to find he’d been upgraded to first class, as he had been on the last occasion he’d worked for the cabinet secretary. Equally pleasing, no one had been allocated the seat beside him. Sir Alan didn’t leave anything to chance.
He waited until he had been in the air for over an hour before asking a steward for a couple of sheets of BOAC writing paper. But when they arrived, he changed his mind. Two men seated across the aisle from him had glanced in his direction once too often.
He adjusted his seatback, closed his eyes, and went over the list in his mind again and again. By the time the plane touched down at Heathrow, he was mentally and physically exhausted. He was only glad being a spy wasn’t his full-time job.
Harry was the first to disembark from the aircraft, and he wasn’t surprised to see Sir Alan waiting on the tarmac at the bottom of the steps. He joined him in the back of a car that made its way quickly out of the airport without being bothered by a customs officer.
Other than, “Good morning, Clifton,” the cabinet secretary didn’t say a word before he passed over the inevitable pad and pen.
Harry wrote out the twelve names, nine addresses, and twenty-one telephone numbers that had been lodged in his mind for several hours. He double-checked the list before handing it to Sir Alan.
“I am most grateful,” he said. “And I thought you’d be pleased to hear that I’ve added a couple of paragraphs to the speech the foreign secretary will be making at the UN next week, which I hope will assist Mr. Babakov’s cause. By the way, did you spot my two minders sitting across the aisle from you in first class? I put them there to protect you, just in case you had any trouble.”
* * *
“There’s no deal for one point six million in the offing that I’m aware of,” said Cedric, “and it’s hardly likely to be something I’d forget. I’m bound to wonder what Sloane’s up to.”
“I’ve no idea,” said Sebastian, “but I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”
“And you say he won’t be back until Friday?”
“That’s right. He’s at a conference in York.”
“So that gives us a couple of days to look into it. You’re probably right, and there’s a simple explanation. But one point six million,” he repeated. “And Mr. Collingwood has accepted his offer?”
“That’s what Mr. Vaughan of Savills said.”
“Ralph Vaughan is old school and doesn’t make that kind of mistake.” Cedric remained silent for a few moments before adding, “You’d better go up to Shifnal first thing in the morning and start digging around. Begin at the local pub. The publican always knows everything that’s going on in his village, and one point six million would have all the gossips chattering. After you’ve spoken to him, check the local estate agents, but make sure you don’t go anywhere near Collingwood. If you do, Sloane is certain to hear about it and will assume you’re trying to undermine him. I think we’d better keep this between ourselves in case it turns out to be totally innocent. When you get back to London, come straight round to Cadogan Place and you can brief me over dinner.”
Seb decided that this wasn’t the time to tell Cedric that he’d booked a table at the Mirabelle for dinner tomorrow night with Samantha. The clock on the mantelpiece struck six, so he knew the deputy chairman, Ross Buchanan, would be waiting outside. He rose to leave.
“Well done, Seb,” said Cedric. “Let’s hope there is a simple explanation. But in any case, thank you for keeping me briefed.”
Seb nodded. When he reached the door he turned back to say good night, to see Cedric swallowing a pill. He pretended not to notice, as he closed the door behind him.
10
SEB WAS UP, dressed, and had left the house before Sam woke the following morning.
Cedric Hardcastle never traveled first-class, but he always allowed his senior management to do so when it was a long journey. Although Seb picked up a copy of the Financial Times at Euston, he barely glanced at the headlines during the three-hour journey to Shropshire. His mind was preoccupied with how best to use his time once he arrived in Shifnal.
The train pulled into Shrewsbury station just after eleven thirty, and Seb didn’t hesitate to take a taxi on to Shifnal rather than wait for the connecting train because on this occasion time was money. He waited until they had left the county town behind them, before he fired his first question at the driver. “Which is the best pub in Shifnal?”
“Depends what you’re looking for, good grub or the best ale in the county.”
“I always think you can judge a pub by its landlord.”
“Then it has to be the Shifnal Arms, owned by Fred and Sheila Ramsey. They don’t just run the pub, but the village as well. He’s president of the local cricket club, and used to open the bowling for the village. Even played for the county on a couple of occasions. And she sits on the parish council. But be warned, the food’s lousy.”
“Then
it’s the Shifnal Arms,” said Seb. He sat back and began to go over his strategy, aware that he didn’t need Sloane to discover why he wasn’t in the office.
The taxi drew up outside the Shifnal Arms a few minutes after twelve. Seb would have given the driver a larger tip, but he didn’t want to be remembered.
He strolled into the pub trying to look casual, which wasn’t easy when you’re the first customer of the day, and took a close look at the man standing behind the bar. Although he must have been over forty, and his cheeks and nose revealed that he enjoyed the product he sold, while his paunch suggested he preferred pork pies to fine dining, it was not hard to believe this giant of a man had once opened the bowling for Shifnal.
“Afternoon,” said the landlord. “What can I get you?”
“A half of your local beer will suit me fine,” said Seb, who didn’t usually drink during working hours, but today it was part of the job. The publican drew half a pint of Wrekin IPA and placed it on the bar. “That’ll be one shilling and sixpence.” Half the price Seb would have had to pay in London. He took a sip. “Not bad,” he said, before bowling his first long hop. “It’s not a West Country brew, but it’s not half bad.”
“So you’re not from around these parts?” said the publican.
“No, I’m a Gloucestershire lad, born and bred,” Seb told him before taking another sip.
“So what brings you to Shifnal?”
“My firm is opening a branch in Shrewsbury, and my wife won’t agree to the move unless I can find a house in the country.”
“You don’t play cricket by any chance?”
“I open the batting for the Somerset Stragglers. Another reason why I’m not that keen on moving.”
“We’ve got a decent enough eleven, but we’re always on the lookout for fresh talent.”
Seb pointed to a photograph behind the bar. “Is that you holding up the cup?”
“It is. 1951. When I was about fifteen years younger and some fifteen pounds lighter. We won the county cup that year, for the first and, I’m sorry to say, last time. Although we did reach the semi-finals last year.”
Time for another slow long hop. “If I was thinking of buying a house in the area, who would you suggest I deal with?”
“There’s only one half-decent estate agent in town. Charlie Watkins, my wicket keeper. You’ll find his place on the High Street, can’t miss it.”
“Then I’ll go and have a chat with Mr. Watkins, and come back for a bite of lunch.”
“Dish of the day is steak and kidney pie,” said the publican, patting his stomach.
“I’ll see you later,” said Seb after he’d downed his drink.
It wasn’t difficult to find the High Street, or to spot Watkins Estate Agency with its gaudy sign flapping in the breeze. Seb took some time studying the properties for sale in the window. The prices seemed to range from seven hundred pounds to twelve thousand, so how was it possible for anything in the area to be worth one point six million?
He opened the front door to the sound of a jangling bell and as he stepped inside a young man looked up from behind his desk.
“Is Mr. Watkins around?” asked Seb.
“He’s with a customer at the moment, but he shouldn’t be long,” he added as a door behind him opened and two men walked out.
“I’ll have the paperwork completed by Monday at the latest, so if you could arrange for the deposit to be lodged with your solicitor, that should help move things along,” the elder of the two men said as he opened the door for his customer.
“This gentleman’s waiting to see you, Mr. Watkins,” said the young man behind the desk.
“Good morning,” said Watkins, thrusting out his hand. “Come into my office.” He opened the door and ushered his potential client through.
Seb walked into a small room that boasted a partner’s desk and three chairs. On the walls were photographs of past triumphs, every one marked with a red sticker declaring SOLD. Seb’s eyes settled on a large property with several acres. He needed Watkins to quickly work out which end of the market he was interested in. A warm smile appeared on the estate agent’s face.
“Is that the type of property you’re looking for?”
“I was hoping to find a large country house with several acres of farmland attached,” Seb said as he took the seat opposite Watkins.
“I’m afraid that sort of thing doesn’t come on the market very often. But I have one or two properties that might interest you.” He leaned back, pulled open the drawer of the only filing cabinet, and extracted three folders. “But I have to warn you, sir, that the price of farm land has rocketed since the government decided to allow tax relief for anyone investing in agricultural land.” Seb didn’t comment as Watkins opened the first folder.
“Asgarth Farm is situated on the Welsh border, seven hundred acres, mainly arable, and a magnificent Victorian mansion … in need of a little repair,” he added reluctantly.
“And the price?”
“Three hundred and twenty thousand,” said Watkins, passing over the brochure before quickly adding, “or near offer.”
Seb shook his head. “I was hoping for something with at least a thousand acres.”
Watkins’s eyes lit up as if he’d won the pools. “There is one exceptional property that’s recently come on the market, but I’m only a subagent, and unfortunately bids have to be in by five this Friday.”
“If it’s the right property, that wouldn’t put me off.”
Watkins opened his desk drawer and, for the first time, offered a customer Shifnal Farm.
“This looks more interesting,” said Seb as he turned the pages of the brochure. “How much are they asking?”
The estate agent hesitated, almost as if he didn’t want to reveal the figure. Seb waited patiently.
“I know there’s a bid in with Savills for one point six million,” said Watkins. His turn to wait patiently, expecting the client to reject it out of hand.
“Perhaps I could study the details over lunch and then come back this afternoon and discuss it with you?”
“In the meantime, shall I make arrangements for you to see over the property?”
That was the last thing Seb wanted, so he quickly replied, “I’ll make that decision once I’ve had a chance to check the details.”
“Time is against us, sir.”
True enough, thought Seb. “I’ll let you know my decision when I come back this afternoon,” he repeated a little more firmly.
“Yes, of course, sir,” said Watkins as he leapt up, accompanied him to the door and, after shaking hands once again, said, “I look forward to seeing you later.”
Seb stepped out onto the High Street and made his way quickly back to the pub. Mr. Ramsey was standing behind the bar polishing a glass when Seb sat on the stool in front of him.
“Any luck?”
“Possibly,” said Seb, placing the glossy brochure on the counter so the landlord couldn’t miss it. “Another half, please, and won’t you join me?”
“Thank you, sir. Will you be having lunch?”
“I’ll have the steak and kidney pie,” said Seb, studying the menu chalked up on a blackboard behind the bar.
Ramsey didn’t take his eyes off the brochure, even as he drew the customer’s half pint.
“I can tell you a thing or two about that property,” he said as his wife came out of the kitchen.
“Seems a bit overpriced to me,” said Seb, bowling his third long hop.
“I should say so,” said Ramsey. “Only five year back it were on the market at three hundred thousand, and even at that price, young Mr. Collingwood couldn’t shift it.”
“The new tax incentives could be the reason,” suggested Seb.
“That wouldn’t explain the price I’m hearing.”
“Perhaps the owner’s been granted planning permission to build on the land. Housing, or one of those new industrial estates the government are so keen on.”
“Not on your
nelly,” said Mrs. Ramsey as she joined them. “The parish council may not have any power, but that lot at County Hall still have to keep us informed if they want to build anything, from a letterbox to a multistory car park. It’s been our right since Magna Carta to be allowed to lodge an objection and hold up proceedings for ninety days. Not that they take much notice after that.”
“Then there has to be oil, gold, or the lost treasure of the Pharaohs buried under the land,” said Seb, trying to make light of it.
“I’ve heard wilder suggestions than that,” said Ramsey. “A hoard of Roman coins worth millions, buried treasure. But my favorite is that Collingwood was one of them train robbers, and Shifnal Farm is where they buried the loot.”
“And don’t forget,” said Mrs. Ramsey, reappearing with a steak and kidney pie, “Mr. Swann says he knows exactly why the price has rocketed, but he won’t tell anyone unless they make a substantial donation to his school theatre appeal.”
“Mr. Swann?” said Seb as he picked up his knife and fork.
“Used to be headmaster of the local grammar school, retired some years back, and now devotes his time to raising money for the school theatre. Bit obsessed with the idea if you ask me.”
“Do you think we can beat the South Africans?” asked Seb, having gained the information he needed and now wanting to move on.
“M.J.K. Smith will have his hands full with that lot,” said the barman, “but if you ask me…”
Seb sipped his beer, while selecting carefully which parts of the steak and kidney pie he could safely eat. He settled on the burnt crust, as he continued to listen to the landlord’s views on everything from the Beatles being awarded the MBE (Harold Wilson after the young vote), to the possibility of the Americans landing a man on the moon (What’s the point?).
When a rowdy group of customers entered the pub and Ramsey became distracted, Seb left half a crown on the bar and slipped out. Once he was back on the street, he asked a woman clutching the hand of a young boy where the grammar school was.
“About half a mile up the road,” she said. “You can’t miss it.”