The 92nd Tiger (5 page)

Like most people who travel a lot, the Colonel disliked hotels. Small unpretentious hotels, medium-sized family hotels, huge and splendid international hotels; he had tried them all many times and had found them, for different reasons, distasteful. It had been with gratitude, therefore, that he had accepted a friend’s offer of this flat for a few weeks. It was a bachelor’s apartment. Shabby covers and curtains, books on the shelves, drink in the corner cupboard, and a double-bed, in case your tastes ran to company at night.

Colonel Rex sighed again. Mixed with the satisfaction was an element of regret.

The Colonel was a man who had trained himself to observe. He had therefore not overlooked the young man in the neat suit with the sallow-skinned, almost hairless face, who had been sitting doing nothing in particular in the arrival lounge at Heathrow; and who, in the company of a second young man, so like him that he might have been his brother, had followed the Colonel from Heathrow to the flat.

The Colonel had been driving a fast car, and he knew all the clever side-roads and by-ways down which a driver might switch and double, but because he had learned the first rule of being followed he had made no attempt to use them. (Don’t try to throw off your followers. Lead them quietly to wherever it is you happen to be going. Let them see you park your car and go inside. Let them discover that this is your base. Then they will be happy to watch it.
And you can watch them.
Until you are ready to deal with them.)

There were a number of possible reasons for the young men being there. The slightly splayed nostrils, the neat rounded countersunk ears, and the colour and texture of the hair suggested a point of origin in the Antilles where Spaniard mixed with Indian. Haitian, Dominican or Puerto Rican.

Puerto Ricans, the Colonel considered were the most single- minded assassins in the world. In 1950 they had had a near miss at President Truman and four years later had opened fire in the House of Representatives and wounded six Congressmen. On the latter occasion the attempt had been made with weapons supplied by the Colonel, who had, in the past decade, concluded many profitable deals in that part of the world. One in particular had held the seeds of future trouble.

He had sold, to the army of a small but proud Republic five hundred revolvers. They had new shiny black grips and handsome lanyards and were invoiced as Smith and Wesson .455 revolvers at fifteen pounds each. And there was no doubt that the chamber of the revolver accepted a .455 bullet. They also carried the indisputable mark of the Birmingham Proofing House to show that they had stood up to the rigorous tests which that body imposes.

What had not been made clear to the purchasers was that, at the time when they had passed the proofing house, they had been .45s. The extra .005 of metal had been reamed out of them in the Colonel’s own workshop in Quebec City.

It is true that by removing .005 of metal, the Colonel had also removed part of the safety margin. And a revolver which explodes when you fire it is apt to do more damage to the marksman than to his target.

If this sort of accident had happened too often, it could account for the presence of the two young men.

The Colonel lit a cigar and considered the question. The most probable answer was that they would watch him, to find out what business he was engaged on in England. They would plan to put in an appearance at the precise moment when the Colonel’s negotiations were reaching a conclusion, and they would then threaten to make trouble with the authorities. Unless a fair share of the profits on the new deal was handed to them. Enough to compensate them for the fact that they had paid fifteen pounds each for revolvers worth, at most, five pounds.

It all depended, thought the Colonel, on who had got hurt. If it had been a few unimportant officers or non-commissioned officers, money would be adequate compensation.

If, on the other hand, it had been the President’s son, or one of his boyfriends, only blood would pay the bill.

The Colonel moved to the window. The car which had followed him was parked on the other side of the road. One of the young men was in it. The other was out of sight.

He was about to return to his chair when the telephone rang.

He picked up the receiver and said, ‘Yes.’ And this was all he did say for some time. When the comfortable middle-aged woman’s voice at the other end had finished he said, ‘Thank you so much, my dear. If you examine your bank account next week you will find that Father Christmas has not forgotten you. Let me write that address down. Number 17, Riverside Avenue, Richmond. Lovely. Goodbye for now.’

Sam Maxfeldt said, ‘I hope we haven’t let you in for something.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Hugo.

‘When this woman rang up she said she was Larry Foreman’s secretary. She said Larry wanted to call on you before he left for America tomorrow and discuss a proposition. He wanted your address, so my secretary gave it to him. She shouldn’t have done it, of course.’

‘That sounds exciting.’

‘But it wasn’t.’

‘Wasn’t what?’

‘It wasn’t Larry’s secretary. When the girl told me, I thought I ought to find out more about this proposition and I rang Larry’s office back. The call hadn’t come from them.’

‘It was probably a gag by one of my fans,’ said Hugo. When he had become famous he had gone ex-directory, and his address was always given as Sam Maxfeldt’s office.

‘I expect that’s it,’ said Sam.

At eight o’clock that same evening Colonel Rex left Inverness Mansions. He left by the back door, and walked unhurriedly to Gloucester Road Underground Station. He did not think he was being followed, but he was taking no chances.

He caught the first train that came in. The fact that the indicator board showed that it was going to Wimbledon, and that this was almost exactly in the wrong direction, did not seem to worry him.

By the time the train had crossed the Thames and reached East Putney he had finished his cigar, and here he got out. Without surrendering his ticket he crossed the bridge, and sat down, on the deserted platform on the other side to wait for a train back to Earls Court. This simple manoeuvre ensured that anyone following him would have to declare himself.

There was no one.

The Colonel switched trains once more at Earls Court and reached Richmond at ten to nine. At nine o’clock he was ringing the doorbell on Hugo’s side of the house.

Hugo answered the door himself. He had been expecting a gaggle of teenage fans, and the sight of a middle-aged man in a neat herring-bone Ulster, with a brief-case in one hand and a rolled umbrella in the other, took him momentarily off balance.

‘Mr. Greest?’

‘That’s me,’ said Hugo. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I must apologise for calling at such an uncivilised hour, but I’ve only just landed in England.’

‘Well come in,’ said Hugo. It seemed the only thing to say. ‘Let me take your coat.’

He led the way up a short flight of stairs, and held open the door of his sitting room. ‘I imagine this is something to do with Umran.’

‘Indeed it is,’ said the Colonel. ‘But I must explain at once, in case you decide to throw me out—’ he smiled as though speaking of a remote contingency— ‘that I have
not
been sent here by the Foreign Office, or by the Crown Agents.’

‘Then how did you—oh, I see. You’re the person who rang up Sam.’

‘A friend of mine did it for me.’

‘Well,’ said Hugo cautiously, ‘now that you’re here, you’d better tell me what it’s all about.’

‘It’s about arms.’

‘You’re an arms salesman.’

‘Let me give you my card. My friends call me Colonel Rex. I hope you will follow suit.’

‘I’m afraid you’re too late, Colonel. I’ve made all my arrangements through the Crown Agents.’

‘Have you signed anything?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, thank goodness for that.’

‘Why?’

‘I should hate to think,’ said the Colonel, ‘that, in the course of a single day, providence had placed a modest fortune in your hands and you had thrown it away.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You are aware that there are two sources for the purchase of arms. Government and private operators.’

‘Major Gilliland told me as much.’

‘Ah, yes. Mike Gilliland. I know him well. An excellent fellow, and good at his job. Quite the best man they have. But did he explain to you the difference between the two sources? The difference from your point of view? Perhaps not.’

‘Not precisely.’

‘And yet it’s very simple. It is the only reason that private operators like myself exist. The government agencies hold all the cards. They have stocks of arms. They have technical experts at call from the armed forces. They control the necessary export licences. But being government servants, they work within very strict financial controls. No money ends up in
their
pockets. It goes straight from the buyer – in this case the Ruler of Umran – to the seller, the British Treasury.’

‘I suppose that’s right.’

‘But if you buy from a private operator, the whole transaction is more in the nature of a joint venture, and the profits accrue accordingly. You, by favour of the Ruler of Umran, have a potential order worth perhaps half a million pounds. I could not price it more accurately without knowing the precise details.’

‘You seem to have learned a good deal about it already, if I may say so.’

There is no mystery about that. The Ruler of Umran was known to be over here on a shopping expedition for his new army. It is only quite recently that he has been in a position to spend big money. You know about that, of course.’

‘I did hear that there had been a mineral strike.’

‘But you don’t know exactly what has been found.’

‘I was told, but I’ve forgotten.’

‘I see.’ Hugo thought that he detected, for the first time, a faint look of approval in the Colonel’s eyes; the look which a poker player might give an opponent whom he has assumed to be a fool, when he realises that he may have to revise his judgement.

‘Let us revert to this transaction. If the sale price to Umran is half a million pounds it should be possible, by careful selection, to buy the weapons for four hundred thousand, possibly less. There is a large element of luck in a transaction of this sort. Since the arms are for a sovereign state which is friendly to this country and is not at war with any other state there should be no difficulty about export licences, and therefore no need to spend money in overcoming those difficulties. The total profit should be available for distribution between the two of us. Since I should have to do most of the work, I suggest a forty-sixty split.’

‘You mean,’ said Hugo slowly, ‘that if I do it through the Crown Agents I get nothing, but if I do it this way I pocket forty thousand pounds.’

‘An approximate figure, of course.’

‘Perhaps you’d care for a drink?’

The American eagle embossed on the top left-hand corner of a thick sheet of ivory-white writing paper held a bunch of arrows in one claw and an olive branch in the other. The bird was clearly keeping its options open.

The letter suggested that, since Mr. Greest was about to take up a position of responsibility in the Gulf, and since important American interests existed in that area, Mr. Greest might care to discuss policy matters which might affect their respective governments. No commitment was involved, but an exchange of views might be of mutual advantage.

The letter was signed Robert Ringbolt, Third Secretary, Section of Trade and Industry.

There was a postscript in Mr. Ringbolt’s own neat hand.

‘I’d certainly be glad if we could meet. If it’s not too short notice, suggest luncheon today. Would meet you at the American Club at Piccadilly at half twelve. If this is impossible, could you ring the hall porter and suggest an alternative date. If no message, I’ll be expecting you.’

Hugo’s first thought was that he ought to have a word with Mr. Taverner at the Foreign Office. His second thought was that it might be embarrassing. He was far from certain of the view that officialdom might take of his previous night’s discussions with Colonel Rex.

The simplest course would be to put Mr. Ringbolt off. He would be missing a free lunch. But his experiences of American food had not always been happy. On the other hand, it might be his duty to go.

‘Policy matters which might affect our respective governments.’

Sir Hugo Greest, K.C.M.G. For services to the British Government in the Middle East

And, after all, he had absolutely nothing else to do.

Robert Ringbolt, who was waiting for him in the foyer of the American Club, turned out to be a personable young man, as clean and sparkling as if he had just stepped out from under a television shower bath. (Commando soap, the soap that rubs virility into your pores.) His tailor had done him proud, too. He could have been the product of any public school in England or private school in America.

He came forward, walking on the balls of his feet like an athlete, presented Hugo with a firm hand grasp, and said, ‘No difficulty in recognising you, Mr. Greest. I’ve seen you rescuing too many females in distress. Come along up to the bar and meet one or two people.’

In the bar, which was filling up rapidly, Hugo was introduced to a number of people whose names he was told, and forgot immediately. He was then steered to a table in the corner where a middle-aged man with a brown face and crinkly grey hair was staring at a nearly empty glass. Ringbolt waved across the crowded room to a waiter. His flashing smile seemed to possess the quality of a radar signal. The waiter homed on it immediately. Three more drinks were ordered and fresh introductions were made.

This time Hugo made an effort to catch the name. He was certain that Ringbolt had said Lord Twinley. But there was a snag. Americans had, he knew, a habit of adopting Lord, Duke and Earl as Christian names, a fact which had trapped many unwary visitors into absurdity. Whilst his host was paying for the drinks he said, ‘Did I get that right? Lord Twinley?’