Four Warned, Page 4

  ‘May I put my clothes back on?’

  ‘No, you may not,’ came back the reply immediately.

  Jeremy followed him into the next room, feeling worried about what torture they had in store for him. A man in a long white coat stood waiting next to what looked like a sun bed. ‘Would you be kind enough to lie down so that I can take an X-ray?’ he asked.

  ‘Happily,’ said Jeremy, and climbed on to the machine. Moments later there was a click and the two men studied the results on a screen. Jeremy knew it would reveal nothing.

  Swallowing the Kandice Diamond had never been part of their plan.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the man in the white coat politely, and Granger added reluctantly, ‘You can get dressed now.’ Once Jeremy had his Etonian tie back on, he followed Granger back into the questioning room, where Crombie and the two guards were waiting for them.

  ‘I’d like to leave now,’ Jeremy said firmly.

  Granger nodded, clearly unwilling to let him go, but he no longer had any excuse to hold him. Jeremy turned to face Crombie, looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.’ He thought he saw him grimace. Arabella’s script had been perfect.

  The two flat-nosed guards marched him off the premises, looking disappointed that he hadn’t tried to escape. As Jeremy stepped back out on to the crowded Piccadilly pavement, he took a deep breath and waited for his heartbeat to return to something like normal before crossing the road. He then strolled confidently back into The Ritz and took his seat opposite Arabella.

  ‘Your coffee’s gone cold, darling,’ she said, as if he’d just been to the loo. ‘Perhaps you should order another.’

  ‘Same again,’ said Jeremy when the waiter appeared by his side.

  ‘Any problems?’ whispered Arabella once the waiter was out of earshot.

  ‘No,’ said Jeremy, suddenly feeling guilty, but at the same time excited. ‘It all went to plan.’

  ‘Good,’ said Arabella. ‘So now it’s my turn.’ She rose from her seat and said, ‘Better give me the watch and the cufflinks. I’ll need to put them back in Daddy’s room before we meet up this evening.’

  Jeremy reluctantly unstrapped the watch, took out the cufflinks and handed them to Arabella. ‘What about the tie?’ he whispered.

  ‘Better not take it off in The Ritz,’ she said. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. ‘I’ll come to your place around eight, and you can give it back to me then.’ She gave him that smile one last time before walking out of the morning room.

  A few moments later, Arabella was standing outside De Beers. The door was opened at once: the expensive necklace, the designer bag and the Chanel watch all suggested that this lady was not in the habit of being kept waiting.

  ‘I want to look at some engagement rings,’ she said shyly before stepping inside.

  ‘Of course, madam,’ said the doorman, and led her down the corridor.

  During the next hour, Arabella carried out almost the same routine as Jeremy, and after much deliberate delay she told Mr Crombie, ‘It’s hopeless, quite hopeless. I’ll have to bring Archie in. After all, he’s the one who’s going to foot the bill.’

  ‘Of course, madam.’

  ‘I’m joining him for lunch at Le Caprice,’ she added, ‘so we’ll pop back this afternoon.’

  ‘We’ll look forward to seeing you both then,’ said the sales associate as he closed the jewel box.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Crombie,’ said Arabella as she rose to leave. Arabella was escorted to the front door by the sales associate without any suggestion that she should take her clothes off. Once she was back on Piccadilly, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address in Lowndes Square. She checked her watch, sure that she would be back at the flat long before her father, who would never find out that his watch and cufflinks had been borrowed for a few hours, and who certainly wouldn’t miss one of his old school ties.

  As she sat in the back of the taxi, Arabella admired the perfect yellow diamond. Jeremy had carried out her instructions to the letter. She would of course have to explain to her friends why she’d broken off the engagement. Frankly, he just wasn’t one of our set, never really fitted in.

  But she had to admit she would quite miss him. She’d grown rather fond of Jeremy, and he was very keen between the sheets. And to think that all he’d get out of it was a pair of silver collar stiffeners and an old Etonian tie. Arabella hoped he still had enough money to cover the bill at The Ritz.

  She dismissed Jeremy from her thoughts and turned her attention to the man she’d chosen to join her at Wimbledon. She had already lined him up to help her get a matching pair of earrings.

  * * *

  When Mr Crombie left De Beers that night, he was still trying to work out how the man had managed it. After all, he’d had no more than a few seconds while his head was bowed.

  ‘Goodnight, Doris,’ he said as he passed a cleaner who was vacuuming in the corridor.

  ‘Goodnight, sir,’ said Doris, opening the door to the viewing room so she could continue to vacuum. This was where the customers selected the finest gems on earth, Mr Crombie had once told her, so it had to be spotless. She turned off the machine, removed the black velvet cloth from the table and began to polish the surface; first the top, then the rim. That’s when she felt it.

  Doris bent down to take a closer look. She stared in disbelief at the large piece of chewing gum stuck under the rim of the table. She began to scrape it off, not stopping until there wasn’t the slightest trace of it left. Doris then dropped it into the rubbish bag in her cleaning cart before placing the velvet cloth back on the table.

  ‘Such a disgusting habit,’ she muttered as she closed the viewing-room door and continued to vacuum the carpet in the corridor.

  Don’t Drink the Water

  (from Cat O’ Nine Tales)

  ‘If you want to murder someone,’ said Karl, ‘don’t do it in England.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘The odds are against you getting away with it,’ my fellow inmate warned me, as we walked round the exercise yard. ‘You’ve got a much better chance in Russia.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ I replied.

  ‘Mind you,’ added Karl, ‘I knew a countryman of yours who did get away with murder, but at some cost.’

  * * *

  It was Association, that welcome 45-minute break when you are released from your prison cell. You can either spend your time on the ground floor (which is about the size of a basketball court), sitting around chatting, playing table tennis or watching television, or you can go out into the fresh air and stroll around the edge of the yard (which is about the size of a football pitch). There was a twenty-foot-high concrete wall topped with razor wire, and only the sky to look up at – but this was, for me, the highlight of the day.

  While I was confined in Belmarsh, a category A high-security prison in south-east London, I was locked in my cell for twenty-three hours a day (think about it). You are let out only to go to the canteen to pick up your lunch (five minutes), which you then eat in your cell. Five hours later you collect your supper (five more minutes). At that point they also hand you tomorrow’s breakfast in a plastic bag, so that they don’t have to let you out again before lunch the following day. The only other taste of freedom is Association, and even that can be cancelled if the prison is short-staffed (which happens about twice a week).

  I always used the 45-minute escape to power-walk, for two reasons. One, I needed the exercise because on the outside I attend a local gym five days a week, and, two, not many prisoners bothered to try and keep up with me. Except Karl.

  Karl was a Russian by birth who hailed from that beautiful city of St Petersburg. He was a contract killer who had just begun a 22-year sentence for disposing of a fellow countryman who was proving tiresome to one of the Mafia gangs back home. He cut his victims up into small pieces, and put what was left of them into a furnace. His fee – if you wanted some
one disposed of – was five thousand pounds.

  Karl was a bear of a man, six foot two and built like a weightlifter. He was covered in tattoos and never stopped talking. On balance, I didn’t consider it wise to interrupt his flow. Like so many prisoners, Karl didn’t talk about his own crime, and the golden rule (should you ever end up inside) is never ask what a prisoner is in for, unless they raise the subject. However, Karl did tell me a tale about an Englishman he’d come across in St Petersburg. He claimed to have seen what happened in the days when he’d been a driver for a government minister.

  Although Karl and I were on different resident blocks, we met up regularly for Association. But it still took several walks around the yard before I squeezed the story of Richard Barnsley out of him.

  * * *

  DON’T DRINK THE WATER. Richard Barnsley stared at the little plastic card that had been placed on the basin in his bathroom. It was not the kind of warning you expect to find when you are staying in a five-star hotel. Unless, of course, you are in St Petersburg. By the side of the notice stood two bottles of Evian water.

  When Richard (known as Dick) strolled back into his large bedroom, he found two more bottles had been placed on each side of the double bed, and another two on a table by the window. The management were not taking any chances.

  Dick had flown into St Petersburg to close a deal with the Russians. His company had been chosen to build a pipeline that would stretch from the Urals to the Red Sea. It was a project that several other, more established, companies had wanted. Dick’s firm had been awarded the contract, against great odds. But those odds had shortened once he promised Anatol Chenkov (the Minister for Energy and close personal friend of the President) two million dollars a year for the rest of his life. The only currencies the Russians trade in are dollars and death – especially when the money is going to be deposited in a numbered account.

  Before Dick had started up his own company, Barnsley Construction, he had learnt his trade working in Nigeria, in Brazil and in Saudi Arabia for large corporations. Along the way he had picked up a trick or two about bribery. Most international companies treat bribery as just another form of tax, and make the provision for it whenever they present their offer to carry out work. The secret is always to know how much to offer the minister, and how little to dispose of among his workers.

  Anatol Chenkov (who had been appointed by the Russian President, Putin) was a tough negotiator, but then under an earlier regime he had been a major in the KGB. However, when it came to setting up a bank account in Switzerland, the minister was clearly a beginner. Dick took full advantage of this as Chenkov had never travelled beyond the Russian border before he had been appointed to the Politburo.

  Dick flew Chenkov to Geneva for the weekend, while he was on an official visit to London for trade talks. He opened a numbered account for him and deposited $100,000 – so-called ‘seed money’ – but more than Chenkov had ever been paid in his lifetime. This sweetener was to ensure that their bond would last for the necessary nine months until the contract was signed. It was a contract that would allow Dick to retire – on far more than two million a year.

  * * *

  Dick returned to the hotel that morning after his final meeting with the minister. He had seen him every day for the past week – sometimes publicly, more often privately. It was no different when Chenkov visited London. Neither man trusted the other, but then Dick never felt at ease with anyone who was willing to take a bribe because there was always someone else happy to offer him more. However, Dick felt more confident this time, as both of them seemed to have signed up for the same retirement policy.

  Dick also helped to cement the relationship with a few added extras that Chenkov quickly became used to. A Rolls-Royce would always pick him up at Heathrow and drive him to The Savoy hotel. When Chenkov arrived, he would be shown to his usual riverside suite. Women then appeared every evening, as regularly as the morning papers. He preferred two of both – one broadsheet, one tabloid.

  Now, back in St Petersburg, when Dick checked out of the hotel, the minister’s BMW was parked outside the front door waiting to take him to the airport. As he climbed into the back seat, he was surprised to find Chenkov waiting for him. They had parted after their morning meeting just an hour before.

  ‘Is there a problem, Anatol?’ he asked with concern.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Chenkov. ‘I have just had a call from the Kremlin which I didn’t feel we should discuss over the phone, or even in my office. The President will be visiting St Petersburg on the sixteenth of May and has made it clear that he wishes to be present at the signing ceremony.’

  ‘But that gives us less than three weeks to complete the contract,’ said Dick.

  ‘You told me at our meeting this morning,’ Chenkov reminded him, ‘that there were only a few is to dot and ts to cross (an expression I’d not come across before), before you’d be able to finish the contract.’

  The minister paused and lit his first cigar of the day, before adding, ‘With that in mind, my dear friend, I look forward to seeing you back in St Petersburg in three weeks’ time.’ Chenkov’s statement sounded casual. But, in truth, it had taken almost three years for the two men to reach this stage, and now it would only be another three weeks before the deal was finally sealed.

  Dick didn’t respond as he was already thinking about what needed to be done the moment his plane touched down at Heathrow.

  ‘What’s the first thing you will do after the deal has been signed?’ asked Chenkov, breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘Put in a bid for the water supply contract in this city, because whoever gets it would surely make an even larger fortune.’

  The minister looked round sharply. ‘Never raise that subject in public,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s a very sensitive issue.’

  Dick remained silent.

  ‘And take my advice – don’t drink the water. Last year we lost countless numbers of our citizens who got sick with . . .’ the minister stopped, not wanting to add belief to a story that had been splashed across the front pages of every Western paper.

  ‘How many is countless?’ enquired Dick.

  ‘None,’ replied the minister. ‘Or at least that’s the official statistic released by the Ministry of Tourism,’ he added, as the car came to a halt on a double red line outside the entrance of Pulkovo II airport. He leant forward. ‘Karl, take Mr Barnsley’s bags to check-in, while I wait here.’

  Dick leant across and shook hands with the minister for the second time that morning. ‘Thank you, Anatol, for everything,’ he said. ‘See you in three weeks’ time.’

  ‘Long life and happiness, my friend,’ said Chenkov as Dick stepped out of the car. Dick checked in at the departure desk an hour before boarding began for his flight to London.

  ‘This is the last call for Flight 902 to London Heathrow,’ a voice came crackling over the tannoy.

  ‘Is there another flight going to London right now?’ asked Dick.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the man behind the check-in desk. ‘Flight 902 has been delayed, but they are just about to close the gate.’

  ‘Can you get me on it?’ asked Dick, as he slid a thousand-rouble note across the counter.

  * * *

  Dick’s plane touched down at Heathrow three and a half hours later. Once he had picked up his case from the carousel, he pushed his trolley through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel and emerged into the arrivals hall.

  Stan, his driver, was already waiting among a group of chauffeurs. Most of them were holding up name cards. As soon as Stan spotted his boss, he walked quickly across and took his suitcase and overnight bag.

  ‘Home or the office?’ Stan asked Dick as they walked towards the short-stay car park.

  Dick checked his watch – it was just after four. ‘Home,’ he said. ‘I’ll work in the back of the car.’

  * * *

  Once Dick’s Jaguar had come out of the car park to begin the journey home to Virginia Wate
r, Dick immediately called his office.

  ‘Richard Barnsley’s office,’ said a voice.

  ‘Hi, Jill, it’s me. I managed to catch an earlier flight, and I’m on my way home. Is there anything I should be worrying about?’

  ‘No, everything is running smoothly this end,’ Jill replied. ‘We’re all just waiting to find out how things went in St Petersburg.’

  ‘Could not have gone better. The minister wants me back on May sixteenth to sign the contract.’

  ‘But that’s less than three weeks away.’

  ‘Which means we will all have to get a move on. So set up a board meeting for early next week, and then make an appointment for me to see Sam Cohen first thing tomorrow morning. I can’t afford any slip-ups at this stage.’

  ‘Can I come to St Petersburg with you?’

  ‘Not this time, Jill, but once the contract has been signed, block out ten days in the diary. Then I’ll take you somewhere a little warmer than St Petersburg.’

  Dick sat silently in the back of the car, going over everything that needed to be covered before he returned to St Petersburg. By the time Stan drove through the wrought-iron gates and came to a halt outside the mansion, Dick knew what had to be done.

  He jumped out of the car and ran into the house. He left Stan to unload the bags, and his housekeeper to unpack them. Dick was surprised not to find his wife standing on the top step, waiting to greet him, but then he remembered that he had caught an earlier flight, and Maureen would not be expecting him back for at least another couple of hours.

  Dick ran upstairs to his bedroom, and quickly stripped off his clothes, dropping them in a pile on the floor. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, allowing the warm jets of water to slowly remove the grime of St Petersburg and Aeroflot.

  After he had put on some casual clothes, Dick checked his appearance in the mirror. At fifty-three, his hair was turning grey early, and although he tried to hold his stomach in, he knew he ought to lose a few pounds, just a couple of notches on his belt – he would once the deal was signed and he had a little more time, he promised himself.