He removed an Argentine passport from the bag, along with a first-class, one-way ticket to Buenos Aires and ten pounds in cash, then dropped his gun in the bag; something else he couldn’t afford to be caught with. He locked the boot, opened the driver’s door, and placed the keys and the parking ticket under the seat for a colleague to collect later that morning. Then he opened the rear door and stood aside to allow Martinez to step out, but he didn’t move. Was he going to make a run for it? Not if he valued his life. After all, he didn’t know that the chauffeur no longer had a gun.
Rafferty grabbed Martinez firmly by the elbow, pulled him out of the car, and marched him toward the nearest exit. Two men passed them on the staircase as they made their way down to the ground floor. Rafferty didn’t given them a second look.
Neither man spoke on the long walk to the terminal building. When they reached the concourse, Rafferty handed Martinez his passport, his ticket, and the two five-pound notes.
“And the rest?” snarled Don Pedro. “Because your colleagues obviously failed to sink the Buckingham.”
“Consider yourself lucky to be alive,” said Rafferty, then turned quickly and disappeared into the crowd.
For a moment, Don Pedro thought about going back to the taxi and retrieving his money, but only for a moment. Instead, he reluctantly headed toward the British Airways South American desk and handed his ticket to the woman seated behind the counter.
“Good morning, Mr. Martinez,” she said. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant stay in England.”
3
“How did you get that black eye, Dad?” demanded Sebastian, when he joined his family for breakfast in the grillroom of the Buckingham later that morning.
“Your mother hit me when I dared to suggest she snored,” Harry replied.
“I don’t snore,” said Emma, as she buttered another piece of toast.
“How can you possibly know if you snore when you’re asleep?” said Harry.
“And what about you, Uncle Giles? Did my mother break your arm when you also suggested she snored?” asked Seb.
“I don’t snore!” repeated Emma.
“Seb,” said Samantha firmly, “you should never ask anyone a question you know they won’t want to answer.”
“Spoken like the daughter of a diplomat,” said Giles, smiling across the table at Seb’s girlfriend.
“Spoken like a politician who doesn’t want to answer my question,” said Seb. “But I’m determined to find out—”
“Good morning, this is your captain speaking,” announced a crackling voice over the tannoy. “We are currently sailing at twenty-two knots. The temperature is sixty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, and we’re not expecting any change in the weather during the next twenty-four hours. I hope you have a pleasant day, and be sure to take advantage of all the wonderful facilities the Buckingham has to offer, particularly the sun loungers and the swimming pool on the upper deck that are unique to this ship.” There was a long pause before he continued. “Some passengers have asked me about a loud noise that woke them in the middle of the night. It seems that at around three o’clock this morning, the Home Fleet were carrying out nighttime exercises in the Atlantic, and although they were several nautical miles away, on a clear night they would have sounded considerably closer. I do apologize to anyone who was woken by the sound of gunfire, but having served with the Royal Navy during the war I am aware that night exercises have to be carried out. However, I can assure passengers that at no time were we in any danger. Thank you, and enjoy the rest of the day.”
It sounded to Sebastian as if the captain had been reading from a prepared script and, looking across the table at his mother, he wasn’t in any doubt who had written it. “I wish I was a member of the board,” he said.
“Why?” asked Emma.
“Because then,” he said, looking directly at her, “I might find out what really happened last night.”
The ten men remained standing until Emma had taken her place at the head of the table, an unfamiliar table, but then the ballroom of the MV Buckingham had not been built for emergency board meetings.
When she looked around at her colleagues, none of them was smiling. Most of them had faced crises in their lives, but nothing on this scale. Even Admiral Summers’s lips were pursed. Emma opened the blue leather folder in front of her, a gift from Harry when she’d first been appointed chairman. It was he, she reflected, who had alerted her to the crisis, and then dealt with it.
“There is no need to tell you that everything we discuss today must remain strictly confidential, because it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to suggest that the future of the Barrington shipping line, not to mention the safety of everyone on board, is at stake,” she said.
Emma glanced down at an agenda that had been prepared by Philip Webster, the company secretary, the day before they set sail from Avonmouth. It was already out of date. There was just one item on the revised agenda, and it would certainly be the only subject discussed that day.
“I’ll begin,” said Emma, “by reporting, off the record, everything that took place in the early hours of this morning, and then we must decide what course of action to take. I was woken by my husband just after three...” Twenty minutes later, Emma double-checked her notes. She felt she had covered everything in the past, but accepted she had no way of predicting the future.
“Have we got away with it?” the admiral asked, once Emma had called for questions.
“Most of the passengers have accepted the captain’s explanation without question.” She turned a page of her file. “However, we’ve had complaints from thirty-four passengers so far. All but one of them have accepted a free voyage on the Buckingham at some time in the future, as compensation.”
“And you can be certain there will be a whole lot more,” said Bob Bingham, his usual North-Country bluntness cutting through the outwardly calm demeanor of the older board members.
“What makes you say that?” asked Emma.
“Once the other passengers discover that all they have to do is write a letter of complaint to get a free trip, most of them will go straight to their cabins and put pen to paper.”
“Perhaps not everyone thinks like you,” suggested the admiral.
“That’s why I’m on the board,” said Bingham, not giving an inch.
“You told us, chairman, that all but one passenger was satisfied with the offer of a free trip,” said Jim Knowles.
“Yes,” said Emma. “Unfortunately an American passenger is threatening to sue the company. He says he was out on deck during the early hours of the morning and there was no sight or sound of the Home Fleet, but he still ended up with a broken ankle.”
Suddenly, all the board members were speaking at once. Emma waited for them to settle. “I have an appointment with Mr.—” she checked her file — “Hayden Rankin, at twelve.”
“How many other Americans are on board?” asked Bingham.
“Around a hundred. Why do you ask, Bob?”
“Let’s hope that not too many of them are ambulance-chasing lawyers, otherwise we’ll be facing court actions for the rest of our lives.” Nervous laughter broke out around the table. “Just assure me, Emma, that Mr. Rankin isn’t a lawyer.”
“Worse,” she said. “He’s a politician. A state representative from Louisiana.”
“One worm who’s happily found himself in a barrel of fresh apples,” said Dobbs, a board member who rarely offered an opinion.
“I’m not following you, old chap,” said Clive Anscott, from the other side of the table.