Best Kept Secret

that he could assist them with Operation Run Out. Since then his feet, to quote his old master
sergeant, hadn’t touched the ground.
    The fitting of a BOAC captain’s uniform had taken up one of those hours, the photograph for the fake passport another; the briefing on his new background, including a divorced wife and two
children, three hours; a lesson on the duties of a modern BOAC captain, three hours; a tourist’s guide to Buenos Aires, one hour; and over dinner with Sir Alan at his club, he still had
dozens more questions that needed to be answered.
    Just before he left the Athenaeum to spend a sleepless night at Giles’s house in Smith Square, Sir Alan had handed him a thick file, a briefcase and a key.
    ‘Read everything in this file during your journey to Buenos Aires, then hand it to the ambassador, who will destroy it. You’re booked into the Milonga Hotel. Our ambassador, Mr
Philip Matthews, is expecting to see you at the embassy at ten on Saturday morning. You will also hand him this letter from Mr Selwyn Lloyd, the foreign secretary, which will explain why
you’re in Argentina.’
    Once he’d reached the gate, he walked straight up to the attendant at the desk.
    ‘Good morning, captain,’ she said, even before he’d opened his passport. ‘I hope you have a pleasant flight.’
    He walked out on to the tarmac, climbed the steps to the aircraft and entered an empty first-class cabin.
    ‘Good morning, Captain May,’ said an attractive young woman. ‘My name is Annabel Carrick. I’m the senior stewardess.’
    The uniform, and the discipline, made it feel like being back in the army, even if he was up against a different enemy this time, or was it, as Sir Alan had suggested, the same one?
    ‘May I show you to your seat?’
    ‘Thank you, Miss Carrick,’ he said as she led him to the rear of the first-class cabin. Two empty seats, but he knew only one of them would be occupied. Sir Alan didn’t leave
that sort of thing to chance.
    ‘The first leg of the flight should take about seven hours,’ said the stewardess. ‘Can I get you a drink before we take off, captain?’
    ‘Just a glass of water, thank you.’ He took off his peaked cap and put it on the seat beside him, then placed the briefcase on the floor under his seat. He had been told not to open
it until the plane had taken off, and to be certain no one could see what he was reading. Not that the file mentioned Martinez by name from the first page to the last, referring to him only as
‘the subject’.
    A few moments later, the first passengers began to make their way on to the plane, and for the next twenty minutes they located their seats, placed their bags in the overhead lockers, shed their
coats, and some of them their jackets, settled themselves down, enjoyed a glass of champagne, clicked on their seat belts, selected a newspaper or magazine, and waited for the words, ‘This is
your captain speaking.’
    Harry smiled at the thought of the captain being taken ill during the flight and Miss Carrick running back to ask him for his assistance. How would she react when he told her that he’d
served in the British merchant navy and the US army, but never the air force?
    The plane taxied on to the runway, but Harry didn’t unlock his briefcase until they were in the air and the captain had turned off the seat-belt sign. He pulled out a thick file, opened it
and began to study its contents, as if he was preparing for an exam.
    It read like an Ian Fleming novel; the only difference was that he was cast in the role of Commander Bond. As Harry turned the pages, Martinez’s life unfolded in front of him. When he took
a break for dinner, he couldn’t help thinking that Emma was right, they should never have allowed Sebastian to go on being involved with this man. It was far too big a risk.
    However, he’d agreed with her that if at any time he felt their son’s life was in danger, he would return to London on the next plane with Sebastian sitting beside him. He glanced
out of the window. Instead of flying south, he and William Warwick were meant to be on their way up north that morning to begin a book tour. He’d been looking forward to meeting Agatha
Christie at the
Yorkshire Post
literary lunch. Instead, he was heading to South America, hoping to avoid Don Pedro Martinez.
    He closed the file, returned it to the briefcase, slid it under the seat and drifted into a light sleep, but ‘the subject’ never left him.