Best Kept Secret

be able to join you.
    The ambassador smiled. He was well aware, as was any English schoolboy, that Test matches always began at 11.30 a.m on a Thursday, and that Peter May didn’t open the batting. But then,
Britain had never been at war with a nation that played cricket.

    ‘Have we met before, old chap?’
    Harry quickly closed the file and looked up at a middle-aged man who clearly lived on ‘expenses’ lunches. He was clinging to the headrest of the empty seat next to him with one hand,
while holding a glass of red wine in the other.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ said Harry.
    ‘I could have sworn we had,’ the man said, peering down at him. ‘Perhaps I’ve mistaken you for someone else.’
    Harry heaved a sigh of relief when the man shrugged and walked unsteadily back towards his seat at the front of the cabin. He was just about to open the file again and continue his background
study of Martinez, when the man turned round and made his way slowly back towards him.
    ‘Are you famous?’
    Harry laughed. ‘That’s most unlikely. As you can see, I’m a BOAC pilot, and have been for the past twelve years.’
    ‘You don’t come from Bristol then?’
    ‘No,’ said Harry, sticking to his new persona. ‘I was born in Epsom, and I now live in Ewell.’
    ‘It will come to me in a moment who you remind me of.’ Once again the man set off back to his seat.
    Harry reopened the file, but like Dick Whittington the man turned a third time, before he had a chance to read even another line. This time he picked up Harry’s captain’s hat and
collapsed into the seat beside him. ‘You don’t write books, by any chance?’
    ‘No,’ said Harry even more firmly, as Miss Carrick appeared carrying a tray of cocktails. He raised his eyebrows and gave her what he hoped was a ‘please rescue me’
look.
    ‘You remind me of an author who comes from Bristol, but I’m damned if I can remember his name. Are you sure you’re not from Bristol?’ He took a closer look, before
releasing a cloud of cigarette smoke in Harry’s face.
    Harry saw Miss Carrick opening the door of the cockpit.
    ‘It must be an interesting life, being a pilot—’
    ‘This is your captain speaking. We are about to experience some turbulence, so would all passengers please return to their seats and fasten their seat belts.’
    Miss Carrick reappeared in the cabin and walked straight to the back of the first-class section.
    ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but the captain has requested that all passengers—’
    ‘Yes, I heard him,’ said the man, hauling himself up, but not before he’d blown another cloud of smoke in Harry’s direction. ‘It’ll come to me, who you remind
me of,’ he said, before making his way slowly back to his seat.

36
    D URING THE SECOND leg of the journey to Buenos Aires, Harry completed the file on Don Pedro Martinez.
    After the war, the subject bided his time in Argentina, sitting on a mountain of cash. Himmler had committed suicide before coming to trial at Nuremberg, while six of the henchmen on his list
were sentenced to death. Eighteen more were sent to prison, including Major Bernhard Krüger. No one came knocking at Don Pedro’s door claiming their life insurance.
    Harry turned the page to find that the next section of the file was devoted to the subject’s family. He rested for some time before he continued.
    Martinez had four children. His first born, Diego, was expelled from Harrow after tying a new boy to a boiling-hot radiator. He returned to his native land, without an O level to his name, where
he joined his father and, three years later, graduated with honours in crime. Although Diego wore pinstriped, double-breasted suits tailored in Savile Row, he would have spent most of his time in a
prison uniform if his father hadn’t had countless judges, police officers and politicians on his payroll.
    His second son, Luis, immatured from boy to playboy during one summer vacation on the Riviera. He now spent most of his waking hours at the roulette tables in Monte Carlo, gambling with his
father’s five-pound notes in an attempt to earn them back in a different currency.
    Whenever Luis had a good run, a flood of Monegasque Francs would find their way into Don Pedro’s account in Geneva. But it still annoyed Martinez that the casino was making a better return
than he was.
    The third child, Bruno, was not a chip off the old block, as he displayed far more of his mother’s qualities than his