He turned his thoughts to the future. His first responsibility, for which he had already been handsomely recompensed, was to ensure that Don Pedro’s sculpture passed smoothly through customs, and he didn’t intend to leave the dockside until Sotheby’s had picked it up.
But until then, he decided to relax and enjoy the voyage. He intended to read the last few pages of Officers and Gentlemen, and hoped he might find the first volume in the ship’s library.
Now that he was on the way home, he felt he should give some thought to what he could achieve in his first year at Cambridge that would impress his mother. That was the least he could do after all the trouble he’d caused.
‘The Thinker,’ said Sir John Rothenstein, the director of the Tate Gallery, ‘is considered by most critics to be one of Rodin’s most iconic works. It was originally designed to be part of The Gates of Hell, and was at first entitled The Poet, as the artist wished to pay homage to his hero, Dante. And such became the artist’s association with the piece that the maestro is buried under a cast of this bronze at Meudon.’
Sir Alan continued to circle the great statue. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Sir John, but is this the fifth of the nine editions that were originally cast?’
‘That is correct, Sir Alan. The most sought after works by Rodin are those that were cast in his lifetime by Alexis Rudier at his foundry in Paris. Since Rodin’s death, unfortunately in my opinion, the French government has allowed limited editions to be reproduced by another foundry, but these are not considered by serious collectors to have the same authenticity as the lifetime casts.’
‘Is it known where all the nine original casts are now?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the director. ‘Apart from this one, there are three in Paris – at the Louvre, the Musée Rodin, and the one at Meudon. There is also one at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, and another in the Hermitage in Leningrad, leaving three in hands of private collectors.’
‘Is it known who owns those three?’
‘One is in Baron de Rothschild’s collection, and another is owned by Paul Mellon. The whereabouts of the third has long been shrouded in mystery. All we know for certain is that it’s a lifetime cast and was sold to a private collector by the Marlborough Gallery some ten years ago. However, that shroud might finally be lifted next week.’
‘I’m not sure I’m following you, Sir John.’
‘A 1902 cast of The Thinker is coming under the hammer at Sotheby’s on Monday evening.’
‘And who owns that one?’ asked Sir Alan innocently.
‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Rothenstein. ‘In the Sotheby’s catalogue, it’s simply listed as the property of a gentleman.’
The cabinet secretary smiled at the thought, but satisfied himself with, ‘And what does that mean?’
‘That the seller wishes to remain anonymous. It often turns out to be an aristocrat who doesn’t want to admit that he’s fallen on hard times and is having to part with one of the family’s heirlooms.’
‘How much would you expect the piece to fetch?’
‘It’s difficult to estimate, because a Rodin of this importance hasn’t come on the market for several years. But I would be surprised if it went for less than a hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Would a layman be able to tell the difference between this one,’ Sir Alan said, admiring the bronze in front of him, ‘and the one that’s coming up for sale at Sotheby’s?’
‘There is no difference,’ said the director, ‘other than the cast number. Otherwise they are identical in every way.’
The cabinet secretary circled The Thinker several more times before he tapped the massive mound the man was sitting on. He was now in no doubt where Martinez had secreted the eight million pounds. He took a pace back and looked more closely at the bronze cast’s wooden base. ‘Would all nine casts have been fixed on the same kind of base?’
‘Not exactly the same, but similar, I suspect. Every gallery or collector will have their own opinion on how it should be displayed. We chose a simple oak base that we felt would be harmonious with its surroundings.’
‘And how is the base attached to the statue?’
‘For a bronze of this size, there would usually be four small steel lips moulded on to the inside of the bottom of the statue. Each will have had a hole drilled in it, through which a bolt and a bevelled rod can be lowered. Then all you have to do is drill four holes through the base, and attach it to the bottom of the statue with what are called butterfly screws. Any decent carpenter could do the job.’
‘So if you wanted to remove the base, all you would have to do is unscrew the butterfly bolts and it would become detached from the statue?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Sir John. ‘But why would anyone want to do that?’
‘Why indeed,’ said the cabinet secretary, allowing himself the suggestion of a smile. He now knew not only where Martinez had hidden the money, but how he intended to smuggle it into Britain. And, far more important, how he planned to be reunited with his £8 million in counterfeit five-pound notes without anyone becoming aware of what he was up to.
‘Clever man,’ he said as he gave the hollow bronze one final tap.
‘A genius,’ said the director.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Sir Alan. But to be fair, they were talking about two different people.
41
THE DRIVER OF the white Bedford van drew up outside Green Park tube station on Piccadilly. He left his engine running and flashed his headlights twice.
Three men, who were never late, emerged from the underground carrying the tools of their trade and walked quickly to the back of the van, which they knew would be unlocked. Between them, they placed a small brazier, a petrol can, a bag of tools, a ladder, a thick coil of rope and a box of Swan Vesta matches in the back before joining their commanding officer.
If anyone had given them a second look, and no one did at six o’clock on a Sunday morning, they would have assumed that they were just tradesmen and, indeed, that is what they had been before they joined the SAS. Corporal Crann had been a carpenter, Sergeant Roberts a foundry worker and Captain Hartley a structural engineer.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Colonel Scott-Hopkins said as the three of them climbed into the van.
‘Good morning, colonel,’ they replied in unison as their commanding officer pushed the gear lever into first, and the Bedford van set out on the journey to Southampton.
Sebastian had already been on deck for a couple of hours before the Queen Mary lowered its passenger ramp. He was among the first to disembark, and quickly made his way across to the customs office. He presented the cargo manifest to a young officer, who inspected it briefly before giving Sebastian a closer look.
‘Please wait there,’ he said, and disappeared into a back office. A few moments later, an older man appeared, with three silver stripes on the cuffs of his uniform. He asked to see Sebastian’s passport, and once he’d checked the photograph, he immediately signed the clearance order.
‘My colleague will accompany you, Mr Clifton, to where the crate will be unloaded.’
Sebastian and the young officer walked out of the customs shed to see a crane lowering its hoist into the Queen Mary’s hold. Twenty minutes later, the first piece to appear was a massive wooden crate Sebastian had never seen before. It was lowered slowly on to the dockside, coming to rest at loading bay six.
A group of dockers removed the hoist and chains from around the crate, so the crane could swing back and gather up its next piece of cargo, while the crate was transferred by a waiting forklift truck into shed No. 40. The whole process had taken forty-three minutes. The young officer asked Sebastian to return to the office, as there was some paperwork to be completed.
The police car turned on its siren, overtook the Sotheby’s van on the road from London to Southampton and indicated to the driver that he should pull into the nearest layby.
Once the van had come to a halt, two officers step
ped out of the police car. The first approached the front of the van, while his colleague made his way to the rear. The second officer took a Swiss army knife from his pocket, opened it and thrust the blade firmly into the back left-hand tyre. Once he heard a hissing sound, he returned to the police car.
The van driver wound down his window and gave the officer a quizzical look. ‘I don’t think I was breaking the speed limit, officer.’
‘No you were not, sir. But I thought you should know you have a puncture in your left-hand rear tyre.’
The driver got out, walked to the back of the van and stared in disbelief at the flat tyre.
‘You know officer, I never felt a thing.’
‘It’s always the same with slow punctures,’ said the officer, as a white Bedford van drove past them. He saluted, said, ‘Happy to have been of assistance, sir,’ then joined his colleague in the patrol car and drove off.
If the Sotheby’s driver had asked to see the policeman’s warrant card, he would have discovered that he was attached to the Metropolitan Police in Rochester Row, and was therefore miles outside his jurisdiction. But then, as Sir Alan had discovered, not many officers who’d served under him in the SAS were currently working for the Hampshire police force, and were also available at short notice on a Sunday morning.
Don Pedro and Diego were driven to Ministro Pistarini international airport. Their six large suitcases went through customs without being checked, and they later boarded a BOAC aircraft bound for London.
‘I always prefer to travel on a British carrier,’ Don Pedro told the purser as they were shown to their seats in first class.
The Boeing Stratocruiser took off at 5.43 p.m., just a few minutes behind schedule.
The driver of the white Bedford van swung on to the dock-side and headed straight for shed No. 40 at the far end of the docks. No one in the van was at all surprised that Colonel Scott-Hopkins knew exactly where he was going. After all, he’d carried out a recce forty-eight hours before. The colonel was a details man; never left anything to chance.
When the van came to a halt, he handed a key to Captain Hartley. His second-in-command got out and unlocked the shed’s double doors. The colonel drove the van into the vast building. In front of them, in the middle of the floor, stood a massive wooden crate.
While the engineer locked the door, the other three went to the back of the van and removed their equipment.
The carpenter placed the ladder up against the crate, climbed up and began to remove the nails that kept the lid in place with a claw hammer. While he went about his work, the colonel walked to the far end of the shed and climbed into the cab of a small crane that had been left there overnight, then drove it across to the crate.
The engineer removed the heavy coil of rope from the back of the van, then made a noose at one end before throwing it over his shoulder. He stood back and waited to perform the hangman’s duties. It took the carpenter eight minutes to remove all the nails from the thick lid on the top of the packing case, and when he’d completed the task he climbed back down the ladder and placed the lid on the floor. The engineer took his place on the ladder, the coil of rope still hanging over his left shoulder. When he reached the top step, he bent down, lowered himself into the box and passed the thick rope securely under each arm of The Thinker. He would have preferred to use a chain, but the colonel had stressed that the sculpture was in no circumstances to be damaged.
Once the engineer was certain that the rope was secure, he tied a double reef knot and held the noose up to indicate that he was ready. The colonel lowered the crane’s steel chain until the hook on its end was inches from the top of the open crate. The engineer grabbed the hook, placed the noose over it and gave a thumbs-up.
The colonel took up the slack before he began to raise the statue inch by inch out of the crate. First, the inclined head appeared, its chin resting on the back of a hand, followed by the torso and then the muscular legs, and finally the large bronze mound on which The Thinker sat, contemplating. The last thing to appear was the wooden base to which the bronze statue was fixed. Once it had cleared the top of the crate, the colonel slowly lowered it until it was suspended a couple of feet above the ground.
The foundry worker lay on his back, slid under the statue and studied the four butterfly screws. He then took a pair of pliers from his tool bag.
‘Hold the damn thing still,’ he said.
The engineer grabbed The Thinker’s knees and the carpenter held on to his backside in an attempt to keep the statue steady. The foundry worker had to strain every sinew in his body before he felt the first screw that held the wooden base in place give just half an inch, and then another half, until it came finally loose. He repeated the exercise three more times, and then suddenly, without warning, the wooden base fell on top of him.
But that wasn’t what grabbed the attention of his three colleagues, because a split second later, millions of pounds in pristine five-pound notes came pouring out of the statue and buried him.
‘Does that mean I can collect my war pension at last?’ asked the carpenter as he stared in disbelief at the mountain of cash.
The colonel allowed himself a wry smile as the foundry worker emerged, grumbling, from under the mountain of money.
‘Afraid not, Crann. My orders couldn’t have been clearer,’ he said as he climbed out of the crane. ‘Every last one of those notes is to be destroyed.’ If an SAS officer had ever been tempted to disobey an order, surely it was then.
The engineer unscrewed the cap on the petrol can and reluctantly splattered a few drops over the coals in the brazier. He struck a match, and stood back as the flames danced into the air. The colonel took the lead and threw the first £50,000 on to the brazier. Moments later, the other three reluctantly joined him, hurling thousands upon thousands into the insatiable flames.
Once the last bank note had been burnt to a cinder, the four men remained silent for some time as they stared at the pile of ashes and tried not to think about what they had just done.
The carpenter broke the silence. ‘That’s brought a totally new meaning to the phrase “money to burn”.’
They all laughed except the colonel, who said sharply, ‘Let’s get on with it.’
The foundry worker lay back down on the floor and slid under the statue. Like a weightlifter, he picked up the wooden base and held it in the air, while the engineer and the carpenter guided the little steel rods back through the four holes in the bottom of the statue.
‘Hold firm!’ shouted the foundry worker, as the engineer and carpenter clung on to the sides of the base while he replaced the four butterfly screws, first with his fingers, then with the pliers, until they were all firmly back in place. Once he was satisfied they couldn’t be any tighter, he slid out from under the statue and gave the colonel another thumbs-up.
The colonel pushed the up lever in his cab and slowly raised The Thinker high into the air, until it hovered a few inches above the open packing case. The engineer climbed the ladder as the colonel began gently lowering the statue, while Captain Hartley guided it safely back into the crate. Once the rope had been removed from under The Thinker’s arms, the carpenter replaced the engineer on the top step and nailed the heavy lid back in place.
‘Right, gentlemen, let’s start clearing up while the corporal is going about his work, then we won’t waste time later.’
The three of them set about dousing the fire, sweeping the floor and returning everything that had already served its purpose to the back of the van.
The ladder, the hammer and three spare nails were the last things to end up in the back of the van. The colonel drove the crane back to the exact position in which he’d found it, while the carpenter and the foundry worker climbed into the van. The engineer unlocked the door of the shed and stood aside to allow the colonel to drive out. He kept the engine running while his second-in-command locked the door and then joined him in the front.
The colonel drove slowly along the dock unti
l he reached the customs shed. He stepped out of the van, walked into the office and handed over the shed key to the officer with three silver stripes on his arm.
‘Thank you, Gareth,’ said the colonel. ‘I know Sir Alan will be most grateful, and will no doubt thank you personally when we all meet up at our annual dinner in October.’ The customs officer saluted as Colonel Scott-Hopkins walked out of his office, climbed back behind the wheel of the white Bedford van, switched on the ignition and set off on the journey back to London.
The Sotheby’s van with its newly fitted tyre arrived at the dockside about forty minutes later than scheduled.
When the driver brought the van to a halt outside shed No. 40, he was surprised to see a dozen customs officials surrounding the package he had come to pick up.
He turned to his mate and said, ‘Something’s up, Bert.’
As they stepped out of the van, a forklift truck picked up the massive crate and, with the assistance of several customs officials, far too many in Bert’s opinion, manoeuvred it into the back of the van. A handover that would normally take a couple of hours was completed in twenty minutes, including the paperwork.
‘What can possibly be in that crate?’ said Bert as they drove away.
‘Search me,’ said the driver. ‘But don’t complain, because now we’ll be back in time to hear Henry Hall’s Guest Night on the Home Service.’
Sebastian was also surprised by the speed and efficiency with which the whole operation had been carried out. He could only assume that either the statue must be extremely valuable, or that Don Pedro wielded as much influence in Southampton as he did in Buenos Aires.
After Sebastian had thanked the officer with the three silver stripes, he made his way back to the terminal, where he joined the few remaining passengers waiting at passport control. A first stamp in his first passport made him smile, but that smile turned to tears when he walked into the arrivals hall to be greeted by his parents. He told them how desperately sorry he was, and within moments it was as if he’d never been away. No recriminations and no lectures, which only made him feel more guilty.