“I hope it won’t turn out to be a waste of your time,” said Arnold, suddenly feeling a little foolish.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” said the young detective with a smile. “Let me assure you, Mr. Pennyworthy, I only wish there were more members of the public who were as vigilant. It would make my job much easier. Good luck with your new job,” he added as he stood to leave.
As soon as the policeman had left, Arnold picked up the phone on his desk and called his mother. “Can I come and stay with you for a few days, Mother, before I move to Bury St. Edmunds?”
“Yes, of course, dear,” she replied. “Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“Nothing for you to worry about, Mother.”
Once Arnold had moved to Bury St. Edmunds, running the branch took up most of his time, and as the weeks passed and he heard nothing from Sergeant Roberts, the incident at Arcadia Mansions began to fade in his memory.
From time to time he read reports in the Daily Telegraph about police raids on terrorist cells in Leeds, Birmingham, and Bradford. He always studied the photos of the suspects being led away by the police, and on one occasion he could have sworn that . . .
Arnold had just finished interviewing a customer about a mortgage application when the phone on his desk rang.
“There’s a Sergeant Roberts on the line,” said his secretary.
“Just give me a moment,” said Arnold. He could feel his heart racing as he bustled the customer out of his office and closed the door behind him.
“Good morning, Sergeant.”
“Good morning, sir,” came back a voice he recognized. “I was wondering if you were planning to be in London during the next few days. It’s just that I’d like to bring you up to date on what our surveillance team has come up with.” Arnold began to thumb through his diary. “If that’s not convenient,” the sergeant continued, “I’d be happy to visit you in Bury St. Edmunds.”
“No, no,” said Arnold, “I’ll be coming up to London on Friday evening. It’s my sister’s birthday, and I’m taking her to see The Sound of Music at the London Palladium.”
“Good, then I wonder if you could spare the time to pop in to Scotland Yard, say round five o’clock, because I know that Commander Harrison is very keen to have a word with you.”
“That will be fine,” said Arnold, looking down at the blank page. He made a note in his diary, not that he was likely to forget.
“Good,” said the sergeant. “I’ll meet you in reception at five o’clock on Friday.”
As the week went by, Arnold couldn’t help thinking that he was looking forward to meeting Commander Harrison more than he was to seeing The Sound of Music.
Arnold left the office just after lunch on Friday, explaining to his secretary that he had an important appointment in London. When he arrived at Liverpool Street station he went straight to the taxi rank, as he didn’t want to be late for the meeting.
The taxi swung into the forecourt of Scotland Yard a few minutes before five, and Arnold was pleased to see Sergeant Roberts standing by the reception desk waiting for him.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Pennyworthy,” said Roberts. They shook hands, and the sergeant guided Arnold toward a bank of lifts. He chatted about The Sound of Music, which he’d taken his wife to see at Christmas, while they waited for the lift, and about the parlous state of English rugby while they were in the lift. He hadn’t even hinted why Commander Harrison wanted to see Arnold by the time the lift doors opened on the sixth floor.
Roberts led Arnold to a door at the far end of the corridor, which displayed the name Commander Mark Harrison OBE. He gave a gentle tap, waited for a moment, then opened the door and walked in.
The commander immediately rose from behind his desk and gave Arnold a warm smile before shaking hands with him. “Good to meet you at last,” he said. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, thank you,” said Arnold, now even more desperate to discover why such a senior officer wanted to see him.
“I know you’re going to the theater this evening, Mr. Penny-worthy, so I’ll get straight to the point,” said the commander, waving Arnold to a seat. “I must explain from the outset,” he continued, “that the case I’m going to discuss with you is due to begin at the Old Bailey next week, so there will be some details I’m not at liberty to disclose, although I feel sure I can rely on your complete discretion, Mr. Pennyworthy.”
“I fully understand,” said Arnold.
“Let me begin by saying how grateful we all are at the Yard for the information you supplied. I think I can say without exaggeration that you have been responsible for uncovering one of the most active terrorist cells in this country. In fact, it’s hard to quantify just how many lives you may have been responsible for saving.”
“I did no more than what I considered to be my duty,” said Arnold.
“You did far more, believe me,” said the commander. “Because of the information you supplied, Mr. Pennyworthy, we’ve been able to arrest fifteen terrorist suspects, one of whom, the man who rented the flat on your corridor, was undoubtedly the cell chief. At a house in Birmingham, which he led us to, we discovered explosive devices, bomb-making equipment, and detailed plans of buildings, along with the names of high-profile individuals the group planned to target, including a member of the royal family. Frankly, Mr. Pennyworthy, you contacted us just in time.”
Arnold beamed as the commander continued, “I only wish we could make your contribution public, but you will understand the restrictions we’re under in such cases, not least when it comes to your own safety.”
“Yes, of course,” said Arnold, trying not to sound disappointed.
“But when you read the press reports of the case next week, you can take some satisfaction from knowing the role you played in bringing this group of violent criminals to justice.”
“Couldn’t agree more, sir,” chipped in the sergeant.
Arnold didn’t know what to say.
“I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Pennyworthy,” said the commander. “I wouldn’t want you to be late for the theater. But be assured that the Yard will remain in your debt, and my door will always be open.”
Arnold bowed his head and tried to look suitably humble.
The commander shook hands with Arnold and thanked him once again, before Sergeant Roberts escorted him out of the room. “And may I add my personal thanks, Mr. Pennyworthy,” Roberts said as they walked down the corridor, “because on the first of the month, I’m to be promoted to Inspector.”
“Many congratulations,” said Arnold. “Well deserved, I feel sure.”
Arnold walked out of the building and made his way down Whitehall. He held his head high as he strolled past Downing Street, wondering how much he could tell his sister about the meeting that had just taken place. He checked his watch and decided to hail another taxi. After all, it was a special day.
“Where to, guv?” asked the taxi driver.
“The Palladium,” said Arnold as he climbed into the back seat.
Arnold thought about his meeting with the commander as the taxi made its slow progress into the West End. He played the conversation over and over again in his mind as if he was pressing the repeat button on a tape recorder. The cab came to a halt on Great Marlborough Street, a police cordon preventing them from going any further.
“What’s the problem?” Arnold asked the driver.
“There must be a member of the royal family or some foreign head of state going to the show tonight. I’m afraid you’ll have to walk the last hundred yards.”
“Not a problem,” said Arnold, handing over a ten-pound note and not waiting for any change.
He made his way past the large crowd of people pressing against the safety barriers hoping to discover who was causing so much interest. When he reached the theater entrance, his ticket was carefully checked before he was allowed to enter the foyer. He walked up the wide red-carpeted steps and looked round for his sister. A few moments later he spo
tted a program being waved energetically. Janet was never late for anything.
Arnold gave his sister a kiss on both cheeks, wished her a happy birthday, and asked her if she’d like a glass of champagne before the curtain went up.
“Certainly not,” said Janet. “Let’s go and find our seats. A member of the royal family is expected in tonight, and I want to see who it is.”
“Please take your seats,” said a voice over the tannoy. “The performance will begin in five minutes.”
“I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks,” said Janet as an usher tore their tickets in half and said, “Halfway down on the left-hand side.”
“What wonderful seats, Arnold,” said Janet when they reached row G.
“Well, you’re not forty every day,” said Arnold, giving her arm a squeeze.
“I wish,” she said as they made their way to the center of the row, trying not to tread on anyone’s toes but causing several people to have to stand.
“I thought we’d go to Cipriani afterward,” said Arnold once they’d settled down.
“Isn’t that a bit extravagant?” said Janet.
“Not on my sister’s birthday, it isn’t. In any case, it’s turned out to be a rather special day for me as well.”
“And why’s that?” asked Janet as she handed him a program. “Not another promotion?”
“No, more important than that—” began Arnold as people round him began to rise and start clapping as the Princess Royal entered the royal box. She gave the audience a wave before taking her seat. Janet waved back.
“She’s always been one of my favorites,” Janet said as the audience sat back down. “But do tell me, Arnold, why it’s such a special day for you?”
“Well, it all began when he moved into our block—”
“Who are you talking about?” interrupted Janet as the lights went down.
“I must confess, I had my doubts about him from the start. . . .” Arnold whispered as the conductor raised his baton. “I’ll tell you all about it over dinner,” he added as the orchestra began to play a melody most of the audience knew off by heart.
Arnold enjoyed the first half of the musical, and when the curtain fell for the interval, it was clear from the rapturous applause that he was not alone.
Several members of the audience rose and peered up at the royal box, where Princess Anne was chatting to her husband. Suddenly the door at the back of the box opened, and a man whose face Arnold could never forget walked in, dressed in a scruffy dinner jacket, one hand in his pocket.
“Oh my God,” said Arnold, “it’s him!”
“It’s who?” said Janet, her eyes not straying from the royal box.
“The man I was telling you about,” said Arnold. “He’s a terrorist, and somehow he’s managed to escape and get into the royal box.” Arnold didn’t wait to hear his sister’s next question. He knew his duty, and quickly squeezed past the people in his row, not caring whose toes he trod on while ignoring a barrage of angry protests. When he reached the aisle he began to run toward the exit, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. Once he was in the foyer he quickly looked round then charged up the sweeping staircase that led to the dress circle, while the majority of theatergoers were making their way slowly down to the crush bar on the ground floor. Several people stopped and stared at the ill-mannered man going so rudely against the tide. Arnold ignored them, as well as several caustic comments addressed directly at him. At the top of the stairs he set off in the direction of the royal box, but when he came to a red rope barrier, two burly police officers stepped forward and blocked his path.
“Can I help you, sir?” one of them asked politely.
“There’s a dangerous terrorist in the royal box,” shouted Arnold. “The princess’s life is in danger.”
“Please calm down, sir,” said the officer. “The only guest in the royal box this evening is Professor Naresh Khan, the distinguished American orthopedic surgeon who is over here to give a series of lectures on the problems he encountered following 9/11.”
“Yes, that’s him,” said Arnold. “He may be posing as a famous surgeon, but I assure you, he’s an escaped terrorist.”
“Why don’t you show this gentleman back to his seat,” said the officer, turning to his colleague.
“And why don’t you call Commander Harrison at Scotland Yard,” said Arnold. “He’ll confirm my story. My name is Arnold Pennyworthy.”
The two officers looked at each other for a moment, and then more closely at Arnold. The senior officer dialed a number on his mobile phone.
“Put me through to the Yard.” A few moments passed, too long for Arnold, who was becoming more frantic by the second.
“I need to speak to Commander Harrison, urgently,” the officer said.
After what seemed an eternity to Arnold, the commander came on the line.
“Good evening, sir, my name is Bolton, Royal Protection team, currently on duty at the London Palladium. A member of the public—a Mr. Pennyworthy—is convinced there’s a terrorist in the royal box, and he says you’ll confirm his story.” Arnold hoped they would still be in time to save her life. “I’ll put him on, sir.” The officer handed the phone to Arnold, who tried to remain calm.
“That man we discussed this afternoon, Commander, he must have escaped, because I’ve just seen him in the royal box.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Pennyworthy,” said the commander calmly, “that’s not possible. The man we spoke about this afternoon is locked up in a high-security prison from which he’s unlikely to be released in your lifetime.”
“But I’ve just seen him in the royal box!” shouted Arnold desperately. “You must tell your men to arrest him before it’s too late.”
“I don’t know whom you’ve just seen in the royal box, sir,” said the commander, “but I can assure you that it isn’t Mr. Zebari.”
BETTER THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
13
The chairman climbed out of the back of his car and strode into the bank.
“Good morning, Chairman,” said Rod, the young man standing behind the reception desk.
The chairman walked straight past without acknowledging him and headed toward a lift that had just opened. A group of people who’d been expecting to take it stood aside. None of them would have considered sharing a lift with the chairman, not if they wanted to keep their jobs.
The lift whisked him up to the top floor and he marched into his office. Four separate piles of market reports, telephone messages, press clippings, and e-mails had been placed neatly on his desk by his secretary, but today they could wait. He checked his diary, although he knew he didn’t have any appointments before his check-up with the company’s doctor at twelve o’clock.
He walked across to the window and looked out over the City. The Bank of England, the Guildhall, the Tower, Lloyd’s of London, and St. Paul’s dominated the skyline. But his bank, the bank he’d built up to such prominence over the past thirty years, looked down on all of them, and now they wanted to take it away from him.
There had been rumors circulating in the City for some time. Not everyone approved of his methods, or some of the tactics he resorted to just before closing a deal. “Brings the very reputation of the City into question,” one of his directors had dared to suggest at a recent board meeting. The chairman had made sure the man was replaced a few weeks later, but his departure had caused even more unease not only among the rest of the board but also as far as the inner reaches of Threadneedle Street.
Perhaps he’d bent the rules a little over the years, possibly a few people had suffered on the way, but the bank had thrived and those who’d remained loyal to him had benefited, while he had built one of the largest personal fortunes in the City.
The chairman was well aware that some of his colleagues hoped he would retire on his sixtieth birthday, but they didn’t have the guts to put the knife in and hasten his departure. At least, not until a story appeared in one of the gossip columns hinting
that he’d been seen paying regular visits to a clinic in Harley Street. They still didn’t make a move until the same story appeared on the front page of the Financial Times.
When the chairman was asked at the next board meeting to confirm or deny the reports, he procrastinated, but one of his colleagues, someone he should have got rid of years ago, called his bluff and insisted on an independent medical report so that the rumors could be scotched. The chairman called for a vote and didn’t get the result he’d anticipated. The board decided by eleven votes to nine that the company’s doctor, not the chairman’s personal physician, should carry out a full medical examination and make his findings known to the board. The chairman knew it would be pointless to protest. It was exactly the same procedure he insisted on for all his staff when they had their annual check-ups. In fact, over the years, he’d found it a convenient way to rid himself of any incompetent or overzealous executives who’d dared to question his judgment. Now they intended to use the same tactic to get rid of him.
The company’s doctor was not a man who could be bought, so the board would find out the truth. He had cancer, and although his personal physician said he could live for another two years, possibly three, he knew that once the medical report was made public, the bank’s shares would collapse, with no hope of recovering until he’d resigned and a new chairman had been appointed in his place.
He’d known for some time that he was dying, but he’d always beaten the odds in the past, often at the last moment, and he believed he could do it once again. He’d have given anything, anything for a second chance . . .
“Anything?” said a voice from behind him.
The chairman continued to stare out of the window, as no one was allowed to enter his office without an appointment, even the deputy chairman. Then he heard the voice again. “Anything?” it repeated.
He swung round to see a man dressed in a smartly tailored dark suit, white silk shirt, and thin black tie.
“Who the hell are you?”