I shook the small bag of silica gel crystals that had helped keep the documents dry, and threw it into the waste bin. After examining both letters under the bright light of a desk lamp for watermarks or anything unusual, I read the typed letter from Whitehall. It had been sent to a Russian diplomatic attaché in the commercial department of the London Embassy. His name was Alexandr Vladimirovich Donskoy. It read.
Thursday 7th October 1998
Dear Alex, I shall ask you to destroy this the moment that you have read it.
Tell Uzbekistan that they will have to supply anything from the factory that you ask. Remind them that it wasn’t the Chinese that have supported them financially for the last nine months.
I want the production increased by twenty per cent by the end of the month or I will sell the whole plant. Would your people in Moscow be interested in buying the place? I will leave this with you. Should you be interested, the usual rate will apply. I think the investors here are beginning to realise which way the wind has blown with the bureaucrats and are already becoming restless. You can mark my words that should your fellows actually come into conflict with the hard line fundamentalists, the British will not be long in understanding what must be done.
I am in the process of forming a think-tank group of like-minded people, who see eye to eye with me on certain points regarding this volatile region, so that when the time is right we will be in a position to do something about it.
Your intelligence people are right about the British Prime Minister. Because of his stance on the Iraq war, he won’t survive in office much past this term, if indeed he lasts that long. The weenies in London are already speculating and about to welcome his successor to Downing Street with open arms.
If the worst does happen, then we can expect to have a backlash from Government towards this region of the Middle East and Asia. Demand for farm machinery though, will go through the roof!
Burn this now,
Yours, Oliver
Before reading the other letter, I thought back to my meeting with Adrian Vass at the Central Archive Depository and the subsequent fireside chat that I’d had with the Right Honourable Oliver Hawkworth MP.
Wednesday 27th October 1998
Dear Robert, What a pleasure it was to see you here in London last week. We really must get together more often and not only when there is a trade conference in town! I will come straight to the point, as we are both busy men. The present owners are about to shut down the factory in Uzbekistan, so I am reliably informed. I advise that you instruct our associates in Georgia to take over total control immediately, by force if necessary. Please call me on my number to confirm.
This would of course be a private matter between us and I feel it would be for the best in the long term. The usual procedures apply. I also have pleasure in passing on to you a gift from your Uncle Constantine, who sends his warmest regards, and hopes that your cause benefits greatly by being the guardian of it. He asked me to tell you that he is well, and living a charmed life in the sun.
Your friend, Vladi
Why did Flackyard keep these letters on the seabed? He was definitely a blackmailer of that there was no doubt. Hawkworth had been like a puppet on the end of the puppeteer’s string, ‘persuaded’ to ensure those valuable construction contracts came his way. Hawkworth appeared to be a traitor and was also so corrupt and in so deep that he had been ‘persuaded’ to involve Ferran & Cardini with the counterfeit currency that he so enticingly dangled like a carrot under the Partners’ noses. He was also ‘persuaded’ to have me re-called from the assignment in Dorset away from Flackyard’s business dealings. How many other people on Constantine’s List were ‘persuaded’ to do things?
George Ferdinand always spoke with respect about Flackyard and straightened to attention whenever Flackyard came near to him. He answered him in the short monosyllabic tones of an army subordinate, but which army?
Like a lot of well-educated and wealthy Russians whose families had defected to the west, Flackyard was privileged and able to master accentless English from a very early age. Ferdinand knew about the cylinder and of the existence of Constantine’s List. How much he really knew is difficult to decide, but he was told enough to blackmail at least one person named therein — Hawkworth. The one man he hated more than anyone else in the world. Ferdinand, however wasn’t interested in construction contracts or anything like that. What he wanted from Hawkworth was large sums of money to finance his drug business with Harry Caplin.
Although Ferdinand went with Flackyard to check the condition of the lobster pot every fourth week, until our voyage together he had made no attempt to retrieve the cylinder from the ocean bed. Ferdinand had only a radio receiver from Flackyard, while we had stolen a transmitter, which would summon the cylinder from the seabed rather than just receive a signal from it every twenty-four hours. Ferdinand had rushed to try and get the cylinder when he discovered that Flackyard had fled the country (just as Harry Caplin guessed he would).
I pulled the file marked FULCRUM — a pivot about which a lever turns. I placed the two letters and the minidisk containing Constantine’s List and placed them inside the file, putting it and the ‘POSEIDON’ file on LJ’s highly polished maple desk along with a small mountain of other files all waiting for his signature.
“So this is the lot?” LJ asked. He sniffed contemplatively.
“Yes, this is everything relating to the ‘Poseidon’ assignment. I’d guess that most of the people on Constantine’s List have in some way donated large sums of money to Robert Flackyard at one time or another.”
“Good work,” said LJ, “I always knew you would be able to cope.”
“Well, so good of you to think so” I said sarcastically, “especially when you wanted to close down the whole assignment mid term!”
LJ got up and started to pace around his office, which can get to be very irritating.
“And what’s more,” I said, “you knew from the outset that Fiona Price was employed by a special Government department or whatever it is, and you thought it best not to tell me.”
“Yes,” said LJ blandly, “but she was pushed upon us from above and I had no wish to inhibit intercourse among the group.” We looked blankly at each other for just a moment or two. “Social,” LJ added!
“Of course,” I agreed. LJ took out a cigar and lit it.
“Tell me — when will Flackyard and Hawkworth be arrested?” I asked.
“Arrested?” said LJ. “What an extraordinary question old son; what on earth gave you the notion that they would they be arrested. Surely you’ve been in this business long enough to know better?”
“Yes, but they should be arrested because they’re both involved up to their necks in, let’s see, international arms trading, drug trafficking, and possibly the murder of Charlie McIntyre. That’s just for starters. It just so happens that one is a Parliamentary Cabinet Minister.” I said it with as much patience as possible, even though I knew that LJ was deliberately leading me on.
LJ said, “You surely can’t imagine, old son, that they can possibly put everyone who answers to that description in jail — can you? Hell, where on earth would we ever find room for them all, and besides, where would we get another Civil Service from?” He gave a sardonic smile and patted the pile of documents.
“Don’t look so indignant, old son, you know I’m only pulling your leg. These two are most certainly going to get what’s coming to them. Have no doubt about that. As a matter of fact,” LJ glanced at his wristwatch, “Robert Flackyard should have already been picked up in Marrakech by Hassan. Who has personally seen to it that he is to be held in one of their finest prisons, until our boys from Scotland Yard arrive.”