Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles, #3)(101)

Neither did I, Harry wanted to tell her. ‘My brother had to get back. Some problem with the dam. But we had a great party last night, thanks to you.’

‘Where did you end up?’

‘I took him to the Majestic Hotel. You were right, the food is sensational.’

‘Tell me more. I’ve always wanted to have a meal there.’

During the drive to the airport, Harry had to invent a fortieth birthday present (an Ingersoll watch), and a three-course meal – smoked salmon, steak, of course, and lemon tart. He wasn’t impressed by his culinary imagination, and was grateful Annabel didn’t ask about the wines. He hadn’t got to bed, he told her, until three in the morning.

‘I wish I’d taken your advice on the bath as well,’ said Harry, ‘and had one before I went to bed.’

‘I took one at 4 a.m. You’d have been welcome to join me,’ she said, as the bus came to a halt outside the airport.

Harry stuck close to the crew as they made their way through customs and on to the plane. He returned to the back corner seat, wondering if he’d made the right decision or if he should have stayed put. But then he recalled Sir Alan’s words, so oft repeated. If your cover is blown, get out, and get out quickly. He felt sure he was doing the right thing – that loudmouth would be running around town telling everyone, ‘I’ve just seen Harry Clifton posing as a BOAC pilot.’

Once the other passengers had settled in their seats, the aircraft taxied out on to the runway. Harry closed his eyes. The briefcase was empty, the files destroyed. He fastened his seat belt and looked forward to a long, uninterrupted sleep.

‘This is your captain speaking. I have turned off the seat-belt signs, so you are now free to move around the aircraft.’

Harry closed his eyes again. He was just dozing off when he heard someone slump into the seat next to him.

‘I’ve worked it out,’ he said, as Harry opened one eye. ‘You were in Buenos Aires to do research for your next book. Am I right, or am I right?’





SEBASTIAN CLIFTON





1957





39


DON PEDRO WAS among the last to leave the garden party, and not until he was finally convinced that the princess would not be returning.

Sebastian joined him in the back of the Rolls. ‘This has been one of the great days of my life,’ Don Pedro repeated. Sebastian remained silent, because he couldn’t think of anything new to say on the subject. Don Pedro was clearly drunk, if not on wine, then on the thought of mixing with royalty. Sebastian was surprised that such a successful man could be so easily flattered. Suddenly, Martinez changed tack.

‘I want you to know, my boy, that if you ever need a job, there will always be one for you in Buenos Aires. The choice is yours. You could be a cowboy or a banker. Come to think of it, there’s not a great deal of difference,’ he said, laughing at his own joke.

‘That’s kind of you, sir,’ said Sebastian. Although he wanted to tell him that he would be joining Bruno at Cambridge after all, he thought better of it, because he would have to explain how he’d found out. But he was already beginning to wonder why his father had come halfway round the world just to tell him . . . Don Pedro interrupted his thoughts by taking a wad of five-pound notes from his pocket, peeling off ninety pounds and handing it to Sebastian.

‘I always believe in paying in advance.’

‘But I haven’t done the job yet, sir.’

‘I know you’ll keep your side of the bargain.’ The words only made Sebastian feel more guilty about his little secret, and if the car hadn’t come to a halt outside Martinez’s office, he might have ignored his father’s advice.

‘Take Mr Clifton back to his hotel,’ Don Pedro instructed his driver. Turning to Sebastian he said, ‘A car will pick you up on Wednesday afternoon and take you to the dock. Make sure you enjoy your last couple of days in Buenos Aires, because this city has a lot to offer a young man.’



Harry was not a man who had ever felt it necessary to resort to foul language, even in his books. His churchgoing mother simply wouldn’t have approved. However, after an hour of listening to an endless monologue on Ted Bolton’s life, from his daughter’s responsibilities as a senior-sixer in the Girl Guides, in which she’d won badges for needlework and cookery, to his wife’s role as membership secretary of the Bristol Mothers’ Union, to the guest speakers he had booked for the Rotary Club this autumn, not to mention his views on Marilyn Monroe, Nikita Khrushchev, Hugh Gaitskell and Tony Hancock, he finally snapped.

He opened his eyes and sat up straight. ‘Mr Bolton, why don’t you bugger off?’

To Harry’s surprise and relief, Bolton got up and returned to his seat without another word. Harry fell asleep within moments.



Sebastian decided to take Don Pedro’s advice and make the most of his last two days in the city, before the time came to board the Queen Mary and return home.

After breakfast the following morning, he exchanged four of his five-pound notes for three hundred pesos and left the hotel to go in search of the Spanish arcade, where he hoped to find a present for his mother and sister. He chose a brooch set in rhodochrosite for his mother, in a pale pink shade that the salesman told him could not be found anywhere else in the world. The price came as a bit of a shock, but then Sebastian remembered what he’d put his mother through during the past two weeks.