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Authors: Jeffrey Archer

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BOOK: Twelve Red Herrings
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He advises the
government on Romanian matters, and has written a scholarly book on the
subject.

Last year he was
awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.’

“How could
either of these men possibly know Rosemary?” I asked.

“Williams must
have made a mistake when he wrote down the number.’

“Williams
doesn’t make mistakes, Mr. Cooper,” said the Don.

“Otherwise I
wouldn’t have employed him. Your wife dialled one of those numbers, and we’re
just going to have to find out which one.

This time we’ll
need your assistance.’

I mumbled an
apology, but remained unconvinced.

Hackett nodded
curtly, and turned back to Jenny. “How long will it take us to get to the wing
commander’s home?”

“About fifteen
minutes, sir. He lives in a cottage in Great Shelforal, just south of
Cambridge.”

“Right, we’ll
start with him. I’ll see you both in the lobby at five o’clock tomorrow
morning.” I slept fitfully again that night, now convinced that we were
embarked on a wild-goose chase. But at least I was going to be allowed to join
them the following day, instead of being confined to my room and yet more
Australian soaps.

I didn’t need my
4.30 alarm call – I was already showering when the phone went. A few minutes
after five, the three of us walked out of the hotel, trying not to look as if
we were hoping to leave without paying our bill. It was a chilly morning, and I
shivered as I climbed into the back of the car.

Jenny drove us
out of the city and onto the London road. After a mile or so she turned left
and took us into a charming little village with neat, well-kept houses on
either side of the road. We passed a garden centre on the left and drove
another half mile,
then
Jenny suddenly swung the car
round and reversed into a layby. She switched off the engine and pointed to a
small house with an RAFBLUE door.

“That’s where he
lives,” she said. “Number forty-seven.” Donald focused a tiny pair of
binoculars on the house.

Some
early-morning risers were already leaving their homes, cars heading towards the
station for the first commuter train to London.

The paperboy
turned out to be an old lady who pushed her heavily-laden bicycle slowly round
the village, dropping off her deliveries. The milkman was next, clattering
along in his electric van – two pints here, a pint there, the occasional
halfdozen eggs or carton of orange juice left on front doorsteps. Lights began
to flick on all over the village. “The wing commander has had one pint of
red-top milk and a copy of the Daily Telegraph delivered to his front door,”
said Donald.

People had
emerged from the houses on either side of number forty-seven before a light
appeared in an upstairs room of the wing commander’s home. Once that light had
been switched on Donald sat bolt upright, his eyes never leaving the house.

I became bored,
and dozed off in the back at some point. When I woke up, I hoped we might at
least be allowed a break for breakfast, but such mundane considerations didn’t
seem to worry the two professionals in the front. They continued to concentrate
on any movement that took place around number forty-seven, and hardly exchanged
a word.

At o.9 a thin,
elderly man, dressed in a Harris
tweed
jacket and grey
flannels, emerged from number forty-seven and marched briskly down the path.
All I could see at that distance was a huge, bushy white mustache. It looked
almost as if his whole body had been designed around it. Donald kept the
glasses trained on him.

“Ever seen him
before?” he asked, passing the binoculars back to me.

I focused the
glasses on the wing commander and studied him carefully. “Never,” I said as he
came to a halt by the side of a battered old Austin Allegro. “How could anyone
forget that
mustache ?’

“It certainly
wasn’t grown last week,” said Donald, as Danvetssmith eased his car out onto
the main road.

Jenny cursed. “I
thought that if he used his car, the odds would be on him heading into
Cambridge.” She deftly performed a threepoint turn and accelerated quickly
after the wing commander.

Within a few
minutes she was only a couple of cars behind him.

Danvers-Smith
was not proving to be the sort of fellow who habitually broke the speed limit.
“His days as a test pilot are obviously long behind him,” Donald said, as we
trailed the Allegro at a safe distance into the next village. About half a mile
later he pulled into a petrol station.

“Stay with him,”
said Donald. Jenny followed the Allegro into the forecourt and came to a halt
at the pump directly behind Danvers-Smith.

“Keep your head
down, Mr. Cooper,” said the Don, opening his door.

“We don’t want
him seeing you.”

“What are you
going to do?” I asked, peeping between the front seats.

“Risk an old
con’s trick,” Donald replied.

He stepped out
.of the front seat, walked round to the back of the car, and unscrewed the
petrol cap just as the wing commander slipped the nozzle of a petrol pump into
the tank of his Allegro.

Donald began
slowly topping up our already full tank,
then
suddenly
turned to face the old man.

“Wing Commander
Danvers-Smith?” he asked in a plummy voice.

The wing
commander looked up immediately, and a puzzled expression came over his
weather-beaten face.

“Baker, sir,”
said Donald. “Flight Lieutenant Baker. You lectured me at RAF Locking. Vulcans,
if I remember.”

“Bloody
good memory, Baker.
Good show,” said Danverssmith. “Delighted to see
you, old chap,” he said, taking the nozzle out of his car and replacing it in
the pump. “What are you up to
nowadays ?”
Jenny
stifled a laugh.

“Work for BA,
sir.
Grounded after I failed my eye test.
Bloody desk
job, I’m afraid, but it was the only offer I got.”

“Bad luck, old
chap,” said the wing commander, as they headed off towards the pay booth, and
out of earshot.

When they came
back a few minutes later, they were chattering away like old chums, and the
wing commander actually had his arm round Donald’s shoulder.

When they
reached his car they shook hands, and I heard Donald say “Goodbye, sir,” before
Danvers-Smith climbed into his Allegro. The old airman pulled out of the
forecourt and headed back towards his home. Donald got in next to Jenny and
pulled the passenger door closed.

“I’m afraid he
won’t lead us to Alexander,” the Don said with a sigh. “Danvers-Smith is the
genuine article – misses his wife, doesn’t see his children enough, and feels a
bit lonely.
Even asked if I’d like to drop in for a bite of
lunch.”

“Why didn’t you
accept?” I asked.

Donald paused.
“I would have done, but when I mentioned that I was from Leeds, he told me he’d
only been there once in his life, to watch a test match. No, that man has never
heard of Rosemary Cooper or Jeremy Alexander – I’d bet my pension on it. So,
now it’s the turn of the professor. Let’s head back towards Cambridge, Jenny.
And drive slowly. I don’t want to catch up with the wing commander, or we’ll
all end up having to join him for lunch.” Jenny swung the car across the road
and into the far lane,
then
headed back towards the
city. After a couple of miles Donald told her to pull into the side of the road
just past a sign announcing the Shelford Rugby Club.

“The professor
and his wife live behind that hedge,” Donald said, pointing across the road.
“Settle back, Mr. Cooper. This might take some time.” At 22.30 Jenny went off
to get some fish and chips from the village. I devoured them hungrily. By
three I
was bored stiff again, and was beginning to wonder
just how long Donald would hang around before we were allowed to return to the
hotel. I remembered “Happy Days’ would be on at 6.30.

“We’ll sit here
all night, if necessary,” Donald said, as if he were reading my thoughts. “Forty-nine
hours is my record without sleep. What’s yours, Jenny?” he asked, never taking
his eyes off the house.

“Thirty-one,
sir,” she replied.

“Then this may
be your chance to break that record,” he said.

A moment later,
a woman in a white BMW nosed out of the driveway leading to the house and
stopped at the edge of the pavement. She paused, looked both ways, then turned
across the road and swung right, in the direction of Cambridge. As she passed
us, I caught a glimpse of a blonde with a pretty face.

“I’ve seen her
before,” I blurted out.

“Follow her,
Jenny,” Donald said sharply. “But keep your distance.” He turned round to face
me.

“Where have you
seen her?” he asked, passing over the binoculars.

“I can’t
remember,” I said, trying to focus on the back of a mop of fair, curly hair.

“Think,
man.
Think. It’s our best chance yet,” said Donald, trying not to sound as if he was
cross-examining an old lag.

I knew I had
come across that face somewhere, though I felt certain we had never met. I had
to rack my brains, because it was at least five years since I had seen any
woman I recognised, let alone one that striking. But my mind remained blank.

“Keep on
thinking,” said the Don, ‘while I try to find out something a little more
simple. And Jenny – don’t get too close to her. Never forget she’s got a
rear-view mirror. Mr. Cooper may not remember her, but she may remember him.”
Donald picked up the carphone and jabbed in ten numbers.

“Let’s pray he
doesn’t realise I’ve retired,” he mumbled.

“DVLC
Swansea.
How can I help you?”

“Sergeant Crann,
please,’ said Donald.

“I’ll put you
through.”

“Dave Crann.”

“Donald
Hackett.”

“Good afternoon,
Chief Superintendent. How can I help you?”

“White BMW K273
SCE,” said Donald, staring at the car in front of him.

“Hold on please,
sir, I won’t be a moment.” Donald kept his eye fixed on the BMW while he
waited. It was about thirty yards ahead of us, and heading towards a green
light.

Jenny
accelerated to make sure she wouldn’t get trapped if the lights changed, and as
she shot through an amber light, Sergeant Crann came back on the line, “We’ve
identified the car, sir,” he said.

“Registered
owner Mrs. Susan Balcescu, The Kendalls, High Street,
Great
Shelfor& Cambridge.
One endorsement for speeding in a
built-up area, 99, a thirty-pound fine.
Otherwise
nothing known.”

“Thank you,
sergeant. That’s most helpful.”

“My
pleasure, sir.”

“Why should
Rosemary want to contact the
Balcescus ?”
Donald said
as he clipped the phone back into place. “And is she contacting just one of
them, or both?” Neither of us attempted to answer.

“I think it’s
time to let her go,” he said a moment later. “I need to check out several more
leads before we risk coming face to face with either of them. Let’s head back
to the hotel and consider our next move.”

“I know it’s
only a coincidence,” I ventured, ‘but when I knew him, Jeremy had a white BMW.”

“F173 BZK,” said
Jenny. “I remember it from the file.” Donald swung round. “Some people can’t
give up smoking, you know, others drinking. But with some, it’s a particular
make of car,” he said. “Although a lot of people must drive white BMWS,” he
muttered almost to himself.

Once we were
back in Donald’s room, he began checking through the file he had put together
on Professor Balcescu. The Times report of his escape from Romania, he told us,
was the most detailed.
professor
BALCESCU first came
to prominence while still a student at the University of Bucharest, where he
called for the overthrow of the elected government.

The authorities
seemed relieved when he was offered a place at Oxford, and must have hoped that
they had seen the last of him. But he returned to Bucharest University three
years later, taking up the position of tutor in Politics.

The following
year he led a student revolt in support of Nicolae Ceausescu, and after he
became president, Balcescu was rewarded with a Cabinet post, as Minister of
Education. But he soon became disillusioned with the Ceasescu regime, and
within eighteen months he had resigned and returned to the university as a
humble tutor.

Three years
later he was offered the Chair of Politics and Economics.

Professor
Baicescu’s growing disillusionment with the government finally turned to anger,
and in I986 he began writing a series of pamphlets denouncing Ceausescu and his
puppet regime. A few weeks after a particularly vitriolic attack on the
establishment, he was dismissed from his post at the university, and later
placed under house arrest. A group of Oxford historians wrote a letter of
protest to The Times, but nothing more was heard of the great scholar for
several years. Then, late in I989, he was smuggled out of Romania by a group of
students, finally reaching Britain via Bulgaria and Greece.

BOOK: Twelve Red Herrings
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