Roderick Copper (67), retired Major, and Benny Gold (70), London cabbie, apply on the same morning for residential places with the Rudyard Trust for Retired Officers and Gentlemen. But its eccentric and drunken Director tells them the Trust is technically bankrupt, its multimillion-pound assets about to be divided between the Founder's descendents—a curious, motley crew.
Banker and amateur sleuth Mark Treasure is called in when Copper and Gold's bizarre scheme to preserve the charity goes wrong with terrifying consequences—kidnapping, stabbing and sudden death—involving one of the bank's clients, ex-President Cruba of Ngonga, exiled in London with his sensuous third wife, his 15-year-old son, and Gérard Opac, his handsome, ambitious aide. It is up to Mark Treasure to make sense out of all of this, which he does with his customary charm and aplomb.
About the Author:
DAVID WILLIAMS was born in Bridgend, South Wales, in 1926. He served as an RNVR officer and read History at Oxford before starting a career in advertising which took him to the top. He founded the highly successful David Williams & Ketchum Agency in London and is Director of KM & G International in the USA.
He is Governor of Pusey House, Oxford, and Vice-Chairman of the Royal Commonwealth Society of the Blind. His loves: 17th- and 18th-century buildings, music from Bach to Beethoven, the Impressionists, and the USA. His hates: humbug and sloppy prose. He is married with two children—and a retriever called Mr. Pooter. They live at Wentworth, Surrey, England.
DAVID WILLIAMS
Copper, Gold
& Treasure
A Mark Treasure novel
St. Martin's Press
New York
Copyright © 1982 by David Williams
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Williams, David, 1926–
Copper, gold, and treasure.
I. Title
PR6073.I42583C6 1982 823'.914 81-23178
ISBN 0-312-16967-1 AACR2
This one for Jim and Margot Garrett
All the characters and incidents in this book are imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
PROLOGUE
‘YOU DON’T THINK WE LOOK CONSPICUOUS, Freddy?’ enquired Mark Treasure waggishly.
It was eleven in the morning on a damp Friday in November. The two men were stepping briskly down the almost deserted broad walk of the London Zoo in Regent’s Park. They were dressed for the City or for Whitehall—not for the Zoo.
‘Not a bit,’ replied Freddy Hinterton confidently. Freddy was an Assistant Secretary at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office: he was paid to sound confident at all times. ‘This is one of the places Civil Servants use to brief Intelligence people in spy thrillers. Nobody’d come here in the ordinary way.’
The logic—and as yet the relevance—was entirely lost on the Vice-Chairman and Chief Executive of Grenwood, Phipps & Co., merchant bankers. Freddy’s logic had been defeating Treasure since Oxford days though it had impressed Freddy’s examiners well enough: he had got a First in Classics. That had been twenty years ago.
The two saw each other from time to time: they had never been particularly close. For Freddy to telephone from the office about meeting some time ahead would have been the normal thing. That he should have called Treasure at home the evening before, pressing the need for urgent and confidential discussion at a bizarre rendezvous was out of character.
‘I’m not in Intelligence.’
‘Quite,’ Freddy agreed as though Treasure had made the fundamental point. He glanced about him warily. The only potential eavesdropper was a lonely rhinoceros, some distance away. ‘You know François Cruba’s living in this country now?’
‘President Cruba of Ngonga. Yes, I did. Too hot for the French to shelter, of course.’
'Ex-President Cruba,’ emphasized Freddy, ‘and he wasn’t exactly welcome in London either, but he is . . .'
‘An anti-Communist West African ruler—sorry, ex-ruler—with a sporting chance of re-instatement.'
‘Something like that . . .’
‘Exactly like that. The French backed Cruba as the coming chap from the time they gave Ngonga independence. They had a lot invested in him. Still have, come to that.’
‘President Agabu ran the show pretty well for Fifteen years . . .’
‘And died in harness. Dear old Papa Agabu. Yes, but when it was Cruba’s turn he blew it. He’d still be there if he hadn’t been greedy. The army never liked him but with the French behind him he should have been sitting pretty.’
‘He was till the Afro-Communist coup this year.’ Treasure shook his head. ‘Tribal, wasn’t it—not Communist? Those corporals turned colonels who ousted Cruba are no more Commie than he is. Not yet anyway.'
‘Which is why the French recognized the revolutionary government with almost indecent haste.’
‘The day after us and the Americans, as I remember. Yes, Freddy, positively indecent on our part, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Want to see the lions?’ asked Freddy, avoiding the question.
‘No thank you. I want to know what I’m doing here.’ They turned about. Freddy slowed the pace. ‘There are powerful influences working to topple the present Ngonga regime,’ he announced portentously.
‘With more to play for now they think they’ve found oil.'
‘Right. Ngonga isn’t just a little Gulf of Guinea corridor state any more . . .’
‘It never was,’ the banker interrupted. ‘Small, yes, but relatively much richer than the others, surely? Grenwood’s were interested from the start. I was last there three years ago. Latterly we didn’t care for Cruba’s style. Of course, most of the outside capital was French.’
‘Still is. Don’t know how long it’ll be before they start nationalizing, of course.’
‘When it suits,’ Treasure offered reflectively. ‘Cocoa, palm-oil and livestock well husbanded. Small, literate population—less than a million, I suppose. Strong Catholic influence still. Was a model French colony. Equally model republic under Agabu. Very little corruption in high places till Cruba mucked it.’
‘Cruba wasn’t corrupt. I mean, not covertly dishonest.’
‘You mean taking a commodity levy in London while you’re Head of State is a form of overt dishonesty acceptable . . .’
‘It was brokerage actually. The gutter press made far too much of it. And the payments were taken in Ngonga through his family connection with the Ngonga Trading Company.’
‘Very cosy. D’you think we could go inside somewhere for a coffee or something?’ Treasure was tiring of light drizzle.
‘Better not. Won’t take long.’ They passed on through the tunnel towards the mid-nineteenth-century Giraffe House. ‘The colonels are giving the French a hard time. The French want Cruba back in. So do the ordinary Ngongans—and the Americans . . .’
‘I suppose he’s the only sensible alternative but . . .’ The banker indicated reservation with a shrug.
‘The French can’t afford to be seen siding with a deposed President while they’re still trying to make a go of it with the new government. At least on the face of it.’
‘Which is why we’ve taken Cruba in . . .’
‘With strings,’ said Freddy firmly.
‘What sort of strings?’
‘That he doesn’t use his large fortune . . .'
‘Accumulated in Ngonga. Is it still there?’ Treasure asked with mock ingenuousness.
‘Actually,’ Freddy began, while attempting to outstare an unblinking Bactrian camel, ‘actually it’s mostly in London now.’
‘Ah, the blessings of unfettered international exchange.’
‘Yes.’ Freddy paused. ‘Well, we, that is, the French . .
.'
‘And certainly the Americans don’t want Cruba financing a private army. Is that it?’ The other nodded. ‘I see. Of course he hasn’t the temperament or experience to cope, and inevitably anything of that kind would be branded as CIA.’
‘Quite. Anyway he should wait to be called back officially. We can’t risk his trying to barge in.’
‘Can you fix for him to be reinstated by what passes for a democratic process?’
Freddy stiffened. ‘We can’t fix anything, but the elections promised in a year will take place. Meantime Cruba has to be patient.’
‘And he can stay here provided he is?’
‘Getting the not inconsiderable benefits of acceptance by the British Establishment.’
Treasure felt this was putting it a bit high. ‘You mean he gets dining-out privileges with the Party in Government, private welcomes at sympathetic embassies, a bit of fuss made of him in the City, and a few prestigious appearances on the BBC. Mmm, I suppose that should keep his reputation adequately burnished pending positive developments. But how are you going to lock up his money-box? The Treasury can hardly sequester . . .'
‘The Treasury can’t, but you can, Mark.’
‘Whoa-up Dobbin!’ Treasure came to an abrupt halt and turned to face Freddy. ‘If you or the Government think Grenwood’s are in the business of taking over embarrassing chores . . .’
‘Hear me out, Mark. You’re right, of course. We can’t risk anyone proving we control Cruba financially—even though it’s his own money.’
‘How much money?’
Freddy hesitated, then gave a short cough. ‘Actually, in the region of twelve million pounds.’
‘Good God, that was some brokerage operation.’
‘A good deal of it’s in gold.’
‘It would be.’
‘But there’s a lot of paper, liquid funds and earnings that need to be properly managed.’
‘We are in the business, Freddy. I know what would have to be done.’ Conscious that they were debating over the sodden contents of a trash bin they had stopped beside, Treasure moved off the way they had come, leaving his companion to follow. ‘And Cruba’s agreed . . .'
‘That instead of having his assets frozen they can be actively managed by a merchant bank of his own choosing. All disbursements to be approved in advance by my Department until he decides to live in some other country.’
‘Or until you agree to blow the whistle on the deal. I mean if he chooses to give up the unequal struggle and settle for ever in Budleigh Salterton.’
Freddy nodded gravely. ‘That’s allowed for, but at our discretion. By the way, he’s living in South Kensington. Rather swell mansion near The Boltons.’
‘So Cruba has his estate looked after, generous living expenses and funds for approved activities along with his being respected—oh, and presumably protected—in exile. You’ll know he can’t be buying an armoury, at least without your consent.’ He glanced quickly at the other’s face. ‘And that he’ll be a safe and grateful guest . . .’
‘Against the day when we may . . . er . . .’
‘May be queuing up to recognize his reinstatement. And he’s picked Grenwood, Phipps? We don’t have a Paris branch, you know.’
‘An advantage in the circumstances. By the way, Cruba wants to deal only with you personally. He trusts you implicitly.’
Treasure’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Suppose I should be flattered. Only met the chap twice. Liked his second wife, the English one. Very lively. Name was . . . Beatrice. Had been a secretary at the UN. Would now be early forties.
‘That’s about right. The first wife died while Cruba was Ngonga Ambassador to the UN. He married Beatrice before going back to Ngonga as Foreign Secretary. She was the daughter of a prominent Rationalist. Bit of a fuss at the time.’
‘I remember. I read they broke up about two years ago.’
‘The marriage was annulled under the Pauline Privilege.’
‘Which means? Oh, I know. Since she’d never been baptized the marriage could be declared invalid.’ Treasure dispassionately considered the subtleties of Catholic casuistry.
‘Cruba then married Yvonne Tshube, a twenty-year-old Catholic. She was considered a more suitable escort for a Chief Minister.’
‘And a prop to his survival when he became President. Didn’t work. Serve him right.’ Treasure now gave an undispassionate sniff. ‘I think I met the girl’s father. Wasn’t he manager of the Ngonga Trading Company?’ Freddy nodded. ‘Hmm. Another cordial arrangement. Didn’t Beatrice have a son?’
‘Pierre. He’s fifteen. Cruba’s only progeny. He adores the boy. Having him educated here. Been boarding at one of the international schools. Totally bilingual. Now they’re cramming him for Eton next year. Cruba’s suddenly gone a bundle on the English Public School system.’
‘So Miss Tshube hasn’t come up to scratch in the maternity department?’
‘No. At least, not yet. Oh, I should have mentioned the second Mrs Cruba is a non-subject, if you follow—and definitely not a charge on the Cruba fortune.’
‘He makes her an allowance surely? He probably has to.'
‘Legally, yes. In fact, I understand she won’t take a bean. Proud and independent. Works in London. He got custody of Pierre at the start . . .’
‘Naturally, through a Ngongan Court.’
‘Right. Now they’re all in England she could probably get that reversed but she doesn’t make trouble. She has plenty of access—always did have. Before the coup she used to have Pierre for the Christmas and Easter holidays. Used to make things easier all round. The boy doesn’t care for his stepmother.’
‘What size of staff does Cruba keep here?’ Treasure asked, changing the subject. ‘I don’t mean domestics. Professional aides.’ He began steering them towards the Decimus Burton Clock Tower. He hadn’t admired it for years.
‘Very small. Only one Ngongan national. Gérard Opac. He’s virtually a complete government in exile. Very bright. Was the Trade Minister. Stayed openly loyal to Cruba and fled with him. Heaven knows why. A good many of the old guard just crossed a border, lay doggo for a bit, and filtered back when things returned to normal.'
‘There’s been surprisingly little recrimination.’
Freddy nodded in agreement. ‘Opac’s the best of the bunch, and he’s obviously playing a long shot. He’s young still—just twenty-eight. Educated at the Sorbonne and MIT.’
‘Married?’
‘No. No ties of any kind so far as I know. Probably the biggest reason for his opting to take a flyer on Cruba.’
‘Or one of them,’ Treasure observed thoughtfully. ‘Cruba’s now fifty-five or fifty-six?’
‘Six. Relies completely on Opac to handle official business . . .’
‘Including contact with the French, the Americans and sympathizers inside Ngonga. And there’s no one else of any consequence on the payroll?’
‘A couple of English secretaries and that’s it.’ Freddy noticed Treasure glance at his watch. ‘Mark, can I say you’ll take it on?’
‘Yes, subject to the way the FO lawyers have arranged to protect the Government in case of leaks. You have the documents with you?’
Freddy was beaming. ‘No. There won’t be anything from us. Just a letter from Cruba to you . . .’
‘Giving us absolute control of his oxes and his asses and everything that is his until further notice. There’ll be another letter from you to Cruba saying he can stay here at the Home Secretary’s discretion.’
‘That’s all.’ Freddy’s head had been nodding like a mechanical toy.
‘If our mandate is cancelled Cruba knows you’ll send him packing. Very neat. Meantime what won’t go down in history as the London Zoo Agreement remains verbal . . .’
‘In the circumstances . . .’
‘It’ll do. Cruba will need to understand I’m not going to be dancing attendance day and night. Our Investment Department will treat his account with the same care and flair we app
ly to all our activities. I’ll arrange regular review meetings with him. Oh, and I’ll let you know if he asks me to buy him any war surplus.’ A baboon caged nearby had just lost interest in the pair. Treasure watched it retreat indoors. He sighed. ‘I just wish I found the fellow more attractive.’
CHAPTER 1
MAJOR RODERICK HENRY COPPER SALUTED himself in the looking glass above the H & C wash basin in his tiny attic bedroom. It was a daft thing to do, and he knew it. It was not as though he had ever cared a rap for military ritual. You did a lot of daft things when you were sixty-seven and living alone in what must be the seediest hotel in Earls Court or—as he used to think—possibly in the whole of West London. In fairness he had seen several worse in the weeks of searching for a new place. He sighed: April was nearly over.
He knew it would be 08.31 hours without looking again. He had been up, as usual, since six. He preferred to be sure of first go in the bathroom: it was on the floor below—next to the thunderbox. He liked to be first with both of them. You could never be too careful as his dear mother would have said—and she might have said it again if she’d been alive to see the other tenants.
Invariably he made his tea before going down to bath. It got the old bowels on the move. Breakfast was served at seven, or more like ten past. It made for a long day. Still, this day would be different.
‘Resigned my commission in ’49, actually,’ he advised his reflection. ‘Didn’t wait to be passed over and then axed.’ There was no point in telling them he had suffered both indignities. It was far too long ago for anyone to bother checking. ‘Yes, felt I’d done my bit as a Regular since well before the War. Infantry, actually.’ He gave the County Regimental tie a touch which brought in view the turned cuff of the red and white checked Viyella shirt. He’d turned the collar too: did all his own mending and repairs.
‘Then it was prep-schoolmastering for donkey’s years.’ He practised the unequivocal gaze that would go with this bit—the tightened, out-thrust jaw, the extra wrinkling of the strong forehead under the thinned, steel-grey hair. The twitch of the lip under the clipped moustache was involuntary. He did it again and decided to make it standard for the occasion.
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