Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

"I'm aware of that," said Charlie, "but I know a supplier in Egypt who could let us have a million tons a month."

"Can he be trusted?"

"Certainly not," said Charlie. "But his brother still works in the East End, and if we were to intern him for a few months I reckon I could pull off some sort of deal with the family."

"If the press ever found out what we were up to, Charlie, they'd have my guts for garters."

"I'm not going to tell them, Minister."

The following day Eli Calil found himself interned in Brixton Prison while Charlie flew off to Cairo to close a deal with his brother for a million tons of rice per month, rice that had been originally earmarked for the Italians.

Charlie agreed with Nasim Calil that the payments could be made half in pounds sterling and half in piastres, and as long as the shipments always arrived on time no paperwork concerning the money needed be evident on the Cairo end. Failing this, Calil's government would be informed of the full details of their transaction.

"Very fair, Charlie, but then you always were. But what about my brother Eli?" asked Nasim Calil.

"We'll release him at the end of the war but then only if every shipment is delivered on time."

"Also most considerate," Nasim replied. "A couple of years in jail will do Eli no harm. He is, after all, one of the few members of my family who hasn't yet been detained at His Majesty's pleasure."

Charlie tried to spend at least a couple of hours a week with Tom Arnold so that he could be kept up to date on what was happening in Chelsea Terrace. Tom had to report that Trumper's was now losing money steadily and he had found it necessary to close five of the premises and board up another four; this saddened Charlie because Syd Wrexall had recently written to him offering his entire group of shops and the bombed-out corner pub for only six thousand pounds, a sum Wrexall was claiming Charlie had once made him a firm offer on. All Charlie had to do now, Wrexall reminded Arnold in an accompanying letter, was to sign the check.

Charlie studied the contract that Wrexall had enclosed and said, "I made that offer long before the outbreak of war. Send all the documents back. I'm confident he'll let those shops go for around four thousand by this time next year. But try and keep him happy, Tom."

"That might prove a little difficult," replied Tom. "Since that bomb landed on the Musketeer Syd's gone off to live in Cheshire. He's now the landlord of a country pub in some place called Hatherton."

"Even better," said Charlie. "We'll never see him again. Now I'm even more convinced that within a year he'll be ready to make a deal, so for the time being just ignore his letter; after all, the post is very unreliable at the moment."

Charlie had to leave Tom and travel on down to Southampton, where Calil's first shipment of rice had arrived. His lorry girls had gone to pick up the bags, but the manager of the port was refusing to release them without proper signed documentation. It was a trip Charlie could have well done without, and one he certainly didn't intend to make every month.

When he arrived on the dockside he quickly discovered that there was no problem with the trade unions, who were quite willing to unload the entire cargo, or with his girls, who were just sitting on the mudguards of their lorries waiting to take delivery.

Over a pint at the local pub, Alf Redwood, the dockers' leader, warned Charlie that Mr. Simkins, the general manager of the Docks and Harbour Board, was a stickler when it came to paperwork and liked everything done by the book.

"Does he?" said Charlie. "Then I'll have to stick by the book, won't I?" After paying for his round, he walked over to the administration block where he asked to see Mr. Simkins.

"He's rather busy at the moment," said a receptionist, not bothering to look up from painting her nails. Charlie walked straight past her and into Simkins' office, to find a thin, balding man sitting alone behind a very large desk dipping a biscuit into a cup of tea.

"And who are you?" asked the port's official, taken so completely by surprise that he dropped his biscuit into the tea.

"Charlie Trumper. And I'm here to find out why you won't release my rice."

"I don't have the proper authority," said Simkins, as he tried to rescue his biscuit, which was now floating on the top of his morning beverage. "No official papers have come from Cairo, and your forms from London are inadequate, quite inadequate." He gave Charlie a smile of satisfaction.

"But it could take days for me to get the necessary paperwork sorted out."

"That's not my problem."

"But we're at war, man."

"Which is why we must all try to keep to the regulations. I'm sure the Germans do."

"I don't give a damn what the Germans do," said Charlie. "I've got a million tons of rice coming through this port every month and I want to distribute every last grain of it as quickly as possible. Do I make myself clear?"

"You certainly do, Mr. Trumper, but I shall still require the official papers correctly completed before you get your rice."

"I order you to release that rice immediately," said Charlie, barking at him for the first time.

"No need to raise your voice, Mr. Trumper, because as I've already explained you don't have the authority to order me to do anything. This is the Docks and Harbour Board and it doesn't, as I'm sure you know, come under the Ministry of Food. I should go back to London, and this time do try a little harder to see that we get the correct forms properly filled in."

Charlie felt he was too old to hit the man, so he simply picked up the telephone on Simkins' desk and asked for a number.

"What are you doing?" demanded Simkins. "That's my telephone—you don't have the proper authority to use my telephone."

Charlie clung to the phone and turned his back on Simkins. When he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he said, "It's Charlie Trumper. Can you put me through to the Prime Minister?"

Simkins' cheeks turned first red, then white, as the blood drained quickly from his face. "There's really no need—" he began.

"Good morning, sir," said Charlie. "I'm down in Southampton. The rice problem I mentioned to you last night. There turns out to be a bit of a hold-up at this end. I don't seem to be able—"

Simkins was now frantically waving his hands like a semaphore sailor in an attempt to gain Charlie's attention, while at the same time nodding his head energetically up and down.

"I've got a million tons coming in every month, Prime Minister, and the girls are just sitting on their—"

"It will be all right," whispered Simkins as he began to circle Charlie. "It will be all right, I can assure you."

"Do you want to speak to the man in charge yourself, sir?"

"No, no," said Simkins. "That won't be necessary. I have all the forms, all the forms you need, all the forms."

"I'll let him know, sir," said Charlie, pausing for a moment. "I'm due back in London this evening. Yes, sir, yes, I'll brief you the moment I return. Goodbye, Prime Minister."

"Goodbye," said Becky as she put down the telephone. "And no doubt you'll tell me what all that was about when you do get home tonight."

The minister roared with laughter when Charlie repeated the whole story to him and Jessica Allen later that evening.

"You know, the Prime Minister would have been quite happy to speak to the man if you had wanted him to," said Woolton.

"If he'd done that Simkins would have had a heart attack," said Charlie. "And then my rice, not to mention my drivers, would have been stuck in that port forever. In any case, with the food shortage the way it is I wouldn't have wanted the wretched man to waste another of his biscuits."

Charlie was in Carlisle attending a farmers' conference when an urgent call came through for him from London.