Джеффри Арчер - To Cut a Long Story Short

‘Shoulder arms!’ said a sharp voice. ‘Try to remember that we are not savages.’ A smartly dressed army captain stepped forward and saluted. ‘I am sorry for any inconvenience you have suffered, First Secretary,’ he said, in a clipped Sandhurst voice, ‘but be assured that we wish you no harm.’

Henry didn’t comment, but continued to stare down at the dead President.

‘As you can see, Mr Pascoe, the late President has met with a tragic accident,’ continued the captain. ‘We will remain with him until he has been buried with full honours in the village where he was born. I’m sure that is what he would have wished.’

Henry looked down at the prostrate body, and doubted it.

‘May I suggest, Mr Pascoe, that you return to the capital immediately and inform your masters of what has happened.’

Henry remained silent.

‘You may also wish to tell them that the new President is Colonel Narango.’

Henry still didn’t voice an opinion. He realised that his first duty was to get a message through to the Foreign Office as quickly as possible. He nodded in the direction of the captain and began walking slowly back to his driverless car.

He slipped in behind the wheel, relieved to see that the keys had been left in the ignition. He switched on the engine, turned the car around and began the long journey back down the winding track to the capital. It would be nightfall before he reached St George’s.

After he had covered a couple of miles and was certain that no one was following him, he brought the car to a halt by the side of the road, took out his mobile phone and dialled his office number.

His secretary picked up the phone.

‘It’s Henry.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad you phoned,’ Shirley said. ‘So much has happened this afternoon. But first, Mrs Davidson has just called to say that it looks as if the church bazaar might raise as much as two hundred kora, and would it be possible for you to drop in on your way back so they can present you with the cheque? And by the way,’ Shirley added before Henry could speak, ‘we’ve all heard the news.’

‘Yes, that’s what I was calling about,’ said Henry. ‘We must contact the Foreign Office immediately.’

‘I already have,’ said Shirley.

‘What did you tell them?’

‘That you were with the President, carrying out official duties, and would be in touch with them just as soon as you returned, High Commissioner.’

‘High Commissioner?’ said Henry.

‘Yes, it’s official. I assumed that’s what you were calling about. Your new appointment. Congratulations.’

‘Thank you,’ said Henry casually, not even asking where he’d been appointed to. ‘Any other news?’

‘No, not much else happening this end. It’s a typically quiet Friday afternoon. In fact, I was wondering if I could go home a little early this evening. You see, I promised to drop in and help Sue Paterson prepare for her husband’s fiftieth.’

‘Yes, why not,’ said Henry, trying to remain calm. ‘And do let Mrs Davidson know that I’ll make every effort to call in at the bazaar. Two hundred kora should make all the difference.’

‘By the way,’ Shirley asked, ‘how’s the President getting on?’

‘He’s just about to take part in an earth-moving ceremony,’ said Henry, ‘so I’d better leave you.’

Henry touched the red button, then immediately dialled another number.

‘Bill Paterson speaking.’

‘Bill, it’s Henry. Have you exchanged our quarterly cheque yet?’

‘Yes, I did it about an hour ago. I got the best rate I could, but I’m afraid the kora always strengthens whenever the President makes his official trip back to his place of birth.’

Henry avoided adding ‘And death’, simply saying, ‘I want the entire amount converted back into sterling.’

‘I must advise you against that,’ said Bill. ‘The kora has strengthened further in the last hour. And in any case, such an action would have to be sanctioned by the High Commissioner.’

‘The High Commissioner is in Dorset on his annual leave. In his absence, I am the senior diplomat in charge of the mission.’

‘That may well be the case,’ said Bill, ‘but I would still have to make a full report for the High Commissioner’s consideration on his return.’

‘I would expect nothing less of you, Bill,’ said Henry.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Henry?’

‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘And while you’re at it, I also require that the kora we are holding in the Contingency Fund be converted into sterling.’

‘I’m not sure...’ began Bill.

‘Mr Paterson, I don’t have to remind you that there are several other banks in St George’s, who for years have made it clear how much they would like to have the British government’s account.’

‘I shall carry out your orders to the letter, First Secretary,’ replied the bank manager, ‘but I wish it to be placed on the record that it is against my better judgement.’

‘Be that as it may, I wish this transaction to be carried out before the close of business today,’ said Henry. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘You most certainly do,’ said Bill.

It took Henry another four hours to reach the capital. As all the streets in St George’s were empty, he assumed that the news of the President’s death must have been announced, and that a curfew was in force. He was stopped at several checkpoints — grateful to have the Union Jack flying from his bonnet — and ordered to proceed to his home immediately. Still, it meant he wouldn’t have to drop into Mrs Davidson’s bazaar and pick up the cheque for two hundred kora.

The moment Henry arrived back home he switched on the television, to see President Narango, in full-dress uniform, addressing his people.

‘Be assured, my friends,’ he was saying, ‘you have nothing to fear. It is my intention to lift the curfew as soon as possible. But until then, please do not stray out onto the streets, as the army has been given orders to shoot on sight.’

Henry opened a tin of baked beans and remained indoors for the entire weekend. He was sorry to miss Bill’s fiftieth, but he felt on balance it was probably for the best.

HRH Princess Anne opened St George’s new swimming pool on her way back from the Commonwealth Games in Kuala Lumpur. In her speech from the poolside, she said how impressed she was by the high diving board and the modern changing facilities.

She went on to single out the work of the Rotary Club and to congratulate them on the leadership they had shown throughout the campaign, in particular the chairman, Mr Bill Paterson, who had received an OBE for his services in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.

Sadly, Henry Pascoe was not present at the ceremony, as he had recently taken up his post as High Commissioner to the Ascensions — a group of islands which isn’t on the way to anywhere.

‘You may wonder why this sculpture is numbered “13”,’ said the curator, a smile of satisfaction appearing on his face. I was standing at the back of the group, and assumed we were about to be given a lecture on artists’ proofs.

‘Henry Moore,’ the curator continued, in a voice that made it clear he believed he was addressing an ignorant bunch of tourists who might muddle up Cubism with sugar lumps, and who obviously had nothing better to do on a bank holiday Monday than visit a National Trust house, ‘would normally produce his works in editions of twelve. To be fair to the great man, he died before approval was given for the only casting of a thirteenth example of one of his masterpieces.’

I stared across at the vast bronze of a nude woman that dominated the entrance of Huxley Hall. The magnificent, curvaceous figure, with the trademark hole in the middle of her stomach, head resting in a cupped hand, stared out imperiously at a million visitors a year. She was, to quote the handbook, classic Henry Moore, 1952.