Kidnap the Emperor!

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‘For us, Charlie. Kidnapping an Emperor is quite enough for one job. Spare us looking after you.’

Tuesday, 23 March

Back in the Oxfordshire countryside, Collins had only a few routine matters to attend to. He had to confirm a couple of sales, vet a US Army jeep that would eventually fetch at least £3500, and say ‘yes’ with a willing smile when the village’s up-and-coming young equestrienne, Caroline Sinclair, wanted some poles for a jump. But most of his attention was given to tracking down Halloran and Rourke.

It took several calls and several hours to get to Halloran. He learned of Halloran’s rapid exit from the SAS, and of his re-emergence in Ireland. A contact in Military Intelligence, Belfast, looked up the files. Halloran had blown it: he was never to be used again. For them, Halloran had turned out more dangerous than an unexploded bomb. There had been reprimands for taking him on in the first place. A couple of his Irish contacts were also on file.

‘What’s this for, old boy?’ the voice at the end of the line asked. ‘Nothing too fishy, I hope?’

Collins knew what this meant. ‘Nothing to do with the Specials, the Army, the UDA, the IRA or the SAS. Something far, far away.’

‘Good. In that case, you better move fast. The Yard knows he’s in London. Looks like the Garda tipped them the wink. Could be a bit embarrassing for us if they handle it wrong. Do what you can.’

Collins made three more calls, this time to the Republic – one to a bar in Dundalk and one to each of the contacts on MI’s file. At each number he left a message that an old friend was trying to contact Pete Halloran with an offer of work. He left his number.

At lunch-time, the phone rang. A call-box: the pips cut off as the money went in. A voice heavily muffled through a handkerchief asked for Collins’s identity. Then: ‘It’s about Halloran.’

‘I’ll make it short,’ said Collins. ‘Tell Pete the Yard are on to him and that I may have an offer. Tell him to move quickly.’

‘I’ll let him know.’

The phone clicked off. It could have been Halloran, probably was, but he had to be allowed to handle things his own way.

An hour later, Halloran himself called.

‘Is that you, sir? I had the message. What’s the offer?’

‘Good to hear you, Peter. Nothing definite yet. But I want you to stay out of trouble and be ready for a show. Not here – a long way away. You can come up here as soon as you like. You’ll be quite safe.’

He had assumed Halloran, on the run, tense, perhaps bored with remaining hidden, would jump at it. He did.

‘But what’s this about the Yard?’

‘Just a report that your name has been passed over. Are you sure your tracks are covered? Maybe nothing in it, but just look after yourself, will you? Phone again tomorrow at this time. Perhaps I’ll have more.’

The second set of calls was simpler. From the SAS in Herefordshire to the Selous Scouts in Rhodesia was an easy link. He had no direct contact there, but didn’t need one. He was told Rourke was on his way home. The call also elicited the address of Rourke’s family – a suburban house in Sevenoaks, Kent. Rourke senior was still a working man, a British Rail traffic supervisor. Mrs Rourke answered. Oh yes, Michael was on his way home. Why, he might be in London at that very moment. No, they didn’t know where. He liked his independence, did Michael. They hoped he would be down in the morning, but anyway he was certain to call. How nice of the major. Michael would be pleased to re-establish an old link. No, they didn’t think he had any immediate plans. Yes, she would pass on the message.

Rourke phoned that afternoon within an hour of Halloran. He was still at Heathrow, just arrived from Jo’burg.

‘Can’t tell you yet, Michael,’ said Collins, in response to Rourke’s first question. ‘But it looks like a bit of the old times. Lots of action, one-month contract. Can you be free?’

There was a pause. ‘I’m interested.’

Again, Collins made a provisional arrangement. Rourke would be back in contact later that evening.

Collins’s final call that afternoon, shortly before four o’clock, was to Cromer.

‘Charlie. Just wanted to say the package we were lining up the other day looks good. The other two partners are very interested. We’re ready when you give us the word.’

‘Thanks, Dicky. I have a meeting later which should clarify things. I’ll be in contact tonight.’

3 (#u610b2d2f-3e33-50cc-863d-4659f60235d2)

At five o’clock, with the business of the day cleared from his desk, Cromer prepared himself for Yufru’s arrival. Valerie Yates was briefed to leave when she saw him. Cromer did not want the possibility of any eavesdropping, intentional or otherwise.

He had planned for himself the role he liked best – magnanimous, controlled, polite, manipulative. He did not wish to be overtly aggressive and thus risk forcing Yufru into a corner. If he had guessed correctly, it should be a delicate, but not difficult matter to persuade him that the two of them should be working together.

‘Mr Yufru, Sir Charles,’ came Valerie’s voice over the intercom.

‘Very good, Miss Yates, ask him to come in, and perhaps you could bring in some tea before you go…ah, Mr Yufru, I am sorry to impose upon your precious time. Shall we?’ And he indicated the sofas.

‘It is my pleasure, Sir Charles. Perhaps it is I that owe you an apology. I had no intention of involving you in such an extended intellectual exercise’, said Yufru, as he relaxed back into the ancient polished leather. He crossed his right leg over his left and set the crease of his grey trousers exactly over the kneecap.

‘Your idea interested me,’ Cromer said, ‘so much so that I began to treat it less as an intellectual exercise and more as a practical possibility.’

Yufru’s hands came to rest in his lap. He gave no hint of concern.

Cromer continued: ‘That way, I can be sure that my response will be complete and therefore as helpful as possible. It is because I think I now finally have a realistic answer to your question that I wish to speak to you.’

Valerie knocked at the door and brought in a tray bearing two neat little porcelain cups, teapot, sugar bowl, teaspoons, milk jug and lemon. Yufru was now utterly still, his face expressionless, his attention riveted on Cromer. As Valerie set down the tray on the table between the two men he said smoothly: ‘By all means let us cover all eventualities, Sir Charles.’

Cromer waited until Valerie had closed the door and resumed: ‘In our previous conversation, Mr Yufru, we discussed the possibility of my bank being presented with documents signed by the Emperor several months ago. I said an outdated signature would not be acceptable. I think I should tell you that the date alone would not be our only reason for our refusal to comply with instructions.

‘We are speaking of documents signed by the Emperor after his deposition. It is well known that he was not a free man. We have no reason to think he was badly treated; but equally we must assume, for our client’s sake, that instructions not in his direct interest might have been the product of coercion. In other words, in the circumstances you outlined, we would have a justifiable fear that he might have been forced to append his signature to documents not of his own devising. I fear, therefore, that we could not accept the Emperor’s instructions as both authentic and valid. The date, you see, would be irrelevant if the Emperor was a prisoner at the time of his signature.’

Yufru had begun to breathe a little quicker, the only sign of tension other than his unnatural stillness.

‘Are you in all seriousness telling me, Sir Charles, that a bank of your standing, with all its international connections, would refuse to honour the authenticated instructions of one of its most important clients?’

‘In law, the definition of the word “instructions” becomes somewhat equivocal in these circumstances. I am told that such a document would have the same status as evidence produced under torture. I mean no direct comparison, of course, but the possibility of signature under duress would, I assure you, render the instructions null.’

‘In English law, perhaps. But have you considered what the International Court at The Hague would have to say about all this?’

Cromer smiled. ‘I understand that the International Court can deal only with disputes between nations, that is, between governments. It has nothing to say on disputes between individuals, companies or other organizations. Those are dealt with under the laws of the countries concerned. In this instance, the possibility of signature under duress would invalidate any documents under English, Swiss or American law.’

Yufru’s eyes had opened wider. His mood had changed to one of incredulous anger.

‘You are claiming that the Emperor’s fortune can never, in any circumstances, be returned to its rightful owners. I find that an attitude of the greatest immorality. It will be seen by my superiors as a most cynical expression of capitalist imperialism.’

Cromer had touched the nerve he had been probing for. Yufru’s anger was a sign that Cromer’s speculations had been in some way correct. Yet the anger was assertive. It revealed neither fear nor surprise. Either he was an extremely accomplished politician or, as Cromer had guessed, he had still another card to play: the threat of exposure to a wave of hysterical anti-Western propaganda. It was time to pre-empt any such possibility, and retain Yufru’s goodwill.

‘I fail to make myself clear, Mr Yufru. My apologies. I did not say “in any circumstances”. I can imagine circumstances in which this problem might be solved in a way favourable to both of us. Perhaps the time has come to consider them…Your tea?’

The tea was another small piece in Cromer’s game. The ritual of hospitality offered reassurance and a distraction from confrontation.

‘But,’ continued Cromer, ‘the exercise will demand utter honesty on both sides.’

Yufru sipped, his tension dissipating, relieved that there still seemed a way forward, yet wary of Cromer’s mention of honesty.

He said: ‘Please go on.’

‘Very well. I want to suggest to you another…hypothesis. I will follow it with a suggestion that should relieve you of your difficulty. I have thought long and carefully about this. It will take a little time. I would ask you not to make any reaction until I have finished.’

Cromer stood up and began to walk slowly round the room. He did not wish to seem to be addressing Yufru directly. He became discursive, donnish.

He asked Yufru to suppose, for the sake of argument, that the Emperor was still alive, and that his mission had been to discover the circumstances in which any documents the Emperor might sign in the future would be accepted by Cromer’s Bank and its associates. Yufru would, of course, attempt to disguise the fact of the Emperor’s survival. He would hope that Cromer would give an assurance that documents several months old would suffice. In that case, no doubt Yufru would have produced such papers. Likewise, if Cromer had demanded a recent signature, duly signed documents would have appeared, with some plausible explanation.

‘What extraordinary assumptions,’ commented Yufru.

‘I agree. But it is my duty to consider the possibility of such a deception, and it would be wrong of me not to devise ways to prevent such a trick succeeding. In this odd game, I believe I have now succeeded.’

Yufru waited, impassively.

‘What now?’ continued Cromer. ‘Perhaps I should say “checkmate”. But that would, I believe, be short-sighted. My assumptions may be wrong. You may have alternative strategies. And, besides, it would run counter to our own banking traditions.

‘Let us try another approach, and ask: in these circumstances, would your attempted duplicity be really necessary? I think not. We are by reputation honest and discreet. We would not wish to keep from you, against natural justice, money that I concede is yours. Nor would we wish to reveal to our profession, let alone the world at large, that we have paid over to you such a sum of money. Supposing the Emperor to be still alive, it would certainly be in our interests, as well as yours, to conceal the fact.

‘Now, let me move on to my conclusion. As you must have already guessed, I no longer think that this is a mere intellectual exercise. I believe the Emperor is still alive. I believe you have attempted to trick us, and failed. But I also assert our community of interest. That being so, there is I believe, a way forward.

‘My suggestion is as follows: that we arrange between us the necessary documents; that duly appointed representatives of the banks meet the Emperor discreetly, in circumstances that would allow us all to see that no undue pressure was, at that time, being exerted; and that thereupon all parties freely sign the documents, transferring the Emperor’s fortune, or most of it, to your government.

‘Now perhaps I may have your comments?’

The banker sat down again, and looked across at Yufru, who did not yet look up. Yufru poured himself another cup of tea. No sugar, no milk. He rose, walked with his cup to the window and stared down at the twilit street, a river of moving lights, silent beyond the double glazing.

‘One question, Sir Charles,’ he said at last, ‘what, as the Americans say, would be in it for you?’

‘We have a reputation to uphold. We do not like publicity. Any public dispute, as I am sure you are aware, would be bad for us, and unless we come to some arrangement you would be in a position to accuse us publicly of duplicity. Besides, once the funds are transferred to you, your country will have to keep the money somewhere. Given our past record, I am sure you will agree that Cromer’s is the bank best qualified to administer it on your government’s behalf. I would like to think that we shall not be losing by the transaction.’

‘I see.’

Then, suddenly decisive, Yufru swung round. Cromer sat back, apparently relaxed.

‘Sir Charles, the time has come to talk frankly. I am, as you know, an unofficial envoy of my government. The Ambassador here is aware of our intent to have the Emperor’s fortune returned, but has not been informed of my specific role. Officially I am there to vet visa applications. In fact I report directly to the First Vice-President, Lieutenant-Colonel Mengistu Haile Mariam, by whom I am empowered to use whatever methods I can to acquire the Emperor’s fortune.

‘You tell me that you yourself, or your representatives, must see the Emperor sign in order to accept his signature. Very well, I confirm your guess. The Emperor is still alive. He is, of course, under house arrest, and he is no longer in Addis. If he were, rumours of his survival would be sure to leak out. He is in his birthplace, Harar, in the mountains 200 miles to the east of Addis, with a few chosen family members, in utter isolation. The palace is his own, a citadel, but it is a prison now rather than a home. There is no contact between the guards and the family. Food, drink, laundry, all is left, as it were, on the doorstep.

‘The only one to go to and fro is the President’s doctor. He has confirmed that the Emperor is still in remarkable health for his years. He has recovered well from his prostate operation. How long will he remain fit? We do not know. He has nothing to live for. But, as you realize, we have much to keep him alive for. There is a certain urgency. But he has so far refused to discuss the transfer of his money, fortunately for both of us as it turns out.