Best Kept Secret Read online

  He turned his thoughts to the future. His first responsibility, for which he had already been handsomely recompensed, was to ensure that Don Pedro’s sculpture passed smoothly through customs, and he didn’t intend to leave the dockside until Sotheby’s had picked it up.

  But until then, he decided to relax and enjoy the voyage. He intended to read the last few pages of Officers and Gentlemen, and hoped he might find the first volume in the ship’s library.

  Now that he was on the way home, he felt he should give some thought to what he could achieve in his first year at Cambridge that would impress his mother. That was the least he could do after all the trouble he’d caused.

  ‘The Thinker,’ said Sir John Rothenstein, the director of the Tate Gallery, ‘is considered by most critics to be one of Rodin’s most iconic works. It was originally designed to be part of The Gates of Hell, and was at first entitled The Poet, as the artist wished to pay homage to his hero, Dante. And such became the artist’s association with the piece that the maestro is buried under a cast of this bronze at Meudon.’

  Sir Alan continued to circle the great statue. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Sir John, but is this the fifth of the nine editions that were originally cast?’

  ‘That is correct, Sir Alan. The most sought after works by Rodin are those that were cast in his lifetime by Alexis Rudier at his foundry in Paris. Since Rodin’s death, unfortunately in my opinion, the French government has allowed limited editions to be reproduced by another foundry, but these are not considered by serious collectors to have the same authenticity as the lifetime casts.’

  ‘Is it known where all the nine original casts are now?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the director. ‘Apart from this one, there are three in Paris – at the Louvre, the Musée Rodin, and the one at Meudon. There is also one at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, and another in the Hermitage in Leningrad, leaving three in hands of private collectors.’

  ‘Is it known who owns those three?’

  ‘One is in Baron de Rothschild’s collection, and another is owned by Paul Mellon. The whereabouts of the third has long been shrouded in mystery. All we know for certain is that it’s a lifetime cast and was sold to a private collector by the Marlborough Gallery some ten years ago. However, that shroud might finally be lifted next week.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m following you, Sir John.’

  ‘A 1902 cast of The Thinker is coming under the hammer at Sotheby’s on Monday evening.’

  ‘And who owns that one?’ asked Sir Alan innocently.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Rothenstein. ‘In the Sotheby’s catalogue, it’s simply listed as the property of a gentleman.’

  The cabinet secretary smiled at the thought, but satisfied himself with, ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘That the seller wishes to remain anonymous. It often turns out to be an aristocrat who doesn’t want to admit that he’s fallen on hard times and is having to part with one of the family’s heirlooms.’

  ‘How much would you expect the piece to fetch?’

  ‘It’s difficult to estimate, because a Rodin of this importance hasn’t come on the market for several years. But I would be surprised if it went for less than a hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘Would a layman be able to tell the difference between this one,’ Sir Alan said, admiring the bronze in front of him, ‘and the one that’s coming up for sale at Sotheby’s?’

  ‘There is no difference,’ said the director, ‘other than the cast number. Otherwise they are identical in every way.’

  The cabinet secretary circled The Thinker several more times before he tapped the massive mound the man was sitting on. He was now in no doubt where Martinez had secreted the eight million pounds. He took a pace back and looked more closely at the bronze cast’s wooden base. ‘Would all nine casts have been fixed on the same kind of base?’

  ‘Not exactly the same, but similar, I suspect. Every gallery or collector will have their own opinion on how it should be displayed. We chose a simple oak base that we felt would be harmonious with its surroundings.’

  ‘And how is the base attached to the statue?’

  ‘For a bronze of this size, there would usually be four small steel lips moulded on to the inside of the bottom of the statue. Each will have had a hole drilled in it, through which a bolt and a bevelled rod can be lowered. Then all you have to do is drill four holes through the base, and attach it to the bottom of the statue with what are called butterfly screws. Any decent carpenter could do the job.’

  ‘So if you wanted to remove the base, all you would have to do is unscrew the butterfly bolts and it would become detached from the statue?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Sir John. ‘But why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘Why indeed,’ said the cabinet secretary, allowing himself the suggestion of a smile. He now knew not only where Martinez had hidden the money, but how he intended to smuggle it into Britain. And, far more important, how he planned to be reunited with his £8 million in counterfeit five-pound notes without anyone becoming aware of what he was up to.

  ‘Clever man,’ he said as he gave the hollow bronze one final tap.

  ‘A genius,’ said the director.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Sir Alan. But to be fair, they were talking about two different people.

  41

  THE DRIVER OF the white Bedford van drew up outside Green Park tube station on Piccadilly. He left his engine running and flashed his headlights twice.

  Three men, who were never late, emerged from the underground carrying the tools of their trade and walked quickly to the back of the van, which they knew would be unlocked. Between them, they placed a small brazier, a petrol can, a bag of tools, a ladder, a thick coil of rope and a box of Swan Vesta matches in the back before joining their commanding officer.

  If anyone had given them a second look, and no one did at six o’clock on a Sunday morning, they would have assumed that they were just tradesmen and, indeed, that is what they had been before they joined the SAS. Corporal Crann had been a carpenter, Sergeant Roberts a foundry worker and Captain Hartley a structural engineer.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Colonel Scott-Hopkins said as the three of them climbed into the van.

  ‘Good morning, colonel,’ they replied in unison as their commanding officer pushed the gear lever into first, and the Bedford van set out on the journey to Southampton.

  Sebastian had already been on deck for a couple of hours before the Queen Mary lowered its passenger ramp. He was among the first to disembark, and quickly made his way across to the customs office. He presented the cargo manifest to a young officer, who inspected it briefly before giving Sebastian a closer look.

  ‘Please wait there,’ he said, and disappeared into a back office. A few moments later, an older man appeared, with three silver stripes on the cuffs of his uniform. He asked to see Sebastian’s passport, and once he’d checked the photograph, he immediately signed the clearance order.

  ‘My colleague will accompany you, Mr Clifton, to where the crate will be unloaded.’

  Sebastian and the young officer walked out of the customs shed to see a crane lowering its hoist into the Queen Mary’s hold. Twenty minutes later, the first piece to appear was a massive wooden crate Sebastian had never seen before. It was lowered slowly on to the dockside, coming to rest at loading bay six.

  A group of dockers removed the hoist and chains from around the crate, so the crane could swing back and gather up its next piece of cargo, while the crate was transferred by a waiting forklift truck into shed No. 40. The whole process had taken forty-three minutes. The young officer asked Sebastian to return to the office, as there was some paperwork to be completed.

  The police car turned on its siren, overtook the Sotheby’s van on the road from London to Southampton and indicated to the driver that he should pull into the nearest layby.

  Once the van had come to a halt, two officers step