companion shrugged. "An hour--two if we're lucky. It depends how soon the party at the quarry notice how long it's taking the Principal Officer to return."
"Is an hour long enough?"
"Certainly, but it won't be if we hang around here much longer."
"All right," Hoffa said. "Just one more thing--what do I call you?"
"Anything you like, old man." He grinned amiably. "What about Smith? Yes, I think I'd like that. I've always wondered what it must be like to be called Smith."
"And where in the hell did the Baron pick you up?" Hoffa asked.
Smith smiled again. "You'd be surprised, old man. You really would."
He led the way across the clearing into the wood, following a narrow path through the trees which later joined a broad dirt track. A few yards further on they came to a derelict water mill beside a stream and in a courtyard at the rear behind a broken wall, a black Zodiac was parked. A moment later they were driving away, bumping over the rutted track, finally energing into a narrow country road.
"Let's get one thing clear," Smith said as he changed into top gear and drove rapidly away. "We'll be together in this car for approximately forty minutes. If anything goes wrong, you're a hitch-hiker and I've never seen you before in my life."
"All right," Hoffa said. "Where do we go from here?"
"All in good time. We've some business to settle first."
"I was wondering when you'd get round to it."
"Hardly likely to forget a thing like that. Your share of the Peterfield Airport Robbery was exactly PS320,000. Where is it?"
"How do I know I'm going to get a fair shake?" Hoffa demanded.
"Now don't start that sort of nonsense, old man. The Baron can't stand welshers. We've kept our part of the bargain--we've got you out. You tell us where the cash is and that completes what we call Phase One of the operation. Once we've got our hands on the money, we can start Phase Two."
"Which includes getting me out of the country?"
"With a new identity nicely documented, plus half the money. I'd say that was a fair exchange for twenty years on the Moor."
"How can I be sure?"
"You'd better be, old man. You aren't going to get very far on your own."
"You've got a point there. Okay--the money's in a steamer trunk at Prices' Furniture Repository, Pimlico, in the name of Henry Walker."
Smith gave him a look of blank amazement. "You must be joking."
"Why should I? They specialise in clients who are going overseas for a lengthy period. I paid five years in advance. Even if it isn't collected on time it's safe enough. They've got to hang on to it for ten years before they can do anything--that's the law."
"Is there a receipt?"
"You won't get it without one."
"Who has it?"
"Nobody--it's at my mother's place in Kentish Town. You'll find an old Salvation Army Bible amongst my gear. The receipt's hidden in the spine. Fair enough?"
"It should be. I'll pass the information along."
"And what happens to me?"
"You'll be taken care of. If everything goes according to plan they'll start Phase Two, but not before the Baron has seen the colour of your money."
"Who is the Baron anyway? Anyone I know?"
"That sort of question just isn't healthy, old man." Smith shrugged and for the first time, the slight, characteristic smile was not in evidence, "You may meet him eventually--you may not. I honestly wouldn't know."
The rest of the journey was passed in silence until twenty minutes later when they arrived at a crossroads and he slowed to a halt. "This is where we part company."
On either hand the main road was visible for a good quarter of a mile, a narrow ribbon of asphalt falling across wild and rugged uplands. It was completely deserted and Hoffa frowned.
"What happens now?"
"Stand at the edge of the road like any normal hitch-hiker and you'll be picked up in approximately ten minutes if our man's on time."
"What's he driving?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. His opening words will be: 'Is there anywhere in particular you'd like me to take
"Is an hour long enough?"
"Certainly, but it won't be if we hang around here much longer."
"All right," Hoffa said. "Just one more thing--what do I call you?"
"Anything you like, old man." He grinned amiably. "What about Smith? Yes, I think I'd like that. I've always wondered what it must be like to be called Smith."
"And where in the hell did the Baron pick you up?" Hoffa asked.
Smith smiled again. "You'd be surprised, old man. You really would."
He led the way across the clearing into the wood, following a narrow path through the trees which later joined a broad dirt track. A few yards further on they came to a derelict water mill beside a stream and in a courtyard at the rear behind a broken wall, a black Zodiac was parked. A moment later they were driving away, bumping over the rutted track, finally energing into a narrow country road.
"Let's get one thing clear," Smith said as he changed into top gear and drove rapidly away. "We'll be together in this car for approximately forty minutes. If anything goes wrong, you're a hitch-hiker and I've never seen you before in my life."
"All right," Hoffa said. "Where do we go from here?"
"All in good time. We've some business to settle first."
"I was wondering when you'd get round to it."
"Hardly likely to forget a thing like that. Your share of the Peterfield Airport Robbery was exactly PS320,000. Where is it?"
"How do I know I'm going to get a fair shake?" Hoffa demanded.
"Now don't start that sort of nonsense, old man. The Baron can't stand welshers. We've kept our part of the bargain--we've got you out. You tell us where the cash is and that completes what we call Phase One of the operation. Once we've got our hands on the money, we can start Phase Two."
"Which includes getting me out of the country?"
"With a new identity nicely documented, plus half the money. I'd say that was a fair exchange for twenty years on the Moor."
"How can I be sure?"
"You'd better be, old man. You aren't going to get very far on your own."
"You've got a point there. Okay--the money's in a steamer trunk at Prices' Furniture Repository, Pimlico, in the name of Henry Walker."
Smith gave him a look of blank amazement. "You must be joking."
"Why should I? They specialise in clients who are going overseas for a lengthy period. I paid five years in advance. Even if it isn't collected on time it's safe enough. They've got to hang on to it for ten years before they can do anything--that's the law."
"Is there a receipt?"
"You won't get it without one."
"Who has it?"
"Nobody--it's at my mother's place in Kentish Town. You'll find an old Salvation Army Bible amongst my gear. The receipt's hidden in the spine. Fair enough?"
"It should be. I'll pass the information along."
"And what happens to me?"
"You'll be taken care of. If everything goes according to plan they'll start Phase Two, but not before the Baron has seen the colour of your money."
"Who is the Baron anyway? Anyone I know?"
"That sort of question just isn't healthy, old man." Smith shrugged and for the first time, the slight, characteristic smile was not in evidence, "You may meet him eventually--you may not. I honestly wouldn't know."
The rest of the journey was passed in silence until twenty minutes later when they arrived at a crossroads and he slowed to a halt. "This is where we part company."
On either hand the main road was visible for a good quarter of a mile, a narrow ribbon of asphalt falling across wild and rugged uplands. It was completely deserted and Hoffa frowned.
"What happens now?"
"Stand at the edge of the road like any normal hitch-hiker and you'll be picked up in approximately ten minutes if our man's on time."
"What's he driving?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. His opening words will be: 'Is there anywhere in particular you'd like me to take
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