Windmills of the Gods

‘How do we get to this Angel person?’ Sigmund asked.

‘All his contacts are handled through his mistress, a woman named Neusa Muñez.’

‘Where do we find her?’

‘She lives in Argentina. Angel has set her up in an apartment in Buenos Aires.’

Thor said, ‘What would the next step be? Who would get in touch with her for us?’

The chairman replied, ‘The Controller has suggested a man named Harry Lantz.’

‘That name sounds familiar.’

The chairman said drily, ‘Yes. He’s been in the newspapers. Harry Lantz is a maverick. He was thrown out of the CIA for setting up his own drug business in Viet Nam. While he was with the CIA, he did a tour in South America, so he knows the territory. He’d be a perfect go-between.’ He paused. ‘I suggest we take a vote. All those in favour of hiring Angel please raise your hands.’

Eight well-manicured hands went into the air.

‘Then it’s settled.’ The chairman rose. ‘The meeting is adjourned. Please observe the usual precautions.’

It was a Monday, and Constable Leslie Hanson was having a picnic in the greenhouse on the castle’s grounds, where he had no right to be. He was not alone, he later had to explain to his superiors. It was warm in the greenhouse, and his companion, Annie, a buxom country lass, had prevailed upon the good constable to bring a picnic hamper.

‘You supply the food,’ Annie giggled, ‘and I’ll supply the dessert.’

The ‘dessert’ was five feet six inches, with beautiful, shapely breasts and hips that a man could sink his teeth into.

Unfortunately, in the middle of dessert Constable Hanson’s concentration was distracted by a limousine driving out of the castle gate.

‘This bloody place is supposed to be closed on Mondays,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t lose your place,’ Annie coaxed.

‘Not likely, pet.’

Twenty minutes later, the constable heard a second car leaving. This time he was curious enough to get up and peer out of the window. It looked like an official limousine, with darkened windows that concealed the passengers.

‘Are you comin’, then, Leslie?’

‘Right. I just can’t figure out who could be in the castle. Except for tour days, it’s closed down.’

‘Exactly what’s going to happen to me, love, if you don’t hop it.’

Twenty minutes later when Constable Hanson heard the third car leave, his libido lost out to his instincts as a policeman. There were five more vehicles, all limousines, all spaced twenty minutes apart. Because one of the cars stopped long enough to let a deer run by, Constable Hanson was able to note the licence-plate number.

‘It’s supposed to be your bloody day off,’ Annie complained.

‘This could be important,’ the constable said. And even as he said it, he wondered whether he was going to report it.

‘What were you doing at Claymore Castle?’ Sergeant Twill demanded.

‘Sight-seeing, sir.’

‘The castle was closed.’

‘Yes, sir. The greenhouse was open.’

‘So you decided to sight-see in the greenhouse?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Alone, of course?’

‘Well, to tell the truth –’

‘Spare me the grotty details, Constable. What made you suspicious of the cars?’

‘Their behaviour, sir.’

‘Cars don’t behave, Hanson. Drivers do.’

‘Of course, sir. The drivers seemed very cautious. The cars left at intervals of twenty minutes.’

‘You are aware, of course, that there are probably a thousand innocent explanations. In fact, Hanson, the only one who doesn’t seem to have an innocent explanation is yourself.’

‘Yes, sir. But I thought I should report this.’

‘Right. Is this the licence number you got?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. Be off with you.’ He thought of one witticism to add. ‘Remember – it’s dangerous to throw stones at people if you’re in a glass house.’ He chuckled at his bon mot all morning.

When the report on the licence plate came back, Sergeant Twill decided that Hanson had made a mistake. He took his information upstairs to Inspector Pakula and explained the background.

‘I wouldn’t have bothered you with this, Inspector, but the licence-plate number –’

‘Yes. I see. I’ll take care of it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

At SIS headquarters, Inspector Pakula had a brief meeting with one of the senior heads of the British Secret Intelligence Service, a beefy, florid-faced man, Sir Alex Hyde-White.

‘You were quite right to bring this to my attention,’ Sir Alex smiled, ‘but I’m afraid it’s nothing more sinister than trying to arrange a Royal vacation trip without the press being aware of it.’

‘I’m sorry to have bothered you about this, sir.’ Inspector Pakula rose to his feet.

‘Not at all, Inspector. Shows your branch is on its toes. What did you say the name of that young constable was?’

‘Hanson, sir. Leslie Hanson.’