Queen Victoria's Revenge by Harry Harrison Page A

If you’ll pay for the drinks and lunch I’ll pay you back, really I will.” Finch nodded again in obvious disbelief.
    Mention of lunch stirred a gastric rumble of expectancy and an inquiry regarding food led him to the glass cabinet at the end of the same bar. Here, as though in a museum, a number of unfamiliar objects were on display. He did recognize the baked beans, but they were obviously cold and he did not even like them when hot. There was a plate bearing a number of fuzzy brown spheres resembling tinted tennis balls and he pointed them out to the bar woman, who hovered close with plate and knife.
    â€œI’ll have one of those. What are they?”
    â€œScotch eggs, sir. Bit of pickle with that?”
    â€œOf course, whatever you say.” The object rested heavily on the plate set before him and he still had no idea what it was. He pressed on it with the knife and it skidded sideways without being dented. Finally, by holding it steady with his fingers, he managed to bisect it. A hard-boiled egg was revealed in the center surrounded by chopped meat of some kind. It was, however, quite delicious and he finished it quickly along with the tart relish and managed to down a second one with no difficulty. Finch drained his glass and looked pointedly at his watch. Tony very quickly gathered in the last crumb, emptied his glass and hurried out to the car.
    After this the trip was most uneventful and Tony dozed, jumped on by the fatigue of the past hours. He awoke briefly when the motorway dumped them into city traffic, but this did not disturb him long. Mexico City traffic was more insane, Washington, D.C., more crowded. The only difference here was the fact the cars were all smaller so more could be crowded in. Which didn’t make much difference since the streets were narrower too. He slept and awoke only when they pulled to a halt in a street that, appropriately, was labeled GREAT SCOTLAND YARD . With little ceremony he was ushered into the tiny, old-fashioned office of Inspector Smivey. The inspector, a thin jack-knife of a man, with a fringe of gray hair surrounding a polished bald head, tufts of the same hair sprouting elegantly from his ears and nostrils, rose long enough to shake his hand quickly, wave him to a chair, then sink back into his own again.
    â€œI’m afraid you have been through a rather trying experience, Mr. Hawkin.”
    â€œIt could have been much worse. Has anything been found out about the stewardess, Jasmin Sotiraki? She wasn’t in the truck when they found it, I was told.”
    â€œI know you will be happy to hear that she was found, unhurt, not ten minutes ago. Here in London, in the suburbs. Now—would you mind terribly if I took a statement from you and had someone in to transcribe it?”
    â€œNo, of course not.”
    The inspector muttered into an intercom. Over his shoulder, through the window, a square tower with a peaky top was clearly seen. It had a very large clock set into it which, at that moment, began to ring the hour of three. It sounded very familiar, like the recordings of Big Ben he had heard. Could it possibly be…?
    â€œNow, Mr. Hawkin, if you could start with the moment you first boarded the plane in Washington.”
    It was a simple enough tale, still frighteningly clear in memory, and he told it in a rush, the secretary’s pencil skimming across the paper. When he was done, Inspector Smivey took him over the story again with some specific questions.
    â€œYou stated that one bundle of hundred dollar notes was taken away in the truck by one of the Cubans, Jorge, while Angus and his associates appear now to have the rest?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œNow what were these instructions you overheard when the leader, Ramon, gave the money to this Jorge?”
    â€œHe said something about taking these to show to the something-or-other. I couldn’t quite make out the last word. It sounded like