A friend indeed
“A friend? Indeed…” said Miss McAllister.
She looked at the man her foppish nephew, Juan Arnold, had introduced as ‘Mr Tuesday’. Grey flannel suit. Large spectacles. Long fingers that were intriguingly still. A plain face. He certainly looked the part of a forensic accountant, but was this truly the man to save her empire?
For seventy-five year old Miss McAllister - of 43 Tracklemead Court, Bournemouth, owner of seven Tonkinese cats, two budgerigars and prizewinning gardenias – had her legacy and Juan Arnold’s inheritance to consider. She was a successful arms dealer, the spider at the centre of a complex web of transnational and highly illegal connections. Everything from poisoned umbrella tips to the occasional nuclear weapon, Miss McAllister could provide.
It was not as if Rachel McAllister had intended such a career path. Oh no. She and her twin sister, Kitty, had been good daughters of the Manse, their father a hell-fire and brimstone reverend of the Church of Scotland in Aberfeldy. After years of warnings about the temptations and evil associated with Catholicism, drink and dancing, at eighteen the sisters ran away to Havana to see what all the fuss was about. Beautiful, buxom - but not brilliantly bright - Kitty became a successful club chanteuse and dancer. Rachel, always good with numbers and less keen on the spotlight, was her manager and accountant.
They did well and Rachel had plans for Kitty to go international. And then Carlos the Columbian stepped into the Kiss Kat club. A short, ugly man with a mind like a razor blade, he spotted Kitty and decided that she was the woman for him. Much to Rachel McAllister’s horror, Kitty agreed and a wedding date for a month later was decided upon. The night before the nuptials, Rachel accosted Carlos. The few weeks of anxiety and concern for her sister had been bottling up until this moment. She let forth a string of accusations and expletives never before attempted nor since repeated. The gist was how could Carlos, enigmatic and unlovely, possibly provide Kitty with the stability and security she needed and that Rachel was giving?
Carlos sat there, virtually unblinking until Rachel McAllister was finished. He then leant forward and in his accented yet grammatically perfect English growled: “Let me tell you exactly how I intend to look after my future wife…”
It turned out Carlos was the second in command in one of South America’s larger gun running operations. And the organisation needed someone new who was good with numbers and had ambition. It was then that Miss McAllister found her calling.
Since that meeting in 1956 virtually every minor and major world conflict had weapons procured through the increasingly byzantine system that evolved under Miss McAllister’s auspices. By the Cuban Missile Crisis, Carlos stepped aside for her and it was only a matter of time before Miss McAllister became the head of the operation. The Missile Crisis also warranted a change in location for her, from the tropical to the temperate and thus Bournemouth became home to both her and her empire.
Meanwhile, Kitty and Carlos proved very happy together. Their one child, Juan Arnold, was born less than a year after their marriage. The boy was his mother’s son, blessed with her good looks but sadly lacking in his father’s brains. In 1964 after his parents were tragically killed in a freak accident involving a Victoria sponge and a small goat, Miss McAllister took him in.
Poor Miss McAllister. Usually such a good judge of character when it came to business, she had a soft spot for her errant nephew. A born playboy, she nonetheless tried to give him some direction in life, helping along the way with the occasional job for the organisation. But each time he ballsed it up. There was the cock up in Nicaragua, the disasters in Iraq (both wars), never mind the controversy in the Balkans that almost brought Miss McAllister’s activities to the attention of Interpol. Juan Arnold’s incompetence was the joke of many a mercenary and warlord. And yet, Miss McAllister kept giving him just one more chance…
Mr Tuesday was that final chance. Miss McAllister needed someone to share the accounting challenges with, ideally handing them over at some stage. Oh, and someone who was willing to change the cat litter when she went on her annual walking holiday in the Peake District.
She peered at Juan Arnold over the top of her own substantial glasses and repeated herself.
“A friend?” But this time there was a profound pause, adding greater emphasis to the question, possibly a touch of threat…
“Indeed.”
To be continued…
