Falklands Deadline by Ed Zaruk (best books to read in your 20s .TXT) đź“•
Excerpt from the book:
Margaret Thatcher’s instructions were concise and clear. "Devote whatever resources are necessary to find this document."
In 1982 a single page from an old ship's logbook holds the solution for Margaret Thatcher's desire to regain the Falklands without bloodshed. After opening the safety box of his deceased uncle, John Wingate encounters red-haired Vanessa Grieves while searching in the vaults of an Argentinean whaling company for a logbook and the secrets it holds.
Vanessa, seeking her own agenda, starts John looking for more that just an old ship when the Falklands Conflict is triggered by the junta’s interest in Leith Harbour.
From the streets of Buenos Aires to the abandoned whaling stations of South Georgia, John and Vanessa are pursued by Argentineans whose personal interests are endangered by the discovery of the logbook's secret.
Caught in Port Stanley during the closing days of the conflict, they cross paths with the Argentine Special Forces who are privy to the real reason the 1939 Battle of the River Plate was fought.
In 1982 a single page from an old ship's logbook holds the solution for Margaret Thatcher's desire to regain the Falklands without bloodshed. After opening the safety box of his deceased uncle, John Wingate encounters red-haired Vanessa Grieves while searching in the vaults of an Argentinean whaling company for a logbook and the secrets it holds.
Vanessa, seeking her own agenda, starts John looking for more that just an old ship when the Falklands Conflict is triggered by the junta’s interest in Leith Harbour.
From the streets of Buenos Aires to the abandoned whaling stations of South Georgia, John and Vanessa are pursued by Argentineans whose personal interests are endangered by the discovery of the logbook's secret.
Caught in Port Stanley during the closing days of the conflict, they cross paths with the Argentine Special Forces who are privy to the real reason the 1939 Battle of the River Plate was fought.
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beneficiaries and have to reveal the contents of the drawer. I’d think seriously about that.”
Folding his arms, John sat back.
“Additionally,” and here he produced a document-sized manila envelope from the file folder, “Howard Wingate has requested, that in your presence, this be produced and delivered to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.” He handed it to John to examine.
Holding it in both hands, John read the words, EXCHEQUER OF BRITAIN - CONFIDENTIAL - PERSONAL, in faded black ink. The same confident printing was penned in the bottom right-hand corner, CHANCELLOR’S EYES ONLY. When he turned the old envelope over, its orange wax seal caught his eye. The outline of a whale with a flag superimposed on it was quite unlike anything he had seen before.
“You are both witnesses to the fact this envelope was produced,” the solicitor said, taking it back. “I shall see that it’s sent by overnight courier.” He set it aside for delivery to Britain’s top financial minister.
“What’s in it?” John asked.
Pointing to the envelope again, the solicitor tapped the word confidential. “It appears we’re not privy to the contents. In fact, there is nothing more of interest to you.” He leaned back, giving John a look signalling the meeting was over.
Feeling much like a schoolboy having been chastised by the headmaster, John stood up.
“There are some papers for you to sign, Mr. Wingate. My secretary has a cheque for a thousand pounds to cover your expenses. I presume you will be leaving Castle Cove shortly.”
“I may.”
“Well, thank you for coming. Before you leave though, you must open the centre drawer in the drawing room desk.”
Seeing his business was concluded, John left the room, closing the door with more force than necessary.
The pleasant manner of Harwick and Price’s elderly secretary drained away John’s frustration as she had him sign a number of documents. Giving him a cheque, she took a key out of an envelope and held it out. “This will unlock the center drawer...”
“I know, to the desk in the drawing room.” Right away John felt bad snapping at the woman. Slipping the cheque in his billfold, he accepted the key, thanking her graciously before leaving. Closing the heavy door, he stood outside a moment before stepping into the afternoon drizzle. So this was his inheritance, he thought, looking at the key in the palm of his hand. Outside of a birthday card he received every year, he hadn’t spoken to his uncle since leaving school. The house he really had no use for and could understand why his uncle had given it away. It was the money he’d accumulated that intrigued him. Their family had come from poor roots and John couldn’t remember his uncle having a job. Sixty-nine thousand pounds, and he’d flown John from the Falkland Islands to see it given away to charity. John shook his head and, placing the key in his pocket, stepped down to the pavement. Walking the cobblestone street that fronted the ocean past shops and businesses whose priorities lay beyond that of a dead sailor, he wondered what was so important that his Uncle Howard had brought him halfway across the world to unlock a drawer.
FOUR
Built beside a cliff on the east coast of England, Stromness House was an old Victorian manor with a spectacular view of the North Sea. A gray overcast, turning dark in the east as afternoon faded, cast a melancholy mood over John Wingate. Standing in the salon before an enormous stone fireplace, he pieced together what little history he knew of his Uncle Howard. He’d come to Castle Cove in nineteen forty-nine but had spent five or six seasons in the Antarctic, whaling for a big company operating out of Leith Harbour on South Georgia Island. At the close of each season he had returned to England until finally he’d quit and settled in at Stromness House. And that was about all John knew of the man’s past.
John looked about the room filled with memories of an uncle who’d made time in his life to teach his only nephew how to sail in his teen years. After tomorrow John would, like him, never see this place again. He wondered what the Salvation Army would do with it. Probably make it into a home for troubled boys or something.
Abandoning the thought, John rubbed his hand over a rosewood bookcase with its National Geographic magazines dating back to the thirties, recalling the evenings he’d spent after a day sailing with his uncle looking through their pages in front of a crackling fire. His fingers touched the glass doors, their etchings of storm-tossed seas and scenes of men in small boats hunting whales with hand-held harpoons reminding him of the stories his uncle had told. He’d given him Herman Melville’s Moby Dick as a present on his twelfth birthday.
John took the key out of his pocket, watching it glow in the subdued light, feeling its warmth, his Uncle Howard’s hand in his. Instead of sending it post, he’d brought him eight-thousand miles across the Atlantic. Why?
Stepping into the drawing room where dreary rain and low clouds filtered a sombre gray light through tall windows, John felt drawn to a battered oak desk that looked like it had came off one of Nelson’s ships at Trafalgar. Turning on a table lamp, he settled into his uncle’s maroon-leather chair, resting both hands on the worn arms. Stacked together above the desk were copies of Jane’s Fighting Ships spanning four decades. On a green felt cover rested a fountain pen, a steel ruler, and two pencils with sharpened tips. Directly in front of him was the centre drawer, the only one with a lock.
“Well, Uncle,” John said softly, “let’s see what you have for me.” He unlocked the drawer which slid open to reveal a single item, an old photograph album, its red leather faded with age.
Shoulders sagging, John sat back, closing both eyes and letting his head fall against the chair. What had he expected, a drawer full of money, maybe? After a moment he ran a hand over the red leather, thinking... His uncle had given everything to charity, except this photo album. John felt like shutting the drawer and leaving until he realized nobody else would have known about the album. “You would have to reveal the contents of the drawer,” the solicitor had said, as if equating it with sixty-nine thousand pounds. John lifted his inheritance out of the drawer.
The first few pages contained family photos, one of John’s uncle holding him as a baby, a few from their sea adventures to the South Orkneys. Pages that followed held pictures of ships. First was the German pocket battleship Admiral Graf Spee. There were three views: one of her moored in a harbour, a second lifted from a book that contained all her statistics, the third an enlargement of her as a wreck in the waters off Montevideo, smoke billowing from her burning hulk. Following this were snapshots of Exeter, Ajax, and Achilles, accompanied by a map of the naval battle. Howard Wingate’s printing showed through the picture of Exeter. John turned the back up. Heavily pencilled were the words, BRITISH SURVIVOR OF THE RIVER PLATE ENGAGEMENT.
So, this was all his uncle had left him, pictures of old naval history. John turned the last page. There were two pictures and a small envelope with Overseas Continental Bank, London, typed on it. While looking at the photo of a grounded merchant ship, the picture opposite caught his eye. On an enlarged black and white photo were four warships engaged in battle. The room became chilly. John could feel his uncle’s presence, touching him as he ran his fingers over the glossy photo. Writing showed through this picture too. He lifted it out of the album. On the back, faded block letters read: BATTLE OF THE RIVER PLATE - DECEMBER 13,1939.
John turned the photo face up, examining it in detail, then leaned back again and closed his eyes, rubbing them with both index finger knuckles. Questions flooded his mind. Answers were slow to come as he mentally reviewed what he’d learned about these ships from stories about the Falklands and a trip to Montevideo.
The Admiral Graf Spee, was a German commerce raider in the South Atlantic at the beginning of World War Two. She’d taken on three British cruisers off the coast of Argentina and all but sunk Exeter before running for safety in Montevideo. Allowed only seventy-two hours in the neutral port, the Graf Spee had been scuttled in the Rio de la Plata.
John put the numbers together. Four ships had been engaged in the fighting as Cumberland was laid up in Port Stanley. Opening his eyes, John once more looked at the picture. It was taken from the stern of a vessel close to Exeter, with two British cruisers in the distance, and another ship in the background discharging its main guns. Five ships had been at the Battle of the River Plate! John didn’t know all the details of the battle, but he was certain there were only four ships involved.
Trying to come up with a reason why his uncle would have created such a hoax, John drew a blank. Drawing on his experience as a professional photographer, he could find no evidence of the photo being re-touched.
Reaching behind and, massaging the back of his neck, he stood, then, picture in hand, walked to one of the many windows overlooking the North Sea. He found himself staring into the gloomy afternoon, watching waves breaking white against the rocky shoreline below, thinking.
Five ships. This information was his sole inheritance and something his uncle must have considered more valuable than the estate. John felt he could trust the handwritten words on the reverse of the photo. Nagging at the back of his mind was the thought that something was missing, and stare as he would at the fog-shrouded sea, it held no answers.
Returning to the desk, he held the photo under the lamp. It showed a section of rail and part of a flag. John tilted the photo under the light, trying to clarify the image. It wasn’t the Union Jack. Not enough stripes, he could only make out three. This ship was obviously a merchant vessel. The flag! John sat bolt upright when it struck him. What was an Argentinian ship doing in the middle of a naval battle?
John waited for his excitement to calm. Settling back, his mind flooded with new questions: What ship was it? Why had his uncle never spoken of it? Was he on it?
No answers. John put the photo back into the album and picked up the beige envelope with the Overseas Continental Bank’s London address on it. Turning it over revealed an orange wax seal with the same symbol he’d seen earlier on the envelope being sent to the Exchequer. Studying it with a magnifying glass, he could see the outline of a whale, within its body was a flag comprised of three horizontal stripes. Centered in the middle stripe, a small point that looked like the sun reminded him of the Argentine flag seen more and more in the
Folding his arms, John sat back.
“Additionally,” and here he produced a document-sized manila envelope from the file folder, “Howard Wingate has requested, that in your presence, this be produced and delivered to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.” He handed it to John to examine.
Holding it in both hands, John read the words, EXCHEQUER OF BRITAIN - CONFIDENTIAL - PERSONAL, in faded black ink. The same confident printing was penned in the bottom right-hand corner, CHANCELLOR’S EYES ONLY. When he turned the old envelope over, its orange wax seal caught his eye. The outline of a whale with a flag superimposed on it was quite unlike anything he had seen before.
“You are both witnesses to the fact this envelope was produced,” the solicitor said, taking it back. “I shall see that it’s sent by overnight courier.” He set it aside for delivery to Britain’s top financial minister.
“What’s in it?” John asked.
Pointing to the envelope again, the solicitor tapped the word confidential. “It appears we’re not privy to the contents. In fact, there is nothing more of interest to you.” He leaned back, giving John a look signalling the meeting was over.
Feeling much like a schoolboy having been chastised by the headmaster, John stood up.
“There are some papers for you to sign, Mr. Wingate. My secretary has a cheque for a thousand pounds to cover your expenses. I presume you will be leaving Castle Cove shortly.”
“I may.”
“Well, thank you for coming. Before you leave though, you must open the centre drawer in the drawing room desk.”
Seeing his business was concluded, John left the room, closing the door with more force than necessary.
The pleasant manner of Harwick and Price’s elderly secretary drained away John’s frustration as she had him sign a number of documents. Giving him a cheque, she took a key out of an envelope and held it out. “This will unlock the center drawer...”
“I know, to the desk in the drawing room.” Right away John felt bad snapping at the woman. Slipping the cheque in his billfold, he accepted the key, thanking her graciously before leaving. Closing the heavy door, he stood outside a moment before stepping into the afternoon drizzle. So this was his inheritance, he thought, looking at the key in the palm of his hand. Outside of a birthday card he received every year, he hadn’t spoken to his uncle since leaving school. The house he really had no use for and could understand why his uncle had given it away. It was the money he’d accumulated that intrigued him. Their family had come from poor roots and John couldn’t remember his uncle having a job. Sixty-nine thousand pounds, and he’d flown John from the Falkland Islands to see it given away to charity. John shook his head and, placing the key in his pocket, stepped down to the pavement. Walking the cobblestone street that fronted the ocean past shops and businesses whose priorities lay beyond that of a dead sailor, he wondered what was so important that his Uncle Howard had brought him halfway across the world to unlock a drawer.
FOUR
Built beside a cliff on the east coast of England, Stromness House was an old Victorian manor with a spectacular view of the North Sea. A gray overcast, turning dark in the east as afternoon faded, cast a melancholy mood over John Wingate. Standing in the salon before an enormous stone fireplace, he pieced together what little history he knew of his Uncle Howard. He’d come to Castle Cove in nineteen forty-nine but had spent five or six seasons in the Antarctic, whaling for a big company operating out of Leith Harbour on South Georgia Island. At the close of each season he had returned to England until finally he’d quit and settled in at Stromness House. And that was about all John knew of the man’s past.
John looked about the room filled with memories of an uncle who’d made time in his life to teach his only nephew how to sail in his teen years. After tomorrow John would, like him, never see this place again. He wondered what the Salvation Army would do with it. Probably make it into a home for troubled boys or something.
Abandoning the thought, John rubbed his hand over a rosewood bookcase with its National Geographic magazines dating back to the thirties, recalling the evenings he’d spent after a day sailing with his uncle looking through their pages in front of a crackling fire. His fingers touched the glass doors, their etchings of storm-tossed seas and scenes of men in small boats hunting whales with hand-held harpoons reminding him of the stories his uncle had told. He’d given him Herman Melville’s Moby Dick as a present on his twelfth birthday.
John took the key out of his pocket, watching it glow in the subdued light, feeling its warmth, his Uncle Howard’s hand in his. Instead of sending it post, he’d brought him eight-thousand miles across the Atlantic. Why?
Stepping into the drawing room where dreary rain and low clouds filtered a sombre gray light through tall windows, John felt drawn to a battered oak desk that looked like it had came off one of Nelson’s ships at Trafalgar. Turning on a table lamp, he settled into his uncle’s maroon-leather chair, resting both hands on the worn arms. Stacked together above the desk were copies of Jane’s Fighting Ships spanning four decades. On a green felt cover rested a fountain pen, a steel ruler, and two pencils with sharpened tips. Directly in front of him was the centre drawer, the only one with a lock.
“Well, Uncle,” John said softly, “let’s see what you have for me.” He unlocked the drawer which slid open to reveal a single item, an old photograph album, its red leather faded with age.
Shoulders sagging, John sat back, closing both eyes and letting his head fall against the chair. What had he expected, a drawer full of money, maybe? After a moment he ran a hand over the red leather, thinking... His uncle had given everything to charity, except this photo album. John felt like shutting the drawer and leaving until he realized nobody else would have known about the album. “You would have to reveal the contents of the drawer,” the solicitor had said, as if equating it with sixty-nine thousand pounds. John lifted his inheritance out of the drawer.
The first few pages contained family photos, one of John’s uncle holding him as a baby, a few from their sea adventures to the South Orkneys. Pages that followed held pictures of ships. First was the German pocket battleship Admiral Graf Spee. There were three views: one of her moored in a harbour, a second lifted from a book that contained all her statistics, the third an enlargement of her as a wreck in the waters off Montevideo, smoke billowing from her burning hulk. Following this were snapshots of Exeter, Ajax, and Achilles, accompanied by a map of the naval battle. Howard Wingate’s printing showed through the picture of Exeter. John turned the back up. Heavily pencilled were the words, BRITISH SURVIVOR OF THE RIVER PLATE ENGAGEMENT.
So, this was all his uncle had left him, pictures of old naval history. John turned the last page. There were two pictures and a small envelope with Overseas Continental Bank, London, typed on it. While looking at the photo of a grounded merchant ship, the picture opposite caught his eye. On an enlarged black and white photo were four warships engaged in battle. The room became chilly. John could feel his uncle’s presence, touching him as he ran his fingers over the glossy photo. Writing showed through this picture too. He lifted it out of the album. On the back, faded block letters read: BATTLE OF THE RIVER PLATE - DECEMBER 13,1939.
John turned the photo face up, examining it in detail, then leaned back again and closed his eyes, rubbing them with both index finger knuckles. Questions flooded his mind. Answers were slow to come as he mentally reviewed what he’d learned about these ships from stories about the Falklands and a trip to Montevideo.
The Admiral Graf Spee, was a German commerce raider in the South Atlantic at the beginning of World War Two. She’d taken on three British cruisers off the coast of Argentina and all but sunk Exeter before running for safety in Montevideo. Allowed only seventy-two hours in the neutral port, the Graf Spee had been scuttled in the Rio de la Plata.
John put the numbers together. Four ships had been engaged in the fighting as Cumberland was laid up in Port Stanley. Opening his eyes, John once more looked at the picture. It was taken from the stern of a vessel close to Exeter, with two British cruisers in the distance, and another ship in the background discharging its main guns. Five ships had been at the Battle of the River Plate! John didn’t know all the details of the battle, but he was certain there were only four ships involved.
Trying to come up with a reason why his uncle would have created such a hoax, John drew a blank. Drawing on his experience as a professional photographer, he could find no evidence of the photo being re-touched.
Reaching behind and, massaging the back of his neck, he stood, then, picture in hand, walked to one of the many windows overlooking the North Sea. He found himself staring into the gloomy afternoon, watching waves breaking white against the rocky shoreline below, thinking.
Five ships. This information was his sole inheritance and something his uncle must have considered more valuable than the estate. John felt he could trust the handwritten words on the reverse of the photo. Nagging at the back of his mind was the thought that something was missing, and stare as he would at the fog-shrouded sea, it held no answers.
Returning to the desk, he held the photo under the lamp. It showed a section of rail and part of a flag. John tilted the photo under the light, trying to clarify the image. It wasn’t the Union Jack. Not enough stripes, he could only make out three. This ship was obviously a merchant vessel. The flag! John sat bolt upright when it struck him. What was an Argentinian ship doing in the middle of a naval battle?
John waited for his excitement to calm. Settling back, his mind flooded with new questions: What ship was it? Why had his uncle never spoken of it? Was he on it?
No answers. John put the photo back into the album and picked up the beige envelope with the Overseas Continental Bank’s London address on it. Turning it over revealed an orange wax seal with the same symbol he’d seen earlier on the envelope being sent to the Exchequer. Studying it with a magnifying glass, he could see the outline of a whale, within its body was a flag comprised of three horizontal stripes. Centered in the middle stripe, a small point that looked like the sun reminded him of the Argentine flag seen more and more in the
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