Monday 25th January 2016
Courchevel, France
The African removes the cable ties and Adam is allowed to get dressed.
“Are there going to be proper introductions at some stage?” he says eventually, sitting back down in the chair and pulling on socks and shoes.
“Let alone an explanation of what that business with the young and beautiful Emms, or Fiona, or whatever she’s really called was all about?”
He looks across at Beef as if encouraging him to take his side. The African is standing with his back to the door again, arms crossed as if shutting out all attempts at communication. The man’s glazed eyes are giving out clear ‘do not disturb’ signals.
“I hope that might have been obvious,” the woman says in a quiet but firm voice.
“You have voluntarily given to us, members and representatives of Her Majesty’s Government, samples of your DNA. It’s our ‘just in case’ clause, don’t you see Adam? We haven’t time or money for lots of legal niceties and paperwork. What you and I are about to discuss will, I hope, be what I think can best be referred to as an ‘off-balance sheet’ understanding between friends. We have this little chat, you help us by doing as we ask and all’s well that ends well. Just in case there is any misunderstanding, you have helpfully provided us with an insurance policy. It is so very easy to become implicated in all the wrong sorts of heinous crimes if you aren’t careful about where you leave your DNA these days, wouldn’t you agree?”
She gives him a cold, dispassionate look.
“Department?”
“Not relevant.”
“British?”
“I believe I sound British. Fiona, or rather Emms as she was known to you, certainly is.”
“Beef over there looks a shade Nigerian.”
“I think we can safely say that the man referred to as ‘Beef’ did have his ancestral origins in one of the West African states – Ghana, I think it was, isn’t that right, Beef?”
She looks behind her at the man standing by the door. He allows a thin smile to penetrate his defences, nodding silently with pride.
“Very good, so, despite his Ghanaian credentials, he, like the rest of this show, is very much Queen and Country. British to the core.”
“MI6, or something more exotic?”
“Oh, the latter, I feel sure. But we are wasting time.” She examines her watch. “It is a quarter past four. I would like you to be back at your chalet by six. It doesn’t give us long. Are you happy to proceed?”
“I hardly have much choice, unless Beefy over there is about to let me go which I doubt.”
“Very good. So, as you’ve probably surmised, this is a reasonably low-budget production. Very British, very much below the radar, not much in it for either party except national pride and making sure we all do the right thing. All right so far?”
“You mean I am not being paid for what you are about to ask me to do?”
“Good heavens, no. As and when you do your work for Mr Al-Shawabi, then you’ll be paid. By all accounts, unbelievably handsomely at that, but that is your prerogative. No, this little private arrangement, absent any paperwork but just with your DNA as the bond we share between us; this has to be pro bono. For the love of your country.”
“As a kick-off, who exactly are you? A name might strengthen the bond of friendship between us.”
Miss Bateson shakes her head, smiling.
“No, nice try, Mr Fraser. Names are best kept out of this.”
“Fine,” he says with weary and confused resignation. “So, let’s get this over with then, shall we? What is it that you want me to do?”
He is studying Miss Bateson’s shoes, noticing the brogue pattern on the leather upper. Definitely a sturdy shoe, especially for someone so petite.
“What we want, Adam, what we so very desperately and very urgently need, is for you to take us on a guided tour inside the Al-Shawabi organisation: nuts, bolts, wiring diagrams, the works. We need you to sniff out and relay back to us all manner of useful gossip and information along the way. Your new ultimate employer is one Mohammed Al-Shawabi. For reasons best known to himself and his English friends, he is more usually referred to as Ricky. On the face of it, Ricky is a man with blue-chip provenance: Egyptian parentage, Harrovian schooling followed by a fine university education courtesy of St John’s College, Cambridge. In point of fact,” the school headmistress reports in a sudden sombre tone, scowling with sudden disapproval, “rumour has it that he may have only scraped a second-class degree by the skin of his teeth. Be that as it may, good provenance or not, Ricky has, by all accounts, more recently become something of a bad egg. Someone we understand may be doing some rather bad things with a number of unsavoury people. People who are either poorly-behaved or arguably worse.”
She takes off her glasses once more.
“Possibly much worse,” she says, and with that bad piece of news out of the way, her glasses are once more back on.
“We’d like to know who these people are. We’d like to know what they’ve been doing. Most especially, we’d like to know what they are planning on doing. Do I make myself clear?”
“Who’s the ‘we’ in all this? Is it just you, Emma and Beef, or are we talking about the whole might of the British establishment? Or a portion thereof? Or possibly the Americans, maybe the Chinese and perhaps whoever the fuck else might be interested?!”
He stops when he sees the look of horror on Miss Bateson’s face, realising that he has overstepped an ill-defined boundary. His mother had always told him: never, ever swear in front of your teacher.
Miss Bateson is back polishing her glasses, a gesture that Adam presumes is not a good development.
“The more that people know about an operation, Adam, the more room there is for mistakes. You are not being asked to put yourself unduly at risk, simply from time to time to relay certain pieces of information.”
“To whom am I going to be communicating this information? In the field, that is. In order to pass along these and any assorted titbits that you hope I might uncover?”
It is here that Miss Bateson, as she is now forever to be known, has her moment of genius.
“Why, to the person you refer to as Emms, of course.”
Which is an answer that brings a moment of unbridled joy to Adam’s face.
“Why don’t you start colouring in some of the details? The good, the bad and the ugly about Ricky Al-Shawabi, no holds barred. If you need me to start working for you, pro bono or not, you’ll need to convince me.”
So, carefully and very skilfully, she does.
Within fifteen minutes Adam feels Miss Bateson has made some good points.
Some very good points.
After thirty minutes he feels as if he’s just become a signed up, if not paid-up, member of Miss Bateson’s spying fraternity.
After an hour beyond that, when they’ve covered all the operational details and it’s hugs, kisses and handkerchief-waving on the station platform, it almost feels as if he has been spying for Miss Bateson all his life.