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Burgundy walls hung with gilt-framed pictures and mirrors, a glass-domed ceiling, varnished wooden railings, ornamental coping, and an island bar. Everything in The Counting house – once a banking-hall, now a pub deep within the old City of London - came together to give the impression of a nineteenth century hotel crossed with a Soho bordello. Mordred was here with his MI7 colleague, Phyllis Robinson, to kill the thirty minutes or so before their afternoon appointment with the new Lord Mayor of London, just a short walk away in Mansion House. Both agents had been given a half-day off work for the occasion.
Mordred ordered a gin for himself, and a white wine for Phyllis, then they removed their coats and sat at a small leaflet-covered table by a frosted window. Lunchtime, and the floor was beginning to fill with excitable City employees in suits and watches. These were men and women much like themselves – young, attractive and smiling - only in more expensive get-ups: Gucci, Armani or Chanel, as against their M&S and Next. Plenty of tall, well-built, blond haired men like Mordred; plenty of dark haired, tall, athletic women like Phyllis.
“Do you think it’s wise to be drinking before we meet Willie?” Phyllis asked. She sipped her wine. “Note to self,” she went on: “mustn’t call him ‘Willie’ to his face. It’s William Chester, Lord Willoughby de Vries.”
“We didn’t ask for this meeting,” Mordred said. “He did. Besides, we’re not drinking because we’re alcoholics.”
She smiled. “Comforting to know.”
“Alcohol’s supposed to lighten you up. I don’t want to get into an argument with him. This is supposed to be a ‘bury the hatchet’ meeting. If he’s got any sense, he’ll have had a drink too.”
“Alcohol doesn’t ‘lighten you up’,” she said. “It makes you more aggressive.”
“It always makes me want to go to sleep.”
“That should help bury the hatchet, yes. You nodding off in the middle of a fresh cream meringue.”
“I’m not saying I’ll actually go to sleep, obviously.”
“I hope you do. It’ll be another for the scrapbook.”
“What do you mean, ‘another’?”
“I meant one. One for the scrapbook. For God’s sake, chill out, John. Get another gin if you think it helps. I’m not your mum. I’m just saying.”
They sat without speaking or drinking for a few moments. Twice they made eye-contact with each other and smiled. Phyllis looked a lot more relaxed than him, especially given what she’d been through last year in so-called ‘World War O’. Not a kidnap in the true sense, she said afterwards. I was well treated. Still, the Lord Mayor’s office had a lot to answer for. Probably, though no indisputable connection had yet been proven. She picked up one of the leaflets – ‘Leave’ in big yellow letters against a blue background – and read it indifferently.
“Would you like another drink?” he asked. “After this?”
“Any thoughts, John?” she replied, ignoring him. “Shall we stay in or shall we come out?”
Her leaflet. The EU. He shrugged. “Stay in. But I’m open to persuasion.”
“You don’t think Brussels is too big for its boots?”
“Better the devil you know. What about you?”
“Come out. I’d like Britain to be great again.”
He laughed.
“What’s so funny about that?” she said.
“We are great. Think about The News Quiz and Grayson Perry.”
“Bless.” She leaned forward. “Blunt question: how about a date?”
“A - date? That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?”
“Or are you seeing someone?”
“Er, no. I’m not.”
“I’d love to go out with you, just see what it was like.”
He couldn’t see how they’d got here. A second ago, it had been all about the EU. “Yes, I’m a real curiosity. I don’t usually get that offer after only one glass of wine.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, as a matter of fact. It was just a question of the right time to bring it up.”
“I thought you had a boyfriend. Toby.”
“Not any more.”
They sat looking hard at each other for a few moments. He had no idea if she was being serious. String ‘em along and dump ‘em might be her style for all he knew. She’d been in the army, so she probably wasn’t a confirmed sentimentalist.
“Toby was a thug,” she said eventually. “It took me a while to see that, but when I finally did, I performed a post-mortem to see what had set me considering. It was you. I can do better. You’re the future of men, John. A good conversationalist with a strong conscience who likes the company of women and doesn’t see it as a weakness to defer, even to capitulate, given good enough reasons.”
“You’ve heard of the curse of Mordred, right?”
“Remind me.”
“The first woman I loved turned out to be a member of Black. So once our joint mission was over, I never saw her again. Then there was Gina. The less said about that the better. I even thought about marrying Annabel for a while.”
“Annabel? Oh, yes, I remember now.”
“She said she loved me. Then she married Tariq. Don’t mention this conversation to her, by the way.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“She married someone else. I’d hardly call that a sleeping dog. More dead in the water.”
“What a poignant image.”
“And the tragedy is, there’s nothing the RSPCA can do.”
Phyllis drained her glass. “In sum, no one can live long in the brilliant light that is John Mordred. Luckily, I love to flirt with danger. And I’m a born survivor.”
“I’m flattered you’re even considering the possibility.”
“You find me attractive, yes? I won’t cry if you say no.”
“You are attractive, but I think we should be concentrating on the Lord Mayor.”
“It’s decided then. At least something good will have come out of today now, whatever happens at Mansion House, and I’m not optimistic about that. Now, concerning the time and place.”
“And ... something tells me you’ve already made your mind up about that?”
“Promise you won’t freak out? Come on, talk a bit more quickly, John. We’ve got to be at Mansion House in a few minutes.”
“I promise I won’t freak out.”
“Two weeks in July. The island of Capri. In the Gulf of Naples.”
He laughed. “Er ... what? Are you being serious?”
“Yes or no?”
“It’s not a very conventional first date.”
“Yes or no?”
“Just us two?”
“And the Italians, yes. I’m not bringing Toby, or my parents, or any of my friends. Just you and me. Look, I’ve been in your flat. I know that in addition to all your other endearing qualities, you’re house proud. There’s no catch. Say no if you like, but I warn you, you’ll never see me again.”
“That should be quite difficult, us being coll - ”
“Yes or no? Yes or no? Yes or no? Sorry to be persistent, but most men would have decided by now.”
“Yes, definitely. Is it already booked?”
“Already arranged. Look, the villa belongs to Annabel. Part of her recent inheritance from her father, old Pa Gould. She agreed to let me stay there a fortnight gratis on one condition: I could get you to come with me, and I wouldn’t take anyone else. I guess she’ll come and check on us sometime during the holiday, just to make sure I’m fulfilling her matchmaking terms and conditions.”
The bitter truth sank in. He nodded. “So it’s not me you want, it’s Annabel’s villa.”
“I knew if I told you the details, you’d come over all holier-than-thou.”
“So what are your ‘terms and conditions’? I assume sex is out of the question.”
“I didn’t expect you to ask that. I’m disappointed.”
He glowered. “But since I have ...”
“It is a first date.”
“So let’s see. It’s April now. You’re asking me out on a date. But in three months’ time. Just so we don’t have to breach the no-sex supposed ‘rule’ pertaining to first dates.”
“Two. Two months’ time. The beginning of July, not the end.” She rolled her eyes irritably. “Okay, look, you can have sex if you like!”
“I don’t want sex. I just need to know exactly how you’re looking at this whole thing.”
“Look, John, I’m not that desperate for a fortnight in Capri. Coming up: a bit of a reality check, if you don’t mind. It’s the twenty-first century. I’m an independent woman and I’m not famed for my parsimony. I can easily buy my own holidays when I want to, and still have change for anything else that takes my fancy. Can you imagine how that might be, an entire fortnight sharing a villa with someone you don’t particularly like – or even someone you’re broadly indifferent to? I’d actually pay good money to get out of that, thank you, and so would you - and so would just about anyone I know. When Annabel made her offer, it sounded like a dream come true. So yes. Yes, we can have sex. We can have sex on the floor now, if you like! Get it out of the way!”
They suddenly realised the whole pub had stopped to listen to them. Mordred looked at the barman, then back at Phyllis.
“I’m not sure it’s allowed,” he told her.
She stood up and bowed deeply to the assemblage. “No Sex, Please, We’re British. Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, until the end of April. We do matinee performances every Thursday and Friday at 2pm. Pick up a leaflet on your way out, and thanks for listening. Sorry if we alarmed you, but hey, that’s showbiz. Got to get bums on seats somehow. Have a great afternoon.”
She sat down to an almost universal ‘Aaah!’ of appreciative enlightenment. A few people applauded. The conversational roar resumed.
“Well done,” Mordred said.
“I’ll have another glass of wine. A large one. Then we’re going.” She caught sight of something behind him and her jaw dropped. “Good God. Don’t turn around.”
He looked at his watch. They still had five minutes. After that, it would have to be a taxi. “What is it?” he asked.
“Farquarson.”
“Sir Ranulph?”
“How many Farquarsons do you know?”
He smiled. “One. But I’m guessing you know at least five.”
“Funny. Very funny. I’m not a toff, John, just a Tory. I actually went to school at a comprehensive, if it helps.”
He laughed. “It’s really, really useful. Thank you.”
“People assume that because I wear nice clothes and took elocution lessons when I was sixteen and once had a boyfriend called Toby, I must be some sort of Sloane Ranger. Well, I’m not. We need to get past all that if we’re going to have a meaningful relationship, as opposed to a mere teenage one.”
“What’s so terrible about Farquarson being here?”
“It’s just awkward, that’s all. He’s the ex-head of Grey, and we used to work in Grey, and he left under some sort of cloud.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
“He was pensioned off,” Mordred said. “There was no implication that he was involved in any wrongdoing.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Is he with anyone?”
“An old woman,” Phyllis replied. “About his age. His wife, I assume. Maybe he’s just enjoying a day out.”
“That would be the best explanation, yes.”
“Well, the rules state that in this sort of situation, he’s not allowed to acknowledge us, nor we him. I guess that’s what makes it awkward. I quite liked him.”
“I’d imagine we all did. Listen, all we have to do is stand up and leave. Keeping our heads down. It’s time for us to go, anyway.”
“Sit still. He’s coming over. Don’t make eye-contact. Here.” She passed him the ‘We’re Better Off Inside’ leaflet. She resumed reading ‘Leave’. They kept their eyes glued to their pages until after he’d passed. He left a strong smell of eau de cologne in his wake.
“That was close,” she said. “I half expected him to make some oh-so-droll aside about the Theatre Royal. I know he’s not allowed to, but in his position, I’d have found it irresistible.”
“What happens if we do acknowledge him? Will there be an explosion?”
“I don’t want to find out. But yes, I expect so. Give him a minute.”
“We’re going to be late.”
She drew a sharp breath. “He’s coming back. Bloody, bloody hell.”
They picked up their leaflets and pretend-read again. Farquarson’s elderly head appeared between them. They jumped violently.
“Oh, er, hello, sir,” Mordred said. They sat up like disobedient children.
“I know this is a serious breach of protocol,” Farquarson hissed sourly, “but there’s something you need to see. Phyllis, you stay there. John, follow me.”
They didn’t argue. Phyllis took their empty glasses back to the bar. Mordred saw a man of about his age offer her a drink. She accepted. When it arrived, it was a spirit of some kind with ice. She downed it in one.
Mordred didn’t know how, assuming – what now seemed more than possible - Farquarson wasn’t in his right mind, he was going to break it to him that they had an urgent appointment just round the corner. His misgivings increased when Farquarson drew him deeper into the pub. He’d been expecting to be led outside onto the street.
“Turn around,” the old man said, when they were almost against the wall. “Look out of the window.”
He clocked Farquarson’s sight-line and tried to follow it. A small-ish café on the other side of the road with two tables outside. Each table with a couple. The nearest, two men, the foremost of whom had his back to them. Something disturbingly familiar about the other one, though, and -
“Good God,” Mordred said.
“Tell me I’m not seeing things.”
“But it can’t be. What would he be doing back in London?”
“Should I call the police, do you think?”
Pierre Durand. Mordred hadn’t seen him for over a year. The last time their paths had crossed, the Frenchman was working for one of MI7’s longest-standing adversaries. He’d suddenly disappeared – apparently from the face of the earth – at the conclusion of a major investigation which had very nearly ended in disaster for the whole secret service. He was still high on British Intelligence’s Wanted list. Bringing him in trumped everything, even the Lord Mayor.
Phyllis appeared alongside them. “We’re actually one minute late now,” she said, short-temperedly. “I’d rather not lose my job, if it’s all the same with you two. What are you looking at?”
She did what Mordred had done, and followed the direction of their gaze. Her mouth popped open.
“Never!” she said. She whistled softly, and took a moment to digest the evidence of her eyes. “Well, at least now, we’ve got an excuse. How are we going to play this?”
“No point in calling the police,” Mordred said. “He’s not known to them. No point in calling Thames House either. By the time anyone gets over here, he’ll be long gone. It’s down to us.”
“Count me out,” Farquarson said. “I’ve just had a new hip fitted, and the one hundred metre dash isn’t an option.”
“Have you a smartphone?” Mordred asked him.
Farquarson held one up. “I thought you might say that. Nokia Lumia. The best.”
“We need pictures,” Mordred said. “Especially of who he’s talking to. Phyllis and I will keep a watch. You move out. Keep it discreet, obviously. You’re just a snap-happy tourist, that’s all.”
“Thank you,” Farquarson replied drily. “I was going to go over there and point it right in his face. I completely forgot I used to be a head of section and before that, in charge of recruitment and training. So thanks awfully for your wise advice.”
“Apologies.”
Farquarson sighed, muttered something about ageism under his breath, and moved away without a farewell. His wife met him at the door. They linked arms.
“Are we absolutely sure it’s Durand?” Phyllis whispered, as if the Frenchman might overhear.
“About fifty, tall, lean with a hangdog expression, sparse, jet-black hair, slicked back, and black rings under his eyes. Doesn’t mean much on its own, but it’s that thrill of recognition that counts. You felt it too, yes?”
She smiled. “It’s him all right. To repeat my earlier question: do you have a plan?”
“There are two of us, but depending on who his companion is, that may not give us an advantage. Durand’s twenty years older than us, but I don’t think he’s a weakling. We may have our work cut out.”
“So the answer to my question is, ‘no’.”
“Thanks to the bloody Lord Mayor, we’re in a real jam.”
“Forget poor Willie. If we bring this guy in, we’ll get a medal. Medals are what make life worth living and what mayors understand above all. We won’t be in trouble, John.”
“Granted. I didn’t mean that.”
“So what the hell are you talking about?”
“Normally, I’d say, let’s shadow him and find out where he goes, then come back later with a reliable army. That’s risky anyway. He used to work for the French secret service, so it’s not like he won’t be on high alert. We stand a high chance of losing him. If that were to happen, what would we tell the Lord Mayor? It’d look like an excuse.”
“Farquarson would back us up.”
“Right now, there’s no love lost between MI7 and the City of London Corporation. Farquarson’s one of us. Willie might not necessarily believe him, and we’ve been given the afternoon off to kiss and make up.”
“We’re already late. I think that particular ship may have sailed.”
“Right now, the only way we can salvage it is if we’re seen to be apprehending Durand. We can’t do that clandestinely. We’ve got to make it as public as possible, so when we have to make our excuses to Willie, we’ve got public evidence that prevents it looking like a shaggy dog story. Which is going to be equally difficult, because I haven’t got handcuffs or a gun.”
“So what are you saying? Stop calling him ‘Willie’, by the way.”
“That we’re going to have to make a display of apprehending him, hope he makes a dramatic run for it, hope we catch him, hope he puts up a fight, hope we beat him, hope the police take us all into custody. Even William, with all his suspicions, will have to believe that.”
She sighed. “So it’s all about William.”
“Looks like he’s forcing our hand again.”
“You go over and make a citizen’s arrest,” she said soberly. “Or try to. I’ll go wide, ready to cover either direction.”
“Can you sprint in those shoes?”
“I’ll take them off, stupid. Take your phone out and ring me. We’ll keep in touch that way.”
He did as instructed.
They put their coats on, went outside and split up, holding their phones to their ears. A bright day, a fresh wind from the west, a traffic jam. Phyllis walked straight along the pavement at a trot, keeping her head down until she was level with the two tables. Mordred walked across the road between the traffic. It was obvious from the outset that Durand was jumpy enough to bolt at a moment’s notice. He didn’t look like he felt remotely safe in London. He looked like he thought the city was crammed with people who wanted to hunt him to oblivion.
He looked at Mordred no less hard than he looked at everyone who passed. Long before the two men were within touching distance, Durand was out of his chair and staring wildly at his would-be apprehender as if he both could and couldn’t believe his eyes. Could because it was what he’d been expecting all along. Couldn’t because he hadn’t specifically prepared to meet his own maker on this particular street at this precise hour. He threw his chair to one side and ran east at top speed.
Mordred went after him. Durand turned hard right at Gracechurch Street, and suddenly they were both going full pelt.
For a moment, it looked like Durand might be heading towards London Bridge, but he turned sharp left and kept going. The crowds made running at speed difficult, and Durand was barging through bodies as roughly as he could, obviously trying to fell people and hinder the pursuit. Phyllis probably couldn’t keep up, not in bare feet. Mordred put his phone to his ear.
“Phyllis, if you can hear me, we’re in Fenchurch street, heading for Tower Bridge. I’ve still got him in sight. Get in a taxi and meet me over there. Call Ruby Parker, see what she can do.”
Down by the Thames, Durand kept going east. He looked like he thought he had an idea and he’d promised his body it wouldn’t be long now. He was putting everything into his legs, and once they reached the quay walkway, he actually began to pull away slightly. Did he have rescuers to hand? What about the man he’d been with, outside the Counting House? Could he be about to reappear from somewhere, pull off the rescue of the century?
Then Mordred saw. The Tower of London. Of course, providing he managed to barge past security, there were lots of places to hide in there. For a man who trusted in his cunning more than his brawn, a maze of buildings, hillocks and verdure probably looked as safe a bet as he could conceivably expect. The two men hurtled down the main entrance between the two towers.
Mordred’s phone rang. He must have put it down. “Yes?”
“Where are you, John?” Phyllis.
“The Tower of London.”
“I’m in a car. Tower of London, driver. Ruby Parker knows. I’ll be there in two minutes. Don’t do anything stupid. He might be ... ”
She obviously couldn’t say ‘armed’ in front of the driver, and Mordred hadn’t time for a discussion anyway. Durand bundled past a group of primary school children, tossing them out of the way like little furry animals. A Beefeater, obviously stymied with disbelief, lunged half-heartedly at him, but he replied with a Karate move that left the guard winded and nose-bleeding against a wall. Girls screamed. Durand yanked a gun from his coat pocket without a seeming object in view, but without breaking stride, and headed straight for the main tower.
“Police,” Mordred said, flashing his phone at whoever-on-the-gate as if it was a card. No one tried to stop him. He jumped over a pair of crouching, whimpering bodies then accelerated. They were heading for the White Tower, right in the centre of the fort.
Another scramble past tourists and they were inside. Just a matter of time, surely, before Durand started brandishing that gun. The only way to stop him was to close the gap between them to make the three-stage process of stopping, turning and pointing his weapon impossible to complete before Mordred was on top of him.
Several floors and suddenly, they were on top of a tower. Not a high one with a cover. He couldn’t envisage where it was from the outside – mostly, up here, you saw the sky - but they were alone, thank God.
Durand ran away across the floor space and raised his gun. Mordred froze, raised his hands. Whatever happened now, it was over for the Frenchman. The question was whether he’d want to take his pursuer with him. Murder versus ...
Well, versus what? What were they going to charge Durand with? Possession of a firearm? Assault? ‘Known to the security services’ didn’t necessarily mean outside the law. Holding on to him was going to be a problem. For all his jitters, he’d know that. He almost certainly wouldn’t shoot.
Then Mordred saw. It wasn’t even a real gun. They didn’t even have that on him. Did that matter? Couldn’t they detain him without charge for a long while? He couldn’t think.
Durand dropped his replica weapon and put his hands up. He didn’t look happy, but neither did he look defeated.
Mordred was already on the phone to Phyllis. “Durand’s just surrendered. The police should be here in a moment. I’m at the White Tower. Get someone to message my credentials over. If I can get out of here fast, we might be able to catch the tail-end of tea with William. Better that than nothing, and at least we’ve got a whole city full of witnesses to our excuse.”
He heard Phyllis sigh. “Farquarson was mugged,” she said. “By the guy who was with Durand. Who’s now got his mobile.”
Behind Mordred, two elderly Beefeaters and a clutch of what looked like security personnel arrived in haste to take charge of the situation. They grabbed Mordred and Durand from all sides – six men apiece – and wrestled them unnecessarily to the ground. As he went down, Mordred dropped his phone. He watched it skid away.
“You’re in big trouble, son,” one of his apprehenders told him.
