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Mordred never discovered exactly how it happened, but by the time he’d reached the ground floor of the White Tower, he was free to go. No one shook his hand or apologised. They just released him and told him to be on his way. He stepped onto the lawn, walked in between the visitors for a while, then turned, dusted himself down and examined his general appearance. They’d torn his jacket at the shoulder. Even if the Lord Mayor gig was still on, he couldn’t go dressed like this. Neither could he go home and get changed: it was too far. It’d have to be Thames House if it was anything. They kept spare sets of clothes there, amazingly, something for every occasion.
But what was he thinking? Lord Mayors were busy people. It obviously wasn’t going to happen now. Not today, anyway. Maybe not ever.
He stood to watch a police car crawl along the path to receive Durand. Once the Frenchman had been handcuffed and accompanied onto the rear seat, Mordred double-backed and went up the tower stairs to retrieve his phone. It was still lying where he’d dropped it. Ringing. Ruby Parker, his boss.
“Where are you now?” she asked when he picked up. She sounded neither pleased nor displeased.
“Still at the Tower. On my way back to base now. I assume Chester - Lord Willoughby - knows why I couldn’t come.”
“He’s been informed. He says the invitation’s still open.”
“Great. When?”
“He’ll see you at three.”
“Three?”
“It’s only one thirty-five now. Is that a problem?”
“Only that the arm’s hanging off my best jacket. I assume Phyllis is still going too.”
“It’s the same arrangement as before, only two hours later.”
“I can’t go there looking like this.”
“He knows what you’ve been doing. It’ll give you added kudos.”
“Sorry, I feel uncomfortable going to a formal meeting in a torn suit. Call me fussy.”
Pause. He expected a smack on the wrists, but her voice, when it came, was conciliatory. “I call it professional, as a matter of fact. I’ll get Amber to pick you out a replacement suit at Thames House. And I’ll send Kevin to fetch you in the car. Go and wait outside the Tower entrance. Oh, and John?”
“Yes?”
“Good job. Phyllis has explained why it had to be such a high drama. I agree. You were right to play it like you did.” She chuckled. “Risky, though. Good job you caught him.”
“He was a challenge. I’ll give him that.”
“See you over here in about twenty minutes’ time.”
Amber Goodings was Head of Wardrobe, a stout fifty year-old with big spectacles. The suit she’d chosen for him was in just about every sense what he’d have selected for himself. Grey, nicely fitting and modern without being too trendy. And a matching tie, shirt and shoes. He asked her if this particular piece of kit had been ordered specifically with him in mind. “You’re an important member of the organisation now, John,” she’d replied. “We’ve got lots of clothes in your exact size. More than you can imagine.”
“Can I see them?” he asked.
“No.”
It was getting on for half two. There wasn’t time to press the matter. But he would one day. Meanwhile, it was disturbing that there was someone who knew more about what he should wear than he did himself. He looked at his reflection in Amber’s full-length mirror. God help him, he looked a damn sight better than he had in The Counting House. Or probably any time in the last six months.
He wondered if Amber was available outside work as a professional shopper. And if so, how much she charged.
More than he could afford, without a doubt.
When he was dressed, he went downstairs, checked out with Colin at reception and went to the grey C Class Mercedes-Benz Coupé outside. Phyllis sat on the back seat looking exactly as she had at the pub, only more disgruntled. She was examining her face in a hand-mirror and refreshing her lipstick. She made a show of moving up when Mordred opened the door, even though she’d already left ample room for him. Kevin was driving.
“Hi, Kev,” Mordred said. “It’s me again.”
Kevin ignored him.
“Nice weather we’re having. I mean, for the time of year.”
Kevin ignored him.
“You’re quite the hero, I hear,” Phyllis said tartly.
“Yep.”
“Why does nothing exciting ever happen to me?”
“You were kidnapped last year, possibly by men connected to the Lord Mayor. I wouldn’t call that ‘nothing’.”
“Pretty passive, though. Incidentally, you look good in that suit. I assume it’s one of Amber’s.”
“What makes you think it’s not one of my own?”
“Don’t get touchy, John. I’m not suggesting you’ve no style, but Amber’s in a class of her own. Who do you think chooses my clothes? I don’t do it myself. I used to. People used to say I had taste. Then I wore something Amber picked out for me. An official function at Guildhall, strictly work-related. She took me to a whole new level. I’ve never looked back.”
“She claims she’s got more clothes for me than I can possibly imagine.”
“Me too. If only we could gain access.”
They stopped speaking and looked out of their windows at the river. London Bridge was unusually quiet. The buildings either side of them were mainly office-functional: cuboid concrete with rows of parallel, vacant-looking windows. A passenger plane flew high overhead.
Five minutes later, the car drew to a halt in front of Mansion House, a large old grey building with six Corinthian columns in a portico. This was the heart of the financial centre, and populated by the kinds of skyscrapers beloved of bankers everywhere: ninety-nine per cent smoked glass with reinforced steel frames. Kevin got out and opened the door for Phyllis. Mordred waited for a gap in the traffic, let himself out into the road and came round to join her.
“Why doesn’t Kevin like you?” Phyllis asked as the car drew away.
Mordred did up the middle button of his jacket. “If you ever find out, let me know.”
They went up the steps at the front of the building and into reception where they gave their names and sat down. 2.57. Three minutes.
“Switch off your mobile,” Phyllis said.
A middle-aged man with a pile of straight grey hair and a bulbous nose came to get them. Because he wore a suit, Mordred’s first impression was that he must be the Lord Mayor, but he adjusted when the man called him “sir”. He realised for the first time that he had no idea what William Chester looked like. In all his considerations up till now, he’d employed a completely invented image: a thin, nondescript man of about sixty with swept-across grey hair and square wire-rimmed glasses. How would the real Chester match up? The guide led them up two flights of stairs. He knocked at the fourth door along after they’d turned left into a corridor.
“Come in, Philip,” a plum voice from inside called. The man opened the door to admit them, then closed it from the outside.
They found themselves in a room with two large bookcases, and three armchairs arranged around a table laid with a teapot, three cups, milk and sugar and a variety of cakes on a three-tier plate stand. The walls were dotted with pictures and a huge mullioned window in the opposite wall was flanked by two sky-blue curtains. The room’s sole occupant was a thin, nondescript man of about sixty with swept-across grey hair and square wire-rimmed glasses. William Chester. Luckily, there was enough of a disjunct between the mental image and the reality to stop Mordred feeling overwhelmed by déjà vu.
Chester came across the room to meet them, saying his name and extending his hand. “Sit down, sit down,” he said, when introductions had been exchanged.
Mordred liked the fact that there was tea available, but no coffee; that it had been brewed and brought in before their arrival; that the cake-stand was cheap-looking and the cakes unremarkable. He imagined himself telling Phyllis this when they got out, then thought better of it. It gave him the sense of Chester as fundamentally unpretentious, the kind of man who didn’t understand what networking was or how to use arcane arrays of cutlery and/or designer crockery to overawe his enemies. What used to be called ‘a decent sort’.
Once tea had been poured – and the Lord Mayor poured it: he didn’t call Philip back in to do it for him – and cakes distributed, Chester delivered the speech he’d obviously prepared earlier.
“I want you to know,” he said, “that I consider the events of last year to be something of a black mark on the City of London Corporation. We should have cooperated with you from the beginning and next time, we will. I brought you here today to offer my apologies in person, because I know that you were both put to a lot more trouble than you should have been.”
Mordred had been briefed as to the proper response to this, so it wasn’t a free conversation as such. He wasn’t allowed to say, Is there going to be an official inquiry? He had to say, Thank you, sir. We look forward to working with you. The words stuck in his throat.
“Thank you, sir,” Phyllis said. “We look forward to working with you.”
“Outstanding icing on this,” Mordred said, mainly to prevent the ensuing silence gaining the upper hand. “Hint of coconut.”
“My wife made all the cakes here,” Chester replied.
“They’re marvellous,” Phyllis said.
Before he arrived, Mordred wondered what they’d all talk about once the apology had been offered and the olive branch tendered, but Chester was prepared for the transition, and asked them in general terms about their ‘exciting day’. Mordred recounted his pursuit of Durand without going into detail about the who or the why, then the conversation turned, as it often did in this sort of situation, first, to the intelligence service generally, what it was like to work there, then the new James Bond film, then to a comparison of different Bonds, then to who should play Bond next. Almost before they knew it, an hour had passed, and it was time to leave. Handshakes were re-exchanged. Philip arrived and escorted the two agents back to reception, where they picked up their coats.
“Well, that was fun,” Phyllis said, when they were outside.
“You’d never think he was king of the crooks,” Mordred said.
“They’re not crooks.”
“Corporate tax-avoiders. Libor-fixers. Manipulators of democratically elected governments.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, John. Would you like to share a taxi back to base?”
“I’m going home now,” Mordred said. “We were given the half-day off, remember? I haven’t anything at Thames House that can’t wait. I told Amber I’d bring the suit back tomorrow.”
“Lucky you. Unfortunately, I’m knee-deep in the Frances Holland case. I’m working serious overtime at the moment. Still, it’s good for my career.”
“I understand you’re in charge of the investigation. Why haven’t I been roped in? Don’t you want me or something?”
“I was keeping you in reserve.”
“Thanks,” he said drily.
“It’s a compliment. Ruby Parker agrees with me too. When John Mordred gets into an investigation, he starts seeing things the rest of us can’t. It’s not good to have one person who’s too insightful. It prevents the rest of us developing. I’ll call you if things get too intractable. Besides, you’ve work of your own to do.”
“Examining junior agents’ reports. It’s supposed to give me an ‘overview’.”
“Professional development, it’s called. Don’t knock it. I assume you want to get on at work.”
“Do you?”
She shot him a disgruntled look. “Of course. I’m sane.”
“What if ‘getting on’ puts you in a position where you don’t like what you’re doing?”
“E.G.?”
“Would you like Ruby Parker’s job, for example?”
“At her age, yes. Not now.”
“How old do you think she is?”
“Could be anywhere between forty-five and sixty. I don’t know. Black people age better, so they say. Listen, John. If someone offers me a job that involves nothing but looking at other agents’ reports, I’ll say no. So will you. But even that isn’t how it works. Jobs come up, you apply if you want them, you don’t if you don’t. What’s the matter with you? You’ve come over all moody.”
“Funny day.”
“And yet you could have been doing paperwork. Hard life.”
He laughed. “Roll on July.”
“That’s more like it. Now, stop moaning and push off home, loser.”
She saw a cab and hailed it. It almost screeched to a halt. She had that power over taxis, no one knew who’d taught her, when, or even whether it was a transferable skill. She gave him a little wave, an affectionate, “Be seeing you!” and was gone.
There was a bus to where he lived from here. But maybe he should wander round the town for a bit. Nothing more calculated to increase his despondency than sitting alone in front of Young and Obese – Confronting the Crisis? with only a bowl of mushroom soup and a stale bun for company. Even staying within the Square Mile wasn’t as bad as that. Call Alec, perhaps? Go and see a film? Go to the top floor of a high building and drink a cocktail by the window with the best view? Something crazy like an ice-skating rink somewhere? This was London in the 21st century. Nothing was out of the question.
But home – such as it was - was calling him. For some reason, it seemed the only meaningful option. Common sense told him he didn’t have to have soup: there were other choices. And he didn’t have to watch TV. He could read a book. He could even download a new one on his e-reader. Treat himself. Something by that Man Booker prize woman with the golden armlet.
He suddenly knew what was troubling him. The Counting House. I assume sex is out of the question. A stupid remark, the memory of which made him squirm with embarrassment. The truth was, he’d done all the one night stand stuff when he’d been a teenager, and he hadn’t enjoyed it. Nowadays, he didn’t want sex with someone he didn’t love. And he didn’t love Phyllis.
Which meant their going to Capri together was going to be difficult, if not impossible.
She’d cornered him, though. I warn you, you’ll never see me again. She’d been joking, but not entirely. ‘No, I don’t want to go to Capri with you’ wouldn’t have been well received, that was for sure.
Maybe he could try to fall in love with her. He had till July. Two and a bit months. She was attractive, witty and intelligent. What used to be called ‘a catch’. You could love to order, surely? Definitely with someone like that? He’d just have to push himself.
The supreme irony was, she was completely out of his league. The once minor supermodel and the – well, he didn’t even know what he was: there wasn’t a word for it. Even if someone invented one, it wouldn’t be a good word. It’d be somewhere between ‘scarecrow’ and ‘clown’. He ought to feel colossally grateful.
He was about to pick up an Evening Standard – the headline, Planchart launches scathing attack on Cameron’s ‘Euro-Grovelling’ looked like a forget-your-problems read for the tube – when he suddenly felt someone take his left elbow. At first, he thought he must be mistaken, but the grip tightened and he turned to find a man of about his own age – no one he knew - in a suit-minus-tie, leering into his eyes. Someone took his other arm. He turned. A clone of the first. City types, possibly drunk after some works bash.
“Hello, John,” the man on his left said.
“Going anywhere special?” the other asked.
Mordred tried to stop, but they kept propelling him forward. They were obviously prepared to drag him if need be, and they had tight hold now. A hundred thoughts crowded into his head at once. About how, since they knew his name, this probably wasn’t a casual meeting; and how, given that, they probably weren’t what they looked; about how they wouldn’t be doing this if they thought they could take him freely; and how, given their bulk and youth, and that there were two of them, they probably had violence in mind.
While one part of his mind processed all this with a view to formulating a plan, another part told him it would be a good idea to find out what they wanted before turning on them.
“What’s going on?” he asked, trying to sound frightened.
“What did you go to see the Mayor about, Johnny boy?”
“Who are you?” Mordred persisted. “Why do you want to know?”
“Let’s just say we’re friends of the City. With Lord Willoughby’s best interests at heart.”
He doubted that. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“We’re asking you,” the one on his left said, in a syrupy voice. They sped up. There weren’t any deserted alleyways in London, which was going to make beating him up a challenge, since they probably didn’t want to do it in broad daylight. They must be taking him to either a car or a building. He couldn’t tell which: no obvious candidate in view yet. Either way, they probably had reinforcements to hand.
So far he’d played compliant in the hope of augmenting their sense of security. Now he put all his strength into reversing and throwing himself backwards to the ground. He calculated their forward momentum against his backward would bring them to a halt, and the deliberate fall would throw them off-balance and ideally, into each other. In the past, he’d seen it done effectively enough to crack the two men’s heads together. Unlikely to work as well this time.
It didn’t even catch them particularly unawares. Obviously professionals. As usual in these sorts of situations though, his brain was ahead of his thought-out plan, and at a certain point, things just seemed to happen of their own accord. He was on his back now. He twisted round and squeezed the groin of the man on the left like it was a bunch of grapes and he was Bacchus. The two men finally cracked heads, and he sensed their panic.
With his other hand, he grabbed the ankle of the man on his right and rived it up into the air. Not quite the clincher he was hoping for, but from the side, he head-butted the one leg the man still had planted rigid on the ground, and felt the kneecap go.
He’d never known he was capable of anything like this. Contortionism. And so odd to be winning a fight against superior numbers from ground level.
He sprang to his feet. A clutch of passers-by had stopped to watch, horror written on all their faces. He released the first man’s groin, waited the split second till he’d clambered to his feet, then punched him hard in the face. The man went down and lay still, His comrade was still gasping on the ground, clutching his leg like he’d been dismembered. He wouldn’t be getting up any time soon.
As Mordred walked away, he wondered who they were. Perhaps he should go back and take photos of them. Obviously, the police would then arrive and he’d be bundled into a Paddy Waggon, but that didn’t matter. He’d probably been caught on camera already – ten or twelve cameras, for that matter.
But so had they. He’d report back to base and deal with the police from behind the protective shield of MI7. He hadn’t started it, they had. And since they knew who he was, it probably wasn’t best interpreted as a private matter.
He took his phone out of his pocket and switched it on. Missed call.
Then it began to ring. Ruby Parker.
So she’d heard already? Bloody hell, talk about fast. He wondered how she’d found out, and what sort of a slant she’d got on it.
“John,” she said. “We’ve got a problem. Durand’s out.”
“Er - what?”
“I don’t know the details, but I believe a veritable army of lawyers was waiting for him at the police station. Somehow, incredibly, our prevention of terrorism communique was disregarded. We’re still hazy about the details, but I’m going over there now to create merry hell and get some answers. I thought I’d better let you know before you found out from someone else.”
“Who the hell would hire a team of lawyers to get Durand out?”
“That’s partly what I aim to find out.”
“Which lawyers?”
“A strictly upmarket outfit by the name of Simpson, Musgrave and De Groot. Who also work for the Lord Mayor, although that may be coincidental.”
Mordred chuckled darkly. “It may also be chance that I’ve just been attacked in broad daylight by two heavies claiming to represent him.”
“Attacked?”
“They came off much the worse, although I may need you to plead my case to the police when they arrive.”
“Where are you now?”
“On my way home. There didn’t seem much point in hanging around. I’m a member of the security services. According to the manual, in these sorts of cases, I’m supposed to make myself scarce before the press arrive and start blowing things up out of all proportion.”
“Absolutely right. Go home and file an encrypted report via the website. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Thanks.”
He put the phone down and made for the tube. Perhaps there was something to be said for paperwork, after all.
