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That glamorous woman standing outside the Musee – well, at this time of night, it could only be ... Yes, it was. Thank God. She’d had the same idea as him. Maybe she’d even booked them into an exclusive hotel. He wouldn’t put it past her.
The museum was long closed. Phyllis stood at the end of a short path flanked by stone planters. With the main building and a shrubbery just behind her and a lime tree above her, she was hardly visible from a distance. He could probably have chosen a better place, although in some ways it was perfect. It was lonely here now, and abandoned-looking, and if it rained, she had a fair way to walk to shelter, but she’d see anyone hostile a mile off.
He approached her briskly, hands in pockets looking at the ground. She came to meet him from the semi-shadow, and slipped her arm through his as naturally as if they’d only been apart for five minutes.
She wore a long camel coat, a headscarf and heels. To anyone looking, they might have been any couple walking home after a night at the opera.
“I hope you haven’t booked us a hotel,” she told him.
“I haven’t. I’ve only just got here.”
“Good, because we’re going to spend the night at La Réserve Calais-Nord. It’s five star and it’s got all the trimmings. I thought we might as well go out with a bang.”
“When did you arrive?” he asked.
“About three. I got a change of clothes in Ardres.”
He stopped and turned to face her. “Bloody hell, not the tailor’s on the square?”
“The boutique, not the tailor’s. But yes, on the square. Shit, I take it that’s where you got yours. How long – maybe - before they start talking to each other? Two customers, hours apart, both the same age, both – fitting the descriptions.”
“And then the police. But it’s not a foregone conclusion.”
“They’ll never think of looking in a swanky hotel,” she said. “Although, yes. Yes, they will when they hear what kind of kit we bought. We’d better get out of here. Oh, what a disappointment!”
“Don’t worry.”
She chuckled darkly. “Is that another of your ‘I’m optimistic’ remarks? Because they don’t seem to be coming true.”
“I’ve hired us a boat. We’re going back to England and we’re going to get our jobs back.”
She smiled indulgently. “I take it you’ve got a ‘plan’.” The significance of her words seemed to hit her and she stopped and turned to face him. “Wait a minute, I’m forgetting. You’re John Mordred. On the one hand, you’re completely insane; on the other, most of your plans seem to bear fruit. I take it you’re not joking.”
“Although, quite honestly, I doubt we ever lost our jobs to begin with. I’m pretty sure that, as far as Ruby Parker’s concerned, we’re sunning ourselves in Capri. Or we would be, if it wasn’t midnight in Italy right now.”
“Go on. I’m interested.”
“In five minutes we’re going to get in the taxi I’ve got waiting for us, and we’re going to Le Gris Nez, where there’s a motor boat moored just offshore to take us to Folkestone.”
“Who owns this motor boat?”
“A Maths teacher from Margate. Doesn’t speak any French. Not interested in current affairs. Likes a life on the ocean wave, and comes here at weekends and holidays to stock up on booze. Anyway, I showed him my passport, we got talking, and I said I’d like to surprise my girlfriend with a midnight trip back to Kent. I’m a city broker so it cost me a thousand pounds. And before you ask, no, I haven’t handed it all over yet. I gave him a deposit.”
“I’m not really interested in that part, although well done. What really interests me is the bit where you said you were going to get our jobs back. Although you also said ...”
“We never lost them to begin with. That’s right.”
“Okay, well, that’s the bit I’m interested in.”
“I didn’t think about it till today,” he said, “but last night Alec rang - ”
“And told you something you didn’t tell me.”
“Er, maybe let me tell the story? No, he didn’t.”
“Tell it a bit more quickly then!”
“It’s what he didn’t say that struck me,” he continued, speeding up. “I saw Shafiq Effanga and his men arrive at the police station just as we were leaving, which means news of Tariq’s countermand must have reached Grey shortly afterwards.”
“And?”
“If that actually happened, Grey would have been straight on the phone to Ruby Parker, who would have been straight on the phone to Alec, Annabel and anyone else she suspected of being involved. And all that would have occurred at more or less lightning speed.”
She hmm-ed and nodded. “I think I see what you’re saying.”
“Alec rang us at least thirty minutes after we left Calais, and he hadn’t experienced anything. I rang him today and he still hadn’t. Everything was fine, he said.”
“So what’s your theory?”
“There’s a mole in Grey. Someone high up and in control of communications, especially inter-departmental. He’s also managing a coterie of thugs who are passing themselves off as Grey agents in order to perfect the illusion. From our point of view, it looks like Grey’s taken against us. But I’m willing to wager the head of Grey doesn’t know a thing about it.”
“Wow, that’s some conjecture.”
“It would explain why people like Shafiq Effanga know so much about me – Dao-ming Chou, for example, and exactly where we are at any given time, and also why Tariq was able to pick up on Grey ‘spying’ on us, and just about everything else. But it would also explain why Grey didn’t intervene earlier, why it’s taken such an oblique approach to stopping us.”
“And what’s this high-up person’s motive?”
“He’s somehow connected to Planchart and Frances Holland and Pierre Durand.”
She nodded. “It fits. There is another possibility, however.”
“Go on.”
“Brace yourself. Grey’s discovered you’re interfering again and decided it’s time to stop pussyfooting around.”
“You mean, kill me.”
“Us, probably, now. And make it look like an accident. While we’re on the Continent and supposed to be in Capri. How embarrassing it’ll be when it turns out ... Well, when it turns out you were passing secrets to the Chinese all along. A few classified documents on your corpse, evidence of a trip to the Chinese embassy, and to make matters worse, you turned another MI7 officer. Me.”
“Think about what you’re saying. You used to work for Grey. I know our two departments don’t always see eye to eye, but do you really think they’d stoop that low?”
“Well, we’ve - ”
“Got into the habit of thinking they would, I know. But only since I was admitted to the Holland case.”
“You’re forgetting something else. It would take a mighty big hand to pull the wool over Ruby Parker’s eyes. She made it clear in no uncertain terms that, on Grey’s direct orders, we were off the Holland case. She wouldn’t have done that if there’d been the slightest shadow of a doubt.”
“So you’d think. But her decision followed a specific conjunction of events which made an error forgivable. Even for her.”
“You’ll have to remind me.”
“We’d spent a long time setting up a scenario in which I walked from one side of the Thames to the other under the benign supervision of virtually her whole department. Our assumptions concerning what was happening were completely overturned on that rooftop, and you and Annabel and Alec were given information that only someone within Thames House could know. Then Ruby Parker was given a direct order from the lower floor to cease and desist. Excruciating embarrassment followed by unconditional command. Two reversals in Red’s fortunes apparently emanating from the same place. I can appreciate why she might have preferred not to ring downstairs and check the details. What would be the point? She’d be rubbing her nose in her own humiliation. And that was exactly what they were counting on. Simple psychology.”
“What about the clothes in the warehouse?”
“That, I’m not sure about yet. I’ve got the beginnings of an idea, but I’d have to talk to Robillard again. And he’d have to be a bit more receptive this time.”
She closed her eyes while she walked as if it might help her concentrate better. “Okay, let’s assume you’re right so far. What are we going to do about it? We can’t just go downstairs into Grey and demand to know the truth. It’s a thousand per cent off-limits. And it’s not like we can look the department head up on one of his or her days off. No one knows who he – or she - is. We don’t, anyway.”
“Someone might.”
“Ruby Parker.”
“Absolutely not. No, at this point she’ll be more concerned that we’ve apparently gone rogue. Ringing her up with a speculative hypothesis when we’re meant to be in Capri isn’t going to do her or us the slightest bit of good.”
“So who?”
“Our old friend Farquarson.”
“You know where to find him, I take it.”
“I happen to know he’s a regular at one or two London clubs. The Bulletin’s his favourite. He’ll be there tomorrow night.”
“And you know that – how?”
“I used my phone to call Marcie Brown. She asked me to, if I was ever in trouble. Her father’s intimately familiar with the WGP scene. She tapped him for me.”
“WGP?”
“Whitehall Gentleman Pensioner. Apparently.”
“So we’re going back to London for a pow-wow with Farquie.”
“Don’t forget, he owes us after that shambles with Durand. I completely forgot I used to be a head of section and before that, in charge of recruitment and training, were, I think, his unconditionally sarcastic words. So thanks awfully for your wise advice. Or something along those lines.”
“Added to which, he loves us.”
“You’re right. That’s got to count for something.”
It was time to get in the taxi. He held the door for her and went round the other side once she was inside. Best to be as traditional as possible when you were dressed like this.
The motor-boat owner was a thin, fifty-something man with a grey beard, a puffa jacket and trainers, called Lionel Hamilton. He was waiting on the beach for them with a couple of inflatable dinghies tied together bow-to-stern with a short rope. He shook hands with Mordred, who introduced him to Phyllis, then took receipt of the remaining portion of his thousand pounds before installing them both in the larger of the two dinghies. He pushed them out to sea, got into the smaller vessel and started rowing, towing them to where Lucky Sam, his motor-boat was anchored. They all climbed aboard. It was small – not really big enough for three people to stand up in without unbalancing it, but not too small. It didn’t look overly weighed down.
“You two just lie down in the back,” he said cheerily. “You’re going to need that coat tonight, love. Weather’s going to be very calm, but cold. It’s going to be very cold. If you want to come back to Calais – if it gets too much for you – just say. I can happily turn around. Now just one thing before we cast off. You have both got your passports on you? I don’t want to sound like a stickler for the details, but I’ll need to see them now. If we get stopped by the coastguard and you haven’t got them, I’ll be in deep shit. Not just my boat, but my lovely teaching job too.”
It was clear he was anxious for Phyllis to say more than a few words. An English tourist falling in love with a foreign migrant in Calais, then trying to smuggle her into England under cover of darkness with a forged passport – it might happen quite a lot for all Mordred knew. She seemed to twig as well.
“This is really kind of you,” she said. “I’m totally looking forward to it. We’ll get the train straight to London once we get there. We can pick up our things next week.”
“You’ll be hard-pressed to find a train at three in the morning,” Lionel said. “Where are you staying in Calais?” he asked, changing the subject.
“La Réserve Calais-Nord,” she replied. “We’ve got a fortnight. They probably won’t notice we’re missing at the hotel, but I’ll let them know once we arrive, just in case. Which part of England do you teach in, Lionel?”
He scrutinised their passports, looked happy and passed them back. “Margate,” he said.
“Oh, I love Margate,” she replied. “The Turner Contemporary - wonderful. And there’s a jazz festival in June, isn’t there?”
He visibly relaxed. “You know it!”
“I had an auntie used to live there. She moved to Romford about two years ago.”
“I used to teach in Hornchurch.”
She smiled. “That’s just to the south, isn’t it?”
“About five minutes.”
Mordred put his arm round her while she talked to Lionel. He could tell they were both enjoying themselves, so he didn’t interrupt. The sky stayed clear and they were wafted towards England by the gentlest of breezes. Had it not been for the cold and Lionel’s obsessive talk about boats and where he’d been in them, and his subtle attempts to prise Phyllis away from Mordred to join him for an all-expenses-paid trip to Portugal in the summer holidays, it would have been perfect. They reached a beach near Folkestone at three. Phyllis had already called a taxi. There was no public transport to London at this time in the morning, and they were running low on funds. They found a cash machine, checked into a Travelodge and went straight to sleep. They were in London with the rush hour crowds at eight the next morning.
Now all they had to do was lie low for twelve hours.
