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Hold tight. As he stood in the first floor bathroom of the Château de Les Sablonnières, Phyllis was Mordred’s first thought. Nearly a month had passed, but it felt much longer - like a year or even two. Almost impossible to remember what a month felt like in the real world. Not that this wasn’t the real world, only there was some sense of an authenticity-contrast between here and where he’d come from. Which was the more real? God, he didn’t even know where he wanted to be. With Phyllis, yes. In France, though? Or back in London?
He’d been radicalised. Really. The possibility had occurred to him earlier, but now it was more than that.
He didn’t feel upset about it. But that was one of the symptoms. You’d changed, but imperceptibly, even to yourself. Now you were possessed by what you took to be some sort of moral imperative. Nothing could override it. Friends, family, personal safety, nothing. You were all alone in a cold tunnel with a clear view of eternity.
He went downstairs into the Study. Crevier sat with a glass of brandy, reading a day old copy of Le Monde. He folded it in two when Mordred walked in, smiled genially and gestured for him to sit down. He indicated an expensive-looking green bottle and an empty balloon glass on the coffee table.
“I thought we’d continue your Gallic education with a glass of Danflou 1865,” he said.
“You’ve got to get out of here,” Mordred said. “The police are about to break your doors down.”
Crevier looked at him. A little embarrassed: if this was an escape attempt, it wasn’t very kind. Not when your host was offering you a priceless brandy.
“I’m serious,” Mordred said.
Crevier sat up, looking a little paler than a split second ago. He rose, opened the door and invited two burly men in leather jackets in. For the first time in over a week, it struck Mordred as unusual that such men were always at hand.
“Stay here,” Crevier said. He closed the door behind him.
Mordred remained standing. He didn’t know precisely what was going to happen now.
He did know it wasn’t in Crevier’s interests to put up a fight. Certainly not with his family to hand. He’d either make a run for it or surrender. Abduction: good for a few months in prison, possibly even a suspended sentence if you had Masonic connections and no priors. He’d probably surrender. Not from cowardice. From prudence.
He returned after five minutes, looking wan and older. “It’s true,” he said. “Out, out,” he told Mordred’s guards, almost in a gasp. “Get Amandine and the girls. Tell them to drop everything and come straight to the Study.”
“What are you going to do?” Mordred asked.
“How did you find out?” Crevier asked. “I mean, that we were surrounded?”
“I can’t say. I’m a spy. You should have expected it.”
“Why are you warning me? You must know I can make a run for it. I know this countryside far better than any Parisian gendarme.”
“You won’t want to look as if you ‘turned chicken’, as the Americans would say.”
“No, no,” he said frantically. “That’s right. A bad example. The girls have got to get used to dealing with the police. If they want to be the women I’ve brought them up to be.”
He looked like someone who didn’t know what he thought, but wanted to appear in control. One minute he was all for escaping; now he was determined to stay for the girls’ sake. Mordred had the weird feeling he, Mordred, could suggest anything at all right now, and backed with half-sufficient reasons, Crevier would accept it.
Crevier didn’t matter. That’s why he wanted to save him.
“Can I suggest something bizarre?” Mordred said.
“My God, this is surreal!” Crevier replied feverishly.
“Your plot to install Planchart could still work if you kill me. I’m probably the only one that knows the whole plan. Why don’t you?”
Crevier laughed hysterically. “From surreal to hyper-surreal!” he exclaimed. He swallowed. “For your information, Planchart has ways and means of knowing what’s happening here. He’ll be fine.”
At that moment, his family burst in. They all looked even more panicked than him. He put them at a slight distance from himself and made a short announcement about what was about to happen. Nothing heroic. Straight to the point. The police were about to burst in. They were here to retrieve John. No one should be frightened. Just do what you’re told.
Mordred expected despising looks, possibly a slap or two and a blob of spit in the face, but no one even made eye-contact with him. Virginie cried. Despite Crevier’s instructions, everyone looked frightened.
Then it happened. A battering ram somewhere outside the room but only just, lots of yelling, stomping boots, men on radios shouting ‘secured’. One final whirlwind, then they stood in the room, ten menacing gendarmes in flak-jackets and protective headgear with short rifles. Crevier, his family, Mordred and the two guards all had their hands up.
It was over. One of the policemen came forward, took off his helmet and shook Mordred’s hand. “Pleased to finally meet you, Monsieur,” he said with genuine enthusiasm.
“Thank you for your help,” Mordred said. “I wonder if it would be possible to order me a helicopter? I have to get back to England as soon as possible.”
Suddenly, Phyllis stepped from between the personnel. She bowed low, swept his hand up and kissed it. “Your carriage awaits,” she said.
He smiled. “Is it a helicopter?”
“It can be anything you want it to be,” she replied.
A two-seater was all they could muster at such short notice, which meant leaving all his colleagues behind. He was tempted to wait for a larger one, but that would be another hour minimum. He’d be safer with Phyllis, Annabel and Alec – they’d all been trained in ways he hadn’t – but time was of the essence. On the way, Ruby Parker debriefed him by radio, and – on Mordred’s advice, after three hours - alerted the police in London. A warrant was issued for Charles Planchart’s arrest. The British police prepared to launch a raid on his house, and the several other properties he owned in London and Berkshire. Mordred asked for a list, and after ten minutes of wrangling over protocol with Scotland Yard, Ruby Parker supplied it.
Mordred smiled. As he suspected, it was a list of places Planchart wouldn’t be. Whoever in the police had seen fit to bury Frances Holland’s Private Eye material was still at large. They’d warned Planchart.
There was only one place he could be now. Somewhere he had to go.
“I need you to take me to Portcullis House,” he told his pilot. Several hours had now passed, but Planchart wouldn’t be in any hurry.
Thirty minutes later, the helicopter swooped on Parliament Square just long enough for Mordred to alight, and then ascended while the police were still calling for back up. Mordred reached the sightseeing/ theatregoing/ late night drinking crowds before anyone could stop him. He used all his training to fade into the background, and crossed the road to Portcullis House.
Locked. There was no business in the House tonight then.
But then it opened electronically. Someone was expecting him. It couldn’t be Planchart, because he’d be upstairs in his office.
He went in. He heard the door lock behind him, and walked straight out into the internal courtyard. There were two security lights on, but most of the illumination came from the moon, directly above the glass ceiling.
Only the police would have the power to disable the alarms. Assuming he survived, it ought to be possible to discover who was responsible for doing so, although they were probably on their way abroad now, with at least five other Met officers. Ruby Parker would know who they were. In getting the police to apprehend Planchart, she’d almost certainly set a snare of some kind.
“Good evening, John!”
The conventional bad-guy welcome. Shafiq Effanga. He was coming leisurely down the stairs from Planchart’s office. In his hand, a large knife.
Mordred understood immediately. It had to be a knife rather than a gun, because even with the best will in the world, the latter might kill too quickly. After the repeated humiliations, Effanga wanted to make sure of a happy ending. In his world, that involved torturing the discomfiter to death.
This was going to be messy. No point in attempting repartee, or even trying to hold his position. Heroics was for strongmen. Effanga outmatched him in weight, combative centre of gravity, and weaponry.
Mordred backed off towards the commercial section. A restaurant, a coffee shop with tables and chairs outside, a post office. All closed, obviously.
The key would be to stop that knife, but more to prevent Effanga getting a grip on him anywhere.
In a film, Effanga would have come at him slowly, like a zombie, trying to maximise the horror. And smiling. But Mordred was running. And Effanga bolted down the stairs and came after him.
As soon as Mordred reached the dining area, he started hurling tables and chairs. Effanga ducked and ducked again, but Mordred had the element of surprise, and in the end, through sheer persistence, a chair hit his target on the side of the head.
It seemed to shake Effanga’s confidence in the blade. He put it into his belt for later, and picked up one of the tables Mordred had thrown. As if to show that anything Mordred could do, he could match four times over, he sent it screaming back like a bullet. Mordred ducked. It flew over his head and through the window of the restaurant. There was an inward explosion of glass.
Effanga laughed and slapped his hands together theatrically. He picked up a chair and repeated his performance. What still remained of the window shattered violently.
Mordred leapt into the restaurant. He probably looked cornered in here, which would give his opponent added heart. Make it look like the endgame.
Lots of condiments beneath the counter. Oil, olive oil.
He found it with a gasp of relief. He began picking up anything he could find – salt and pepper pots, bottles of ketchup, HP Sauce, Branston Pickle, gravy pourers, everything – and throwing it at Effanga. Effanga grabbed a table and held it in front of him like a shield, laughing. Everything ricocheted off and burst into smithereens on the floor between them. Finally, Mordred threw the oil with grunts of affected desperation.
Then nothing. Mordred made a play of running out of missiles and of suddenly realising his predicament was hopeless. Given that he was cornered, the one thing Effanga couldn’t permit was that he leave the restaurant. He charged forward as if to exit. Effanga emitted a yell of victory and charged to head him off.
Effanga rushed straight onto the oil and slipped onto his back. Mordred grabbed a chair and leapt out of the shop in the full knowledge that keeping his balance wasn’t a done deal. No room for error now. Using the chair to maintain his poise, he landed perfectly and slid the four metres between him and Effanga at lightning speed. He thrust the aluminium leg into the soft tissue underneath Effanga’s chin. He drove his adversary backwards across the oil and smashed his head into the concrete planter, bringing them both to a violent halt. The chair leg burst through the bottom of Effanga’s skull and entered to a depth of what looked of about four inches.
Whether Effanga knew he’d lost, Mordred never found out. As far as he could tell he’d died instantly.
Planchart. Mordred forgot Effanga, bounded up the stairs then walked as calmly as he could to the MP’s office. He was still suffering from the shock of the killing.
He opened the door to find exactly who he was seeking. Only pointing a gun at him.
“I take it you’ve eliminated Shafiq,” Planchart said. “I thought you might.” He paused to allow Mordred a witticism and when it didn’t come, he went on: “Well, if he can’t kill you in fair combat, I’m not going to kill you in cold blood. I don’t want to be remembered as a coward.”
Mordred made as if to advance, but Planchart stopped him with a gesture. “I don’t have to kill you to stop you crossing the room,” he said.
The office was in darkness, and Planchart was dressed in an overcoat with a briefcase by his feet. Outside, police sirens. Presumably, the bad guys at the Met had been flushed out and the helicopter pilot had passed the message on: your guy asked me to drop him in Parliament Square.
“It sounds like it’s over,” Mordred said. He was still shaking slightly.
Planchart smiled. “I’ve no intention of escaping. It’s why I came here, back to Portcullis House.”
He calmly put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
