Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  ***

  Oxford: 3:00 p.m.

  ‘Magdalen College,’ Clayton growled to the taxi driver outside Oxford train station. He sniffed warily at the stale air inside the drab Vauxhall cab. If only the public really knew how their spooks really travelled. This was a long way short of Aston Martins with machine guns and ejector seats.

  As they pulled out of the station, Clayton stared out the window. Christ, it had been a long time since he’d last seen Oxford! Another time, another place. A world of innocence, punts and sweaty-college-disco free love. But the memories were now as misty and autumnal as the damp, leafless trees that straddled the roadside.

  Magdalen! Why did it have to be Magdalen College, of all places? A young girl named Palmer at Magdalen College. Unbelievable! The coincidences made him anxious; and for him, that meant aggressive.

  There were no longer any familiar faces in the Porters’ Lodge, no silver-haired old custodian who would have remembered the young, light-hearted Clayton from his own Magdalen years.

  ‘Miss Palmer? Miss Sophie Palmer, you say, sir?’ The middle-aged porter frowned helpfully in thoughtful concern and went inside to phone a couple of numbers. When he returned, Clayton could read the lack of success on his face.

  ‘She’s not with either of her tutors. I’ve tried Mr Chase and Miss Ockenden. Tell you what, sir, why don’t you try the college library. You did say you’re a relative of hers,’ he added suspiciously.

  Clayton nodded. The porter looked dubious but took his chances.

  ‘Okey dokey, sir. Through the gate, turn right, across the quad, large door straight ahead of you.’

  But Clayton didn’t need to walk that far. As he turned through the gate he immediately recognized the face from the photo walking along the path towards him, accompanied by two other undergraduates. In the flesh, the resemblance was even more striking. The bell chimes from the tower sent ripples of desire and déjà vu pulsing through his body.

  ‘Miss Palmer?’ The trio stopped. Sophie looked curiously at the stranger. ‘Do you think I could have a private word with you?’

  The other two students exchanged glances with Sophie. She looked embarrassed, suspecting a connection to Al-Ajnabi. She would rather not bring the more unorthodox details of her domestic arrangements to the attention of her college friends.

  ‘You go on,’ she assured them. ‘I’ll catch you up in a minute.’

  ‘Might be a little longer than that, I’m afraid, Miss Palmer. I’ll need at least five or ten minutes, if you don’t mind.’

  Clayton watched Sophie’s friends walk back down the stone path towards the front quad.

  ‘Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ she cut in indignantly. ‘Don’t you think you’d better explain first who you are and why you’re here? Surely you don’t just expect me to follow you down some dark alleyway?’

  Clayton was captivated with the way she swept a long lock of dark brown hair from her face, looking up at him with large, doleful hazel eyes. Exactly the same mannerisms, exactly the same look. His chest heaved with a surge of bitterness, lust and guilt.

  ‘I see. Then let me explain: I work for a government agency. I’m afraid that’s as much as I can tell you at present, Miss Palmer. If you wish, we can call the college Warden from the Porter’s Lodge. I’m sure after a couple of words from me, he’d advise you to talk.’

  Sophie turned her head askance, sighed, and stared down at her feet.

  ‘All right,’ she said softly. ‘I suppose you’re something to do with Omar, aren’t you?’

  Clayton didn’t answer. He was staring at her intently; Sophie mistook his silence for assent.

  ‘We can walk to the cloisters, if you like,’ she offered. ‘It’ll be quiet in there.’

  ‘You are correct in assuming that my interest lies in your dealings with the Ramli Special Envoy, Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi,’ Clayton continued, in a more formal tone, when they reached the dark cloisters.

  ‘Dealings? I’m not engaged in any business with Omar, you know. I’m just living in a downstairs apartment in his house—it’s a sort of student bursary, you see.’

  Clayton smiled knowingly at the cool way in which she explained her position in Al-Ajnabi’s house. Just like your bloody mother, you pretty flirt! She always played the innocent too, but she obviously didn’t have too many scruples about moving from bed to bed!

  ‘Whatever,’ he smiled ironically. ‘Anyway, tell me about Prince Omar. Can you describe him to me? You wouldn’t happen to have a photo, I suppose?’

  Sophie’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She was overcome with a sudden and unaccountable desire to protect Omar, sensed a hidden frailty in her provider and tormentor that had hitherto eluded her, or was perhaps illusionary. In any case, she didn’t like this man’s voice, riddled with sarcasm.

  ‘Hang on a minute, please. Who did you say you worked for?’

  ‘I work for our government, Miss Palmer,’ Clayton’s voice had become stern. ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that there were any sides or that I needed to take one. Omar’s a diplomat and therefore entitled to immunity from investigation, I suppose. Has he done anything wrong?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Clayton’s voice was steely. ‘But with the sort of financial muscle Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi proposes to bring to this country, we need to find out a little more about him. Probably, there’s nothing to fear from the man or his millions. But we need to be sure of that. It’s our duty to the citizens of this country.’

  ‘OK,’ Sophie shrugged. ‘So what do you want to know about him?’ Still, she couldn’t decide how much she should, or wanted to tell this unspecified government stooge about her dark benefactor. What about Hennessy, and all the outlandish politics Al-Ajnabi had espoused, let alone the sexual propositions he had made to her? For fear of divulging the secrets of the ‘bed duty’, Sophie thought she had better keep quiet about the lot. Besides, she still felt an unexplained aversion to the man standing in front of her.

  ‘Describe Prince Al-Ajnabi to me. He’s white, perhaps of South African origin, we understand.’

  Sophie gave a physical description of Al-Ajnabi, doing her best to be vague. She was also at pains to conceal how devilishly handsome she secretly found her host. But in mid-flow, her voice suddenly floundered; she looked coyly at the man in front of her. There was a noticeable physical similarity between the man she was describing and the man she was standing in front of; they were even of about the same age.

  The unspecified government agent asked her more questions. He knew about Hasan, but he seemed anxious to learn more about the Somali’s status, habits, and movements. He looked unimpressed with Sophie’s bland answers and moved on to the subject of the Special Envoy’s visits and visitors. Sophie avoided mention of Hennessy, the South Americans, the middle-aged Jordanian or the Japanese banker, but thought she’d better tell him about the computer nerds. If ‘they’ were watching the house, they probably already knew about them, anyway.

  They were standing in the quietest and darkest corner of the cloisters and it was getting darker all the time. Sophie shivered in the chill air, started to fidget and checked her watch.

  ‘You don’t seem to know an awful lot about the millionaire prince you lodge with, Miss Palmer,’ Clayton smiled malevolently, his face partially illuminated by the yellow lighting that had just been switched on.

  ‘I told you,’ she shrugged, ‘I don’t see much of Omar. We lead entirely separate lives.’

  Sophie was starting to edge away, signalling her desire to leave.

  ‘I’m sorry to keep you, Miss Palmer, but there are a couple more questions I would like to ask.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why do you think Prince Al-Ajnabi chose you especially as the beneficiary of this educational bursary you mentioned?’

  Sophie looked aside at an inscription in the stonework on the outer wall and flicked a lock of hair self-consciously fro
m her face.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Prince Omar personally. I told you. There was an interview. I was selected on the basis of that interview.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not making myself quite clear. What special qualities do you think you possess that influenced the Special Envoy to decide in your favour? I can think of one very obvious advantage that you might have over other candidates.’

  The smile was malicious.

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’ Sophie glared at him, deciding that it was time to fight back. Do you mind explaining yourself?’

  But Clayton was a skilful manoeuvrer. He relaxed his gaze, took a couple of lateral paces to the centre-facing wall and spoke with his back to her.

  ‘Let me put it another way, Miss Palmer. If we checked your bank balance right now, do you think it would be in credit?’

  ‘That’s none of your business!’ she snapped indignantly.

  ‘Isn’t it? Oh, I’d think very carefully about that, Miss Palmer, if I were you. Are you quite sure you’d be unconcerned if some of my friends from other agencies were to take a closer look at your finances, keep an eye open for any sudden cash windfalls? I also have some influential contacts in the tabloid press. They might be very interested in your rags-to-riches story.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Sophie scoffed indignantly.

  ‘Oh really? Let me be blunt: I was under the impression that full-time students were not supposed to be salaried workers.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m not working for anyone.’

  ‘And being paid to sleep with an Arab diplomat—that doesn’t count as gainful employment?’

  Clayton knew he had her. Apart from the tip-off from Knox’s people about the bank balance, up till now it had all been sheer conjecture. But the further he probed, the more he knew his initial suspicions were correct.

  Sophie was staring resolutely at the ground, and he could hear her troubled breathing. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

  ‘Look,’ he sighed, ‘don’t think that we are out to get you, Miss Palmer. On the contrary, if you help us, you will find that we can do quite a lot for you, now and later on. And who’s side do you want to be on, anyway? Think about it,’ he urged, stepping closer. ‘All we need is some information. You’ll be doing yourself and your country a great favour.’

  He handed Sophie a contact card. She took it silently, her large eyes staring forlornly at him. Everything he said was right and she knew she should cooperate. Yet there was still something about the man that she didn’t like, something that made her distrust him.

  ‘Think over what I’ve told you very carefully, Miss Palmer, and give me a call in the morning to let me know your decision. Thank you for your time. I think I’d better let you get back to your studies now.’

  He turned to leave by the entrance they had come in; instinctively, Sophie started to walk off in the opposite direction. But she had not gone far before she heard his voice behind her:

  ‘It would be nice to get to know you socially, Miss Palmer. How about dinner tomorrow evening? You might find that your Ramli diplomats aren’t the only influential men around here.’

  Sophie stopped, turned and looked at the card in her hand.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow morning, Mister…umm…Talbot.’

  But there was no enthusiasm in her voice.