The Keepers of the Persian Gate

by Sydney Maurice

  “I am, isn’t it the company that effectively owns the City of London?” replied Paddy.

  The Corporation had its own Mayor, separate to the rest of London. In fact, Will’s uncle James was Mayor in 1903. Which is why Dunlop & McLaine placed such great emphasis on supplying the Corporation with robust advice in all matters. They certainly ranked as of one the firm’s more important clients, not least because the relationship provided Dunlop & McLaine with lobbying power when currying favour on amendments to legislation at Westminster.

  “What are they arguing over?” asked Paddy.

  “Oh, they’re having a right old barney over insurance of Corporation property, including the Manor House, I believe,” said Will.

  “Has Lloyds raised the premiums?” asked Paddy.

  “Indeed,” replied Will.

  In response, the Corporation had threatened to impose a special punitive tax on Lloyds. Dunlop & McLaine were due to attend a meeting that Friday, hoping to negotiate a deal.

  “It’s all very petty, quite frankly. I go shooting the odd weekend with both the current Lord Mayor and the current Chief Executive of Lloyds,” explained Will.

  Paddy and Will then moved down to the second floor and Will paused briefly to explain that this was where the executive committee of the firm met. It was also the place where all the client meetings took place. Last but by no means least, Will led Paddy down to the first floor, which dealt with Dunlop & McLaine’s primary specialist area of law, namely the law of armed conflict, intelligence and surveillance.

  “The first floor is where you’ll be working,” said Will.

  They came to a different sort of a door; it wasn’t wooden like the others. Instead, it had a metallic finish to it. “You may find this interesting,” said Will, putting his hand on a glass panel beside the door. There was a bleep of approval as his palm was scanned and the door unlocked.

  “We can’t be too careful, I’m afraid. This entire floor is fully secure…Different windows, reinforced walls, etcetera. Now, quickly, in you come,” said Will.

  Paddy and Will stood in a hallway with another door in front of them. The first door had to close before the other would open, ensuring that if someone did try and steal something, their escape would be slowed down substantially.

  “Have there been any breaches of your security?” asked Paddy.

  Will told him that just last year, the firm had a break in by someone who was believed at the time to be a member of the press. It was later discovered that this individual was actually a Russian spy. Many so-called allies of the UK were aware that Dunlop & McLaine held national secrets within its archives. On that basis, the firm needed to be as secure as the agencies and departments it represented. The government recognised this fact following the most recent security breach. As such, all of Dunlop & McLaine’s security was paid for by the taxpayer. Will explained that they would routinely bring in plainclothes policemen during high-risk matters to guard the vicinity of the building. In some cases, they would be required to guard the lawyers as well.

  The inner door opened. “Now, this is a very elite team of people. We have twenty-six in total now on this floor, including yourself. There isn’t a single one among them that isn’t former Army or intelligence in some capacity. Here we are, this is your door. This is the only floor with a one-hundred percent closed door policy. You need a code to get into each room,” said Will.

  Will imputed the code into a keypad and pushed the next door open. The letters on the door read Lt Colonel (Ret) Sir Mark Glover. The door led into a corridor which branched off into various offices. At the end of the corridor was a secretary sitting at a table.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dunlop,” said the secretary.

  “Good morning, Samantha, allow me to introduce to you our new trainee, Mr. Trimble,” said Will.

  “Mr. Trimble, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” replied Samantha.

  “I’m looking for Mark. Is he around?” asked Will.

  “Unfortunately, he’s had to nip out on a bit of private business, but he did mention something about grabbing some dinner with Mr. Trimble later this evening, if he’s available,” explained Samantha.

  “There you are, Patrick. You’re already being invited out for dinner. The old bugger never bought me dinner!” said Will.

  “I’d be delighted, thank you,” replied Paddy.

  “Ok, here is his mobile number. He said for you to call him any time after three this afternoon.” Samantha passed Paddy Mark’s business card. “Would you like to see your office whilst you’re here, Paddy?”

  “Please, that would be lovely,” said Paddy.

  “Ahem. Sorry to interrupt, but I’m going to make myself scarce now. I’ve got to go and explain to some Russian oligarch why the UK won’t allow him to live in Mayfair. I’ll meet you again tomorrow, Patrick, in my office, around 1000 hours?” asked Will.

  “No problem, Will. A pleasure to have met you,” said Paddy.

  Samantha led Paddy through Mark’s office. Paddy’s office was annexed to it. It was quite a thing for Paddy. He’d never had his own office before, let alone something of the size and stature of the room he was being led into. As Paddy walked in, Samantha stepped aside. It wasn’t quite as big as Mark’s office; however, it was still very grand, about twelve by fifteen feet at its widest points. It also benefited from two large bullet-proof windows overlooking Doughty Street. Paddy moved around to examine his wonderfully ornate antique desk, which was complemented by a leather captain’s chair.

  “It’s magnificent,” said Paddy as he walked over to the wall opposite the windows. Here he was face-to-face with a large board, the names and dates beside them going back over one hundred years. This board contained a list of all former Army and intelligence trainees that had used the office over the years. There were some pretty interesting names on it. Samantha explained that it was Paddy’s responsibility to get his name engraved onto it. Tradition stated that it would only go on the board once he had completed his Training Contract.

  Paddy surveyed the list. It boasted not only an illustrious amalgamation of soldiers, but also famous politicians, war heroes, businessmen, a Nobel Prize winner and a President of the World Bank.

  “Some footsteps to be following in,” said Samantha.

  “No pressure then,” said Paddy, turning to Samantha.

  With that, Paddy said his goodbyes, and, armed with the folder containing all the relevant documents, marched off in the direction of the Inns of Court School of Law to read over the papers. As he walked out onto the road he was passed by several barristers. They were undoubtedly on their way to the famous set of human rights chambers which held offices further up Doughty Street. Paddy recalled how, several years before, he had toyed with the idea of becoming a barrister. He remembered how during work experience, or mini pupillages as they are called, he found the whole system outmoded. In any event, Paddy’s mother, who had also trained as a solicitor, had always discouraged him from the route. When Paddy was a student, she also used to joke that the wigs which all barristers wore would mess up Paddy’s hair. Of course, his hair was a lot longer in those days.

  One perk of the barrister’s system which Paddy did like were the Inns of Court. All barristers belong to one of the four Inns of Court: Gray’s Inn, Inner Temple, Middle Temple and Lincoln’s Inn. Back when Paddy was considering becoming a barrister he joined Lincoln’s Inn as a student member. Most student members go on to study the Bar Professional Training Course or BPTC, however Paddy - being indecisive Paddy - changed his mind, decided he wanted to be a solicitor instead, and then went and joined the army. Nevertheless, he wondered whether his student membership would still be valid and he couldn’t think of any reason why it wouldn’t be. Intrigued by the thought, he marched through Holborn and down Kingsway towards Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  Chapter 6

  Settling In

  PADDY WALKED DOWN TO THE GATE LODGE, on the eastern entrance to Lincoln’s and marched past the
guard as if he belonged. He recalled that there was a student office at the reception close to the entrance to the library. Walking in, he was greeted by a lady who introduced herself as Kelly Swavel.

  “Can I help you?” said Kelly.

  “Yes, my name’s Patrick Trimble. I joined the Inn some years ago as a student member and I am wondering if my membership is still valid,” said Paddy.

  “Do you have your membership card?”

  “Let me see,” replied Paddy. He ruffled around in his wallet to see if he could find anything. There behind an old Interrail card was his membership card. It was basically a piece of printed paper which had been laminated and had faded badly. Paddy passed the card to Kelly. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you,” said Kelly, writing down the card number. She walked over to a filing cabinet and pulled out a folder. “Right, Mr. Trimble, you are indeed still a member. Once you join, you are a member for life, you’ll be pleased to hear. You’re free to use the facilities we have here in any manner you see fit.”

  “Thank you very much indeed,” said Paddy.

  “We’ll print you a new membership card if you come back in a couple of days,” said Kelly.

  Paddy continued his personal tour of the Inn, returning to the old library. The library itself was truly magnificent and had featured in several feature films over the years. The whole place had a sort of Harry Potter-come-Hogwarts feel to it. Walking around the booths, Paddy fondly recalled studying there when on a trip to London during his final year university exams. On the mezzanine level, Paddy took a seat at one of the desks, opened his laptop and inserted the memory stick.

  The memory stick was password protected so he imputed the password he had been provided earlier with the file. When he opened it up he found that it mainly contained past bids made by the firm in regards to previous tenders for other agencies. Much of it was also noticeably redacted. Paddy spent the next hour or so perusing the various folders. He read of how Dunlop & McLaine had advised the British government on the technicalities and intricacies of handing back Hong Kong to the Chinese. The firm was also consulted following the mysterious death by suicide of Dr David Shackleton, the Iraq War Weapons Inspector. William Dunlop had been asked to conduct an internal investigation of MI5 in regards to allegations that Shackleton had been assassinated in the build-up to the war.

  Most intriguingly, one of the firm’s bids to MI6 in 2004 alluded to direct advice provided to Prime Minister ‘in response to rumoured Operation Paget’ in 1998. However, no further detail had been provided other than the name of the operation. When Paddy googled the name, he found out why there was no further information provided. It was an extremely sensitive matter, and probably something which Dunlop & McLaine would prefer to have distanced themselves from.

  He then hovered over a folder entitled “OTRs(NI)”. Opening it, he found this related to a unit tasked with tracking down Northern Irish terrorists who had disappeared following the Good Friday Agreement in 1997. They were referred to as ‘on the runs’ or OTRs. The unit was made up principally of former Royal Ulster Constabulary officers who had special skills in tracking down terrorists. The background information stated that as recently as 2008, there were as many as two hundred and fifty former republican and loyalist terrorists working for foreign entities in an unlawful capacity. One of the folders contained a signed letter from the former Prime Minister Tony Blair stating that all OTRs would be granted an amnesty following the signing of the St Andrews Agreement in 2006. The one condition on this amnesty was that the political parties in Northern Ireland had to agree to share power by 2007. The result was stated as ‘successful May 07’.

  Having read all that he could, Paddy looked at his watch and realised that he had lost track of time. He only had about fifteen minutes to get over to the Cittie of Yorke to meet Cecil Faulkner. However, to his surprise, as he looked up he spotted the woman he’d seen earlier in the day at the waiting area at Dunlop & McLaine. She was just leaving the library and walking out to the main hall. Hastily, Paddy gathered his things and went to chase after her. When he reached the hall he couldn’t see her anywhere, so he walked to the exit. There she was, lighting up a cigarette. Paddy walked over to her.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello, can I help you?” she said..

  “It’s just I couldn’t help but notice that I saw you earlier in the reception of Dunlop & McLaine. Today is my first day with the firm and I thought I should make your acquaintance. I’m Paddy Trimble, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “How polite of you, Paddy. I’m Catherine Wood. I’m a barrister with Vault Chambers.”

  “I couldn’t have guessed. I mean, what with the collar and everything,” replied Paddy.

  Paddy began to apply some sheepish charm upon Catherine. She was very polite while he spoke. Being new to London and with a new employer, the whole set-up was undiscovered territory for Paddy, and he thought it would be nice to get the lay of the land from someone who knew all about it.

  “You don’t know, do you?” asked Catherine.

  “Know what?” replied Paddy.

  “My boyfriend is a man called Mark Glover. You may know of him.”

  Paddy blushed slightly. “My master.”

  “Your master.” Agreed Catherine.

  The pair laughed momentarily.

  “I understand we’re actually all due to head out for dinner this evening,” said Catherine.

  “Yes, I’m to give Mark a call this afternoon. I obviously didn’t realise you would be coming as well, but I’m all the more grateful for it,” said Paddy.

  “I’m sure you are. Anyways, I must pop back to chambers now and read over a few briefs for tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you again this evening. Catch you later,” replied Catherine with a wink.

  Paddy brushed off the awkwardness surrounding the faux pas he had just committed in order to march over to the Cittie of Yorke to meet Cecil Faulkner, the Chairman of the Foreign Hand Club. The Cittie of Yorke was a pub dating back to 1420 and it sat beside the ancient gates of Gray’s Inn. Paddy walked through the large barn-style doors into a cavelike corridor lined with distinctive wooden barrels of stout and ale. As he walked deeper into the pub, he felt like he was walking back in time.

  Being lunchtime, the bar was quite busy. Paddy managed to signal the attention of the barman. “I’m looking for a Cecil Faulkner.”

  “Yes mate, that’s him there at the end,” said the barman, pointing down the bar.

  Paddy walked down towards him. He was an old man, with a tweed jacket, handkerchief in pocket, big square glasses and a great mop of grey hair.

  “Hello, Mr. Faulkner, is it?” asked Paddy.

  “Yes, can I help you?” replied Cecil in an extremely thick Scottish accent.

  “I’m Patrick Trimble, I was sent here by…”

  “Ah yes, by your boss Billy. Nice to meet you, Paddy. What will you be having to drink?” asked Cecil.

  Although it was lunchtime on a weekday, Paddy did not want to appear rude. “I’ll go for whatever you’re drinking, Cecil.”

  “Very good. It’s the cider I’m on. They brew it themselves here, it’s absolutely fabulous. It’s been calming the nerves of lawyers for centuries,” explained Cecil.

  “Are you a lawyer yourself, Cecil?”

  “No, I’m an entrepreneur. My business is property. Although in recent years I’ve taken a bit of a battering, as you can imagine. I also chair the Foreign Hand Club, which was set up as a charity of sorts for British folk living in London who do not originate from England.” The Foreign Hand Club was mostly made up of people from Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. However, it did have a few members from further afield. It was actually set up by former Prime Minister Lloyd George.

  “Did you know Lloyd George was a solicitor?” said Cecil.

  “No, I didn’t know that,” replied Paddy.

  “The only solicitor Prime Minster to date, as a matter of fact. He was also Welsh, and English was ac
tually his second language, another surprising fact,” explained Cecil.

  The pints arrived at the bar and they each took a swig from their drink. They didn’t taste bad at all, thought Paddy.

  “They’re good, aren’t they? So…I hear Will wants you in accommodation close to the office at a reasonable price. Well, I made a few phone calls this morning, and I can offer you a studio in number 55 Doughty Street,” said Cecil.

  Paddy was over the moon with this. It was less than a few hundred yards stroll down the street from the front door of Dunlop & McLaine. It was even closer than Goodenough College.

  “How much will it be, Cecil?”

  “It will be £650 a month.”

  £650 a month was an absolute steal and it took Paddy by complete surprise. He’d have been lucky to get a bed for that price in inner London, let alone a studio.

  “Keep it to yourself. Like I said, your connection to the Foreign Hand Club will always be of some benefit.”

  “You mean I’m a member already?” asked Paddy.

  “Well, you’re made a member upon doing business with the club. So this counts!”

  “I’m very grateful, thank you,” said Paddy.

  “Don’t thank me, thank your boss, Will. It’s fully furnished and I’ve got the keys and the particulars right here. Don’t worry about signing a tenancy or anything like that. I’ll just take you at your word that you’ll be a good tenant and pay your rent,” said Cecil.

  ***

  After the pair had finished off their pints, Paddy went to his friend’s apartment in Covent Garden to pick up his things. Paddy returned to Doughty Street, taking in Bedford Row on the way. He walked past Dunlop & McLaine on the right and monitored the house numbers. Number 61, Number 57 and then Number 55. Number 55 had dark green double doors which opened into a hallway. Paddy walked straight in. Although Doughty Street itself was very upmarket territory, the interior of Number 55, particularly the communal area, was not indicative of that. It was clear from the moment Paddy walked through the doors that the place had seen better days.