There was no elevator in the building so Paddy trudged up the stairs to Apartment 5 on the second floor, dragging his bags behind him. Paddy played around with the lock at Number 5 and opened the great big Victorian door. In contrast to the hall and stairs, the first and most noticeable thing was how clean the studio was. It was immaculate and looked like it had been newly refurbished. There was a large Queen-sized bed over in one corner, a living area in the middle and a dining area over by three very large windows which backed onto the houses on Gray’s Inn Road. There was also a shower room beside the kitchen, although there wasn’t any sign of a toilet. Paddy popped his head out the door and noticed that this was shared with another apartment.
Paddy had a seat on a leather couch near a small covered-up fireplace and soaked up his new surroundings. The ceilings were enormously high, perhaps as much as fifteen feet. Paddy’s phone buzzed, so he pulled it out. Before he could answer, there was a knock at the door.
“Hello!” Said a voice on the other side of the door. “Is anyone there?”
Paddy walked over and answered the door to an absolutely stunning brunette. She had pale green eyes, and despite it being one of the hottest days of the year, was wearing a long fur coat.
“Hello, can I help you?” said Paddy.
“Oh, hello. I’m Vera. I come with the compliments of Mark Glover!” Vera said.
She then unbuttoned her coat to reveal an extremely sexy red dress. Paddy’s first thought, aside from noting the fact that this woman was absolutely beautiful, was to wonder how on earth Mark knew where he was living. After all he’d just been given the keys about fifteen minutes before, and Paddy had yet to meet Mark.
“Is everything alright? Honey, you look a little freaked out.”
“Am, um… I don’t really know how to react,” replied Paddy.
“Look, I don’t know your story, and I’ve only just met you, but do you fancy a drink of something to help the conversation flow a bit more?” asked Vera.
She pulled a sizeable bottle of whiskey from her bag. Paddy stared blankly at Vera. He wasn’t really in a position to say no. He wasn’t really in a position to think straight.
“Custom dictates that you invite me in, Paddy,” said Vera.
Paddy welcomed Vera inside and she threw her jacket down on the bed. As Vera poured him a whiskey, Paddy admired her from the couch.
“What do you do, Vera? I mean, besides this,” asked Paddy.
“I’m a model for a magazine,” answered Vera.
“Really? Cool, what magazine?” replied Paddy.
“Oh, Lady in Red?”
Paddy’s ears perked up. “You mean a glamour magazine?”
By the time Vera had finished explaining her role in the industry, the pair had gone through a quarter of the bottle of whiskey. Paddy was already finishing his third large glass. Despite being highly entertained by Vera’s discussions of her past escapades, Paddy was conscious he was getting a bit pissed.
“So, Mr. Lawyerman, are you going to question me properly?” said Vera.
She reached for her bag and pulled out a set of handcuffs. Paddy put his fist to his mouth wondering whether he should accept her invitation. Meanwhile, she just stared at him with a ‘take me now’ look. Paddy mustered some moral fibre from somewhere.
“Vera, look…you’re beautiful. But I’m sorry, I’m just not that type of guy. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Mark that we had a great afternoon together. Thanks for the whiskey.”
“But you’re very handsome, Paddy. I wouldn’t mind meeting you again. Outside of normal business hours,” said Vera.
“Ha,ha, well, thank you. I’ll bear that in mind,” said Paddy, standing up.
As he went to give her a hug, Vera leaned in for a kiss and snogged him then and there. Paddy’s instinct was to pull back ever so slightly. He hadn’t kissed anyone but Sarah for the past few years. However, instead of feeling guilty, his basic manly urge for the love of a woman suddenly took precedence.
“You’ve just been dumped, haven’t you?” said Vera.
“Yes,” replied Paddy.
“Then my job this afternoon is to erase her from your memory,” replied Vera.
In the next few moments, it became clear that Vera wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter 7
The Old Bank of England
ABOUT AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, Vera left Paddy’s flat. He looked at his phone. It was already 1530 hours and despite his vigorous encounter with Vera, he was still feeling quite tipsy. He composed himself enough to find the piece of paper with Mark Glover’s number on it. With a sharp intake of breath, he pressed the dial button. The phone rang and rang; it didn’t seem to have voicemail set up. Just after Paddy hung up, he received a text from the number saying ‘try again.’
Paddy called the number again. This time the answer came immediately.
“Mark Glover!” an abrupt voice said down the phone.
“Hello, Mark, this Paddy Trimble.”
“Ah, hello, Mr. Trimble. I trust you got the gift I sent you?”
“Ahem, yes,” replied Paddy.
“Very good, I hope she was up to your standards. I also believe you had the pleasure of meeting my lovely girlfriend earlier today,” said Mark.
“Yes, I did indeed,” said Paddy nervously.
“Excellent, well, I was hoping you, me and her could meet at the Old Bank of England for a spot of dinner tonight at about seven o’clock. Some clients will be joining us as well. Does that suit you?” asked Mark.
“Sounds perfect. Where is the Old Bank of England?” replied Paddy
“It’s not the actual Bank of England now, it’s on Fleet Street and it’s a restaurant. It’s just up the road from the Royal Courts of Justice, on the same side as if you were heading in the direction of the City…you can’t miss it,” explained Mark.
“No problem. I look forward to seeing you there,” said Paddy.
“Excellent, oh yes, and make sure you wear a blazer and no jeans, it’s smart casual, you see.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Paddy.
With that the telephone conversation ended. Paddy emptied his bags onto the sofa and then lay down on his bed to get some brief shuteye before meeting with Mark and Catherine. To say it had been an eventful day so far would be an understatement, he thought to himself. The bed clothes were still fresh with the musty smell of Vera’s perfume. Paddy buried his head deep into the pillow and closed his eyes.
***
It wasn’t long before his alarm was going off and it was a quarter past six. After a quick shower and change of clothes, he was ready to go. He threw the green folder containing the ISC tender documents into a safe located at the base of one of the bottom drawers in his kitchen and typed in a four-digit code. He then exited Doughty Street to walk down to Fleet Street. It wasn’t until he got halfway down Doughty Street that he realised he’d forgotten his key in his rush to leave the apartment. “Shit,” he thought. “Oh well, I’ll deal with that when I get home.” His apartment had one of those doors which would lock as soon as it shut.
As he turned the corner at the bottom of Gray’s Inn Road, Paddy suddenly got the feeling that someone was following him. He then realised that although the file and papers which Will had handed him earlier were safely locked away in his apartment, the highly sensitive USB was still in his blazer pocket. In ordinary circumstances he would have little reason to be suspicious; however, his induction talk from William Dunlop had left him a bit paranoid.
When Paddy was in Military Intelligence, he had intense training in tails and decoys. As he walked along High Holborn, he made several further moves to confirm that the man was indeed following him. Firstly, he stopped at the window of a recruitment agency and pretended to view the job adverts. At that moment, the man continued to walk past, although Paddy managed to get a look at his attire. He looked like he was from the Middle East, probably mid-forties, wearing a long green overcoat, a flat cap, jeans and boots. Paddy waited unt
il the man had walked a bit further, then ran across the road in front of traffic.
As Paddy continued towards Kingsway, he glanced right to see if the man was still following. He was. Paddy wondered who it could be. In reality, it could have been anyone from a nosy journalist to a foreign spy. Paddy walked around an alley into Lincoln’s Inn Fields and waited with his back against the wall. When the man passed him a few minutes later, Paddy grabbed him by the scruff and threw him against the wall.
“What’s your problem?” yelled the man.
“You’ve been following me…I saw you,” replied Paddy.
“I was not, you wanker. I’m on my way to the pub,” replied the man, pushing Paddy away.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Whatever, you prick,” said the man as he stormed off.
Paddy was beginning to wonder whether the stress of the day, combined with the few drinks he’d had in the afternoon, had affected him. After taking a few minutes to cool off, Paddy continued down to Fleet Street. He walked along to the very ornate entrance of the Old Bank of England. Paddy took a chance that the man smoking a cigarillo by the entrance might be Mark, and said hello. “Mark?”
“Paddy…?”
“Yes, nice to meet you,” said Paddy. The pair shook hands.
“Excellent to have you here,” said Mark.
“Not at all, thank you for inviting me.”
“Unfortunately, the old girl can’t make it. She’s too busy with work, so we can afford to let our hair down a bit,” said Mark.
“Isn’t it a school night?” joked Paddy.
“Well, the only person checking up on you tomorrow will be me,” said Mark.
“Ah yes, that’s the thing…Will’s expecting a brief from me about some issues early tomorrow morning. I had hoped to get back to the office to do some work into the early hours,” said Paddy.
“Nonsense, forget that. I’ll send him a text now to wind his neck in,” replied Mark.
Mark pulled out his phone and typed up a text message, then showed it to Paddy. The message read: ‘WD, cancel meeting with Paddy tomorrow morning. Giving him “the Induction’”.
Paddy laughed. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Well, we’re eating here, and we’re going to meet a few well-established clients in the form of the Timpson Brothers,” said Mark.
“Don’t they own the Spectacle Newspaper Group?”
“Yes. But I’m not advising them in their capacity as owners of a newspaper. I’m advising them in their capacity as the owners of an island called Brecqhou in the Channel Islands. I think you’ll find it most interesting. Oh here, where are my manners…Cigar?” asked Mark.
“Why not?” said Paddy.
Although he would indulge in the odd social cigarette, Paddy hadn’t had a cigar since the days of law school formals in the grand Dunstable Hall in Norfolk. He peeled off the wrapping and lit it up, coughing upon the first inhale. Mark burst into hysterics. “Not a smoker, eh?”
“It’s been a while!” replied Paddy.
“You know, this place has quite the ugly history. It supposedly lies between the old barber shop owned by Sweeney Todd and Mrs Lovett’s pie shop. Could you imagine if these walls could talk?” said Mark.
When Mark and Paddy had finished talking, the pair walked into the main bar and restaurant area. The surroundings seemed to be a perfectly preserved piece of London’s past, harking back to a bygone era. The restaurant manager approached Mark. “Mr. Glover, we have your table ready in the vault and your guests will be here shortly.” They were led through a side door down and down a set of old steps which brought them into an opulent medieval cellar.
“Isn’t this something?” said Mark.
“Is this the actual vault?” asked Paddy.
“Well, it’s where the old vault used to be. It used to store gold bullion right up until the building was sold by the Bank of England,” replied Mark.
“Yes, indeed, rumour has it Sweeney Todd used to take his victims down here,” said a voice coming from the stairs. Paddy and Mark turned to see two old men who Paddy instantly recognised as being the Timpson Brothers.
“Frederick! David! How are you both?” said Mark.
“Excellent, thank you,” replied Frederick.
“Very good, Mark, brilliant to see you on such short notice. Where’s your lovely girlfriend?” said David.
“Oh, she’s very busy tonight. So I’ve brought one of our new chaps along in Paddy Trimble.”
“Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” said Paddy.
After everyone had made their introductions and exchanged pleasantries, the four sat down to a large dinner courtesy of the owners of the Old Bank of England. To start was baby lobster, followed by sorbets au champagne to prepare the pallet for the main course of jowl of pork with fennel, mousserons and elderflower honey. The meal concluded with a chocolate soufflé. As the night progressed into cheese board and port, lips were becoming looser and looser.
“So, Paddy, as I explained to you, these chaps own Brecqhou, which is an island in the Channel Islands, a tenement of Sark. The noble brothers here believe that they have a case for declaring it independent of Sark which is a fiefdom or crown dependency of the UK,” said Mark.
“You see, Paddy, we believe that the constitution of Sark was not designed to include our little island,” said David.
“How do you figure that?” asked Paddy
“Well, it doesn’t mention it, for one,” said Frederick.
“What’s the plan once you declare it independent?” asked Paddy.
“Well, the plan is Dunlop & McLaine will negotiate with the Privy Council, whom we also represent. They will recommend to the Queen and in turn the current government that Brecqhou should be cease to be a Crown Dependency and instead join the Commonwealth. Simultaneously, Brecqhou will become a principality or something similar,” explained Mark
“It means we can pay no tax, and effectively be answerable to nobody,” said David.
“Wow. Why would the government agree?” asked Paddy.
The French were interested in the islands due to potential gas reserves. In recent months, there had been rumours that the French were beginning to pursue a policy which would have the islands returned to French control. However, if the islands were declared principalities of the Crown, their future in the British Commonwealth would be ensured.
“So, in many ways, we are acting in the best interests of both of our clients,” explained Mark.
“Just shows money can buy anything,” Paddy thought to himself.
After the dinner, the Timpson Brothers parted company with Paddy and Mark. Paddy turned to Mark and asked where they were headed next.
“Greek Street!” said Mark.
“Where’s that?” asked Paddy.
“Soho. It’s a gentleman’s club that I frequent at this stage of the evening. You’ll love it,” replied Mark.
The pair walked down to the club while each enjoying another cigarillo. Mark certainly was much more jovial than his past history would have led one to surmise. He was extremely friendly and managed to appear interested in everyone he spoke to - a unique trait for a lawyer. As they were walking, Mark noticed that Paddy’s watch had stopped working.
“Here, let me take that off you. Major Howard’s a good chap for this sort of thing. He makes watches as a hobby. He’ll have that back to you in no time,” said Mark.
Paddy handed Mark his watch as they turned on to Greek Street. It was strange to see a cul-de-sac in the middle of London, but there it was. They walked the length of the street before reaching a blue door.
“Here it is. Now, there’s a secret knock.” Mark tapped the door twice sharply, and then gave the door three gentle bangs with a pause in between each, followed by a single thump. The door opened.
“Who goes there?” asked the doorman.
“Mr. Livingstone,” replied Mark.
“Ah, but of course, come in, Mr. Livingstone,” said the doo
rman.
“Livingstone?” asked Paddy.
“Ah yes, all members go by pseudonyms here; you’ll learn why in a moment,” explained Mark.
As they walked up the stairs Paddy entered a den of sin like nothing he had seen before. Middle-aged men getting lap dances, women snorting cocaine off coffee tables, and champagne by the bucket load. Paddy walked up to the bar with Mark.
“Two large Lagavulins, please,” said Mark to the barman.
A waiter took Paddy and Mark’s blazers as they sat down in one of the quieter corners of the room. Paddy noticed that as the waiter did so, Mark gave him a bit of a wink. He didn’t think much of it at the time, as he was well on his way with the amount of alcohol he had consumed over the course of the evening. Paddy thought this might be a good opportunity to question Mark on a few aspects of the firm. “Mark, it would be silly of me not to bring this up…”
“I already know what you’re gonna say. Where on earth did I find Vera?” replied Mark.
“No actually, I was going to ask you about some of your previous work,” said Paddy.
“For God’s sake man, I take you to a place like this and you want to talk about nothing but work,” replied Mark.
“Sorry, it’s just - you were SAS, weren’t you?” asked Paddy.
“I’ll show you the tattoo later if you want proof?” replied Mark.
“You were also an international observer in the Iraq Weapons Inquiry, weren’t you?” pressed Paddy.
“Yes, so?” replied Mark.
“Well, what about the rumours - all that stuff about the build up to the Iraq war? About planted evidence?” said Paddy.
“Paddy, if the truth be told, it was all just a series of unfortunate events and bad intelligence, combined with an extremely conservative American regime, that led us to war in that place. Trust me, Paddy, if you think there was some sort of grand conspiracy, you’re looking in the wrong place,” said Mark.
“Well, what about Operation Paget?” asked Paddy.
Mark explained how William Dunlop led the Royal investigation into the Princess Diana’s death. Apparently, at the conclusion of his investigation, he closed the books, ordering the firm to delete any and all papers relating to it. The investigation itself operated independently of the other judicial and government investigations of the time. One thing they could never figure out was why an SAS helicopter disappeared from CCTV footage of their base at Hereford and was missing for a period of forty-eight hours. There were no planned operations in the area during this period, and there was no record of the helicopter ever having left the base. Yet from the day before Diana’s death to the early hours of the morning after, that helicopter disappeared from that base.
The Keepers of the Persian Gate Page 10