by John Macrae
I shook my head. "No. The Army sent me on a course."
“Oh… the Army.” She read some of the other titles. "'The Role of Military Force', 'Counter Revolutionary Operations', 'Encyclopedia of Firearms', 'Jane's Weapon Systems'. You're not still in the Army are you?"
I laughed aloud. "Good God, No! I left ages ago. No, I told you, I resigned. I work for an insurance syndicate now. On their specialised support and administrative side."
"Oh." She looked blankly. "Well, your books are specialised too. But you've got some beautiful CDs." She pulled out a cover. "This is lovely music." The square, rather mannish hands stroked the top of my old Dual stereo rig.
"It's William Boyce. The Eight Symphonies. Here." I handed her the CD box.
She wrinkled her nose. "Eight symphonies? On one record?"
I laughed. "They're very short. It's not like Beethoven. It's baroque. It's my favourite music. I've got a lot of baroque; especially brass. I used to play the French horn once. A long time ago. At school."
She looked startled. "I can't visualize that, somehow."
"Why not?"
"Well, you seem so ... well, aggressive, tough. Hard. To know so much about this kind of music." She came over and stood in front of me. "I just can't see you being interested in insurance, let alone something so ... soft and gentle as a French horn."
The dressing gown had fallen open. Without the bra her breasts sagged, full against her chest, their aureoles wide and pink. As the intoxicating smell of woman mingled with the last vestiges of her scent, I reached out and stroked her, at that most delicate of places, where a woman's armpits swell into her breasts. She looked down at me. "But I can see what you are interested in."
I followed her gaze, and collapsed laughing backwards on the sofa, pulling her down with me. Tossing her hair, Joy straddled my thighs and gently slid on top of me. "This is known as giving Joy," she smiled, eyes wide with pleasure.
"I'll bet you've said that before," I accused, as she began to slide rhythmically astride me, placing my palms on her breasts. I stroked them gently, feeling the nipples harden and her movements quicken.
"Oh yes, my love," she groaned. "But this time I really do mean it."
Then she looked at me sharply. "And you be gentle, mind....No more nonsense."
We kept the nonsense to the bare minimum.
CHAPTER 24
An Invitation, London
That little bit of nonsense meant I was late getting up – well, you know what I mean..
Anyway, it was the first morning for ages that I didn't go for my run, and arrived late at the office. Joy had rushed for the underground, calling me names but insisting that I telephone her later. And I meant to, too. Is that 'commitment', I wondered? I'd obviously been reading too much Bridget Jones. Cosmopolitan would be proud of me. What would the mad psychiatrist Hepworth make of it all?
When I got in, Mallalieu immediately sent for me. Clutching the latest crop of printouts, photocopies and a worrying report from our 'Security Services' division that pointed out that the hidden cost of supporting our more delicate operations beginning to make their open insurance and commercial venture premiums uncompetitive, I went in. Mallalieu was looking cross and banged the 'phone down as he waved me to a hard chair.
"Bloody fool "'
"Who, me?"
"No. Those idiots in the FCO." Mallalieu's dislike of the FCO was deep and unaffected. He gestured at the phone. "Would I be good enough to provide a run down on our corporate operations worldwide," he mimicked in a surprisingly good imitation of the worst sort of FCO type using his master's voice. "'The new Secretary of State is most anxious to know some details of your operations, Mr Mallalieu.' Coffee?" He continued normally.
"Thanks - what did you say to him?"
"That we'd be delighted to help, welcomed any opportunity for new business and I'd send him a glossy brochure with our complete tariff. Oh yes, could SIS Ltd look forward to a lucrative government contract - if so, I might be able to arrange a special visit by our corporate hospitality massage girls'"
I took the proffered cup. It wasn't often that Mallalieu's sense of humour was engaged. I liked to encourage it. "How did he take that?"
Puzzled. 'Oh, there's no possibility of a contract, Mr Mallalieu. The Minister was looking more for a detailed report on your group's operations.' I told him I'd love to help him, but he would have to bear in mind that we were firstly bound by commercial confidentiality, secondly, preparation of such an in-depth study could be extremely costly." He drank his coffee with gusto, clearing a space on the desk for a thin green file with a black sticker on the front. "That shook the pompous little sod. 'Oh," he mimicked again, "I'm not sure that's appropriate in this case. The Minister particularly needs a brief on your activities. we've made no budgetary appropriations to cover this request. This is an official request from the Minister..."
"Appropriate - funding? A government Minister thinks he can just demand information? From a private company?" I spluttered.
"Yes, cheeky bugger. So I asked him why a Minister of the Crown thought he could demand a report, free, from a public limited company. What's the point of filing annual accounts and reports at Companies House? And did sonny-Jim think he could get it without even paying for it, as of right? So I let him have the choke barrel."
"How did it end?"
"I told him that I would send him an invoice for the time he’d wasted, raise a complaint with the Department of Trade and Industry, the CBI and then tell the newspapers about government interference in the City's business operations, and ask my MP - who incidentally is one of their lot, now - to raise a question in the House." He paused for breath, and beamed at me. "I don't think we'll get any more direct FCO requests over an open telephone. After all," he added virtuously, "What would a firm like this have to do with the FCO? We have our shareholders to think of!"
I couldn't help smiling. Tom Mallalieu didn't like the FCO at the best of times. We only dealt with them for a few second-rate, low budget contracts. Their budget’s always tight. After all, they’ve got all those luxury embassies to run.
"Now," Mallalieu turned to business. "I've got a job for you. But first of all, there's a fine old hue and cry going on over this ... " he pulled a computer message from his 'in' tray and scanned it. "Do you remember the shooting of those muggers in Brixton earlier this week?"
My stomach tightened. "Of course. It was in all the newspapers."
"Well, the Met's going daft. Harry Plummer's coming over to see me later. They're looking everywhere for this bloke."
"Which bloke?"
"The one who shot the muggers - they reckon it's the same man who killed Varley."
"What - the SAS bagman?"
"That's the one. You’ve seen the newspapers. Now they reckon it's the same Scots bloke who's going round topping hooligans. Black ones."
"Blacks? I didn't know you were prejudiced against blacks. I thought they were black and white?"
"I'm not anti-black," Mallalieu looked angry. "I'm just anti-hooligan. Black, white – pink or green. I just don’t like animals who attack old women and babies. At least the bloody skinheads and football hooligans only kick lumps out of each other. This lot ... " he looked disgusted. "Well, from what I can gather, they got what they deserved. Anyway, that's not why I sent for you." He opened the green file and looked down. The ticking of his clock seemed loud while he read; then he closed the cover and looked appraisingly at me.
"Well, how're you getting on?"
"All right - but you're the one who should be able to tell me, Colonel."
"No, no, I don't mean that. You're doing a perfectly reasonable job. No, I meant, how fit are you?"
"Fit?"
"Yes." Mallalieu looked exasperated. "Yes. Are you still keeping in shape? Are you still keen on Bull Pen work?"
Immediately I was on my guard. "I reckon so. Why? Have you got another of those day trips to Paris to make me feel more wanted?" I realised that it was impossi
ble to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but Mallalieu's Bull Pen remark wasn't funny. Things hadn't been right in the Bull Pen for the last six months and everyone knew it. There had been a change from the days of just a year ago.
The Bull Pen existed to do the hard-man jobs of SIS Ltd. Traditionally the four members were all ex-SAS or SBS and the spirit of the group had always reflected that ex-Special Forces background. The arrival of a smooth discard from the Foreign Office last year called Bellingham had started the rot. He’d been followed three months ago by an ex-Fleet Street reporter called Jonno Briggs, a huge blond-haired east Londoner who had been a sometime war correspondent, sometime Fleet Street photographer and sometime stunt-man. The more susceptible and giggly typists even alleged that he had once been a male model and had appeared in some magazine advertisements as ‘Mr Love Machine’, of all things. Looking at Briggs, I could believe it. The man was deeply in love-- with Jonno Briggs.
While the Bull Pen had never been exactly a hot bed of established virtues and values, it seemed now to have changed into a loud, hard-drinking, anti-establishment gang. That's what I thought, anyway. It had stopped being a close-knit team and become a group of big-ego individuals. I'd voiced my misgivings to Mallalieu on a couple of occasions, but he'd only partly agreed. "You've got to remember, times are changing. The accountants and the PR people think we should change our image. Ex-servicemen may not always be the best for our needs.."
I'd disagreed. "Who else is going to select and train that sort of quality for us?"
Mallalieu pulled a face. "Well, it depends what you want them to do. Anyway, we've had no complaints, so James and Jonno stay, although I do agree that Jonno can be a bit of a rough diamond. But they're on the team and that's final."
So, despite my misgivings, I'd had to suffer the pompous James and raucous Jonno in relative silence. I wasn't responsible for the Bull Pen, anyway; they worked directly to Mallalieu most of the time.
Recalling the conversation I wondered what Mallalieu had in mind. I hadn't worked on any of his private Bull Pen stunts for over eight months and I'd long since given up asking to go back. He looked ill at ease, fiddling with a ruler and re-arranging his files.
"No, this isn't another Paris trip, or sitting in a flat, either. The fact, we've got a job that needs a very special type of person to do it ... " his voice trailed off.
"So what's wrong with the Pen? That's why we pay them so much, isn't it?"
Mallalieu looked, if anything, even more ill at ease. "Look," he said, "I can't talk about this here. What are you doing tonight?"
An image of Joy popped into my mind. "Nothing."
"Good." Then he said an unusual thing. "Come round and have supper with me tonight, will you? About half past seven?"
Now, if there's one rule we don't break, it's the stay clear after work rule. There's no jolly company socialising or entertaining attached to SIS Ltd. The word has always been 'minimum socializing after work. Don't draw attention to yourself, or the firm.' It was one the hangovers from the secret, early days of the company. It was one of the things that I disliked about Jonno with his loud-mouthed boozing around his old Fleet Street cronies. He threatened our security.
I must have looked askance. Mallalieu looked up at me keenly. "I mean it. I need to talk to you."
I shrugged. "OK, Colonel. I know the address - I'll get a cab to Hampstead. What's the rig?"
"Oh, anything. A tie? It's just you."
I was even more mystified. "OK. I'll see you then. Is that it?"
"Yes." Mallalieu looked relieved. "Oh, and one other thing. Don't mention this to any of the others. Not just at the moment, anyway." I raised my eyebrows. "They don't need to know, that's why."
I got up to go. He stopped me at the door. "This is strictly a matter between you and me. You understand?"
Puzzled I went back to my desk. Still, one thing stood out - what with Joy yesterday and now Mallalieu's invitation for tonight, my social life was improving my leaps and bounds. I checked my stars in the paper; they were right for once.
CHAPTER 25
Dinner in Hampstead
Mallalieu’s social life was certainly up market.
He lived in an ordinary house in a Hampstead terrace if you can call three stories of Georgian elegance ordinary. Adjusting my blue silk tie and hoping that the pale grey flannel suit struck the right note, I pressed the bell.
Christina Mallalieu greeted me. She was a large, expansive woman, a souvenir of his days in Germany. Despite her bulk, she had the elegance and poise of an ambassador's wife; which, as she was one of the many daughters of some obscure Westphalian baron, was hardly surprising. The place looked like one of those pictures you see in 'Homes & Gardens', all yellow lamp light, gleaming silver and softly polished wood of indeterminate age. 'Die Meistersinger' muzaked quietly in the background.
We had a straightforward meal of paprika meatballs and small dumplings served with noodles and green salad. It was all a bit Teutonic. But the wine came unmistakably from the better slopes of Bordeaux and the Mallalieus were relaxed and witty. Christina retained that well-preserved femininity that makes men look at some women speculatively, although she must have been well on the wrong side of fifty.
She also had a good sense of humour, which complemented Mallalieu's dry air of purpose well. She shared a couple of gags about the new government in Berlin with me but then looked stern; "No more speaking German! Even with you. The Herr Oberst doesn't remember it well enough, now we've stopped courting.... Anyway, you will ruin my English accent. And that took years to get it just wrong enough to charm elderly Englishmen at parties. No more humour. It is forbidden! Don't you realise," she lowered her voice sepulchrally, and rolled her eyes, "I'm Cherman!"
I spluttered with laughter, and Mallalieu looked pained. I liked Christina. She was fun and I could see how Mallalieu might have been attracted to and manipulated by this strong minded and funny woman. I was.
After some kind of creamy mousse, made from plums of all things, she brought coffee and ushered us into a narrow room lined with books and trophies that Mallalieu presumably used as a study.
"And now I'm going to leave you two men to talk. I know that you probably want to bore each other with some disgraceful business, so the less I know about it, the better. It will be just like another of your dreadful reunions, I know. Anyway, there's a serial on television I want to watch. See you later." And with a smile for me and a kiss on her husband’s head, she left us alone.
Mallalieu stretched and passed me a cup of coffee.
"A remarkable woman," I said. "Great character. And a great meal."
Mallalieu smiled a slightly pained smile. "Yes; Christina's not short of character, that's for sure." A distant look came to his eye and I had a sudden intuition that the attractive Mrs Mallalieu might have sometimes been a bit of a handful. He collected himself.
"Anyway, down to business. Are you allowed to drink spirits?"
"I have been known to take the odd drop, Colonel."
"No, I meant since your kidney problems after Iran, Kurdistan, are you allowed them?"
"Yes, in moderation."
He grunted and pulled open the bottom of a breakfront bookcase to take out a black flask-like bottle. I recognised its type instantly from my days with the Ecole des Parachutistes near Toulouse. "Ahah - Armagnac!"
Mallalieu grunted appreciatively. "Hmph. Trust you to know. One of the better kept secrets of France. I prefer it to cognac. Dam' sight cheaper, too."
We sat facing one another, swilling Marquis de Montesquiou around our small glasses. The burnt raw smell took me back to days of sitting on a dusty parched airfield, beneath a hot sun in a sky of washed-out travail bleu, and the lean, hard French paratroopers, superbly trained and proudly confident. I could never understand how such men lost Viet Nam and Algeria, but I could understand why they'd fought on at Dien Bien Phu. Pride.
Mallalieu sat in the swivel chair and stretched his long legs. He looked relaxed an
d contented. He didn't say any thing, so I decided to take the bull by the horns. "Well, Colonel, what was it that you wanted?"
"That's a bit direct," said Mallalieu. "Even for you."
"Sorry. But you've obviously got something on your mind, otherwise you wouldn’t have invited me round for a little chat. After all, the company rules are minimum social contact outside hours."
"True." He took a mouthful of the Armagnac and changed the subject. "How are you feeling these days?"
"You asked me that this morning. I'm fit. Charlie turns me over in his sweat box twice a week. I run two miles a day; but I think you were right not to send me on to the Bull Pen. I'm not really fit enough. But I could be, given time. But why ask me? Charlie Younger's got all the Physical Assessments."
"Hmm. I meant more, well, in yourself, if you see what I mean."
I didn't. "I'm fine. I'm not deolali[4] if that's what you're getting at."
Another long pause stretched out. The drink was getting warmer in my hands. Obviously ill at ease, Mallalieu got up and paced the tiny room, peering closely at his own book titles as if seeking a particular book, or inspiration. He had what looked like a complete set of Kipling, I noticed: and lots of Folio Society volumes. Even, right at the top, an Almanac of Gotha. I wondered how he got the books down from the top shelves, just below the ceiling. They must have been ten feet up and I couldn't see a library stool anywhere. Outside a telephone rang down the hall, very faint and muffled by the door. It stopped abruptly, but I couldn't hear Mrs Mallalieu's voice answering. I wondered if they had any help, a maid or a cook. No, that meal was definitely German - she'd cooked it.
Again to break the silence, I said, "Colonel, you asked me to come and see you tonight because you said you had a job that you couldn't give to someone in the Pen ..."
"Yes." Mallalieu stopped pacing and seemed to come to a decision, settling himself in the chair and staring keenly at me over his glass. The dark amber fluid swirled around. "Tell me, do you believe in democracy?"