Chaumert had chartered a small private jet for their journey across the Channel. A comfortable and classic design gave the plane’s interior a feeling of understated glamour. The cabin itself felt terribly spacious, although it was in reality relatively compact. Brown plush leather seats, thick wool carpeting and elegant walnut tables and panelling completed the experience. Amanda was reminded of the glory days of early passenger aviation when flying was an occasional, expensive experience for which passengers would embark smartly attired.
Water, wine, champagne and a three-course meal were an offer. Amanda abstained for once, preferring to limit her calorie intake following the inevitable excesses of Paris. She sat with a class of Evian and a popular glossy interiors magazine, kicking off her Manolo Blahniks, which were possibly the most inappropriate of all footwear she could have chosen, though by far the most beautiful. Their curved bases, impossibly pointed stiletto heels and long leather straps, which when tied around the foot eventually comprised something resembling a shoe, made them look forlorn, lost and dysfunctional without a foot to embrace. Considering their unapologetically extortionate price they certainly did not comprise much material – however, their flattering elegance and the flirtatious femininity they imbued her with, were undeniably worth every penny.
Jeremy sat opposite her with his minute net-book, punching the keys rapidly and pausing every now and then for a gulp of champagne. Amanda counted three glasses that he had consumed within the last forty minutes. Whilst he was on French soil, he was required to write copious reports on each aspect of their mission. Since there was a catalogue of important events that had befallen them during the case he was kept thoroughly occupied during the journey. Legarde was one of the ‘old school’ members of the organisation and favoured exhaustive written reports to the video entries that were accepted as standard in London.
Near the front of the plane Monsieur Chaumert slept deeply. He had obviously been through an immensely stressful period recently, adding to the ongoing worry he had been burdened with over the past few months. In fact it was wonder that he ever had a chance to really relax having such a high-pressure position.
Unfortunately, Maurice had been unable to accompany them. A pesky bout of Norovirus had thwarted his journey to London, which left him all the more dejected as he could hardly wait to confront their adversary. He had been thoroughly outraged at Chaumert’s description of the threats to his family and had been eagerly awaiting the chance to prove his valour. His doctor, however, had informed him that the virus was highly contagious and he shouldn’t be going anywhere. The symptoms, which included projectile vomiting and stabbing gastrointestinal pain, made his joining them on the mission impossible.
The plane cruised leisurely over the great expanses of northern France before describing a gentle north-westerly arc over the Channel to London and finally landing gently at London City Airport.
A black Mercedes with blacked-out windows picked them up from the runway as soon as the ground team had completed their on-board immigration and customs clearance. The vehicle was driven by a burly-looking chauffer of few words who looked more like a club bouncer than a professional driver. Soon they were racing towards central London at astonishing speed, the sun glinting off the city’s buildings as they flashed past.
The headquarters of Mr Charles’ operation turned out to be a six-story Mayfair townhouse. The unassuming but expensively situated house on Clarges Street had a white-stuccoed frontage with tall sash windows. When people walked past the house they were unable to see inside as their view was obscured by tightly drawn curtains fashioned from thick red velvet. Access to the house was gained via an adjoining mews house rather than by the main front door, which remained locked, bolted and firmly shut at all times. Neighbouring residents were unaware of anything untoward occurring within the house, believing the rarely seen resident to be a quiet, private bachelor, which was essentially the norm in Mayfair.
Before attempting to access the house, they had been told to meet with the chairman at SVHQ as a matter of urgency. Amanda informed Jeremy and Monsieur Chaumert that she would like to return to her apartment first to drop off her belongings and to freshen up for the meeting scheduled for one o’clock.
The Mercedes pulled up outside 10 Great Peter Street at around eleven-thirty. Amanda found herself uncommonly glad to be home again, in spite of the many adventures she had experienced whilst away. She entered the building and was immediately spotted by Vlad, the porter. He called her over.
‘Miss de Frey. Welcome back, have you been away?’
‘Yes, a short business trip. Quite uneventful.’
‘I noticed that you haven’t been in. There’s quite a lot of mail waiting for you.’
‘Unfortunately, I’m in a real hurry, Vlad. I’ll have to come and pick it up later.’
‘No problem, Miss De Frey.’
He winked at her as he said this - a charming, flirtatious wink that pushed playfully at the accepted barrier between a male porter and a female resident. She could not help but smile back.
‘Well, I must be going.’
‘Of course.’
She hurried to the elevator and headed up to the penthouse. This was no time to be flirting with the doorman. She certainly couldn’t say that she didn’t find him attractive or that it wouldn’t be convenient to have some muscular companionship at her beck and call, but she had no time to think about that at present.
The lift doors opened and she stepped out, or more accurately fell out, as Isabelle had decided to position herself directly in front the of the lift doors upon hearing the sound of the elevator approaching and thinking it must be time for her food. Amanda had hired a professional cat sitter to feed her while she was away. She visited daily, escorted by the porter on duty. The cat sitter had obviously been feeding her well, as Isabelle looked slightly more rotund than she had done when Amanda left.
Amanda assumed she must be desperately hungry right then, however, as she was meowing as loudly as her lungs would allow and seemed more than a little agitated, pulling at her trouser leg. Assuming Isabelle was directing her towards the small wooden cupboard in the hallway where the food was kept, she emptied a sachet of Gourmet Perle into a clean cat bowl and presented it to her with a flourish, just as the waiters did in the upmarket restaurants of Paris. Isabelle gobbled it up ravenously, as if starving. The whole lot disappeared in a matter of seconds in the manner of an illusionist’s trick; one minute it was there and the next it was gone. However, even after Isabelle had eaten her food she still seemed very unsettled, fussing around Amanda’s feet as she walked around the apartment.
She must be craving attention, Amanda thought. Perhaps she was missing the attention lavished upon her by the cat sitter. Regretfully, however, she was still pushed for time and couldn’t spare a moment to indulge her pet. It was time to freshen up and change her clothing ready for the imminent meeting. As always after flying she felt fatigued, her skin dried almost to the texture of parchment paper. What she was in need of was a long, hot shower.
Isabelle continued to pester her as she made her way to the bathroom, discarding her clothing as she went. She first removed her shoes, tossing them into a corner in the lounge. Next she removed her jacket, folding it over the back of a dining chair. She then shuffled out of her skirt, letting it fall down her legs and leaving it in a crumpled leap on the floor. Her blouse followed, dropping to the floor just outside the bathroom. Gazing into the mirror, she removed her earrings, then the clip in her hair, so that long strands came tumbling past her shoulders. Finally she peeled off her underwear, scattering it on the bathroom floor, and stepped into the shower cubicle.
Hot water jetted from the showerhead, beating a rhythmic patter on her skin, a gentle sound like fingers dancing lightly on a taut bearskin drum. Steam rose from where the drops made contact with the base of the cubicle, forming a moist vapour that was absorbed thirstily by her parched skin. She started to hum to herself as she scrubbed her body
with a rough coral sponge, making her feel like a snake discarding its old skin. Outside the bathroom, which now resembled a Hamam on account of the warmth and reduced visibility, Isabelle was pawing at the door and calling to her. What on earth did she want?
Amanda inhaled the moist air, heavy with water vapour, and it seemed to cleanse her within. She continued humming. Why were the acoustics of her bathroom so much better than anywhere else? Even her own less than perfect singing voice seemed harmonious and melodic.
She stepped out of the shower, her hair heavy, and proceeded to dry herself with a soft pink cotton towel. Every time she towel dried herself there was always a temptation to roll up within the fabric and fall asleep, allowing her damp skin to dry naturally. But that wouldn’t do today. Once again she pushed herself on, towelling her body down vigorously.
When she opened the door Isabelle was once again at her feet, pestering her and sinking her claws into the bathrobe that Amanda had draped around her body.
‘What do you want, my darling?’
‘Meow.’
‘Treats? Is that what you want? Or petting?’
Amanda fondled the cat’s ear lovingly. Isabelle responded by closing her eyes and purring. Amanda tipped a few cat treats onto the floor and Isabelle began to hoover them up, crunching greedily.
However, as soon as Amanda headed for the bedroom Isabelle started bothering her again, clawing at her dressing gown once more.
‘I’m sorry, Isabelle, but I really must get ready. I’ll play with you later,’ she said firmly.
Once in the bedroom she spared a quick look for the gleaming cityscape she knew so well: how lucky she was to live here.
‘Bong!’
She heard Big Ben chime twelve times. She needed to get a move on.
She opened the wardrobe to choose her outfit and that was when she saw him. There was a large man standing in her wardrobe, looking back at her – a man she recognised immediately: Patrick.
Amanda recoiled in shock. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You couldn’t help yourself, could you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Poking around in other people’s business.’
‘Are you saying…?’
‘Yes. Mr Charles is my boss.’
‘But I thought–’
‘I was paid to keep an eye on you while you were in London. Obviously I may have taken that further than required. My eyes have seen an awful lot.’
Amanda licked her lips, almost afraid to ask the next question. ‘So… what now?’
‘I’m afraid I have to kill you.’ The pleasantries done with, he pulled a long piece of cord from his jacket. ‘Suicide.’
In place of the cute smile she had fallen for there was now a look of pure evil. Patrick’s eyes, which had seemed so open and inviting before, were threatening slits, the pupils reduced to tiny full stops.
Amanda backed away as Patrick approached her slowly, holding the cord in one hand and a gun in the other. The gun was pointing at her head so that she would not attempt to escape. Still with the gun levelled in her direction he attached one end of the cord to the light fitting above his head and tied it into a loop. The cord was so long that the remainder of it trailed on the floor where he stood.
By placing one of the dining chairs underneath the hanging cord he created a grim suicide scene, only lacking Amanda’s suspended, lifeless body. He gesticulated with the gun towards the chair, indicating that she was to stand on it. Amanda thought about making a break for the door, but worried that this would provoke him into shooting her at blank rage. To attempt an attack was also far too dangerous. She made a decision to follow his instructions until an opportunity arose to turn things around. She just hoped it would arrive before it was too late!
Amanda mounted the chair slowly, her legs like jelly at the thought of being strangled to death. She imagined her family, bewildered but accepting, as they were informed of her uncharacteristic suicide. Patrick took hold of the loop of cord and fastened it around her neck. Then, grinning, he tightened it as much as he could, making her splutter and start to choke.
Amanda’s neck was searing with pain as the cord cut into it. She looked frantically for a way out of the situation but she just couldn’t see one. Was this to be it then? Her life cut short, hanged in her own apartment? Patrick had a sickening look of glee on his face. He was enjoying this, taking some twisted pleasure out of her suffering. How could this be the same man she had met that night so many weeks ago?
She groped at the cord round her neck, trying to loosen it. Her head was spinning and she knew that in just a few seconds she would pass out. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed something black and fuzzy darting between Patrick’s feet. She wondered if it was because she was blacking out – but no, it was Isabelle! She was hissing angrily at Patrick and it was clear that somehow she knew he was bringing harm to her owner. Patrick swore with exasperation and tried to shoo her away. But she would not leave. Patrick snarled and pointed the gun in the cat’s direction. The noise of the shot was unbearably loud in the confined space and Isabelle bolted for cover. Was this her opportunity?
Amanda raised one of her legs as high as she could and aimed a kick at Patrick’s stomach. It was a mistake. She almost lost her balance and the cord only tightened even more, cutting deeper into her neck.
Patrick grinned nastily. The moment had now come; he was ready to finish it. He stepped forward to kick the chair from under her feet, but instead lost his footing on the beautifully polished marble and crashed to the floor. Although Patrick was lying on his side, unable to use his lower limbs, he was not done yet. Rolling over, he dropped the gun and pushed at the legs of the chair with all his might. Amanda was suddenly left hanging in mid-air. Even though the chair had not moved that far, it was enough to take the platform from beneath her feet. Dangling from the ceiling in her gown she felt the noose tighten still further as she struggled, gasping for breath, legs flailing around in the air.
Her body was becoming oxygen-depleted, and her vision began to haze over. Her mind remained crystal clear, however – she had to survive! With renewed determination she began swinging herself to and fro, kicking her legs to gain momentum. With a concerted final effort she was able to step back onto the chair, first with one foot, then the other.
Keeping her precarious balance on the chair, she reached up and hastily unscrewed the pear shaped bulb from the light fitting. Then she broke it in half and used the glass to sever the cord, freeing herself. Patrick couldn’t believe his eyes as he lay virtually immobile, powerless to do anything but watch Amanda escape. Once she had dismounted from the chair, she picked up the gun up from the floor.
‘Put your hands in front of your chest.’
She then proceeded to use the remainder of the cord to tie Patrick’s hands together. Throwing some clothes on, she grabbed grabbing Isabelle in her arms and ran down all twenty floors to the ground floor.
‘Vlad, there’s been an incident in my apartment!’ she gasped out to the handsome porter. ‘Someone broke into the flat and tried to attack me; I’m going to call the police.’
‘I’ll call them for you.’
‘Thank you. Could you also send someone up to the apartment? Tell them they will find a man tied up on the floor. Do not allow him to escape before the police arrive.’
‘Right away!’
Vlad looked wide-eyed and startled but Amanda knew she could rely on him. Shaking his head in disbelief that such an event had occurred at ‘Number 10’, Vlad radioed Ken, the maintenance manager, and reported what Amanda had told him.
While he did that, Amanda made an excuse and stepped into the bathroom besides reception so that she could contact SVHQ and tell them what had happened. Once they were satisfied that the police would handle Patrick, they insisted upon sending a secure car to pick her up immediately.
Chapter 20
Some time later, Amada and Jeremy let themselves into a modest grey mews house that
stood alongside one of Mayfair’s most exclusive townhouses. The mews house had a quaint interior and to all intents and purposes it felt like a cosy residence, save for the lack of inhabitants. The kitchen was painted white with exposed brickwork and with its white chairs and other furniture had something of the character of a French cottage in Provence. The living room was similarly decked out in rustic, muted style.
At the far end of the living room was an elegant door, painted a pale grey with an ornate handle and lock that appeared to be fashioned from real silver. Amanda produced the bunch of keys she had been given at SVHQ during their meeting with the chairman and selected one with a tag reading ‘Connecting Door: Mews House’. She twisted the key in the lock and opened the door gingerly, only to discover a second door just beyond it. Upon re-examining the set of keys, she discovered that there was another key with the wording ‘Connecting Door: Main House’ among the bunch.
Having unlocked this second door Amanda was surprised to find herself stepping into a large, empty scullery. The scullery was at least as large as the living room within the mews house, with high ceilings that lent this relatively humble ground-floor space an air of grandeur.
Amanda felt they should make their way down to the basement without delay, but Jeremy had other ideas.
‘Let’s have a quick look upstairs,’ he whispered.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’d rather get out of here as quickly as possible.’
‘Come on! Where’s your sense of adventure? We’ll just take a quick peek and then get back to business. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of one of these places.’
‘Well, go to an estate agent and arrange a viewing then!’
Jeremy, however, was already going up the narrow stairway that led to the floor above. Amanda had no choice but to follow him. At the top of the stairs she found him gawping in awe at a large living room, which was stuffed with antiques and old masters. It also became obvious that Mr Charles had a penchant for stuffed animals, as there was an impressive display of taxidermy on show. A toucan with a vibrantly coloured beak stared lifelessly at them from its perch upon a grand chest of drawers, its head tilted sideways. The head of a magnificent stag jutted from the wall ahead of them. The way it was positioned made it look as if the rest of its body might be just behind it, as if the stag had just butted a hole in the wall so that it could have a glance around the room before bolting off again. Of all the objects on display the most impressive was a large cheetah mounted on a wooden stand. The once-agile creature was sitting in a crouched position with its paws angled forwards and its hind legs bent as if it might spring into action at any moment.
Amanda: Tales of an international female spy Page 13