| General Fiction posted March 19, 2019 | Chapters: |
...44 45 -46- 47... 
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Chapter 46: I spy with my little eye.
A chapter in the book The French Letter
Babylon-on-Thames
by tfawcus
| Background Charles has been coerced by Wing Commander Bamforth to work for MI6, UK's Secret Intelligence Service. He has an appointment at their headquarters to find out further details of the assignment. |
The closing paragraphs of Chapter 45...
"I'll give you a little time to think it over. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other business to take care of. If you decide, on reflection, that you would like to help us, we could discuss the details over dinner." He looked at his watch. "Shall we say in three-quarters of an hour? I expect you'll appreciate a little time to freshen up after your journey."
With that, he got up and left. An aura of threat seemed to linger in the empty space that remained.
As I finished my drink, my eye was drawn to a hapless fly in Bamforth's almost untouched pink gin, now struggling for its life. In a moment of empathy, I dipped my finger into the glass and rescued it.
The following morning, I crossed the road into Green Park. My appointment at Babylon-on-Thames was at 10.30. Since it was another glorious autumn day, I decided to walk through the park and cut across Buckingham Palace Gardens to the Victoria Tube Station. At least half my journey to Vauxhall would then be in the shade of some of the loveliest linden trees in London before I plunged into the entrails of the Underground.
I wasn't sure how the Secret Intelligence Service building gained its nickname, but I assumed it had something to do with the babble of foreign languages, as intelligence was being gathered from around the globe. The staff would probably have been equally at home in the Tower of Babel, speaking in tongues. Forked tongues, for the most part.
I felt in my jacket pocket for the Visitors' Pass that the Wing Commander had given me the evening before. I hadn't bothered to ask how he obtained the photograph for it, and I wasn't sure I really wanted to know. He told me very little, except that he was shortly to be promoted to the acting rank of Group Captain to take up the position of British Air Attaché in Paris, and that I, apparently, was to be his personal assistant.
This, he assured me, was a sinecure. There was someone else on the embassy staff who would be filling the role for all practical purposes. It was purely to give me status as a member of the British Embassy and diplomatic immunity, in case I might need it.
In case I might need it? I was beginning to feel like a fish being drawn into the narrowing funnel of a trawl net, unable to swim fast enough against the tide to escape. There was nothing I could do to prevent being landed, and I had a feeling that I would be doomed unless a friendly deckhand happened to toss me back into the ocean.
Bamforth refused to give me further details until I had signed the Official Secrets Act. This was the main reason I was having a James Bond moment, and on my way to MI6. At least I would now know how to deal with Helen, should she be unwise enough to try sticking an electric toothbrush in the small of my back again. If I was lucky, Q might even supply me with a wrist-mounted dart gun to use against my nemesis, Madame Durand.
Just for the pleasure of annoying Bamforth, I deliberately arrived ten minutes late. As it happened, I was met by an affable young man who was unperturbed by my pointless act of rebellion.
"How good of you to come, Mr. Brandon," he gushed, shaking me warmly by the hand. "I'm Carruthers of MI6."
"Carruthers?"
"No, actually I'm John Smith. Just my little joke. Carruthers sounds so much more hush-hush MI6, don't you think?"
I was delighted to meet someone who appeared not only to be human, but also to have a sense of humour.
"Come this way, and we'll get the formalities dispensed with. Can I get you a coffee?"
"Thanks very much. Sounds good."
"Actually, it isn't. I think they load the office coffee machine with crushed acorns. It's warm and wet though. The way I like my women."
I thought his attempt at humour unnecessarily coarse but decided to let it pass. However, I was left wondering if misogyny was a hallmark of the organisation.
The coffee was better than expected, and Carruthers-cum-Smith was quick and efficient.
"I imagine you are wondering what this is all about."
"Yes. The Wing Commander left me pretty much in the dark."
"That would be par for the course. I'll do my best to give you the bones of it now. If you have any questions, don't hesitate. I can't guarantee that I'll have all the answers, but I'll do the best I can."
The next half hour gave me a good deal to think about. This had nothing to do with either drugs or stolen artwork. At least, they were not the reason for MI6's involvement. His synopsis took me right back to Helen and Kayla's homeland.
"I suppose you know that their parents were mown down by Islamic extremists?"
"Yes. Helen told me." My mind flashed back to our night in Versailles. "She has recurrent nightmares about it."
"I'm not surprised. However, what she wouldn't have known about is that her father was working for us. His work as an engineering consultant with the Aga Khan Rural Support Programme provided ideal cover, giving him complete freedom of movement throughout the Hindu Kush."
This, of course, was a revelation to me, though I did vaguely recollect Helen mentioning her father's work with the Aga Khan programme.
"We don't know what made them suspicious, but we're sure that one of the main reasons for the Jihadist attack on the Catholic Church in Chitral was to kill him. It seems that he was getting close to making a breakthrough. The information would have exposed several terrorist cells worldwide and it still could."
I was feeling distinctly uneasy, for this was a far cry from delivering a couple of paintings to a dealer in Paris. I couldn't see any possible connection.
"What has all this got to do with me?"
"I'm coming to that. We believe that he realised they were closing in and that he had planned a way of getting his intelligence out of the country in the event of his death. Our best guess is, although they don't know it, that his daughters hold the key."
"You mean they have been unwitting couriers?"
"That's a possibility, but we haven't been able to eliminate another. Until we do, we must tread extremely carefully."
"And what is this other possibility?"
"That one or both are involved with the Jihadists."
"You must be joking. That's impossible."
"We don't joke about such matters, Mr. Brandon. How do you think they survived the massacre?"
"Kayla saw what was about to happen, and she pulled her sister down below the pew in the nick of time. That's what Helen said anyway."
"Really? I doubt a wooden pew would have been much protection against a hail of AK-47 bullets. Think about it."
"You're being absurd. I know both of them. They would be quite incapable of such a thing."
"It is precisely because you know them that we need your help. Particularly because of your relationship with Helen. It's important that you renew that."
"You're not seriously asking me to spy on Helen?"
"No. We're asking you to help establish her innocence. You'd like to do that, wouldn't you?"
I hesitated. "Well, yes, of course. But there are difficulties."
"You mean Madame Durand?"
"Exactly."
"I very much doubt you will need to worry about Jeanne Durand any more, Mr. Brandon."
There was something about the way he said this that sent a shiver up my spine. What wasn't he telling me? I paused, waiting for him to elaborate, but it was clear that he didn't intend to say any more, so I brought the subject back to the reason Bamforth had enlisted me.
"What about the paintings?"
"Ah yes, the paintings. We'll give those to you before you leave the building. You'll have to sign for them, of course. They are quite valuable. We have also booked you onto the 4.30 Eurostar. You're lucky. It's a Business Premier seat now you are officially P. A. to the Air Attaché. You'll be on your own when you reach Paris but, if you run into difficulties, you can contact the Embassy direct line."
He passed me a slip of paper. "Destroy this as soon as you have memorised the number."
My head was spinning. Things were moving faster than I had expected. I glanced at my watch.
"I won't keep you any longer. I imagine that you have a few arrangements to make before you leave."
He extended his hand. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Brandon. If you wait here a moment, I'll get someone to take you down to pick up your ticket and the paintings."
"I'll give you a little time to think it over. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other business to take care of. If you decide, on reflection, that you would like to help us, we could discuss the details over dinner." He looked at his watch. "Shall we say in three-quarters of an hour? I expect you'll appreciate a little time to freshen up after your journey."
With that, he got up and left. An aura of threat seemed to linger in the empty space that remained.
As I finished my drink, my eye was drawn to a hapless fly in Bamforth's almost untouched pink gin, now struggling for its life. In a moment of empathy, I dipped my finger into the glass and rescued it.
Chapter 46
I wasn't sure how the Secret Intelligence Service building gained its nickname, but I assumed it had something to do with the babble of foreign languages, as intelligence was being gathered from around the globe. The staff would probably have been equally at home in the Tower of Babel, speaking in tongues. Forked tongues, for the most part.
I felt in my jacket pocket for the Visitors' Pass that the Wing Commander had given me the evening before. I hadn't bothered to ask how he obtained the photograph for it, and I wasn't sure I really wanted to know. He told me very little, except that he was shortly to be promoted to the acting rank of Group Captain to take up the position of British Air Attaché in Paris, and that I, apparently, was to be his personal assistant.
This, he assured me, was a sinecure. There was someone else on the embassy staff who would be filling the role for all practical purposes. It was purely to give me status as a member of the British Embassy and diplomatic immunity, in case I might need it.
In case I might need it? I was beginning to feel like a fish being drawn into the narrowing funnel of a trawl net, unable to swim fast enough against the tide to escape. There was nothing I could do to prevent being landed, and I had a feeling that I would be doomed unless a friendly deckhand happened to toss me back into the ocean.
Bamforth refused to give me further details until I had signed the Official Secrets Act. This was the main reason I was having a James Bond moment, and on my way to MI6. At least I would now know how to deal with Helen, should she be unwise enough to try sticking an electric toothbrush in the small of my back again. If I was lucky, Q might even supply me with a wrist-mounted dart gun to use against my nemesis, Madame Durand.
Just for the pleasure of annoying Bamforth, I deliberately arrived ten minutes late. As it happened, I was met by an affable young man who was unperturbed by my pointless act of rebellion.
"How good of you to come, Mr. Brandon," he gushed, shaking me warmly by the hand. "I'm Carruthers of MI6."
"Carruthers?"
"No, actually I'm John Smith. Just my little joke. Carruthers sounds so much more hush-hush MI6, don't you think?"
I was delighted to meet someone who appeared not only to be human, but also to have a sense of humour.
"Come this way, and we'll get the formalities dispensed with. Can I get you a coffee?"
"Thanks very much. Sounds good."
"Actually, it isn't. I think they load the office coffee machine with crushed acorns. It's warm and wet though. The way I like my women."
I thought his attempt at humour unnecessarily coarse but decided to let it pass. However, I was left wondering if misogyny was a hallmark of the organisation.
The coffee was better than expected, and Carruthers-cum-Smith was quick and efficient.
"I imagine you are wondering what this is all about."
"Yes. The Wing Commander left me pretty much in the dark."
"That would be par for the course. I'll do my best to give you the bones of it now. If you have any questions, don't hesitate. I can't guarantee that I'll have all the answers, but I'll do the best I can."
The next half hour gave me a good deal to think about. This had nothing to do with either drugs or stolen artwork. At least, they were not the reason for MI6's involvement. His synopsis took me right back to Helen and Kayla's homeland.
"I suppose you know that their parents were mown down by Islamic extremists?"
"Yes. Helen told me." My mind flashed back to our night in Versailles. "She has recurrent nightmares about it."
"I'm not surprised. However, what she wouldn't have known about is that her father was working for us. His work as an engineering consultant with the Aga Khan Rural Support Programme provided ideal cover, giving him complete freedom of movement throughout the Hindu Kush."
This, of course, was a revelation to me, though I did vaguely recollect Helen mentioning her father's work with the Aga Khan programme.
"We don't know what made them suspicious, but we're sure that one of the main reasons for the Jihadist attack on the Catholic Church in Chitral was to kill him. It seems that he was getting close to making a breakthrough. The information would have exposed several terrorist cells worldwide and it still could."
I was feeling distinctly uneasy, for this was a far cry from delivering a couple of paintings to a dealer in Paris. I couldn't see any possible connection.
"What has all this got to do with me?"
"I'm coming to that. We believe that he realised they were closing in and that he had planned a way of getting his intelligence out of the country in the event of his death. Our best guess is, although they don't know it, that his daughters hold the key."
"You mean they have been unwitting couriers?"
"That's a possibility, but we haven't been able to eliminate another. Until we do, we must tread extremely carefully."
"And what is this other possibility?"
"That one or both are involved with the Jihadists."
"You must be joking. That's impossible."
"We don't joke about such matters, Mr. Brandon. How do you think they survived the massacre?"
"Kayla saw what was about to happen, and she pulled her sister down below the pew in the nick of time. That's what Helen said anyway."
"Really? I doubt a wooden pew would have been much protection against a hail of AK-47 bullets. Think about it."
"You're being absurd. I know both of them. They would be quite incapable of such a thing."
"It is precisely because you know them that we need your help. Particularly because of your relationship with Helen. It's important that you renew that."
"You're not seriously asking me to spy on Helen?"
"No. We're asking you to help establish her innocence. You'd like to do that, wouldn't you?"
I hesitated. "Well, yes, of course. But there are difficulties."
"You mean Madame Durand?"
"Exactly."
"I very much doubt you will need to worry about Jeanne Durand any more, Mr. Brandon."
There was something about the way he said this that sent a shiver up my spine. What wasn't he telling me? I paused, waiting for him to elaborate, but it was clear that he didn't intend to say any more, so I brought the subject back to the reason Bamforth had enlisted me.
"What about the paintings?"
"Ah yes, the paintings. We'll give those to you before you leave the building. You'll have to sign for them, of course. They are quite valuable. We have also booked you onto the 4.30 Eurostar. You're lucky. It's a Business Premier seat now you are officially P. A. to the Air Attaché. You'll be on your own when you reach Paris but, if you run into difficulties, you can contact the Embassy direct line."
He passed me a slip of paper. "Destroy this as soon as you have memorised the number."
My head was spinning. Things were moving faster than I had expected. I glanced at my watch.
"I won't keep you any longer. I imagine that you have a few arrangements to make before you leave."
He extended his hand. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Brandon. If you wait here a moment, I'll get someone to take you down to pick up your ticket and the paintings."
 Recognized |
#252 2019 |
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Wing Commander Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6
Helen Culverson - a woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with international drug trade.
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin - an intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - an unknown quantity at this stage, a dilettante. Owner of an art gallery in Paris.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Wing Commander Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6
Helen Culverson - a woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with international drug trade.
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin - an intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - an unknown quantity at this stage, a dilettante. Owner of an art gallery in Paris.
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