Background
Charles has been offered a suspicious assignment by a stranger calling himself Sir David Brockenhurst. They arrange to meet at the RAF Club to discuss it.
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Last paragraphs of Chapter 44...
I was lucky enough to catch the fast train up to town, a little under half an hour, so I had time in hand. For most of the journey, I thought of Ian; he was not quite the Bisto Kid that his nickname suggested. I envied him his love for Jenny. It was something much finer than I was capable of, and I was deeply saddened by his plight.
Inevitably, my thoughts turned to Helen. She was the only woman who had ever sparked that kind of feeling in me. Of course, I also found Kayla attractive, but not in the same way. Not in the same way at all.
Why did life always have to be so darned complicated?
Chapter 45
Arriving at Paddington with more than an hour to spare, I decided to walk to the club, cutting across to Lancaster Gate and into Hyde Park. It was a glorious evening for a stroll through the Italian Gardens, and the graceful sculptures, lily ponds and fountains worked like a balm, transporting me from the blare and grime of the Bayswater Road.
The majestic trees were tinged with autumn colour, and leaves crunched underfoot as I meandered along the banks of the Serpentine towards Hyde Park Corner. The formal beds of chrysanthemums and dahlias were still at their best, and the grassy slopes beside the lake were dotted with groups of people determined to enjoy the last of the Indian summer.
For a while, I sat watching the few remaining boats as they returned to shore, threading their way between flotillas of swans and greedy ducks clamouring for picnic scraps.
Horizontal shafts from the setting sun shone through the plane trees, turning them to gold as I crossed Park Lane to the north of Apsley House. There was now a distinct nip in the air, and I drew the collar of my coat up as I turned the corner into Piccadilly. I smiled wryly to myself as I passed the Hard Rock Café, for the anachronism of such a gauche tourist trap next door to the RAF Club never failed to amuse me.
As I mounted the steps to the main entrance on the dot of six, I was unsure of what I would find within. Knowing what I now did, I was unable to conceal my surprise when I saw Sir David in the club foyer. Bombastic as ever, he greeted me with his usual bluster. "Glad to see you're on time, old chap. Service discipline and all that, what?"
Ignoring his outstretched hand, I cut straight to the chase. "I've been doing a bit of checking up, and I have to say I didn't expect to see you here, Sir David ...or whoever you are."
Without missing a beat, he gave a tight-lipped smile. "Good to see you've been doing your homework, Brandon. I like that in a chap."
He waved his hand in the general direction of the bar. "I think we have time for a drink before dining, don't we? I gather you've reserved a table, but not until seven."
He beckoned the barman over. "Mine's a pink gin." Then, more or less as an afterthought, "What can I get you?"
"A whiskey and soda, thank you."
"Let us not beat about the bush, Flight Lieutenant." Clearly, he was at pains to emphasise the difference in rank. "I'm Wing Commander Bamforth, Intelligence Branch. Brockenhurst is one of several aliases I adopt when I'm in the field."
He paused to gauge my reaction before continuing, "We've been watching you for some time you know, and think you could be useful to us."
I took a measured sip from my whiskey and looked him in the eye. "If you think you can manipulate me on the basis of a short service commission twenty years ago, you're mistaken. Whatever you are proposing, I have absolutely no interest."
"Oh, but I think you do, old chap. I think you do. We'll have to renew your security clearance of course, but I'm sure you'll suit us admirably."
My mind was in overdrive. This wasn't at all what I'd been expecting. The Wing Commander had shed the foppish persona of Sir David, much as a snake sheds its skin. What lay beneath glistened with danger. I spoke carefully.
"I'm a travel writer, not a spy. I'm sorry to have wasted your time. You've got the wrong man."
"On the contrary. Yours is an excellent cover for the operation we have in mind." He smiled disarmingly. "Spying isn't quite the expression I would use. You've been watching too many T.V. dramas. All we want is a courier. It's a simple, one-off job with no danger to yourself, or to anyone else."
"I don't think you understand. I said no, and that's the end of it."
"I don't think you understand, old boy. You are wanted by the French police in connection with that hit-and-run accident on Avenue de Villiers a few days ago. The cyclist was quite badly injured, you know."
"What cyclist?" I cast my mind back to the car chase and the silhouette of Helen, struggling in the rear seat of the black Citroen. "I didn't hit any cyclist."
"Really? I'm not sure that all of the eye-witnesses would agree." He paused to sip his drink. "...and then, not long afterwards, there was the ugly incident outside the offices of Jeanne Durand. The police are still investigating that one."
"Just what are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting that, if we handed you over to the French authorities, it might not be long before they found out about your connections with known drug smugglers - Monsieur Bellini, for instance."
The sting was obvious, even before he added, "I'm also suggesting that if they knew you were working for us, quite a different interpretation would be put on your involvement."
"This is outrageous! Barefaced lies and blackmail. I've never heard of such a thing. I have absolutely no connection with Bellini, or anyone else in the French underworld for that matter."
"Perhaps it would be better if you kept your voice down, old boy. We wouldn't want to cause a scene here, would we? Let us just say that we are in a position to see you out of your difficulties. All it would take is a little help from you to resolve ours. As I understand it, your friend Madame Durand is closely connected with Bellini. By association, you are, too."
I looked at him, dumfounded.
"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.
Author Notes
List of characters:
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.
Sir David Brockenhurst - a chance acquaintance, met at St Pancras Station
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.
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
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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