Most of the rest of October passed without a peep from Giorgy. Then late morning on the last Saturday in the month came a call from another source.

  Tony Dimeloe had left me alone since our meeting in Plymouth. I was beginning to believe he had been kidding about a job on the horizon. It suited me. For more than a decade I had managed to avoid “a little cooperation” with HM Government. It was bound to be messy, complicated, and under-appreciated. Oh, and very lopsided.

  He was calling with an invitation to be his house guest.

  ‘Who me? Haven’t you heard about my disgusting habits?’

  ‘Can’t be worse than mine, old boy. Take a break. Sammie and I’ve got a place in the Peak District, near Buxton. Hills and dales, lots of bracing country walks, just chill out – or is it chillax these days?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why is it called chillax, you mean?’

  I grinned into my cell phone. ‘Asshole. Why the invitation?’

  ‘Let’s call it for old time’s sake and leave it at that.’

  As always, with representatives of the intelligence services it was what he didn’t say that was more significant than what he said. Whatever the reason he wanted me to play house guest, it wasn’t for old time’s sake. But I knew Tony and the Service well enough to accept the fruitlessness of pressing him.

  ‘Can I bring someone?’

  ‘A special friend, you mean?’

  ‘Sure, a special friend.’

  ‘Congratulations. Replacement for Marion?’

  ‘No.’ Even to my own ears the denial sounded vehement. ‘Not this one. I did find a replacement for Marion … finally. But she dumped me. Actually, this one’s just dumped me too, but I’m hoping to tempt her to take me back with a trip to the Cotswolds.’

  His grunt was sympathetic.

  ‘Sorry to hear about the replacement, pal. As far as your other arm candy is concerned though, she’ll be welcome. Plenty of space in the house. And it’s in the Peak District, not the Cotswolds.’

  ‘Good enough. I accept.’ Refusal would have seemed churlish. I owed him one, maybe two.

  ‘Any time in the next couple of days will do. Call me when you know and we’ll arrange the details.’

  The conversation ended there, bar the farewells.

  Brewing up an espresso, I mulled over Tony’s invitation. Had I just been presented with my Plan B? It would remove me from the map for a while, make me virtually untraceable. More so if I used my alternative identity. As long as I kept out of circulation, I was probably in the clear. In which case Maura and Lindy would also be safe from retribution. If The Syndicate couldn’t contact me they couldn’t put me under duress. But it was at best a provisional solution. When I resurfaced, I would be confronted with the combined displeasure of Troisi and Maximov both. If that displeasure was vented on Maura and Lindy, as threatened, it would serve nothing for me to remain undercover. If I resurfaced. Now there was a thought. Maybe even a Plan C …

  Whichever Plan I adopted, I would ultimately have no choice but to save my loved ones from whatever fate the warped and fiendish minds of Troisi and co. devised for them. The outlook was as bleak as January in Quebec.

  * * * * *

  To get Jacqui back on board was not going to be a cakewalk. Email and text were out. She would most likely delete the message when she saw it came from me. A phone call, possibly, but it’s all too easy to cut off. All that was left was to knock at her door and throw myself at her mercy.

  As I was not about to commit any crimes in the UK, I could travel on my alternative passport in the name of John Henley, backed up with credit cards, driving licence, and even a birth certificate. As JH I could use credit and debit cards, which meant I could fly. The Henley persona was known to none of my acquaintances, business or social, and was less compromised and therefore even more valuable than my real identity.

  I flew to Exeter, rented a Mercedes and meandered through the autumn countryside to Tintagel. The leaves were in freefall now, spreading a patchwork carpet over fields and gardens, leaving the trees stark and black against a pallid sky. As I came to the start of Tintagel it began to rain, just a spattering, just enough to activate the wipers.

  The absence of a car in the driveway at Jacqui’s house was not an encouraging sign. She had no garage, so when she was home the car was always parked there. I let myself through the gate, went through the motions of ringing the bell.

  Should have checked she was home, Warner, I admonished myself. No help for it but to call her now.

  Which I did.

  ‘Hello.’ Her voice was guarded. Under the number I was using my name would have flashed up on her cell phone’s screen.

  ‘Hello, Jacqui. Are you far from home?’

  ‘About fifteen, twenty miles. Why?’

  ‘I’m parked outside your house. Just say the word and I won’t be here when you get back.’

  ‘What’s the word?’

  Did that mean she wanted to use it?

  ‘Go,’ I said. ‘That’s the word.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Seconds tripped by on the car digital clock. The lengthy pause made me suspect she was just playing me, like an angler with a fish.

  Then she proved me wrong.

  ‘Stay, André. Please.’

  ‘I’ll be here. Drive safely.’

  A half hour later her mud-spattered Lexus swung into the driveway. A half hour after that we were in bed, with Sam pining at the door, rediscovering each other’s bodies to a background of torrential rain with thunderclap accompaniment.

  * * * * *

  No post mortems. No recriminations. We took up where we had left off four weeks ago. She had always been tactile; now she was even more so, hands, legs, lips, the contact was frequent. I didn’t mind. I didn’t do much initiating, but I sure as hell didn’t fend her off

  After breakfast on that first day back, I broached the subject of Tony’s invitation, half expecting a refusal or at least a lukewarm acceptance. Wrong again. She actually seemed keen.

  ‘It’s over thirty years since I was last in that neck of the woods. I was only a child, and I don’t remember much about it, and it was only when I was skimming through some old photo albums that I was reminded of it.’

  ‘Then you’re okay, staying with people you don’t know.’

  ‘It’s not a fixed term commitment, is it? I mean, if I don’t like it, we can leave.’

  My nod was confident, reassuring.

  ‘Just say the word.’

  Though it wouldn’t be as straightforward as that. Leaving prematurely would foul up my plan to stay undercover for a few weeks. If the worst came to the worst, and she got sick of it, I would just have to stick around solo. In any case I was beholden to Tony for keeping me out of the law’s clutches. I had to do his bidding for now, until I knew what he was after.

  By phone I arranged to be there the following day. Directions were provided: his house was almost the last property in the village of Burbage, to the west of Buxton. Bleak territory, as it turned out. Low hills, devoid of trees, stone walls zigzagging the slopes, segregating one field from the next in what appeared to be a random format; grey-fleeced sheep to break up the expanse of green, heads down in the grass. The house was a stone cottage at the end of a muddy lane with a stone wall along the front of the lot, just like the ones on the hillsides. It was overlooked by an unkempt privet hedge about seven feet high.

  I edged the Merc through a gap in the wall and parked behind a white Ford Mondeo saloon in desperate need of a wash, which itself was parked behind a classic sports car of yesteryear, an MG TD or TF.

  The nearest neighbours were kept at bay by another privet hedge. This one had been allowed to run wild. It soared a good twelve feet and was urgently in need of a haircut.

  As we stepped down from the Merc, the front door of the cottage opened and Tony came bustling out.

  ‘Hey, welcome, welcome,’ he breezed, and hurried to shake my hand.

  ‘Thanks for the invitation,’ I said, while we crunched each other’s knuckles.

  Jacqui came around the car to join us, smiling a little shyly, her hand thrust forward, ready for the ritual.

  ‘Jacqui, this is my old friend Tony,’ I said.

  ‘Anders wasn’t kidding about you,’ he enthused, smirking like a schoolboy. ‘He said you were gorgeous.’

  I hadn’t, though I had implied it. Jacqui took it in her stride, looked modest, and said she was glad to meet one of André’s friends.

  ‘His only friend,’ Tony said, full of chortling bonhomie. He was joking, or thought he was. Fact was, he was almost right.

  A stiff wind was moaning around the corner of the cottage. At this altitude you could knock a couple of degrees off the sea level temperature. Jacqui huddled in her short coat with its faux-fur collar, her cheeks turning pink. In my leather jacket over an open-neck silk shirt, I was distinctly underdressed for November in the Peak District.

  Tony gestured towards the open front door. ‘Come inside and meet Sammie. We’ll get your bags later.’

  He shepherded us into a gloomy interior with dark painted walls and a rug with a faded flower design on a parquet floor that had been trampled by many feet. Beams on the ceiling, a picture rail on every wall. The place was a genuine two-hundred-year throwback. He beckoned us into a living room, where a real log fire was smouldering. It was a while since I had last smelled wood smoke.

  ‘Sammie, they’re here,’ he called.

  ‘Coming.’

  A slightly husky voice, very feminine.

  ‘Sit down, folks,’ Tony said, indicating a chintzy suite that had welcomed a long succession of bottoms. ‘Make yourselves completely at home.’

  Even as we moved towards the couch a woman came in, Samantha obviously. She resembled her photo. Attractive; not pretty like Jacqui, but she definitely had something. A sort of earthy appeal, the kind that’s designed to have men making fools of themselves. Like Tony?

  She was medium height, about on a level with Jacqui; we went through another bout of handshaking.

  ‘I hope you’ll enjoy your stay,’ she said, making it sound sincere. ‘Sit down, won’t you? Let me get you a drink.’

  She was dressed in a tight pale blue sweater that clung to her torso with love, and leggings that didn’t conceal the shapeliness of her legs. From the physical aspect, Tony had done well for himself.

  ‘Will you fix some drinks, darling?’ she said to Tony.

  ‘Coming up. What’s your poison, Jacqui?’

  ‘Oh, just a soft drink for now. Orange juice, whatever.’

  I had spotted a bottle of Balvenie on his drinks shelf and opted for that, with soda. Tony and Samantha both had beers.

  Once we were settled, we sat in a semi-circle and chatted about our journey, the weather, how Jacqui and I got to know each other.

  ‘What made you buy in this part of the world, Tony?’ I lobbed into the conversation pool, after a half hour or so.

  Even as Tony’s mouth opened to reply Samantha plunged in with, ‘It was cheap.’

  Tony shot her a glare. ‘I like the area, and I like hill walking.’

  ‘And it was cheap.’

  Tony shrugged. ‘It was good value for the money,’ he admitted.

  It seemed like a sore point.

  ‘Don’t you like it here, Samantha?’ Jacqui said, almost timidly, as if she were afraid of opening a can of domestic worms.

  ‘Apart from the grey skies, the wind, and lack of trees, it’s great.’

  We progressed to other topics.

  It was all very snug and cosy with the fire spitting and tossing up the occasional spray of sparks, and a black and white cat called Monsieur, who sauntered in and insinuated himself onto my lap. And the wind rattling a window in its frame, and the deepening dusk, and the soft, all embracing cushions of the couch. It lulled me into a sense of well-being, and something else I couldn’t quite place. False security, perhaps.

  The lulling ended when I caught Samantha eyeing me with an air almost of puzzlement, as if she was trying to figure out why I was here. Wondering, I expect, what was going on that she was being kept in the dark about. I only wished I could enlighten her.

  * * * * *

  Jacqui and Samantha went shopping in Buxton. ‘An oxymoron,’ Samantha called it, without explaining why. Tony and I drove out into the High Peak in his Government-supplied Mondeo, destination the village of Wildboarclough. It was a murky morning, low cloud or high fog blotting out what little scenery there was, giving the illusion we were on an island in the sky.

  ‘We’ll grab a pint at the Crag Inn,’ he said, his cheerfulness ringing a bit forced to my ears. ‘Until last year we could have gone to the Cat and Fiddle, but the brewery closed it.’

  A closed pub in England sounded like yesterday’s news.

  ‘Do they sell wine by the pint at the Crag Inn?’ I said.

  Just for a moment he took me seriously. Then he chortled, overtook a wandering motorcycle, and we droned on through the murk, the wipers flopping uselessly, with the road almost to ourselves.

  ‘You never were much of a beer drinker,’ he said, gaze fixed on the undulating road. ‘As I recall.’

  ‘Not much. There are a couple of French beers I go for, but I doubt they’ll be available at pubs around here.’

  The Crag was an L-shaped brick building, standing in the thrall of a gigantic, multi-trunked tree that I couldn’t identify in its bare-branched state. Leaves strewn around the base of the trunk suggested an ash. A line of fir trees hemmed the building in from the rear.

  ‘You’ll love this place,’ Tony enthused as we walked through the entrance. It was accessed through a glassed-in porch that was plainly not part of the original design. ‘They serve real ale, and the carvery’s second to none.’

  Carvery. It reminded me that the last time I was in a pub with a carvery I was lunching with the late Pauline Weldon, a part of my recent past I would rather have erased.

  The lighting in the bar was subdued. Dark wood abounded, adorned with horse brasses. Old photographs and the odd plate made use of the wall space; traditional pub patterned rugs took the chill out of the stone floor. A stuffed pheasant occupied a shelf by the fireplace with its feeble coal fire. It didn’t look as if it were enjoying itself. Apart from the bird, the only life was the bartender, a young guy, tall but physically unimpressive; dark hair worn shoulder length.

  The carvery was closed today, so we settled for fish and chips, and with Tony nursing a pint of his ‘real ale’ and me a glass of the house red – a Médoc – we revived old times. Tony was on his third beer and I halfway through my second glass of wine when he switched literally mid-sentence from reminiscence to business.

  ‘You’re probably wondering why you’re here,’ he said, not looking at me, his hands restless, fiddling with his pint mug.

  ‘You’ll get around to it when you’re ready.’

  ‘Mm. I want you to understand it’s not me that’s asking. It’s orders from on high. I’m just the messenger boy.’

  There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that, so I said nothing. I just waited, took a sip from my wine glass. The bartender was leaning on his elbows, pretending not to listen. Tony caught the direction of my glance, repositioned his chair with his back was towards the bartender. When he spoke again, his voice was lowered.

  ‘We have …’ He hesitated, as if reluctant to spill it. He cleared his throat, played some more with his pint pot.

  ‘Tony, this is me, André. We’ve known each other for nigh on twenty years. You saved my life once, in Iraq.’

  He made a quick dismissive motion with his hand, as if refuting it.

  ‘You did,’ I insisted, and it was no exaggeration. ‘You stuck your neck out when you could have played safe and stayed in the compound, let others do the dirty work. So whatever it is you want to tell me, just get on with it. You don’t owe me anything. If I don’t like what I’m hearing, I can walk.’ I squeezed his shoulder. ‘Right?’

  Eyes downcast, he said, ‘Right. Right.’ Another pause, then, barely above a whisper, ‘We have a mole in the Department.’

  Whatever I had expected, it wasn’t that. I whistled very softly.

  ‘The fuck you do.’

  ‘Yeah. We’ve only known a week. He doesn’t know yet that we know.’

  The entrance door opened and two men came in, badly dressed with cloth caps and mud-caked boots. They gave us passing glances and walked to the bar counter.

  ‘Hey up, lads,’ the bartender said, with a friendly grin that might have been real.

  ‘Hey up, Charlie,’ one of the newcomers responded, and the other echoed him. Beers were ordered and the three of them got into a huddle and I heard the word ‘United’, which made it likely soccer was the topic under discussion.

  ‘Tony?’ I prodded, when he showed no inclination to tell more.

  A sigh. ‘As I was saying, we have a mole, and the problem’s been dumped on me. I have carte blanche to decide how to play it. Do we run him for a while, feed him fake intelligence, or clamp down on him now?’

  ‘Have him arrested, you mean.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe arrested? You thinking of running him long term? He’s sure to rumble it.’

  He scratched his chin. Ran his hands through his thinning hair. Pressed the palms of his hands together in front of his mouth and blew into them. Anything rather than come to the point.

  A chorus of cackles at the bar reminded me, him too probably, that this was a very public place.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, as if coming to an important decision. ‘We can walk and talk.’

  ‘In the fog and the drizzle? Terrific.’

  I paid for the drinks. We left under the overtly curious stares of the bartender and his clientele. We had been as out of place in that pub as a couple of guys sporting stocking masks at a police conference.

  Outside the mist or cloud had lifted a bit. The air was damp, though it wasn’t actually raining. We left the car in the parking lot. We zipped up our parkas, shoved our hands in our pockets, and set off. In silence Tony guided me to a narrow road, with a low wall on the left, beyond a brook that had carved a path through a little ravine. Trees on both sides of the road, all deciduous, hence leafless. The asphalt surface of the road was partially obscured by their dandruff. Some way ahead two people were also walking, with a dog.

 

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