* * *
Duncan Masters’ head was spinning. ‘Wow!’ he said for the tenth time as they settled into a corner of the now deserted restaurant, Duncan staring out over the lake. He had been on the grand tour with Otto and Beesely, wide eyed like a schoolboy visiting the cockpit of an airliner.
Duncan had worked for Beesely in previous years, making use of his position as a senior newspaper reporter by keeping his ear to the ground for any stories about the intelligence services about to break. He was now fifty, thin and pale.
‘So, how’s the family?’ Beesely asked as he poured tea for the three of them.
‘Kids are alright,’ Duncan affirmed, still glancing out of the window. ‘Both in university, don’t see much of them.’ Turning, his expression betrayed some sadness. ‘Gilly and I don’t talk. Probably divorce, you know.’ He took his tea. ‘I’m in a flat up in town.’
‘Yes, we know.’
Duncan did not seem surprised. ‘Well, in your game you’re supposed to know everything. Couldn’t believe that Learjet, seats that reach out and hug you. And no passport.’ He tapped his jacket pocket. ‘I still don’t have my passport. And this castle, Dr No or what?’
Otto turned his head to Beesely, lifted his shoulders and held up his hands, a pained and questioning expression on his face. Beesely shook his head, almost unnoticeable, before placing a thick wad of fifties onto the table next to Duncan. ‘Get yourself a nice place.’
‘Good of you, Sir Morris.’
‘Listen, we need your help, old chap.’
Duncan pocketed the wad. ‘I never let you down before.’
‘But we are not Her Majesty’s Government any more. Granted, I still work closely with them, and we have the same vested interests, but this is private enterprise.’
‘That’s OK, same deal as before.’
Otto shot Beesely a quizzical look.
Beesely began, ‘What we need you to do is to expand your network of contacts and informants. And I mean really expand it. Put a wad like that into the hands of every paparazzi and trench coat you can find. Money, my boy, is no object.’
‘What we looking out for?’
‘Same as before: any story about to break about the intelligence services. Also foreign intelligence services, especially anything about me. Any stories about Switzerland, or general crime and intelligence matters in central Europe. Anyone sniffing around asking questions about me, or this place, and you push the panic button. Buy the story exclusive and bury it. Where you can – of course!
‘We’ll give you an email address to send copies of articles to. But this must be subtle, Duncan, top-secret squirrel - my colleagues here do not piss about. If you get noticed or questioned, best not to upset these boys.’
Duncan glanced at Otto. ‘Never been noticed before, Sir Morris. Not going to start now.’
‘Good.’ Beesely handed Duncan an envelope. ‘In here are bank details and a credit card. That card has a ten thousand a day limit, and it will show up here every time you use it. Treat yourself, get a nice pad, some nice young ladies. Relax and enjoy life.’
‘Nice one, Sir Morris. Thanks. I was starting to be a bit down in life –’
‘My dear boy, if you weren’t then I would not be using you. Motivation is everything.’
‘I won’t let you down,’ Duncan repeated.
‘One more thing. I want you to find me an analyst, someone who can scan all the papers quickly and read between the lines, alert me if anything is brewing.’
Duncan gave it some careful thought. ‘There’s this one guy I know, Robert something, over at the Observer. Sharp as a tack.’
‘Does he have any particular ... hobbies or vices?’
‘Likes young girls.’
‘How young are we talking here?’ Beesely enquired.
‘Oh, not kids, eighteen to twenty.’
‘And he is?’
‘Forty-nine, fifty –’
‘And looks like?’
‘Oh, average. Spends his spare money in tacky London West End clubs splashing the cash.’
‘Perfect. Give him some money to spend when you see him next, see if he wants a new job. He would work from home in the UK, computer in the study, producing daily warnings of anything brewing, plus scanning for anything relating to a given list of topics, people and companies. You would feed him intel’ as well.’
‘No problem. This guy is sharp as hell, well connected too.’
‘Sounds like the makings of a deal.’
5
An hour later Otto found Beesely and Johno sitting in the grand bedroom and chatting. Beesely did not get up, his eyelids heavy to the point of closing.
Otto apologised, but Beesely waved him over. ‘The Czech operation was completed last night, I wanted you to see the photographs and the newspaper reports.’ He handed Beesely a brown file. Numerous black and white photographs of burnt-out buildings fell onto Beesely’s leg, grabbed by Johno. They reviewed a few of the images.
‘Nice work,’ Beesely commended. ‘No one hurt?’
‘Not that has been reported so far,’ Otto informed them. ‘The police have issued a warrant for the German owner. He was absent at the time, but they know it was arson and he is the best suspect.’
‘Good enough for ‘im!’ Johno said. Then, grabbing Beesely he said, ‘C’mon, you look like shit.’
Beesely accepted a hand up from Johno, who eased off his jacket, Otto assisting as Beesely wobbled on his feet.
‘Enough wine for you, young man,’ Johno playfully scolded.
‘Too much,’ Beesely agreed. He sat on the edge of the bed as Johno eased his shoes off, helping him lie down.
Johno tipped his head, signalling for Otto to follow him out to the corridor. They left the lights on, closing the door quietly. ‘When you’re that age it hits you quick,’ Johno reported from much experience of Beesely. ‘An hour from now he’ll be wide-awake and pissing. Then he’ll read for about for an hour, then go off to sleep. Old age breaks up your sleep cycle.’ He patted Otto on the shoulder. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
Otto nodded, clearly thinking about many things.
‘C’mon,’ Johno urged. ‘Drink at my place.’ They took the lift down, the young lift attendant now absent. ‘Give my room up here to someone who needs it more,’ Johno suggested as they entered the dungeon. ‘Bed down here is snug and cosy.’ He threw his jacket onto the central sofa. ‘What’s your poison?’
‘Poison?’ Otto repeated.
‘Your favourite drink,’ Johno carefully mouthed.
‘Ah. Malibu and orange.’
Johno turned to stare at Otto, a controlled surprise at his taste in spirits. Then there it was, Malibu. It had not been there earlier. ‘What the hell?’ he muttered. He poured a large measure and threw in some orange. ‘Try that.’
Otto sniffed it and took a sip. ‘It is good.’
‘So long as you’re happy.’ Johno grabbed several bottles of strong German lager and nudged his half-brother to the central sofa. ‘Stick your arse down, bruv.’
‘Bruv? You mean brother? Bruder?’ Otto seemed pleased.
‘Ja, du verstehst!’
They sat, Johno clinking Otto’s glass with his bottle. ‘Your good health.’
‘Prost!’ Otto offered.
Johno peered out from under tired eyelids. ‘Prost!’
After a moment, Otto said, ‘Johno, we have the best doctors in the world here in Switzerland, many private clinics where famous actors come for surgery. I can … arrange anything you want, I know you still have pain.’
‘Listen, mate, I know you mean well, but me and scalpels don’t get on. When I was on that Yank aircraft carrier I woke up with a hundred tubes going into and out of every damn hole or patch of skin that wasn’t already stitched up. If Ricky hadn’t been sat there … I would have freaked and lost it. At some point I went in for more surgery … and I think that wanker of a doctor didn’t put me under right … ‘cos I could feel them cutting me a
nd poking around.
‘Then back in the UK I spent six months learning to pee and walk again. I shat liquid for three months, forgot what passing a turd was like. Took a while to walk, which is not easy on the old head when you are used to being fit. Verstanden?’
Otto nodded, a little saddened.
Johno swigged. ‘So me and scalpels, not so hot.’
‘If you ever change your mind, I will get for you the best doctors money can buy. And you will not feel anything.’
And over the next three hours Johno and Otto, half-brothers, played catch-up for more than forty years of lost time, Otto eventually dragging Johno to the small cot and putting him to bed.