She passed by The Espresso Bar café and a strapping man wearing black sunglasses and a grey pork-pie hat too big for his head. He fumbled with a tourist map and muttered in Spanish to his mate in orange sunglasses. His bulky body reminded her of a man she’d come across in Sicily, an Asian man who had been all muscle and no neck. When she reached the car, she wiped the dampness from the dog’s paws, shortened the lead of the travel harness, and secured him in the back seat. The Transit van remained in the parking spot behind the Bentley. Cyclists took advantage of the space to cross the street and head into the park. Mae got in the driver’s seat and shut the door. Felix settled down onto the rear seat and sighed.
She started the engine and looked out the windscreen. Up ahead, a small tipper lorry loaded with garden mulch turned onto Chester Road. More bicycles whizzed by alongside cars, cutting in front of the Bentley. On the other side of the road, the man in the orange sunglasses and his mate, the big man in the pork-pie hat asked two women waiting to cross for directions, showing them the map. The blonde in an expensive suit pointed to something, the thin brunette nodded and unbuttoned the front of an ice-blue jacket. Parents rolled along with prams on the footpath. A blur of man and bicycle flew past the dirty Land Rover still parked across the street.
Mae twisted slightly, and reached for the seatbelt. She pulled the metal buckle forward, across her shoulder, and the world exploded in a white-flashing thunderclap.
Chapter Two
A curl of auburn hair spilled across Hilary’s forehead as she leaned in between Bryce and Llewelyn to push a plate of biscuits into the centre of the table. She stepped away for a moment and returned with a tray of coffee. The City’s Fraud Squad Assistant Commissioner Norman Saltzman cemented his eyes on her rounded arse, doing nothing to hide his lascivious gaze, but he did refrain from slapping or pinching the woman’s arse, as he would have, Kitt surmised, had she been a barmaid in a pub and not the Special Operations Division floor manager.
Hilary placed a cup of coffee and a small brown paper packet in front of Brigadier Roger Llewelyn. “I found the chai you like, sir,” she said.
He lifted the packet and patted the woman’s arm with the affection an elderly uncle gave to a niece. “Why, Hilary, you are thoughtful to remember.”
“Oh! It didn’t cross my mind.” Hilary shook her head. “Would you rather a cup of the chai now instead of coffee?”
“No, no. Don’t trouble yourself. The coffee’s fine. I prefer the chai in the evening.” Llewelyn smiled like a matinee idol from the 40s and lifted the bag of aromatic, Christmas-like scented tea. “Would you be a darling and tuck it inside my case over there?” He glanced at a chair where his briefcase sat.
“Certainly,” When she straightened, Hilary gave the Brigadier a wavering and wan smile. The young woman hadn’t much cause to smile since her father had died in a shark attack while on holiday in Australia four months ago.
Kitt sat back. His Australian-born half-brother had lost his father in a similar manner, although the shark that killed Simon’s dad had—as their mother said—bitten SAS Captain Lancaster Reed right in two when he’d been surfing Bells Beach off the Victorian coast. Hilary’s father had been partially-eaten while snorkelling the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Queensland.
Kitt brushed aside thoughts of fathers and hungry, predatory fish and watched hungry, predatory mammal Saltzman gaze covetously at a Chelsea bun that sat on a paper napkin. Then the man shifted his attention to Hilary tucking Llewelyn’s packet of tea into a briefcase. Coffee and tea service complete, she headed for the exit with Saltzman’s eyes cemented on her arse. The door sealed behind her with a gentle, audible sucking sound that indicated the room was secure.
The vent above began blowing in climate-controlled air, wafting about the scent of Mae’s Chelsea bun, cinnamon, citrus, and a hint of cardamom perfuming the air. Windowless, like much of the Consortium’s offices, the Gray Conference room, a space named not for its drab colour, but for Olga Gray, one of England’s most successful female intelligence officers in the 1930s, had the most comfortable chairs in the entire building. While spaces void of windows dredged up the occasional memory of how close, not quite six month ago, he’d come to dying in a stifling, darkened shipping container full of counterfeit designer merchandise, forged artwork and dead bodies, the room’s luxurious and supportive office chairs gave him a sense of cosy drowsiness and Kitt relaxed into the seat. As Mae suspected, he had deeply embraced the soft life; it was leather upholstered and Chelsea bun-scented.
Kitt strangled off an irritated sigh. Christ, he was bored with his work, but he hadn’t been completely aware exactly how soft his life had become. It could have been a consequence of age, or maybe it was embracing the soft life with Mae. Most likely the doughiness did come from the mind-numbing restlessness of observing, writing reports, conducting interviews and shuffling papers like his former sergeant and friend Bryce, who now shuffled papers for Shaw, a younger intelligence officer in the field, since Kitt had left active field duty. The words active field duty and Bryce working for someone else prodded the low-level, flabby restlessness Kitt pretended not to notice had crept in. He had to get back to sprinting, to having ten-mile runs instead of three because, as he sat at the conference table in a comfy chair, his lethargy was so great he sipped an abominable beverage made from a dreadful machine that extracted the life from what had once been coffee beans, and felt just like the sorry, not quite a cup of coffee in his hand.
It was unusual, the casual milling about, waiting for an intelligence officer, or in this case, intelligence field trainee, to arrive. Eaton was late, something that normally would have reflected poorly on him, on his ability to instruct effectively, but Kitt suspected his trainee’s tardiness was by Llewelyn’s design. This was more than a performance review for Eaton’s progress and Kitt glanced about the room, at the usual team members who sat in on trainee appraisals, and at guest Norman Saltzman.
Saltzman, sitting close to the door, slurped nosily from a mug, dug something from the edge of one nostril, and examined it. Sergeant Morland, Llewelyn’s bald, bushy-browed executive, wrinkled his nose in disgust and glanced at Kitt over the rim of a mug, his podgy face a reminder of what a desk job could do to a man.
Llewelyn, Bryce, and Saltzman enthusiastically guzzled the frightful brew that came from a plastic pod. Kitt smiled to himself, aware of an important fact. If anything was truly soft, it was that bloody coffee machine and colleagues who were idiot enough to drink what came from it.
“Something you find amusing, Major Kitt?” An eyebrow arched on Llewelyn’s handsome black face. Despite looking like an older version of Idris Elba, and having the stage voice of a Shakespearean thespian, very little actually amused Llewelyn.
Kitt dropped his eyes into his mug, the brew in the restaurant-quality ceramic was nearly as dark as his superior’s skin, but not nearly as dark as his heart.
“Kitty’s a coffee snob, sir.” Bryce chuckled and shook his head, silver glinting in his thick, black hair.
“I am.” Kitt lifted his gaze from the shite in his cup. “Yes.”
“You could offer to share that Chelsea bun with us,” Saltzman said, grey eyes on the sweet scroll Mae had baked that morning. He ogled the bun the same way he’d ogled Hilary.
Kitt hadn’t touched the sweet scroll yet. It still sat on a paper napkin, next to the miserable coffee Bryce had made for him. “Yes. I could offer,” he said.
“Your delightful housekeeper made that, did she, Major?” Llewelyn leaned forward across the table and inspected the bun that clearly surpassed the plate of biscuits on the table.
“Butler, sir,” Bryce said. “Mrs Valentine is Kitty’s butler.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Bryce. I do beg your pardon, Major. I know first-hand that your butler is an excellent baker.”
“You have a female butler?” Saltzman’s upper lip curled, matching his eyebrow.
“They’re all the rage this season.” Kitt pulled
the Chelsea bun closer.
“Butlers are men, women are housekeepers. I think the de-gendering of professions has gotten out of hand.” Balding Saltzman unbuttoned the front of his chalk-striped jacket.
Kitt hadn’t met Fraud Squad’s Assistant Commissioner Saltzman until just before this briefing began, but he’d sized-up the man as an old-fashioned, public schoolboy dyed-in-the-wool sexist, misogynist, weaselly prick. Not so different to him really, or how he had been, or could still be on occasion. He looked at Saltzman, lifted the bun, and bit into it.
Llewelyn chose a custard cream from the plate of biscuits. “How’s the hand, Major, miss the fingers much?” he said, dunking the biscuit into his coffee. “Your trainee mentioned something about phantom fingers, you finding it hard to scratch an itch, or something.”
Four sets of eyes settled on Kitt chewing. He took his time, savouring the delightful cinnamon, raisin, orange peel and a hint of cardamom. Then he washed it down with the black shite in his cup, knowing the taste of the stuff would shock his system from the drowsiness he skirted. “I’ve adapted. And I know you’re busy. Eaton’s quite capable, sir—if not prone to inventing stories that are a load of cobblers.”
“Rather a handy skill in this line of work. It’s good your trainee knows the power of bullshit, the proper channels, the chain of command and such. And yet…” Llewelyn held up his left hand, wiggling five full fingers, and glanced at the tablet screen Morland laid beside his coffee, “despite your efficient training, Eaton is incapable of arriving on time for this meeting, which means we’ll get on with it without the Captain. By now, you’ve probably surmised that this isn’t merely a progress review of your trainee, or a learning opportunity your trainee is missing, Major.”
“I have, sir.”
“Now then, let’s get to why. I had a cursory glance at the details so correct me if I miss something. This was brought to Economic Crime Division and the Fraud Squad Asset Recovery Team,” Llewelyn orated, his tone stage-like, “after Hedison’s auction house noticed an anomaly. Their Product Appraiser alerted Jill Charteris, the company’s Research Department Fraud Specialist and Investigator, who uncovered potential fraud that involves the director of Amsterdam’s botanical gardens and a ninety-three-year-old, much-lauded Dutch landscape and garden architect. Is that right, Assistant Commissioner Saltzman?”
Saltzman took a Jammie Dodger biscuit. He cleared his throat. “Yes.” He bit into the biscuit and spoke with his mouth full, “Hedison’s was contracted by Jan Vlaming, who approached a jewellery consignment associate with authorisation to act on the behalf of his Aunt Polly to sell a jewellery collection.” He reached for another biscuit before finishing the one in his hand. “In carrying out the inspection of the rather substantial collection, Ignace Yaphet, the Product Appraiser with Hedison’s, established that a number of pieces had manufactured gemstones or simply coloured glass. He immediately notified the Fraud Specialist Investigator,”
“Yes, yes. An auction house’s case of fraud with imitation jewellery is not our usual fare.” Llewelyn sipped his coffee. “Do go on, Assistant Commissioner.”
Kitt brushed a speck of bun from his lap and kept his attention on his superior.
“Charteris ascertained that the gemstones had been kept in secure storage within a freeport located in Luxembourg. The nephew and his aunt admit that, in the past, they have used the services of various auction houses, Smythe & Dexter for example, but deny ever approaching Hedison’s to sell anything. Which brings us back to Jill Charteris and Hedison’s concern of fraud.”
Llewelyn held up his empty cup. “Morland, dear boy, more coffee, please.”
Casually, Kitt slipped his left hand into the pocket of his trousers, felt the wedding band he couldn’t wear mixing with coins, rolled the ring in between the two shortened fingers, and waited as Morland went to the pod machine on a table beneath the painting of HRM. The coffee maker whirred and whined and hissed the way Kitt wanted to.
Llewelyn yawned, his moustache a salt and pepper archway above his open mouth. “Pardon me. Please continue, Assistant Commissioner.”
Saltzman took another biscuit. “After several major and well-publicised instances of fraud, the kind that had the auction house making substantial pay-outs, Hedison’s is decidedly wary and has doubled down on establishing provenance on every item auctioned,” Saltzman said above the droning of the coffee machine. “As I mentioned, the aunt in this, Polly Dankwaerts, has previously engaged the services of other auction houses—Smythe & Dexter and Christie’s for some antique gardening hand tools, she’s never used Hedison’s, and vehemently denies knowing anything about jewellery being up for sale. Her nephew, Jan Vlaming, attests she never directed him to approach Hedison’s, which led Charteris to suspect Hedison’s had dealings with an imposter.”
“So then, this is a matter of identity theft. Again, not exactly our line of work.” Bryce shook his head and Morland set a coffee mug in front of Llewelyn. “Does Charteris have any idea who the imposters were?” Bryce asked, a slight tinge of his Welsh heritage coming though. “And why does she believe Dankwaerts was an imposter and not simply a liar?”
Saltzman spoke over Morland’s clanging a stainless-steel spoon against ceramic. “When Charteris contacted Jan Vlaming via video chat, Yaphet, the appraiser, said the man looked nothing like the blond Dutchman he’d met. Vlaming immediately went to check on the jewellery collection held in secure storage in the Luxembourg freeport. He discovered that—no surprise here—the Dankwaerts collection of diamonds and sapphire jewellery, in the family for generations, successfully hidden from the Nazis—was missing. Considering freeports and…” he slid his eyes to Kitt, “recent events, a lying nonagenarian who’s renowned for her garden tours and garden party seems unlikely.”
“Freeports.” Llewelyn tapped the table. “There you have it, AC Saltzman. You and the Commissioner were right to believe this matter should occupy Spec-Ops Division and not just Fraud Squad. Although Major Kitt is no longer on active field duty, his recent experience with freeport thefts is why he joins us morning. However, what stands out here most to me isn’t merely the Luxembourg freeport, it’s the mention of Smythe & Dexter. It seems that case has quite a reach; Geneva, Singapore, and now very likely Luxembourg.”
Kitt levelled his solid gaze on Llewelyn. The light brown eyes that looked back were lit with hellfire. “Obviously the Luxembourg freeport makes it noteworthy for us, but you believe the sale of items to Smythe & Dexter is significant, sir?” Kitt said.
“Mm.” Llewelyn nodded faintly. “Yesterday, my counterpart in the Algemene Inlichtingen-en Veiligheidsdienst—that’s AIVD, the Dutch General Intelligence and Security Service, AC Saltzman—mentioned Dutch master forgeries and a few names you’ll be familiar with, Major: Julius Taittinger, Smythe & Dexter—as well as their former employee Ruby Bleuville, her partners Milton Foley, and the Consortium’s very own dead little rats and associates, Bill Dalton, and Walter Molony.”
Taittinger, Bleuville, Foley, Dalton and Molony, those names and ‘freeport storage’ pointed to a recent, bloody, personally-felt series of events that had nearly killed him, and exposed rot inside the Consortium, rot that, despite being excised, continued to have an impact across all departments within the organisation. Businessman and museum owner Milton Foley had died of a heart attack on his way to court late last month. Julius Taittinger sat awaiting trial at the Santa Fe New Mexico County detention facility. Kitt set his left palm on the table and tapped two stubby fingers missing fingernails and top knuckles. “What did Bleuville have to say about those forgeries?”
“The AIVD is sending someone to the New Mexico Women’s Correctional Facility to talk to Bleuville today, Major,” Llewelyn said, eyes still blazing. “I know you’d have preferred to have had the chance to speak with her yourself, but seeing as you are no longer an active field agent, that is not an option.”
Kitt’s head tilted to one side. “One can’t always get what one wants,” he said
and took the tablet Morland handed him. He scanned the AIVD’s courtesy report on the screen, found the essential information. “The Americans think this is connected to the Enrico Cartel.”
“I understand Bleuville tried to kill you earlier this year, Major,” Saltzman said.
Kitt went on reading what was on the screen. “Walter Moloney tried to kill me. Bleuville tried to kill my butler,” he said lifting his head from some rather interesting information concerning missing paintings and stolen crocus bulbs.
“How fortunate she failed,” Saltzman said. “Would have been a pity it to lose someone who bakes you such delectable-looking Chelsea buns.” Grey eyes fixed on Kitt, he tapped the table, the tik-tik-tik of one long fingernail a metronome beat. “Yes, this is most certainly your catch, Brigadier. I’ll reiterate that to the Commissioner.”
“Thank you. Anything else you’d care to add, Major?” Llewelyn sipped his coffee.
Kitt passed the tablet back to Morland. “I see Charteris is set to meet with Jan Vlaming, during his aunt’s annual garden party. Meeting Vlaming sooner would be better.” Kitt paused for a moment. “Are you considering sending me to The Netherlands with Charteris, sir?”
“I can’t send AC Saltzman along with them, now can I, Major? This is a perfect opportunity for you to continue Captain Eaton’s training. I’ve sent Eaton to collect Charteris this morning. They’re on their way. Morland’s arranged your flights. You leave at one o’clock. Bryce will take over support from here.”
Saltzman, clearly believing he’d be part of the action, scowled, which released a hit of dopamine in Kitt’s brain. He felt the left corner of his mouth tip upwards. It was only an interview, one that unchained him from a desk and paperwork for a little while?
“A smile, Major?” Llewelyn smoothed his moustache again. “One would think that after almost dying in the line of duty last year, you’d be pleased to be our top instructor, and out of the field.”
True to Your Service Page 2
