“Of course,” Paul replied. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
“That intrusion into your office falls under The Met’s jurisdiction, of course,” Richard said. “But the suspected mole and security breaches in the House of Lords are MI5’s concern. Briefly, MI5’s mandate is the security of classified information, and The Met’s is the physical safety of the people and the place.
“That’s why any connection between the syndicate and the mole makes it a matter of interest to both of us,” Ken said.
Richard turned to Paul, “We have reason to believe the mole may have breached a top-level security committee, perhaps even your security committee, or may be a trusted member of the support staff. You can well imagine that if organized crime were to gain access to our security intelligence... well, the consequences could be catastrophic.
“Paul, you’re ideally positioned. You have unfettered access to the House of Lords, and your presence would be unobtrusive as you go about your business.”
“Like I said,” Paul replied. “I’m available to assist you in any way I can.”
Ken and Richard exchanged glances and nodded.
Richard looked at his watch. “I’ve an appointment shortly,” he said, standing. “I rather think we’re done here for today, right?”
“Quite,” Ken said. He and Paul stood. “Oh, Paul,” Ken said. “If you can spare a bit more time I’d like to go over a few other things to bring you up to speed.”
“That’s a good idea, I should think” Richard said as he left.
Ken closed his office door. “We have gathered more information regarding Mrs. Meriwether,” he said.
Paul interjected: “Could it be possible that she’s working with Richard on something you’re not aware of?”
“That’s unlikely,” Ken replied. “MI5 takes a dim view of couples working together. That would be against regulations.”
“Is there someone you should call at MI5 about this?”
“I’m afraid not. First, Richard is MI5’s liaison with The Met, and second, going over his head would cause difficulties with several important things he’s working on with us, and would very likely compromise his position at MI5.”
“This is getting more bizarre by the day,” Paul said. “Is there anything further you can share with me about Agnes?”
“As you know,” Ken said. “The man she’s been seen with is the leader of Ahmad Mousavi’s old gang. He is the gang’s key contact with the Turkish smuggling syndicate. That’s allowed him to stuff a lot of money into his custom-made pants, giving him a rather upscale lifestyle. He’s been using that lifestyle to work his way into the inner circles of several powerful people in business and in government, and doing all of this we believe with the help of Mrs. Meriwether and her cronies. We’re quite certain she’s been making introductions for him with influential people she knows, his goal being to compromise them into helping him or looking the other way when he finds it useful. Furthermore, he and Mrs. Meriwether have been seen together often enough that our CI believes they may be lovers as well as collaborators.”
Paul looked back in disappointed silence.
“It’s all rather awkward and quite frankly, tragic,” Ken continued. “I know Richard much better than I’ve been letting on, as you’ve likely surmised. He’s a valuable asset to the United Kingdom, and has been for decades. This could destroy him emotionally, as well as his usefulness and his future. I regret placing this burden on you, Paul, but we need you in the loop with the investigations by The Met as well as by MI5. If I may, I must remind you once again to not breathe a word of this to Lady Anne for the time being.”
Paul shook his head in dismay.
“Damn it, Ken!” he said. “I hate having to keep this from Anne. We vowed to be completely honest with each other. What’s more, Richard has every right to know.”
“Not for the moment he doesn’t, and definitely not from you!” Ken said. His tone of authority and manner revealed his years in law enforcement leadership. “Furthermore, I need you to make every effort possible to avoid bumping into Mrs. Meriwether by accident while she is in the company of that man. That could blow everything.”
“How so?” Paul asked.
“A few of the restaurants she frequents with him are ones that you and your fellow Lords use quite often. Please make certain she doesn’t see you when she’s with that man, in those places or anywhere else.”
***
That Evening
Richard’s Den
Dinner had just ended minutes earlier at the Meriwether’s. Anne and Paul had announced they were expecting. Agnes was ecstatic. It had been a time for celebration, although Paul found it difficult to focus solely on the highlight of the evening.
The customary tension between he and Agnes seemed stronger than usual, and it made him wonder. Right from the moment Anne had introduced him to her parents, four years earlier, Agnes had been as aloof as Richard was welcoming. Anne had told him that her mother was excited about her daughter marrying someone with a vice-regal title, but admitted that Agnes felt Paul’s lack of upbringing and education in the UK had rendered him not suitable for her daughter in her eyes... Agnes loved the title but not the man.
After dinner, while Agnes set about extracting all of the finer details from Anne, the two men retreated to Richard’s den.
Over snifters of brandy, Richard asked, “May I ask what Ken wanted to brief you on about The Met?”
“Mostly it was background and operating procedures,” Paul said. “Stuff I expect you know already.”
Richard nodded.
Paul shifted uneasily in his chair. He felt uncomfortable lying to Richard, that his wife of almost four decades was not only under surveillance by The Met and the security agency that he served, but that she appeared to be having an affair with a suspected criminal and espionage risk.
Worse yet, Paul was feeling pressure at home over the dilemma. He had a deep respect for Anne’s intuition... she’d already sensed that something was amiss with him. Furthermore, once he was able to tell her, he knew that all of their family relationships could be changed forever. He feared most of all that keeping the secret from her might destroy their bond of trust. He was not looking forward to finding out.
Chapter Four
Earnscliffe
“Anne, that young fellow I told you about, Ahmed Mousavi, got me thinking,” Paul said.
“What about?” she replied.
“He doesn’t have parents... he’s been living like an orphan, on the streets. His mother’s dead, and his father’s in jail. Ahmed has no support system... no family, no money, no prospects, no hope, and the only people he knows are criminals. What’s more he’s a very bright young man. What better ingredients for a life of crime? Makes me wonder how many thousands of others are just like him.”
Anne’s warm hazel eyes sparkled with affection as she looked up at his tanned face. Paul’s heart raced. She shook her light brown shoulder length hair and said, “You’re up to something, Paul Winston. I know it. Come on, what is it?”
“You know Anne, we really don’t know much about that part of our society,” Paul said. “About people struggling to survive in the world... about poverty and all the other issues that drive people to commit crimes.”
So far he’d been able to divert her questions when she kept asking whether anything was troubling him. He’d bring up diversions, like concerns about her morning sickness and about working to get Ahmed into an educational program that challenged his considerable abilities. Mercifully, he’d recently found opportunities for diversions in a passion they shared.
“Here we are sitting on piles of money we didn’t earn,” Paul added. “Good heavens, Uncle Percy left me... us... more than $350 million US in cash, plus securities and income properties that’ll keep us living very well for life. Yet hundreds of thousands of people in England alone, maybe millions, are struggling just to get a meal and shelter. It’s embarrassing, Anne.”
&n
bsp; “Let me guess, my love,” she said. “You have more on your mind than young Ahmed?”
“Yes indeed,” he replied. A smile lit his face. “I think we should consider mentoring young Mousavi. But I have something else I want to suggest. I heard about a homeless shelter in London called St. Mungo’s. More than twenty-six hundred people a night rely on it for beds and meals! Good grief, twenty-six hundred every night! St. Mungo’s is looking for volunteers to serve at their Harvest Festival dinner. Would you like to go?”
“Sure!” Anne said.
Paul was delighted to see her eyes light up with enthusiasm.
“We’ll take Doug too,” she added. “He needs to learn how fortunate he is. When do we sign up?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Good!”
Chapter Five
Five Weeks Later
St. Mungo’s
“Thank you ever so much, Lord and Lady Winston, for attending our Harvest Festival Dinner,” the manager said.
They were standing before a crowd of more than eight hundred diners.
“It’s wonderful you were able to find time to help serve our guests. And thank you also for your donation to cover the costs. We’re very grateful indeed for your generosity!”
“It’s a privilege,” Paul replied.
Julian Lewis shook their hands profusely as the room full of homeless individuals and families looked on, offering polite applause but obviously more interested in the dessert and tea being served. They were the third shift of diners at the Harvest Festival that night.
Julian, the manager of St. Mungo’s, along with Paul and Anne were standing on a raised platform. Doug had declined to join them. He insisted on staying with a boy he’d befriended.
Julian was clearly aware television news cameras were rolling as he spoke passionately about the need for more homeless shelters and for programs to help people escape from the clutches of poverty.
When the television news lights went off, Julian took his cue and concluded, releasing Paul and Anne from the spotlight.
On their way home, Paul asked, “What did you think of the dinner?”
Before his mother could answer, Doug interrupted from the back seat.
“Derek has never played football!” he said, referring to the friend he’d made. “He doesn’t even have a football. That’s awful, Dad. I really feel badly for him. Can we get him one?”
“I’m glad we helped out,” Anne said. “I want to do something like that again, and more. It’s just... can we find ways of helping people without all that fuss?”
“I agree,” Paul said. “The fact is, though, St. Mungo’s and other charities need high profile people to attract media coverage. It helps them raise money they desperately need. A few of my titled colleagues would enjoy that exposure. I’ll ask them to get involved.”
“Can I get that football for Derek?” Doug persisted.
“Yes,” Paul said. “We’ll go shopping right after school tomorrow. Okay?”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Paul never tired of hearing Doug call him ‘Dad’. The boy, seven, had been a toddler when Paul first met Anne. His biological father was a British Army officer killed in Iraq before Doug was born.
Chapter Six
Five Months Later
Earnscliffe
“Look at me, Paul,” Anne said laughing, rolling over in bed and displaying her large belly, now seven and a half months pregnant. Come on now, you being a very handsome and very sexy undercover agent... what do you think of this?”
“I only agreed to help them,” Paul corrected her, smiling. “Staying alert for your dad and Ken Hagerman. It’s hardly undercover work.”
“You’re right,” Anne replied. “As you know rather intimately my love, the only undercover work I want is right here in bed with you... and I must say, that wonderful activity gave us this.”
She patted her belly.
“Yup,” Paul said. “I confess... that’s my favorite kind of undercover work, too.”
He reached beneath the covers, slipping his hand under her nighty and over her belly, feeling movements from the baby. He relished the excitement of becoming a father.
“So, my love,” Anne said. “Are you getting any closer to identifying that mole in the House of Lords, if there is one?”
“We’ve found little thus far,” Paul said, uneasy at the focus of her questions. “At least it’s making life a bit more interesting amid the routine and all of that pomp and ceremonial claptrap.”
“Enough of this romantic stuff!” Anne said.
Paul’s emotions rose as he pulled her closer to him. His right hand began to roam her fit young albeit pregnant body, just as he knew she’d want him to.
“I guess we should get in some practice for the next baby,” he said, his yearning obvious. “If we keep at it, we just might get it right one day.”
“What’s keeping you?” Anne said. “Practice, practice, practice, your lordship! You’d better get on with it.”
“Literally,” they both said together, laughing.
It was time to make love.
Chapter Seven
Westland Place
London
“There’s a call for you on line one, My Lord. A woman... says you’re a personal friend from America. Wouldn’t give her name. Do you wish to take it?”
Mrs. Shackleford’s crisp voice resonated from the intercom.
“Sure, Mrs. Shackleford,” Paul replied.
He disliked having his calls screened but accepted the necessity.
“Paul Winston, here,” he said into the phone.
“Paul!” the female voice said breathlessly. “It’s so wonderful to hear your voice. I’m in London and dying to see y’all agin. I’m at a B&B. It’s v-e-r-y cozy. How soon kin y’all come by and have a drink with me?”
“Who is this?” Paul said.
“Paul!” the voice replied with a contrived tone of hurt disappointment. “It’s Pam! Pamela Milliken... from Pueblo, Colorado. Don’t y’all remember me... after all we had together?”
“Hello, Pamela,” Paul said coldly. “How are you doing?” A sense of foreboding washed over him. “Someone told me you got married a few years ago. Congratulations. What brings you to England?”
“You do, silly!” Pam replied. “You brought me right here, straight to you! I’ve a surprise for y’all. Come by my B&B tonight and I’ll tell ya a-a-l-l-l about it. And then, well, we kin get comfortable an’ do whatever... ya know... like we used ta. I kin make it worth your while!”
She giggled and breathed passionately into the phone.
“Pamela,” Paul said. “That won’t happen. I’m married. My wife and I have a son and a baby on the way.”
“I’m not,” Pam said. “Not married anymore, I ain’t. Donald and I divorced over two years ago. I’m usin’ my maiden name again. I’ve a six-year-old daughter to support on my own, Paul. She’s your daughter, ya know!”
“What?” Paul said. “What do you mean, my daughter? That’s not possible.”
“Don’t y’all remember that wonderful cookout ya took me to at your friend’s ranch?” Pamela said. “Me and you, we sure had a great time. My God, y’all surely were a beast in bed!”
Paul frantically searched his memory. The only recollection he had of Pamela was of a blind date at a party arranged by a friend, a neighboring rancher. It was their only encounter. That brief time with her, fully clothed, had been more than enough.
His memory flashed back to the days when he dated many young women. He’d been popular—with movie star good looks, an easy-going manner, and a strong sense of integrity, virtues he’d been criticized for and kidded about for years. He knew also it didn’t hurt that he was heir to a successful five thousand-acre cattle ranch and to a modest business empire. Pamela was not among the women he’d dated in high school or while studying economics at the University of Colorado.
Paul also recalled that during a break from his MBA studies at Harvard, h
is friend Ben Rodriguez had invited him to a party. He chose to attend solo. The booze flowed freely. Friends admitted they’d arranged for Pamela to be a surprise blind date. Paul was not pleased. Images popped into mind of how she’d become drunk, much to his dismay, and tried to seduce him in front of the others.
He also remembered vividly going home early that evening, without Pamela. He’d tried to find her to tell her but couldn’t. Other guests reported seeing her disappear upstairs with another man. Paul decided she’d have to catch a ride back home with whoever had brought her.
Pamela broke into his recollections. “Maybe your lovely wife would be interested in my surprise, too,” she said with a menacing tone. “And perhaps your little wife would like to have a look at the paternity papers. They have your name on them!”
“You must be mistaking me for someone else,” Paul said, his anger growing. “We were never intimate. As I recall, we met at a party, not on a date, and I went home early, alone.”
“That’s not how I remember it, Paulie,” Pamela said. “Y’all must remember, that wonderful... shall I say... soiree together!”
“Enough of this, Pamela,” Paul said. “I would strongly encourage you to return home to America. This ruse of yours is not going to work. It was a terrible mistake on your part!”
“Don’t y’all hang up on me, ya hear!” Pamela shouted. “Just ‘cause y’all are some kinda high-an-mighty lord, and filthy rich, don’t mean you kin flip me off... don’t mean you kin escape your obligations. Y’all are gonna to do what’s right, for me and for your daughter. Mark my words!”
She hung up.
Good grief! Paul thought. Gold diggers keep on popping out of the woodwork. This is the last damned thing I need right now... Anne’s mother and now this. Shit!
Secret Shepherd Page 3
