The Namedropper
Brian Freemantle
To Charlotte and Will
And of course to Eliza Bunny, with so much love
I am indebited to Dr Matthew Dryden, MD, FRCpath, FRGS, for his medical guidance and advice on the sexually transmitted conditions discussed in this book. Any errors reflect my lack of understanding, not Dr Dryden’s outstanding knowledge and patience in trying to prevent my making such mistakes.
Author’s Note
Divorce legislation differs from state to state in the USA. In a minority of states there still exists on statute books claims, not just for alienation of affection, but also for engaging in criminal conversation – shy, early American nice speak for adultery. North Carolina is one such state. Others include Hawaii, Utah, Illinois, Mississippi, New Mexico and South Dakota. If a divorce court jury in such states can be persuaded that a spouse’s affections were alienated by he or she engaging in criminal conversation with a cited defendant, that defendant is liable for financial damages, sometimes punitive, that in recent years have exceeded a million dollars.
There are many law enforcement agencies that consider the phrase ‘identity theft’ to be nice speak for today’s fastest growing crime in the developed world; dismissed by those who have not yet been affected by it to be a victimless crime because banks and financial institutions most often bear the cost of those against whom the fraud is committed. The US Federal Trade Commission has estimated the annual profit of identity thieves in America to be $53 billion a year. British fraud protection services dismiss as a gross underestimate a 2002 Cabinet Office study estimating the UK cost at £1.3 billion a year.
One
Harvey Jordan always chose an aisle seat, disinterested in looking out at ploughed clouds at 35,000 feet, so it wasn’t until the plane banked over the sea for its customary descent into Nice that he got his first sight of the boat-sailed-and-propeller-spumed Mediterranean and, coming rapidly closer, the regimented squads of private jets parked at ease on their parade ground. As always on his arrival in such a familiar, welcoming environment, in which he could, unusually, be Harvey Jordan, there was the immediate and professional recognition of the easy and openly available opportunities spread out before him even before getting off the aircraft. Just as quickly came the objective refusal. As Harvey Jordan, the genuine name by which he had been christened and officially registered in St Michael and All Angels in Paddington forty years ago, this was forbidden ground, a positively prohibited working zone. He was legally – and therefore necessarily above suspicion – Harvey Jordan. And this was a vacation, even though he considered what he now did for a living more a permanent holiday than work.
But it was work and the living had been good, very good indeed. So far this year Jordan had operated twice in New York, once in Los Angeles and three times in London. Currently the profit was nudging £600,000 – with no irritating pre or after tax qualifications – and he’d already planned three new hits when he got back from France, which should comfortably take his income beyond the million. The only uncertainty was whether to try to fit in something else after that, which couldn’t be decided until he got to the end of his carefully calculated schedule.
Jordan ignored the scrambling-to-stand bustle behind the business class separation the moment the plane stopped, smiling his thanks at the flight attendant’s approach with his carry-on luggage, and instinctively allowed three of the other passengers in the section to disembark ahead of him. Just as instinctively he isolated the CCTV cameras inside the terminal, again immersing himself among the concealment of preceding arrival passengers. With no checked-in luggage to collect Jordan passed unchallenged through the customs hall, smiling expectantly at the time-consuming melee around the car rental desks. The Nice city bus left within minutes of his boarding and it cost a ten Euro tip for the driver to make an unscheduled stop directly outside the Negresco hotel.
The concierge smiled in recognition at Jordan’s entry, took his luggage and assured him the pre-booked hire car was waiting in its parking space. The primed duty manager was already at the reception desk by the time Jordan reached it, the registration only needing Jordan’s unaccustomed but genuine signature.
‘Only staying two nights this time, Mr Jordan?’ said the duty manager.
‘Moving around, as always. I might ask to come back while I’m in the area,’ said Jordan, who rarely made any long term commitment.
‘There’s always accommodation available for regular guests,’ smiled the man in reply.
‘I know,’ Jordan said and smiled back. It was refreshing, and the purpose of his vacations, to be able to relax and be recognized for who he really was and not to have to constantly remember and react to the identity he had assumed.
Two
That afternoon, as he always did upon relocating to different towns or cities no matter how well he already knew them, Jordan set out to re-orientate himself. Jordan operated to a number of self-invented and imposed rules, one of which was never to take anything for granted, no matter how familiar or predictable the situation or surroundings. Before quitting the hotel he put the intrusion traps in place in his sea-fronting suite, hanging his clothes with pocket flaps and trouser lengths arranged in such a way, and shirts in such an order in partially withdrawn or fully closed drawers, that he would have known instantly if they had been disturbed during his absence. Downstairs at the caisse he rented a safe deposit facility for the bulk of his money, genuine passport, standby Letter of Credit and emergencies-only – again genuine – credit cards: like most successful professional thieves, Harvey Jordan took the greatest care protecting his own finances and possessions. He’d lost everything, including a wife, once and was determined never to do so again.
The most necessary and basic essentials put into force, Jordan strolled into the town as far as the railway station, reestablishing its layout in his mind and isolating new constructions and shops since his last visit. He walked in a gradual familiarizing loop via the park to a corner cafe he’d enjoyed during a previous visit for coffee and pastries. Gazing out over the sun-starred water he calculated that it would only take three months – four at the most – for his last victim, a flamboyant, frequently gossip-columned London investment banker, to restore his credit rating. Harvey Jordan prided himself upon his Robin Hood integrity, always establishing the financial resources of those whose identity he stole and used. Another working rule was that, with only ever one exception, he never stripped them to the monetary bone, as he had been stripped with pirhrana-like efficiency. It had taken Harvey Jordan two years, after crawling almost literally out of the vomit-ridden gutter, to discover the identity of the man who had first stolen his identity and along with it his legitimate computer programming business. Then it took a further year, using the man’s genuine identity, to recover financially everything, and more, of what had been taken from him. He hadn’t, of course, been able to recover Rebecca. Or the bankrupt business. It was a matter of integrity, he reassured himself, that, having personally learned it the hardest way imaginable, he provided a very necessary lesson to those from whom he stole to never again be so careless with their personal details and information. It wouldn’t, Jordan knew, be a defence if he were ever caught – which he was equally determined never to be – but he considered the money he took not so much illegally obtained as justifiable and well-earned tuition fees. If he didn’t do it who else was there to teach them?
In the early evening Jordan drove the anonymous rented Renault to Monaco and ate at one of his favourite restaurants in the principality, a specialist fish bistro overlooking the harbour and the pink-painted royal palace, and afterwards climbed the hill for coffee and brandy on the Hotel de Paris terrace, watching the early arrivals at
the casino. Jordan himself crossed the square just after ten and bought £5,000 worth of chips; on holiday, just as when he was following his chosen profession, tax exempting casino winning receipts legally proved his income legitimately came from gambling. He started out with chemin de fer, and at the end of an hour he was showing a profit of £1,500, which he much more quickly quadrupled at the roulette table.
Throughout Jordan remained constantly alert to everything and everyone around him, twice moving to a different position at the roulette table to prevent people getting close enough to either pickpocket or steal his chips, even though he was confident he would have instantly detected any attempt at either. The need, as always, was to avoid attracting attention. He was aware, too, of two unaccompanied women who had seen his success at the card table and were now attentively standing on the other side of the roulette wheel; he identified both – professional recognizing professional – as working girls. He decided against either this early on in his vacation. Because of how he lived, Jordan accepted that any permanent relationship – certainly another marriage – was impossible but sex was as essential as the best food and finest hotels during such periods of necessary relaxation. But Jordan preferred equally casual but uninvolving holiday romances to financial practitioners, no matter how adept. There was often an added frisson from amateur enthusiasm.
Jordan concluded his evening just before midnight with a profit of £2,500, the essential casino receipt confirming the gambling winnings for later tax submission proof, and a feeling of total satisfaction at his first, non-working day for three months. He decided it was an omen that aurgured well for the rest of the trip.
Which it proved to be.
As he drove the following day into the mountain hills to St Paul de Vence, he decided to extend his stay in Nice, to allow more time to re-explore the surrounding countryside, momentarily doubting his decision when he reached the village which was full of too many milling, jostling tourists in very narrow streets. The uncertainty seeped away when he reached the Colombe d’Or to savour both the luncheon menu and the display of original Impressionist art. Jordan considered the small Chagall, protectively stored in one of his well hidden bank vaults, probably the best investment he’d ever made. Twice, once in London and again during his most recent New York expedition, he’d felt sufficiently confident of his specific Impressionist knowledge to have successfully passed himself off as an expert on the subject under two separately assumed identities.
Jordan telephoned the hotel from the Colombe d’Or to lengthen his stay in Nice and to alter the already confirmed reservation in Cannes – because Jordan never did anything even as mundane as moving from one place to another without guaranteeing the most appropriate accommodation – sure there would be no difficulty in his arranging either, which there wasn’t. The years – and the period had been years, not months – over which Jordan had worked to protect and preserve his now near perfect existence was finally paying the highest dividends and it was a good feeling he wanted always to preserve.
That night’s gambling was at the Beaulieu casino in which Jordan finished £4,800 ahead, which provided another useful tax receipt. An equally satisfying success was in confirming his previous night’s judgement; there was a mutual facial recognition between both of them. She was the second of the two professionals he’d isolated in Monaco, tonight’s simple black tube dress, the only jewellery a single rope of pearls, better showing off both her figure and blonde attractiveness than the earlier more full skirted red. She smiled at their initial eye contact and he briefly nodded back in acknowledgement. She made her approach – as Jordan had anticipated she would – when he was having his farewell brandy, after he’d cashed up.
‘You gamble well,’ she opened.
‘Luckily,’ Jordan qualified. ‘How did you know I was English?’ Such attention to detail was always important.
‘You talked more in English than French to the croupier.’ Her own minimal accent wasn’t French.
‘And you don’t gamble. You didn’t last night. Or tonight.’ He wanted to establish his own awareness.
‘Not at the tables.’ She slightly moved the chair at which she was standing. ‘May I join you?’
Jordan nodded, politely rising as she sat. ‘You’d like champagne?’
‘That would be very pleasant. My name is Ghilane.’
‘John,’ responded Jordan, gesturing for a waiter. It was the christian name of his most recent victim and that to which he was therefore most accustomed. It would have been unthinkable – amatuerish – to have given her his real name even though this was going to be the most fleeting of encounters.
‘You are here on vacation, John?’
Jordan hesitated, while her wine was served. ‘I enjoy the South of France.’
‘So you know it well?’
‘Well enough.’ He wondered by how much the fulness of her breasts was helped by the uplift of her bra, but decided against paying to find out.
She grimaced extravagantly, pulling down the corners of her mouth. ‘Which means I can’t offer to show you places you haven’t seen before?’
She was very good and very enticing, acknowledged Jordan. Refusing the heavily intended double entendre, he said, ‘It’s quite late.’
‘Not too late to be too tired,’ she misunderstood.
‘I was thinking of you.’
‘As I was, of you.’
‘An hour from now only sad loss-chasers will still be here, without any money left. I don’t want it to be a lost evening for you.’
Her face tightened imperceptibly but quickly relaxed, opening into a smile. ‘You sure about that?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I don’t usually get a response like this: get so immediately recognized like this. I think we could have had fun together -more interesting fun than normal for both of us.’
‘I’m sure we could,’ said Jordan, meaning it but at the same time discomfited by her reaction to his rejection. He’d never known a hooker anywhere in the world – and he’d known enough in a lot of the world – who wasn’t or didn’t easily become a willing police informant to protect themself. Which, professionally again, he totally understood and accepted.
‘You’re right,’ said Ghilane, looking briefly around her. ‘It is late and there’s a lot of desperately perspiring men around the tables. Maybe tomorrow night will turn out better.’
Jordan knew she hadn’t given up and admired her for it. He touched her champagne flute with his brandy snifter and said, ‘Here’s to a more successful tomorrow.’
‘But not with you?’
‘But not with me,’ echoed Jordan. It had been a passing, even entertaining interlude but it was time it ended.
‘Perhaps I’ll see you again? I’m often here or in Monaco.’
‘I’m moving on tomorrow,’ said Jordan, gesturing for his bill.
She shrugged, philosophically. ‘My loss.’
‘Both our loss,’ said Jordan, gallantly.
Jordan’s excursion the following day took him away from the coast, just beyond Mougins to where Picasso once crafted his ceramics, of which there were still a lot of photographs but with most of which Jordan was unimpressed, as he was with some, although by no means all, of the artist’s various period experimentation, particularly Picasso’s female genitalia obsession. The eating choice had obviously to be the Moulin de Mougins, even though Jordan knew the legend of Picasso settling bills there with sketches instead of cash to be untrue.
Jordan didn’t hurry the short descent to the Carlton at Cannes, timing his arrival perfectly for a late lunch on the terrace, although as far back from the traffic-thronged promenade as possible, his placement perfect for when the heat went out of the day. He wasn’t aware of her when he first sat, but almost at once registered the carefully page-marked but set aside book, as well as the solitaire engagement ring he conservatively estimated to be at least five carats overwhelming the surprisingly slim adjoining wedding band. She was remarka
bly similar to the blonde-haired, heavily busted girl who had called herself Ghilane, although younger, probably little more than thirty. There was a handbag too small to contain a cell phone, a protective, wide-brimmed hat on the same side chair as the discarded book, no longer necessary because of the table umbrella, the shade of which made it impossible for Jordan to make out her features. Despite the shade, she still wore sunglasses. She was already on her coffee, the single glass of wine only half drunk. Jordan smiled when she turned to look across the intervening four tables in his direction. He could see enough of her face to know that she didn’t smile back but looked immediately away, towards the sea.
Time to move on from Impressionists, Jordan concluded. It really was developing into the sort of vacation he’d hoped it would be, as in previous years it had invariably proved to be.
Three
Over months, eventually stretching into years, Harvey Jordan had learned every trick and manoeuvre to access, uncover and utilize the identity of unwitting victims, none of which had to be employed to discover all he needed to know about the blonde, disdainful woman. This was pleasure, an amusement to pass the afternoon, not work upon which he had to concentrate. Directly after making his deposit box arrangements and setting the intrusion traps in his suite, Jordan quit the Carlton to stroll along the Croisette towards the port to indicate his own disinterest, although frequently pausing to ensure that she was not coincidentally taking the same exercise behind him, wanting the intended encounter to be at his choosing, not by accident.
Using his knowledge of the hotel, he timed his return to the Carlton for the beginning of their afternoon tea service, confident that he entered the lounge without her awareness and gained a seat sufficiently close behind her to easily overhear the waiter address her as ‘Madam Appleton’ and to detect the American accent when she ordered. He was also close enough to see that the book in which she was now engrossed was Pride and Prejudice. Jordan declined tea himself, needing to be in position in the lobby. He didn’t hurry selecting the right place, disappointed there wasn’t an unobtrusive spot from which he had a complete view of the room-key pigeon holes as well as a sufficient warning of her approach into the lounge. He settled for the best available combination and hid himself behind the Herald Tribune, raising it higher at the first sight of her before she actually came into the reception area. He was doubly lucky as she did precisely what he’d hoped by going straight to the desk for her key, which Jordan immediately recognized to be at the suite level upon which he had his own, five rooms further along the same corridor; an unexpected but welcome bonus. Because he was not working and sought recognition, rather than his usual anonymity, Jordan had ensured his immediate acknowledgement by heavily tipping upon his arrival the valet parking supervisor at the top of the hotel’s sweeping entrance into the underground facility, and so was greeted by name as he approached. Knowing from his previous visits that vehicle spaces were allocated by room number he gave that of the woman, not his own, shaking his head when the supervisor frowned as he looked up from his occupation list and said, ‘That’s Mrs Appleton’s suite? She doesn’t have a car here.’
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