‘It's wonderful to see you Dirk,’ smarmed Ann, who had other things on her mind – although a quick romp with Dirk wouldn't go amiss.
‘You too, Ann. I was so surprised to receive your e-mail. I’ve been following the bloody terrible goings-on in Europe very closely. Our family has lost many members – my aunt was in London shopping when the storm broke. I am so relieved that you are well – and deputy Prime Minister I read! My God, how well you’ve done!’
‘Perhaps a little caution Dirk. I'm not here at Ann Fletcher but am using a pseudonym – I don’t want the bloody press disturbing my short break from the debacle that is Brussels!’
Dirk was non-plussed but recovered quickly.
‘Fair enough. I wondered who Ms Carville was!’
‘Thank you, Dirk, I knew you wouldn't be fazed. Now shall we order. I'm happy for you to choose.’
‘Okay, that suits me.’
He touched his nose and a waiter flew to his side, instantly prepared to take the order. Waldorf salad, warm foie-gras and followed by the veal with Chakalaka sauce. They continued to sip the Krug.
During the meal the pair discussed old times, and became quite tipsy as a second bottle was ordered. At three o’clock Dirk called for the bill, and a taxi waited outside to transport the pair to his villa in Bishopscourt, on the outskirts of the city. They approached the giant electronic gates, and the armed guard checked that all was as it should be before permitting entrance.
They settled down in the main drawing room and Dirk poured another drink. This time, gin and tonic with lime – to freshen their palates. They spoke freely and within thirty minutes were entwined in Dirk’s bed, working off the large lunch.
Ann actually enjoyed herself, but had one eye on the clock and after two fairly vigourous sessions, pendulous breasts bared and nipples still erect, she sat back and broached the subject she’d flown all this way to discuss.
‘Dirk, how’s business? Are you as rich and powerful as everyone seems to think?’
Dirk was slightly puzzled by Ann’s question, but then guessed that she might be laying the ground for an inverse marriage proposal – perhaps she was just doing her research. He lived in eternal hope where Ann was concerned!
‘Business is good, Ann. In fact, we’ve leased five ships to the British during the crisis. However, like most international concerns, we are property rich and relatively cash poor. I'm not in penury but I can't afford to run a yacht or a private jet! I’ll have to wait a few years for that! – although, I can lay my hands on a fair bit of cash if the need arises.’
Ann smiled. ‘Perfect’, she mused inwardly.
‘Surely you’re not going to go on working for another thirty years! Life’s far too short for that. Just ask fifty-five million Britons!’
Dirk gave her a sharp look bordering on disdain – but acknowledged her sentiments with some resignation in his tone.
‘Yes, I see what you mean, but what else am I to do? Some people might call me extremely fortunate. I should really thank my lucky stars. I'm not ungrateful.’
‘That's all well and good, Dirk, but for God’s sake, we could all do with a bit more – couldn’t we?’
Dirk was now becoming intrigued.
‘What are you getting at, Ann?’
Ann was cautious.
‘Before I explain fully, can I ask if you still maintain the network of ‘underground’ contacts in finance and business?’
‘I don’t know what you mean?’
‘Oh come on Dirk, what do you think we do in British Intelligence – go to the Ritz for tea parties. Don’t try it on with me, matey!’
‘Okay, okay. I might have the odd contact who can deal with those things that would otherwise be too difficult. It's a fact of life. But I'm not beholden to them. I'm a free agent. I don’t owe anybody anything.’
Ann was relieved, and began to stroke her right beast provocatively:
‘Glad to hear it Dirk. Well, now perhaps I can present my proposals. If you decline, no hard feelings and we’ll get back to business in the bedroom either way. However, you may be very interested in what I've got to say. However, can I rely on your absolute discretion whatever way you decide to jump. I need your word!’
Dirk gave her comments a few seconds to sink in before replying. He was not one to give his word lightly:
‘You have it Ann, I'm all ears. Speak your piece.’
‘How would you like to make a lot of money, Dirk? In fact, more money than you could ever sensibly spend!’
***
An hour later, Dirk Koopman sat in utter silence – but not in disbelief.
The proposal was simple, possible and almost fool-proof. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity. A lot of organisation was required in a short space of time, but he had the resources and contacts to achieve their aims.
He tried desperately to think of reasons why not to do it.
He questioned her relentlessly for nearly an hour and was staggered by the simplicity of her plan. There would have to be an ‘enormous’ cock-up for it to fail. Ann had thought of all possibilities, pitfalls and potential errors.
There was nothing to stop them making a great deal of money and it was truly a once in a lifetime opportunity.
He agreed to the plan and they went back to bed.
Dirk had always been extremely keen on Ann, and she knew it. She allowed him to do anything he liked in the bedroom, in order to manipulate his future actions. When he'd finished, and he lay on the bed, gasping for breath after pumping endlessly into Ann's willing pussy - and other secret places – she knelt over him, large melon shaped breasts dangling close to his face as he almost hyperventilated with the effort. One hand was on his chest, attempting to calm Dirk, whist the other grasped his limp and sticky penis.
‘If this all goes to plan, Dirk, you never know, I might well return to Cape Town and try settling down.’ She lied easily and confidently as a result of years of practice.
Dirk opened his eyes and smiled. It was exactly what he wanted….and she damned well knew it.
‘In that case, the plan will definitely succeed. I guarantee it!’ He was her eternal slave, and Ann was now certain that, under no circumstances, would he ever let her down. The promise and draw of carnal pleasure was just too strong
She had no reason to worry about Dirk Koopman.
So, she decided to take her own share of the pleasure, having just serviced Dirk for twenty minutes, and swung a leg over his prostrate torso and thrust her dripping clitoris into his willing face, and five minutes later she was arching her back in ecstatic orgasm, Dirk’s finger plunging deep into her anus.
It wasn’t purely the sex; it was the sense of utter power that she wielded over the frailty and lasciviousness of the weaker gender – as she considered man to be.
The next morning, after going through the strategy one more time, they worked out the fine detail, until nothing was left to chance. Dirk was under no illusions as to his responsibilities. The timetable was tight – but eminently possible.
Ann’s flight was due to depart at 11am and would fly direct to Amsterdam. It would get her back into the Prime Minister’s office just before midnight GMT.
Dirk drove his new partner in crime to the airport after one final ‘quickie’ inspired by the thrill of the enterprise on which they would shortly embark. As Ann’s Boeing 777 trundled down the Cape Town runway, she smiled to herself, once again dressed as Helga Carville. She would have to trust this man – she had to. But in the final analysis – if they were caught – it would be Dirk who took the fall.
Ann Fletcher’s reputation would remain untarnished.
And that was the beauty of the scheme.
***
Ross Bryant stepped into the office of the PA to Ann Fletcher, having received his explicit and unequivocal orders for the mission ahead. Eleanor Fisher sat behind her own desk, attending to urgent administrative matters pertaining to her boss’s duties. However, she broke off, smiled insipidly, an
d stood up to greet Ross and handed him another, larger envelope and matter of factly passed on his travel details.
Eleanor, although only forty-five, was a dyed in the wool ‘old maid’. She had only two interests – her work and Ann Fletcher, and not necessarily in that order. She never flirted with the myriad of men who visited the office, although she was an intelligent, attractive, trendily-dressed and slim brunette, who would have been an excellent catch for any prospective politician. The perfect trophy wife in fact – because that was all most of them wanted - but Eleanor saw through all of the shallow attempted philandering by the men she encountered, and merely ignored them. They didn’t deserve her attention.
‘Your interview with Mr Castle is at 1400 hours. She habitually spoke in military terms. A car is waiting outside and will call at your married quarter in order that you can pick up your gear. Good day, Mr Bryant.’
Ross took the envelope, briefly smiled at Ms Fisher (as he correctly assumed she was), and departed without further comment. The car was waiting, engine running, and they called at the married quarter to pick up his bag.
He hadn’t spotted Dame Ann's driver sitting in her car in the Station Commander’s slot, watching him vacate SHQ.
The journey to Brussels took just over two hours as they encountered rush hour traffic on the outskirts. He instructed the driver to drop him in the town centre, where he decided to take brunch before walking over to the UKRA building. He’d read the contact details for the meeting with Richard Castle, whom he assumed was yet another Fletcher disciple. Nevertheless, he'd be cautious – not let his guard down even though Castle was an ex-soldier.
He'd also read the letter of authority presented to him by Dame Ann. It was impressive indeed:
“To Whom It May Concern:
The holder of this document Lt R G Bryant DSO,
service no: F8026150, DOB 25 March 1981
is to be afforded all co-operation, without let or hindrance, unlimited access to locations and documentation, at all security levels, by any member of the United Kingdom Government, Armed or Security Services or Administration (UKRA).
He acts under the specific authority of the Prime Minister, Sir Ian James, and is authorised to act on behalf of the Prime Minister’s Office in all matters.
Signed and witnessed this day etc. etc.”
There was a very impressive seal at the bottom and the notepaper was very easily identifiable as coming from 10 Downing Street. Perhaps Dame Ann wanted to maintain some small link to the past.
Amusingly, there was a note attached with a paperclip indicating that due to the format of the paper and print, the document could not physically be photocopied, and was to be returned intact at the completion of the mission. In addition, it reminded Bryant that he should only use the document ‘in extremis’. He was not to bandy the paper around to all and sundry.
Ross smiled to himself as he destroyed the note and allowed the small pieces to flutter into the early morning rain as they had driven through the Dutch countryside.
The letter was indeed valuable. However, if Castle gave him a decent briefing and cover story, he shouldn’t need to use it. He'd try to photocopy it anyway and that could be attempted at a local photo shop before he met with the politician at 1400. He'd take a snapshot with his phone, and then store the disk and copy away for a rainy day. One never knew when leverage might be necessary.
He ate, completed a few errands and made his way to the new UKRA building, which housed the British administration on twenty- two floors in the centre of Brussels. It had been built with European Parliament funding and was about to be allocated to the Farming Division – but as the snow developed into the disaster it became – it was presented to the British as a perfect base for their governing body – the UKRA. It also kept them confined to one building – which kept the rest of Europe happy.
Richard Castle was housed on the thirteenth floor – no superstitious nonsense was permitted in this building. Ross took the lift and presented himself to the floor receptionist at 13:45, who asked him to take a seat whilst she let Mr Castle know that he was waiting.
The entire area was buzzing with life as admin assistants, secretaries and politicians hustled and bustled about their important business. Ann Fletcher certainly had them on their toes. However, he noticed a distinct weariness in their demeanour – perhaps even a sense of grief and despair which lay just beneath the surface. After all, he surmised, most of these people must have lost friends and relatives in the snow
At precisely 1400, a tall, slim man, smartly dressed, sporting a Guards Regimental tie and greying ever so slightly at the temples, strode up to Ross and introduced himself. Ross had spotted his approach, but remained seated until Castle had revealed his intent.
‘Good afternoon, Lieutenant; Richard Castle, I'm very pleased to meet you.’
Bryant rose and shook hands as they exchanged pleasantries. It was a firm, military handshake, and Castle met his gaze steadily and Ross imagined a twinkle in his eye. This was the first evidence in this building of anything other than despair, which put Ross on his guard even more. There must be something stimulating in this man’s area of influence that caused him to be so cheerful.
‘Please follow me Bryant, we've got a lot to discuss, and I've a three o’clock appointment with the German finance minister.’
Ross said nothing, and followed Castle into his small office and sat in the chair specified.
‘I won't offer you refreshments Bryant; we've got too much to cover and not enough time. I suggest you listen to the brief, try to absorb what you can and keep your questions for the end. I know that Dame Ann rates you very highly – but I don’t really know anything about you – so I will have to take you on trust and the deputy Prime Minister’s recommendation. No offence, old chap…but this operation is pretty high key.’
‘None taken,’ intoned Ross impassively. There was something about this chap he didn’t like. A sort of instinct. He was definitely a ‘wrong-un’ and so Ross would act accordingly.
Castle stared at him for a few seconds, attempting to assess Ross’s character, but soon realised that these SAS types were all a bit stoic.
‘Right then,’ said Castle, ‘let's crack on. Operation Auric. Auric – a term for gold.’
Ross raised his eyebrows in an expression Castle missed.
‘Condescending wanker,’ Ross thought tiredly.
‘I don’t expect you to be up to speed on the intricate details concerning the British economy – or indeed, lack of it, but suffice to say, old chap, it's in a bit of a pickle.’
At this point Ross couldn’t quite work out whether Castle was a complete pratt or was putting on an ‘upper class twit’ act for his benefit. It could well be the latter – so his personal radar went up two more notches. He kept silent and tried to look enthralled.
‘The country is broke. I don’t need to tell you about the conditions at home – you have a very nice ‘gong’ to prove your worthiness. However, you may not have fully grasped the full picture. The UK is going to be uninhabitable for at least twenty years. Since you vacated with Brady and the two youngsters, it has started to rain and severe flooding has commenced. This is causing untold damage to buildings and infrastructure – plus the realisation that not many more survivors are getting out of Dodge - so to speak!
We've managed to pick up thirty thousand survivors or so, but I frankly can't see many more outliving the floods!
However, putting all of that aside for a moment, the main issue now is finance. We owe lots of people lots of money. Some are being patient – but some are not – which is why our German friend will be here in forty-five minutes.
Therefore we – the UKRA that is – need to make some sort of grand and dynamic public gesture or statement which will buy us some time. As a consequence we – that is, Dame Ann and I – have come up with a plan. A scheme to give us a lever for the future. All OK so far, Bryant?’
‘Yes sir,’ was all he'd say.
/> ‘Fine. Let me continue. Therefore, our strategy is to produce some hard cash – some viable financial evidence that we can move forwards. And so we've developed a basic idea into a plan.’
Ross couldn’t help himself.
‘Retrieve the Gold Reserves from the Bank of England,’ he stated without emotion.
Castle was taken aback.
‘Well, well Bryant. You're not as stupid as you look!’
Ross didn’t react – and in fact took the insult as a compliment. The look on Castle’s face was a picture and well worth the minor rebuke.
‘Yes indeed. We plan to liberate the gold from the vault lying beneath the Bank of England – and I suppose you know how we are going to do it as well?’
Ross hesitated, but rapidly decided that he was already in for a ‘sheep as a lamb’.
‘I would imagine you're going to use a team of my old mob to dive in and lift it out.’
‘Very good Bryant – perhaps you’d like my job! Perhaps you should be briefing me.’
‘Wouldn't be the first time I’d led a Guardsman over the hill, sir!’
Richard Castle decided that he'd now played the wrong hand. He'd completely misjudged Ross and realised that it was time for a truce – or this silly bickering would only interfere with the strategy. He wanted Bryant as an ally – not as a liability.
‘Alright, Ross. Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. Let's start again. I've been used to dealing with some complete morons over the past few weeks, and I've made a complete error of judgement. Truce.’
Ross eyed the ex-Major and decided to compromise – outwardly anyway.
‘Truce. How are they going to do it? The entire area will be flooded and gushing with contaminated water.’
Castle was relieved and continued, adjusting his tone and manner.
‘We’re training up two teams of twelve divers – one SAS, one SBS. The men are all experienced NCO’s and will be led by officers – experienced Hereford officers – not just bloody Guardsmen!’
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 80
