Jacot was jolted from his resentful melancholy by the appearance of Monica at the front door below. He pressed the buzzer to let her in. She walked into the large mirrored hall and then up the stairs. Jacot was at his own door to let her in. They shook hands and he ushered her into his sitting room and presented her with a glass of ice cold Manzanilla which she took gratefully.
He looked pleased to see her.
‘I thought we should go to my favourite Italian. Just round the corner. This part of London has really come up in the world since I first came to live here in the mid-eighties.’
‘Italian sounds great.’ She sipped her sherry. She was pleased to see him as well. The flat was impressive with high ceilings and full-length windows looking over the square. It was plainly decorated in white with beige carpets – the English fashion as she was quickly learning. A large mirror over the fireplace dominated the room. On either side were two oil paintings with picture lights above. On the left was a portrait of Jacot in his ceremonial uniform. The scarlet of the tunic and the gold and silver of the medals, buttons and accoutrements glittered in the light of a small chandelier. The detail in the portrait was extraordinarily lifelike. The fur of the bearskin so truthfully rendered that she was tempted to stroke it.
Jacot saw her looking at the portrait. ‘It’s for my mother really.’
Monica laughed. ‘I don’t believe you. Anyway it’s lovely and lifelike. It makes the room.’ She looked around. On the right hand side of the fireplace was another portrait. No scarlet in this one, instead the khaki service dress of a British Great War officer sitting at a desk in a dugout – lit by candles stuck in empty wine bottles. The expression on the face of the moustachioed officer was wistful, as if his mind was far away from the horrors of war. On the back wall of the dugout appeared to be pictures of Can Can girls torn from magazines – a splash of colour in a drab setting. The way the artist had painted the various candles round the dugout suggested the lighting in an orchestra pit. Perhaps the officer was looking forward to his next leave – the pleasures of a show in London and a good dinner or just being above ground for a few days and away from the mud and the danger. It was a powerful painting and Monica moved towards it for a closer look. She saw the signature and turned to Jacot.
‘It is a beautiful painting. It’s not Lady Nevinson I assume.’
Jacot smiled. ‘It’s not by her but a man called CRW Nevinson who was an official artist in the First World War. He painted French soldiers as well.’ The telephone rang in the next room. ‘Hang on, I’ll be back in a moment.’
Monica sipped her sherry and looked at the bookshelves on the back wall of the room. You could tell a lot about a man from his bookshelves and she was under instructions to get to know Jacot well. Row after row of beautifully bound books in green leather with gold lettering. She had been briefed in Paris on the likely tastes of this type of Englishman. Lots of Second World War military history and books about Rugby Football and Winston Churchill was what the briefers had said. She looked at the titles and was puzzled. Most of the military history appeared to be about the First rather than the Second World War. And much of it seemed to be about the French, German and Austro-Hungarian armies, most of it in the original French and German editions. It was unusual to see in an English house the sixteen volumes of the Histoire Illustree de la Guerre de 1914 and she was pleasantly astonished to see Marshal Petain’s Verdun – the definitive account whatever the world thought about his later activities. At the end of the shelves on the Great War were editions of the English poets who found their voice and their muse at the front but also a collected edition of Anton Schnak – the German Army’s Wilfred Owen.
There seemed to be nothing at all about the Second World War except Von Manstein’s selectively amnesiac memoirs and a superbly bound over-sized edition of Catch 22. France featured again with a number of volumes about Dien Ben Phu and Algeria. She smiled. No Rugby Football at all. It was not what she was expecting. But she did notice a shelf of books by and about Churchill. The briefers had said that Jacot had been to the same school. He was not an intelligence target as such but she had been briefed in some detail about his background and experiences in life. It was clear that Navarre and other senior officials in the French Intelligence Services were determined to have the closest possible relationship with the British. No ifs, no buts and certainly no “Anglophobie”, was how Navarre had put it.
He came back into the room. ‘Sorry about that. Let’s go.’
They finished their sherry and left for the restaurant in a small street tucked away behind the huge Roman Catholic church of St James’, Spanish Place. She pleaded ignorance and let him choose from the menu. Jacot seemed well known there. The food was superb. Mozzarella, tomato and avocado salad was followed by penne with a Puttanesca sauce. The strong black olives and anchovies appealed very much to her southern Mediterranean taste. They shared a bottle of an ice cold, light but alcoholic white wine from Sicily, according to Jacot, and finished with fresh figs and coffee. They were meant to be talking business. Instead they just got to know each other. They made a handsome couple in the restaurant. She, in particular, drew admiring glances from both the waiters and most of the other male diners and as she noticed from Jacot himself. Like all intelligence agents she had been trained in understanding body language, particularly in men.
Englishmen were more difficult to read perhaps but the signs were there. Initially, Jacot sat upright. He was polite and attentive but in a way you would expect at a professional meeting. As the wine and intimate atmosphere took effect she sensed Jacot leaning a fraction closer across the table. Instead of looking down or away after making a remark he held her gaze. His gloved hands, hidden under the table unless in the process of eating or pouring wine, relaxed and rested on the crisp white table cloth. They discussed her recent experiences as an undercover agent in one of Paris’ most dingy and most hostile suburbs.
Playing the part of a widowed Algerian cleaning woman had been demanding – the work had been hard. She washed not very frequently and wore dirty and baggy clothes. As a widow she had little status and was generally ignored by both men and women. But cleaning ladies have access. Many of the people she worked for were Islamist militants of one sort or another, always looking over their shoulders in case the authorities were onto them. Hyper-aware in many ways. They did not notice women except as items of property or objects of their own or other people’s lust. There had been a lionization of some Islamist terrorists in the media over the years. They had the capacity to cause chaos in a modern democracy for sure. But warriors they were not. Not in their private lives at least, and she had seen them close up. Bullies most of them, and what passed for their passionately held beliefs were usually a set of brutal and self-satisfied prejudices. It had been a difficult and frightening time for her and it was good to go through it with someone who would understand, to have a kind of elegant decompression, with an Englishman of all people. Towards the end of her account she noticed Jacot started to make quips and comments in an effort to lighten the conversation. Her grim story had been told and it was time to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, exactly the right tone to adopt in the circumstances. She felt that he understood.
‘You know Daniel, I was taught at spy school that the British routinely talked up the capabilities of the IRA so that they could look like a worthy enemy rather than the gang of dysfunctional thugs they really were. And to disguise your own unwillingness to take them on con brio.’
‘You are probably right. They weren’t that good. The average IQ was low and their personal habits let the side down a bit. I always thought of them as similar to murderous football supporters. But they could be effective. You saw the steel door to my flat. And my bathroom functions as a safe room. I can lock myself in there and probably survive a direct hit. All thanks to a run in I had with the IRA as a soldier in Northern Ireland. There are a few of them still around.’
‘I wasn’t just having a go at the British
.’ She laughed. ‘I think we do the same with Islamists. Most of the ones I saw in Paris were stupid and brutal.’
‘Well I think you have a point, Monica. The threat is there but it is difficult for us to gauge it properly because of what happened on 911. We all assumed it was the opening overture and by the time they got to Act Five the world would be left a smoking, toxic, radioactive wreck. But the more I look at what happened that day it looks as though our enemies were at the limits of what they could pull off. Everything pretty much went their way on the day. And just about everything that could go wrong for Uncle Sam did go wrong. The US Air Force was unlucky not to shoot down the second plane into the twin towers to be frank. And the whole thing wasn’t helped by the shoddy construction of the towers that allowed such a quick collapse. I doubt if the Empire State Building would have fallen apart quite like that. Chunks of it would have been missing and hundreds would have died in the fires but the butcher’s bill would have been lower.’
‘Where were you on the day?’
‘In COBRA – the UK’s crisis management organisation. I ran back from lunch when I heard and did not emerge like everyone else for several days. Like Asterix and Obelix, we thought the sky was going to fall on our heads. But it didn’t and despite 7-7 it hasn’t since. The more I look at that day the more it reminds me of that long jumper, Bob Beamon I think he was called, who made that freak long jump at the Mexico Olympics in 1968. He jumped so far that the officials’ tape measure wouldn’t reach to measure it.’
‘I see what you mean’, said Monica. ‘I have an early start in the morning but am dying for a glass of brandy. You have mentioned Mozart a number of times tonight. Play me some.’
‘Shall we go back for a nightcap?’
They walked slowly back towards Jacot’s flat, not arm in arm but very close to each other. At the corner of George Street and Montagu Square they stopped to cross the road. They were the only people waiting to cross. It was busy at this time of night with many fast-moving cars zipping by. Jacot pressed the button on the pelican crossing. The little green man came on and the bleeping began. Jacot looked both ways – noticed a black Mercedes twenty feet to his right which had plenty of time to slow down – and stepped into the road with Monica at his side.
The horn and screeching of brakes made him realise that all was not as it should be. Time went into its slow motion mode. It always does if you are about to be shot, bombed or run over. Slow motion is not a gimmick invented by film directors. That’s how it happens for real. Pulling Monica with him he jumped for the pavement. They both ended up in a winded heap. He could feel the hot air from the brakes of the Mercedes as it slithered by stopping in the centre of the crossing. As he twisted round he could see that the traffic light and the pedestrian light were both green – just for a split second. And then they went back to normal.
The driver got out and ran over cursing. ‘For God’s sake look out I could have killed you. F…..g idiot. Couldn’t you see the light was green?’
Monica was crouched just by the railings with her right hand in her handbag looking up and down the street. There was no movement.
‘I am sorry’, said Jacot. ‘I hope you are all right. Sorry. I hope your car is OK.’
‘Yeah. Yeah’, said the well-dressed man. ‘Are you guys OK?’
‘Yes, thanks’, they both replied.
‘Listen sweetheart’, he addressed Monica, ‘your boyfriend is going to get you killed if he doesn’t wake up’. With that he got back into the car and drove off.
They both leaned against the railings.
‘I saw the lights’, said Monica. ‘Both green.’
‘We should ring the police and tell them’, said Jacot.
‘Come off it. These things never go wrong. Let’s just get into your flat. I’m not sure what’s going on out here.’
They just about fell into the safety of Jacot’s flat. The brandies were larger than they might have been but the Mozart was on a lower volume thanks to their jangled nerves. Monica warmed her brandy by holding the glass in both hands and looked out of the window. The square was quiet. Jacot was listening intently to the Marriage of Figaro – a good antidote to the tension.
‘Daniel, it was a hit or at very least a warning. Clever technique. They must have a way of messing up the lights. Police cars can change them can’t they?’
‘Yes, I believe so. There is a gadget. They, whoever they are, have probably modified it so both signals show green. It’s rather clever.’ He laughed. ‘But they missed’.
‘I looked up and down the street. I couldn’t see anyone. The driver would not have been in on it. I will let Paris know. I have to go now.’
‘Yes I will have a word with Lady Nevinson in the morning. Take care on your way home. I will walk behind you until you are the other side of Oxford Street. You could go through the park if you want. All sorts of weirdos in there at night but difficult for you to be followed.’
‘Don’t worry about me’, she smiled pointing at the MAB PA-15 standard military issue pistol in her hand-bag.
‘Nice weapon. I didn’t know they still made them. Eight rounds in the magazine rather than the usual six.’
Jacot hadn’t turned the music off as they put on their coats. Just as they were leaving the glorious sound of Susanna and the Contessa singing their duet Sull’aria from the third act of Marriage of Figaro filled the flat. Monica stood at the door listening intently.
‘It’s beautiful. I have heard it somewhere I think, not at the opera though.’
‘They used it in an American film a few years ago – that one about a prison, The Shawshank Redemption.’
‘I haven’t watched many American films. It’s a love song, yes?’
‘Yes, in a way. One of the greatest but at the same time it’s a plot or, in our jargon, an operational plan to expose a husband’s infidelity. All is never quite what it seems in Mozart’s operas.’
‘Tell me about it’, Monica laughed.
They walked towards Hyde Park. He scanned both sides of the road. It was late. There were a few people coming out of the tube station. Either no one was following them or they were very good at hiding themselves.
They reached the high railings around the park. Jacot kissed her on the lips in a rather non-committal English way. She drew her head back and smilingly kissed him on both cheeks in the French manner and then once more enthusiastically on the lips. Jacot turned her round with both his hands around her slim waist to check that his silk gloves would not slip on her coat and then lifted her onto the railings. She jumped down into the park and disappeared into the night.
Jacot felt curiously responsible and protective of Monica. She had been through a lot in a short time. But she could look after herself. Indeed, with her background, she could look after Jacot as well. He felt reassured by her presence. She was after all a clandestine agent of French intelligence who had spent many years in deep cover. There was no gallantry in espionage and no sexism either. Men and women competed and co-operated on a level playing field. Come what may she would be safe in the darkness as she crossed Hyde Park. He hoped no one tried to mug her – for the mugger’s sake.
XIV
Falkland Islands
– self-governing British Overseas Territory, South Atlantic
The ancient RAF airbus shuddered on the descent into Mount Pleasant airport, buffeted by the strong winds regular in these latitudes. It wasn’t so much due to the fact that the Antarctic Continent lay not far away to the south, more that the next landfall to the east, other than a few frozen French Islands, the Kerguelens, was Australia.
‘I think Daniel we should bring your visit to the Falklands forward by a week,’ was Lady Nevinson’s only comment on hearing of Jacot’s adventures on the George Street pelican crossing. ‘I am increasingly nervous about the place. You say there’s the off chance that this Verney business may have a Falklands connection so you can kill two birds with one stone. And it may be a good idea if you were out
of town for a while. I’ll have MI5 keep an eye on your flat. Oh, one more thing – I have written letters to the Governor and the Commander British Forces South Atlantic. Just putting the final touches to them now. The copies for despatch will be handed to you at Brize Norton. I think you know what’s in them. They must be destroyed once read. Have a good trip.’ As he turned for the door she added, ‘I hope you enjoyed dinner with your glamorous French colleague.’
Jacot half turned back towards her. She should have smiled at this point but she didn’t and he was dismissed.
Jacot looked out of the window as Port Stanley passed below the aircraft. It had been nearly thirty years. As is usual in a military transport the passengers sat with their backs to the cockpit. It always seemed strange but was in fact logical – if the plane crashed for any reason more of them would survive. As they flew into Falklands airspace a pair of RAF Typhoon fighter-bombers had appeared alongside each wing tip. It was both a routine precaution and an impressive show of force. The aircraft touched down at RAF Mount Pleasant, the huge military base constructed to defend the islands opened by Prince Andrew three years after the end of the war. As the airbus slowed to a halt the escorting Typhoons roared deafeningly past, afterburners aglow and climbed almost vertically into the far sky. They were certainly impressive bits of kit, thought Jacot, literally able to massacre any assault on the islands by the Argentine Air Force. If just one had been available in 1982 the butcher’s bill would have been halved. And they were marvellous to watch.
He would not be on military premises for long. Lady Nevinson appeared to be a friend of everyone’s and that seemed to include the current Governor of the Falkland Islands. Too young surely to be an ex-admirer, but somewhere along the way no doubt he had fallen under her spell or had become in some way indebted to her. Jacot was grateful. It meant avoiding a stay in a small barrack room, sparsely furnished by an overstretched budget. He had always found military bases depressing.
The Falklands Intercept Page 12
