The Keepers of the Persian Gate (12 page)

“Hi.”

“Hello, can I help you?” she said..

“It’s just I couldn’t help but notice that I saw you earlier in the reception of Dunlop & McLaine. Today is my first day with the firm and I thought I should make your acquaintance. I’m Paddy Trimble, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“How polite of you, Paddy. I’m Catherine Wood. I’m a barrister with Vault Chambers.”

“I couldn’t have guessed. I mean, what with the collar and everything,” replied Paddy.

Paddy began to apply some sheepish charm upon Catherine. She was very polite while he spoke. Being new to London and with a new employer, the whole set-up was undiscovered territory for Paddy, and he thought it would be nice to get the lay of the land from someone who knew all about it.

“You don’t know, do you?” asked Catherine.

“Know what?” replied Paddy.

“My boyfriend is a man called Mark Glover. You may know of him.”

Paddy blushed slightly. “My master.”

“Your master.” Agreed Catherine.

The pair laughed momentarily.

“I understand we’re actually all due to head out for dinner this evening,” said Catherine.

“Yes, I’m to give Mark a call this afternoon. I obviously didn’t realise you would be coming as well, but I’m all the more grateful for it,” said Paddy.

“I’m sure you are. Anyways, I must pop back to chambers now and read over a few briefs for tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you again this evening. Catch you later,” replied Catherine with a wink.

Paddy brushed off the awkwardness surrounding the faux pas he had just committed in order to march over to the Cittie of Yorke to meet Cecil Faulkner, the Chairman of the Foreign Hand Club. The Cittie of Yorke was a pub dating back to 1420 and it sat beside the ancient gates of Gray’s Inn. Paddy walked through the large barn-style doors into a cavelike corridor lined with distinctive wooden barrels of stout and ale. As he walked deeper into the pub, he felt like he was walking back in time.

Being lunchtime, the bar was quite busy. Paddy managed to signal the attention of the barman. “I’m looking for a Cecil Faulkner.”

“Yes mate, that’s him there at the end,” said the barman, pointing down the bar.

Paddy walked down towards him. He was an old man, with a tweed jacket, handkerchief in pocket, big square glasses and a great mop of grey hair.

“Hello, Mr. Faulkner, is it?” asked Paddy.

“Yes, can I help you?” replied Cecil in an extremely thick Scottish accent.

“I’m Patrick Trimble, I was sent here by…”

“Ah yes, by your boss Billy. Nice to meet you, Paddy. What will you be having to drink?” asked Cecil.

Although it was lunchtime on a weekday, Paddy did not want to appear rude. “I’ll go for whatever you’re drinking, Cecil.”

“Very good. It’s the cider I’m on. They brew it themselves here, it’s absolutely fabulous. It’s been calming the nerves of lawyers for centuries,” explained Cecil.

“Are you a lawyer yourself, Cecil?”

“No, I’m an entrepreneur. My business is property. Although in recent years I’ve taken a bit of a battering, as you can imagine. I also chair the Foreign Hand Club, which was set up as a charity of sorts for British folk living in London who do not originate from England.” The Foreign Hand Club was mostly made up of people from Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. However, it did have a few members from further afield. It was actually set up by former Prime Minister Lloyd George.

“Did you know Lloyd George was a solicitor?” said Cecil.

“No, I didn’t know that,” replied Paddy.

“The only solicitor Prime Minster to date, as a matter of fact. He was also Welsh, and English was actually his second language, another surprising fact,” explained Cecil.

The pints arrived at the bar and they each took a swig from their drink. They didn’t taste bad at all, thought Paddy.

“They’re good, aren’t they? So…I hear Will wants you in accommodation close to the office at a reasonable price. Well, I made a few phone calls this morning, and I can offer you a studio in number 55 Doughty Street,” said Cecil.

Paddy was over the moon with this. It was less than a few hundred yards stroll down the street from the front door of Dunlop & McLaine. It was even closer than Goodenough College.

“How much will it be, Cecil?”

“It will be £650 a month.”

£650 a month was an absolute steal and it took Paddy by complete surprise. He’d have been lucky to get a bed for that price in inner London, let alone a studio.

“Keep it to yourself. Like I said, your connection to the Foreign Hand Club will always be of some benefit.”

“You mean I’m a member already?” asked Paddy.

“Well, you’re made a member upon doing business with the club. So this counts!”

“I’m very grateful, thank you,” said Paddy.

“Don’t thank me, thank your boss, Will. It’s fully furnished and I’ve got the keys and the particulars right here. Don’t worry about signing a tenancy or anything like that. I’ll just take you at your word that you’ll be a good tenant and pay your rent,” said Cecil.

***

After the pair had finished off their pints, Paddy went to his friend’s apartment in Covent Garden to pick up his things. Paddy returned to Doughty Street, taking in Bedford Row on the way. He walked past Dunlop & McLaine on the right and monitored the house numbers. Number 61, Number 57 and then Number 55. Number 55 had dark green double doors which opened into a hallway. Paddy walked straight in. Although Doughty Street itself was very upmarket territory, the interior of Number 55, particularly the communal area, was not indicative of that. It was clear from the moment Paddy walked through the doors that the place had seen better days.

There was no elevator in the building so Paddy trudged up the stairs to Apartment 5 on the second floor, dragging his bags behind him. Paddy played around with the lock at Number 5 and opened the great big Victorian door. In contrast to the hall and stairs, the first and most noticeable thing was how clean the studio was. It was immaculate and looked like it had been newly refurbished. There was a large Queen-sized bed over in one corner, a living area in the middle and a dining area over by three very large windows which backed onto the houses on Gray’s Inn Road. There was also a shower room beside the kitchen, although there wasn’t any sign of a toilet. Paddy popped his head out the door and noticed that this was shared with another apartment.

Paddy had a seat on a leather couch near a small covered-up fireplace and soaked up his new surroundings. The ceilings were enormously high, perhaps as much as fifteen feet. Paddy’s phone buzzed, so he pulled it out. Before he could answer, there was a knock at the door.

“Hello!” Said a voice on the other side of the door. “Is anyone there?”

Paddy walked over and answered the door to an absolutely stunning brunette. She had pale green eyes, and despite it being one of the hottest days of the year, was wearing a long fur coat.

“Hello, can I help you?” said Paddy.

“Oh, hello. I’m Vera. I come with the compliments of Mark Glover!” Vera said.

She then unbuttoned her coat to reveal an extremely sexy red dress. Paddy’s first thought, aside from noting the fact that this woman was absolutely beautiful, was to wonder how on earth Mark knew where he was living. After all he’d just been given the keys about fifteen minutes before, and Paddy had yet to meet Mark.

“Is everything alright? Honey, you look a little freaked out.”

“Am, um… I don’t really know how to react,” replied Paddy.

“Look, I don’t know your story, and I’ve only just met you, but do you fancy a drink of something to help the conversation flow a bit more?” asked Vera.

She pulled a sizeable bottle of whiskey from her bag. Paddy stared blankly at Vera. He wasn’t really in a position to say no. He wasn’t really in a position to think straight.

“Custom dictates that you invite me in, Paddy,” said Vera.

Paddy welcomed Vera inside and she threw her jacket down on the bed. As Vera poured him a whiskey, Paddy admired her from the couch.

“What do you do, Vera? I mean, besides this,” asked Paddy.

“I’m a model for a magazine,” answered Vera.

“Really? Cool, what magazine?” replied Paddy.

“Oh, Lady in Red?”

Paddy’s ears perked up. “You mean a glamour magazine?”

By the time Vera had finished explaining her role in the industry, the pair had gone through a quarter of the bottle of whiskey. Paddy was already finishing his third large glass. Despite being highly entertained by Vera’s discussions of her past escapades, Paddy was conscious he was getting a bit pissed.

“So, Mr. Lawyerman, are you going to question me properly?” said Vera.

She reached for her bag and pulled out a set of handcuffs. Paddy put his fist to his mouth wondering whether he should accept her invitation. Meanwhile, she just stared at him with a ‘take me now’ look. Paddy mustered some moral fibre from somewhere.

“Vera, look…you’re beautiful. But I’m sorry, I’m just not that type of guy. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Mark that we had a great afternoon together. Thanks for the whiskey.”

“But you’re very handsome, Paddy. I wouldn’t mind meeting you again. Outside of normal business hours,” said Vera.

“Ha,ha, well, thank you. I’ll bear that in mind,” said Paddy, standing up.

As he went to give her a hug, Vera leaned in for a kiss and snogged him then and there. Paddy’s instinct was to pull back ever so slightly. He hadn’t kissed anyone but Sarah for the past few years. However, instead of feeling guilty, his basic manly urge for the love of a woman suddenly took precedence.

“You’ve just been dumped, haven’t you?” said Vera.

“Yes,” replied Paddy.

“Then my job this afternoon is to erase her from your memory,” replied Vera.

In the next few moments, it became clear that Vera wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter 7

The Old Bank of England

ABOUT AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, Vera left Paddy’s flat. He looked at his phone. It was already 1530 hours and despite his vigorous encounter with Vera, he was still feeling quite tipsy. He composed himself enough to find the piece of paper with Mark Glover’s number on it. With a sharp intake of breath, he pressed the dial button. The phone rang and rang; it didn’t seem to have voicemail set up. Just after Paddy hung up, he received a text from the number saying ‘try again.’

Paddy called the number again. This time the answer came immediately.

“Mark Glover!” an abrupt voice said down the phone.

“Hello, Mark, this Paddy Trimble.”

“Ah, hello, Mr. Trimble. I trust you got the gift I sent you?”

“Ahem, yes,” replied Paddy.

“Very good, I hope she was up to your standards. I also believe you had the pleasure of meeting my lovely girlfriend earlier today,” said Mark.

“Yes, I did indeed,” said Paddy nervously.

“Excellent, well, I was hoping you, me and her could meet at the Old Bank of England for a spot of dinner tonight at about seven o’clock. Some clients will be joining us as well. Does that suit you?” asked Mark.

“Sounds perfect. Where is the Old Bank of England?” replied Paddy

“It’s not the actual Bank of England now, it’s on Fleet Street and it’s a restaurant. It’s just up the road from the Royal Courts of Justice, on the same side as if you were heading in the direction of the City…you can’t miss it,” explained Mark.

“No problem. I look forward to seeing you there,” said Paddy.

“Excellent, oh yes, and make sure you wear a blazer and no jeans, it’s smart casual, you see.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Paddy.

With that the telephone conversation ended. Paddy emptied his bags onto the sofa and then lay down on his bed to get some brief shuteye before meeting with Mark and Catherine. To say it had been an eventful day so far would be an understatement, he thought to himself. The bed clothes were still fresh with the musty smell of Vera’s perfume. Paddy buried his head deep into the pillow and closed his eyes.

***

It wasn’t long before his alarm was going off and it was a quarter past six. After a quick shower and change of clothes, he was ready to go. He threw the green folder containing the ISC tender documents into a safe located at the base of one of the bottom drawers in his kitchen and typed in a four-digit code. He then exited Doughty Street to walk down to Fleet Street. It wasn’t until he got halfway down Doughty Street that he realised he’d forgotten his key in his rush to leave the apartment. “Shit,” he thought. “Oh well, I’ll deal with that when I get home.” His apartment had one of those doors which would lock as soon as it shut.

As he turned the corner at the bottom of Gray’s Inn Road, Paddy suddenly got the feeling that someone was following him. He then realised that although the file and papers which Will had handed him earlier were safely locked away in his apartment, the highly sensitive USB was still in his blazer pocket. In ordinary circumstances he would have little reason to be suspicious; however, his induction talk from William Dunlop had left him a bit paranoid.

When Paddy was in Military Intelligence, he had intense training in tails and decoys. As he walked along High Holborn, he made several further moves to confirm that the man was indeed following him. Firstly, he stopped at the window of a recruitment agency and pretended to view the job adverts. At that moment, the man continued to walk past, although Paddy managed to get a look at his attire. He looked like he was from the Middle East, probably mid-forties, wearing a long green overcoat, a flat cap, jeans and boots. Paddy waited until the man had walked a bit further, then ran across the road in front of traffic.

As Paddy continued towards Kingsway, he glanced right to see if the man was still following. He was. Paddy wondered who it could be. In reality, it could have been anyone from a nosy journalist to a foreign spy. Paddy walked around an alley into Lincoln’s Inn Fields and waited with his back against the wall. When the man passed him a few minutes later, Paddy grabbed him by the scruff and threw him against the wall.

“What’s your problem?” yelled the man.

“You’ve been following me…I saw you,” replied Paddy.