Special Delivery

 It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been Mosman Rowers. But, instead of overhearing locals at the clubhouse honking at each other about bountiful investment streams and blissful lives while poking octopus salad around their plates, Kent listened to sprinklers on poles click-clicking like cicadas and swinging in arcs to mist the en brosse lawns with measured sprays. 

On one side of a low sandstone wall was a slate path, on the other a long drop down an Angophora-clustered hillside to the bay where the pleased-with-itself rowing shed sat admiring look-at-me pleasure craft moored at an adjacent marina jetty.

He’d parked outside on a curving road, imagining curtain-twitching neighbours mistaking his ageing car for one belonging to house cleaners. High above the Harbour waters, a breeze kept the late afternoon temperature down. The wind had made the effort to cross the 4.5kms between Shark Beach, Vaucluse, and Mosman Bay bringing with it a cool edge and the delicate fragrance of self-satisfaction. The Eastern Suburbs were, after all, ever so superior to the lower north shore and the capitalisation of the first letters was important.

The path led past beds of lavender backgrounded by espaliered olive and lemon trees: Provence, packaged up and plopped right here. Before his finger could press the bell, the front door opened with an audible swoosh as though the house was desperate to suck in the real world. No such luck. A short, stocky man in a white silk Mandarin-collared shirt looked Kent up and then didn’t bother to look him down. The man had seen enough.

Kent extended his hand while stretching his lips into a facsimile of a smile. “Clive Bagnole?”

“Don’t be silly. Mr Bagnole doesn’t answer his own front door.” The man stared at Kent’s hand as if a leper was offering to high five him. “You’re late.”

“Well, I …”

“This way and try to keep up.” Silk Top swung 90 degrees before scampering across an entrance hall and down a wide corridor lined with artworks. More corridors followed with more art. Feeling like Alice in Wonderland following the white rabbit, Kent tried to memorise the warren in case he needed to show himself out in a hurry.

A final set of French doors framed a flagstone terrace. A tall man in a Panama hat sat in a plantation-style wicker chair unleashing arrows at a target 20 metres away. He lowered his bow as the last two arrows missed the target and sailed high over the cliff edge towards the foreshore below. “There’s something satisfying about knowing an entry level Merc or Beemer parked down there might be pincushioned,” the man said, reaching for a highball glass. “Tom Collins?”

“No, I’m the P.I …”

“Tom Collins is a gin and soda,” snapped Silk Top before hopping over to a wrought iron drinks trolley.

“I’m Bagnole,” said the man, apparently to clear up any misunderstanding that he’d popped in from next door to snaffle some Bombay Sapphire. He nodded towards another chair.

Holding the chilled glass that’d been thrust at him, Kent sat, sipped and tried for Smile #2. Bagnole didn’t return it. Instead he flicked a plain envelope into Kent’s lap. Inside was an A4 sheet of paper pasted with individual letters cut out of a newspaper.

Bagnole leaned forward. “I’m told they’re from the Daily Telegraph so obviously nobody from Mosman sent it. And before you ask, I’ve no idea who these three sisters are.”

“Not who, where. I’d say it’s the drop off spot. Katoomba.”

Bagnole shrugged. “Wherever.” Gesturing at his manservant, he added: “Ralph will deliver the ransom, you’re to ride shotgun. Are you armed?”

“I didn’t realise this suburb was so dangerous.”

“I’m not paying for facetious remarks. I was told you’re discreet and not averse to rough stuff.”

“That sounds like a Grinder profile. If you want me to tag along with Ralph I’ll take half my fee in advance. Cash. Any clues on who kidnapped your wife?”

“If I knew who’d snatched that bitch Chloe, I wouldn’t need you.”

 

The drive to the Blue Mountains the following evening was long and silent. Ralph, now in a black silk shirt, held the steering wheel of the Bentley Continental GT convertible with his hands at ten-to-two. Kent, in a suit, occasionally checked the side mirror to see if they were being tailed. At 8.50, the car slid to a gentle stop outside the Echo Point parking area. It was shut. Having ignored the “closed” sign, five minutes later the men stood side-by-side at the safety railing feigning interest in the rock formations branded The Three Sisters. A canvas duffel bag lay at Ralph’s feet.

Wind from the valley carried the sound of waving tree branches and a low buzzing. At 9pm, a small, dark shape outlined by pinpoints of light rose on the other side of the railing. The drone hovered for a moment before circling over their heads. A crackle. “You,” said an electronic voice from the drone. “You in the suit. Take your coat off.” Kent slipped out of the jacket and raised his arms to show he wasn’t tooled up. Fortunately, he wasn’t ordered to lift his right trouser leg. A compact pistol in an ankle holster was strapped uncomfortably against his sock.

“Suit guy,” came the Dalek-like voice again. “Take the bag and drive to the address that’s under the windscreen wiper of your car.”

“Mr Bagnole’s car,” Ralph corrected the voice. “And what about me? I have my orders.”

“Then order an Uber back to Sydney,” replied the voice.

 

A 45-minute drive. Again, it could’ve been worse. Kent might’ve stepped around the lonely wooden gate that had no fence on either side, walked up the rocky, overgrown pathway to the dour two-storey house with a single light in a window, handed over the ransom money and then been killed by the kidnappers to tie up any loose ends. Instead, he stood in a copse of trees that rose to the right of the building, the duffle bag slung over his shoulder and the gun in his hand. He could see the bright window with a desk lamp pointing downwards and what appeared to be the outline of a person near a curtain. A person who didn’t move. Fortunately, the person sharing the copse and standing 10 metres in front of him was moving slowly as they concentrated on a device in their hands. More buzzing. Another drone or perhaps the same one from Echo Point, rose and turned in a wide sweep of the area. Then, sentry-like, it halted above the house’s front door, presumably waiting to give the arriving bagman further orders.

Kent stepped up behind the drone controller. “Special delivery,” he whispered into their ear.

A female voice swore.

 

The pair climbed the stairs to the house’s upper floor. A shop window mannequin propped up by a curtain created the illusion of a guard. It wore an unconvincing wig, matching Kent’s unconvincing smile. The woman still appeared concerned. I must keep practicing, Kent told himself. Holding up a photo Bagnole had given him of the missing Chloe, he studied the woman. No doubt about it, she’d kidnapped herself.

The story came out in a rush. Bagnole had twice threatened to kill her if she left him. Kent didn’t ask why she’d want to leave. He’d met the man. She’d recorded the second threat but was too frightened to go to the police. Over the past weeks she’d refined the kidnap plans knowing Bagnole would pay up purely out of pride, not out of love. Now she presumed Kent was taking her back.

What he took was her phone with the recorded threat on it. There was no use playing it to Bagnole in an attempt to stop him going after Chloe. Bagnole would probably agree then, within hours, send someone else to hunt down his runaway bride. Kent planned to present the recording as evidence to two female detectives who he knew wouldn’t brush off the threat. Bagnole needed to be wearing his brown underwear when they came a’knocking.

“And this?” asked Chloe, her toe cap kicking the duffle bag lying on the floor.

Kent bent down. “I don’t want to appear unsentimental but I’m taking the other half of my fee. I imagine your no-doubt-soon-to-be-ex-husband won’t honour his debt.”

“The rest?”

He stood up slowly. “You’ll need walking-around money. Mosman can be expensive.”

 # # #

Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN

 

 

 

 

 

A Stand Up Guy

A light rain began to fall. To avoid the dark one-way street in Paddington, the Uber driver dropped me two blocks short of the club. “Enjoy the walk,” he said as I slid from the backseat, trying to keep my show jacket from getting wet.

“Enjoy the one-star rating,” I replied.

At the club’s narrow front door, Jenni was running hard eyes over a queue before unclipping a tatty velvet rope and shepherding select patrons through. Her uniform: black jeans, brown bovver boots and a Hello Kitty T-shirt.

As I slipped past, she whispered: “I’m surprised they invited you back, Mr Something-to-Offend-Everyone. And … no politics this time, Harry.”

I gave her what resembled a sincere smile. I’d been practicing.

The hallway to the main bar and event room was lined with photos of grandees who’d visited the club over the decades. Halfway along was a framed black and white print of a nonplussed Bob Hawke in the Sydney Swans' nearby dressing rooms in ’84.

A beery boofhead in a leather vest leaned in close. Very matey. “Hey, that Hawkey. What a bloke!”

“Every Australian male voter’s dream candidate,” I said. “A high functioning alcoholic and serial philanderer.”

“Is that a joke, funny man?” A pause. “You suck.”

“At least I get paid for it.”

I felt my arm being clasped above the elbow. “No politics,” repeated Jenni as she shouldered Leather Vest aside and steered me further into the club.

Right on time. Above the din, I heard the MC tapping the microphone with his fingertips. “Ahem, ladies, gentlemen and however else you wish to identify – everybody’s money is good at our bar – here’s the man … unless that’s too binary … very few of you have been waiting for. The one, the only … and thank God for that … Harry Palmer.”

I took the steps up to the stage two at a time. Given there were only six, that was the extent of my athleticism. Lifting the mic off the stand, I faced the crowd as they ate, drank, stood at the bar, flirted, checked their phones and generally ignored me. “Evening all. Excuse my nerves. When you’re from the North Shore, it’s scary but thrilling being in the Eastern Suburbs.

“Everyone here is so glamorous. Take your drug dealers with their bright white Lacoste sneakers and look-at-me cars.

“What must the cops be thinking when they see a 25-year-old guy with a fade haircut driving a $600,000 Lamborghini down Old South Head Road at midnight? That he’s heading for his nightshift at the kebab shop?

“On the plus side, you know the blow is halal.

“Even the use of language in the Far East is different. Up North, when we say we’re going to powder our nose we don’t mean two of our mates will join us to cram into the end cubicle of a pub loo to do lines off the cistern lid.

“Across the Harbour, when we talk about drugs and lines we mean queues at Chemist Warehouse.

“Speaking of queues … they’re exotic here as well. Have you experienced the cosmopolitan delights of Double Bay Woolies’ checkouts just before sunset marks the start of the Sabbath? The Exodus is on. The only other place you’ll hear so many raised voices and accents like that is in a Shul in Jo’burg … or maybe St Ives.

“And I’d expected a mazel tov from you for making it on time tonight. After driving over the Harbour Bridge I rediscovered the Eastern Suburbs’ dirty little secret – there’s no parking … anywhere.

“I drove with the windows up and doors locked to find the kerbs lined bumper-to-bumper with ten-year-old VW Golfs covered in cobwebs and leaves.

“Why are you laughing? Yes, you in the Paddo local dress code. A sleeveless puffer jacket. You rebel you. To get here on time, I’ve parked across your driveway.

“Pro tip: if you find an empty spot never reverse into it. Right at that moment, a Mercedes convertible will nose into the space while the driver shouts: ‘I was here first, darhhlink!’

“You really should come and see our suburbs. The streets are empty, no parked cars. It’s almost post-apocalyptic. I’m told that after a nuclear blast, cockroaches will survive … but not in the North. We’re obsessed with insects and cleanliness. The air smells of one part Mortein to two parts Toilet Duck.

“You have your traditions too … like being ignored by restaurant staff. North of the Bridge, restaurants are pathetically grateful that someone, anyone, has turned up. Not here. At bills in Bondi, there’re customers who’ve been waiting to see the menu since 2017.

“Allowing more backpackers in just adds to staffing problems. Venue owners will still train Irish barstaff to add lime to a drink by picking up a wedge of fruit with the same hand they wipe their arse with, squeezing it over the booze then dropping what remains into the glass. Presto! A vodka and lime plus a side order of E. coli.

“Consider yourselves lucky. To live a full life, nobody needs to leave the East. During Covid lockdowns, residents here shrugged – they were spoilt for choice … the beaches, the Harbour, the vibe. When I was locked down, all I had near me were two retirement villages and a coffee shop serving Nescafé.

“OK, I have to admit I lived in the East for a few years – in a Rose Bay flat. It’s there I discovered that elsewhere in Sydney people put things IN letterboxes but in the East they take things OUT. Three credit cards were nicked from my post. It’s because banks choose plain but instantly recognisable envelopes. My suggestion to banks: send credit cards in envelopes with a fake pathology logo and a banner reading: ‘Returning herpes samples.’

“Living in Rose Bay taught me the key to keeping safe over here is to remember that Cadbury is lying to you: there’s not a glass and a half in everyone.

“As for the greatest status symbol, forget a Harbour view. Only wealth rules. If Melissa Caddick staggered out of the water at Watsons Bay covered in seaweed with a missing foot and wearing a sandwich board saying: ‘Make money now, ask me how’ there’d be punters lining up, desperate to know how to get rich quick.

“Before I go, I should add that I was told you’d be a tough crowd. Well, you won’t find me pandering to you to score some last-minute applause.

“You’d never catch me pointing out the obvious – just look at how gorgeous and how handsome you all are, sitting there perkily on your beautifully-portioned moneymakers.

“Am I right or am I right?”

I was right. Always pander.

Slipping the mic into place, I backed away.

Outside the club entrance, the rain and the crowd had dissipated. Jenni was lighting a cigarette. Shaking another one out of a soft packet, she lit it alongside hers and handed it to me.

I let out smoke and a sigh. “As I once said to Dolly Parton: ‘What a way to make a living’.”

“Cowboy up, Harry. To quote Groucho Marx: ‘Nobody told you that you had to go into showbusiness’.”

 # # #

Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN

 

 

Breaking Vows

21 September 2013.

Lining up the items on a narrow table in the sacristy, John O’Malley mentally ticked off his checklist: hipflask of Irish whiskey, mobile with sports streaming and betting apps, earbud headphones, a matchbox, a miniature ashtray and a half empty packet of Marlboro. Or perhaps he should think of it as half full. He opted for half empty.

Slipping the cache into the pockets of his cassock, O’Malley glanced at the wall clock, drew in a deep breath, gave a soulful sigh and went into the body of the church.

Outside a cool drizzle was washing urine off the footpaths of Darlinghurst. Inside the air smelt of day-old incense with background notes of stale Virginian tobacco.

He counted the parishioners in the pews. Four. Let’s pray the rain keeps others away, he said to himself and the Almighty as he made a half genuflection before the altar and headed for the two-person confessional.

Leaving the booth’s rear door partly open to let out smoke, he fitted a single headphone bud into his right ear so it was hidden. He tapped the streaming app. Two-handed, the umpire was raising the ball high. A pull of whiskey, a puff on a cigarette and, sliding back the partition curtain, he sat waiting.

One by one they shuffled in seeking a sympathetic ear, a quick absolution and minimal penance. Amen to that, was his approach. After 20 minutes it was three down, one to go.

Number Four dropped rather than slid into the seat. O’Malley felt the slight thud and, annoyed, squinted through the partition. Having pimped up the screen with flywire, he could only make out the bulk of a tall man, either bald or shaven headed, with a beefy nose and prominent chin.

The rote recital beginning “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been …” lulled O’Malley into – if he’d been Buddhist – a meditative state. Then came: “Is it true?”

“True?” O’Malley repeated, startled. It was hard to concentrate on the football while being distracted by a question.

“That you can’t tell anyone what I confess to you?”

“Priests are duty bound by the seal of the confessional not to disclose anything they’ve been told. I’ve vowed not to break that seal.”

“And you’ll wipe away my sins.”

“That’s the general idea.” O’Malley tilted the flask to his lips and took a sip. A moment later, he inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

“I’m going to kill someone tonight. I won’t be visiting another priest, so consider this a confession-in-advance.”

O’Malley gave a spluttering cough. “First up, the sin involved is riding high on the Commandments’ Top 10 hits at Number Five: Thou shall not kill. Secondly, you can’t show contrition for a sin you haven’t yet committed.”

“I remember all that going-to-Hell for a mortal sin stuff from school. So I want you to hear my confession.”

Was this the time to discuss the minutiae of Catholic teachings? O’Malley decided on “no”. “I can’t absolve you of a sin and indeed a crime you haven’t carried out. If you want my …” A squint through the partition told him he was about to lecture an empty seat. The man was gone and so was O’Malley’s interest in the footy. Closing the app, he lit another cigarette.

Alone in the parish admin office, O’Malley played the surveillance tape from a CCTV camera positioned high above the front doors of St Mary Star of the Sea. The big man could be seen walking towards the church at 2pm, 10 minutes before the confessional opened and the game began. O’Malley printed off a screengrab capturing the man’s slightly upturned face. Later video showed a thick neck atop broad shoulders as he strode away. On a far corner, he went into a pub. The Green Man. Damn, thought O’Malley. The police phrase “… known to frequent the premises” would apply to O’Malley and that bar. He needed a partner.

Sister Kate was in mufti, sneakers up on a stool in the neighbouring convent’s TV room watching Oprah. O’Malley tapped on the doorframe.

“Johnny, boy,” she called out. “Come and watch a billionairess lie to poor people by telling them all their wishes will come true if they dream a bigger dream for themselves.”

“That’s a bit judgemental, even for you.” He was glad she was sitting down. Kate was about two centimetres taller than him with a tendency to stand a little too close when they talked so he could almost count the freckles on her upturned nose while noting the ice blue of her ey … no, no, concentrate. “Care to run a dangerous errand?”

Standing on a corner opposite The Green Man, O’Malley checked his watch. She’d been in there 30 minutes. Rocking on his feet, he was conscious of the weight of the self-loading 9-millimetre pistol in the pocket of his hoodie. He’d won the weapon off a drunken US sergeant six weeks earlier in a card game on a coalition military base in Tarin Kowt, southern Afghanistan. Who knew a young Australian Army chaplain was sharp at poker? Scheduled to fly home the following day, O’Malley had ignored the boasting blowhards around the small table. Within a week he’d be demobbed and changing a khaki uniform for a black one.

Wearing a puffer jacket and jeans, Kate came out of the pub with a skip in her step. Handing him back the printout image of the would-be killer, she said: “A stranger insisted on buying me a drink.”

O’Malley’s cheeks flushed. “Did anyone know our man?”

“I didn’t need to ask. He’s in there, sitting with two mates. I was thinking of badgering him about the money he owes you from that bet.”

It hadn’t been a well thought out lie, but it was plausible. “There goes our man and one of his pals,” said O’Malley, looking at the bar door. “Thanks, I must buy you a …” his voice petered out as he tried to turn.

She stopped him with a raised palm. “I’m coming with you.”

They continued to argue as she pulled him across the road and down a narrow footpath leading to a string of tarted up terraced houses. The men they were following parted at a freshly painted front door, with O’Malley’s penitent heading inside, the other walking off. The priest and nun stood outside. “What are you going to do, Johnny?” Kate asked.

The voice behind them was as cold as a publicist’s handshake. “Yes, Johnny, just what are you planning?” Standing a metre away, a smartie with a smirk had his right hand hidden in the pocket of his long coat, pushing something hard towards them. O’Malley hoped it was just a gun.

In a pin-neat living room, the big man from the church was sitting in a chair while opening and closing his mouth. Eventually a word tumbled out: “Unbelievable.”

“I tailed them from the pub,” said the smirker. “You have to admit Johnny has made it easier for us.”

Nodding, the big man reached for a snubnosed revolver on a side table and thumbed back the hammer. “Bless me, Father, for I’m about to kill you.”

“Why?”

“You’re too good at cards. You took that drunk Yank’s money, gun and dignity. That’s why he boasted he and the others would soon be rich despite your winning streak.”

O’Malley shrugged. “I’ve no idea what you mean. Ask my parishioners: I’m a bad listener.”

“Who ignores a tip off about plans later this year to smuggle Afghan heroin in returning army vehicles?”

Trying to picture the card game and the loudmouthed sergeant, O’Malley closed his eyes. Yes. He’d heard something about Bushmaster armoured vehicles having extra padding for the trip home. “No, can’t recall a word. But … I do remember you coming to confession. Again, why?”

“Delicious irony. You’d absolve me of my sin of killing you.”

O’Malley moved his hand to his pocket. Too slow. The smirker hit him hard behind the ear with something solid.

He felt he was falling in slow motion. The 9-millimetre appeared in his hand. Swinging in mid-air, he fired a shot which blew a lamp off a far table. Then his shoulder hit the floor. The pistol slid across the polished wooded boards like a hockey puck.

“Kill him,” ordered the big man.

O’Malley braced himself. Two shots came a second apart.

Like a felled ox, a body crashed down on him. Rolling onto his back, O’Malley pushed the body away. There was a neat, dark hole in the middle of the smirker’s forehead. The big man had a matching one.

Feet apart, gripping O’Malley’s pistol with both hands, Kate gazed down at him. “It’s always a mistake to ignore the woman in the room.”

“You were in the armed forces?”

“Farmer’s daughter.”

The dead mens’ eyes stared at O’Malley. In turn, he looked at Kate. “What’ll we do?”

“I’d suggest a vow of silence,” she replied.

 # # #

Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN

 

Le Train Bleu – 1st Stop: Paris

Possibly it was against the rules but, then again, this was a French railway station so perhaps it was compulsory. A well-dressed man was leaning through a train’s window kissing a statuesque woman on the platform. She with her hand touching his on the windowsill, her dress pressing against the side of the dark blue carriage. He shooting a little cuff from his tailored suit sleeve as he bent forward. Steam from the locomotive wasn’t the only thing rising. An audible “tsk, tsk” came from a straight-backed, very-much-a-lady passenger watching the couple while also keeping tabs on her matching Louis Vuitton luggage being hefted through the First Class carriage door by a porter. The couple and porter were viewed with distaste.

A month earlier Kent would’ve decided it was none of his business, ignored the smooch and followed the snooty passenger aboard. But that day, with a cold La Manche wind blowing down his neck and an even chillier client to answer to, it was his business.

Carrying two leather cases, the slimmer attached to his left wrist by a thin chain, he dodged around porters’ trolleys and strode towards the kissing couple. The man, his skin colour signalling his Congolese nationality, snapped his head back, almost clipping the top of window frame. Startled, the woman turned then smiled. “Jaloux?”

“Not jealous, busy.” A long whistle signalled departure. Climbing into the carriage, Kent left her and the wind behind. The Calais-Mediterranée Express – Le Train Bleu – was pulling out, first stop Paris then Marseille.

“Relax,” said the kisser, patting the space next to him in the single berth compartment.

Kent hesitated in the doorway, considering the most diplomatic way to decline. “You’ve got soot on your cuff.”

In the neighbouring compartment, he tossed the case with two changes of lightweight clothes, shaving kit, toothbrush and a Schrade stiletto switchblade inside a cotton sock onto a luggage rack. The satchel-style case stayed chained to his wrist.

 

Holding the case against his hip, he walked slowly down the First Class carriage’s corridor with windows to the left, compartments right. Only six were occupied, leaving two empty. None of the passengers had bothered to draw their blinds. He recognised the grand lady, she of the tsk-tsk. Squinting at a luggage tag dangling from a bag, he made out “Lady Featherstonehaugh: Cassis” just as the woman looked up from a small diary on her lap and glared at him. Next was a mother brushing her baby daughter’s hair followed by a nattily dressed man in his 40s distractedly toying with his hat, and finally a burly, red-headed man in a checked suit reading an airmail edition of The New York Times. A headline read: “Key to peace in the Congo”.

Peace? wondered Keen.

Albéric Tshombe was lounging in his compartment when Keen walked back in, slid the door shut and pulled down the blind.

“People may talk,” said Tshombe with a smirk.

Again, Keen stopped himself. If they’d listened to him in Kinshasa, it would’ve been chartered flights to Nice via London and then a private limo ride to Marseille. Instead, Tshombe’s claim he was afraid of flying meant the pair had sailed from Banana Point to Gibraltar then onto Southampton; hired a chauffeured car to London’s Hatton Garden followed, three days later, by a train ride from Victoria Station to Dover, the switch to a ferry and finally the boarding of Le Train Bleu with its blue and gold livery. A waste of time for anyone not charging his client by the day. He looked down at Tshombe. The smirk had been replaced by a puzzled look.

“How’re you going to take a leak with that case chained to you?”

“Carefully.” Keen took a seat.

“And carry it all the way to Marseille? My advice: clip it to something in your cabin and cover it up. That’s why I’m here – to give good advice.”

That did it. “You’re here because your cousin Mobutu Sese Seko is Army Chief of Staff in the Congo …”

“Now free from colonial oppression.”

“… and also free for Mobutu to slip diamonds from the mines out of the country …”

“For safe keeping during these unstable times at home.”

“’Marseille’ and ‘safe’ aren’t two words you often hear in the same sentence.”

“That’s my business. Yours is to guard the diamonds. That’s unless you’d like to return to being a mercenary.” The smirk snuck back.

 

Kent had no intention of rejoining “Mad Mike” Hoare and his unit 4 Commando in the rainforest. Mobutu may be a cold-blooded little shit but he paid in US dollars and travel was always first class. With only minor disagreements, Tshombe and Kent had made it from Kinshasa’s scruffy alleys to the dull, understated streets of Hatton Garden to get a pro’s valuation of the diamonds. Knowing the chained satchel held £607,019 worth of gems focused the mind.

The tinkle of the attendant’s bell heralded lunch. An opportunity no-one missed.

A waiter, working his way down the dining car while ticking off a passenger list, reached Lady Featherstonehaugh, greeted her and pronounced her name phonetically. She responded with a snort. “It’s pronounced ‘Fan-shaw’.”

The waiter gave a brittle smile. Twenty years before, Gestapo officers had demanded he say their ranks correctly while serving them meals on the train. But even this Anglaise mal élevée was unlikely to pull out his fingernails.

The fashionably dressed man, no longer fiddling with his hat, let out a sound like an owl’s hoot and leant across the aisle towards Lady Featherstonehaugh’s table. “I say, the staff need a refresher course in simple English. This afternoon, one even called me Monsieur Lev-e-son-Gow-ers, just as it’s spelt. Any fool knows you say: ‘Louson-Gore’.”

Lady Featherstonehaugh covered her mouth with her hand, flapped her eyelashes and gave a giggle.

Kent had two thoughts: “Up wrong tree barking with that dandy, m’lady” and “Tournedos Béarnaise”. Tshombe ordered the Asperges à la sauce gribiche. They agreed to share a half bottle of Bordeaux.

Taking a sip, Kent wondered why the English on the Continent had to be as loud as the American’s suit. He noted the American was also having the steak, while the mother and child shared a plate of pallid chicken. He watched Tshombe slice into the first white asparagus spear before asking: “The girl at the station: a fond farewell or a final one?”

“I saw you sizing her up, almost literally, when she got on board with me at Victoria Station. I know that you know she and I met on Saturday night in the hotel bar. So, Mr Kent, let me explain again – your job is to watch the diamonds not watc…”

“And where is she now?”

“Heading home to Germany via Belgium. The Calais to Brussels express left just after ours.”

Kent relaxed. There appeared to be no immediate threat except indigestion from the too cool meal. After lunch, the passengers retired to the lounge car. The men smoked and avoided eye contact; the women watched the light fade.

 

The Gare de Lyon had its bustle on. Passengers and porters were scurrying, sometimes in the same direction. Leaning back in his compartment with cigarette smoke drifting out the window, Kent wondered why people became tense at airports and train stations. Anyone could see the station’s departures board indicated Le Train Bleu would leave on schedule. Ten minutes earlier, the two remaining First Class compartments had been taken by a stoop-shouldered, frail woman enveloped from head to immaculate shoe caps in mourning black who’d arrived in a wheelchair pushed by a grim, gaunt man kitted out in a dark suit that he wore like a uniform. Chauffeur, valet or military uniform, Kent couldn’t decide. The woman, a veil covering her face, had being gently decanted into her compartment before the manservant pushed the wheelchair towards the baggage car. A feu de joie of whistles sounded, guards’ flags flapped and the train – another late model steam locomotive – began to choof out of the Gare de Lyon into the Paris night.

And they were back. Back in the dining car. Fresh menus were sitting alongside spotless glasses, shining cutlery and starched napkins.

Lady Featherstonehaugh and Leveson-Gowers were sharing a table and sniggers, the latter presumably directed at their fellow passengers. The American had brushed his hair and was making notes in a black leather compendium. The mother and the now irritable child rushed through their meal. Kent assumed the wheelchair woman and her manservant were dining in their compartments with the blinds down.

Tshombe was 10 minutes late. He dropped into his chair, flicked his fingers at the waiter – who’d decided the Gestapo officers were better mannered than modern travellers – and ordered a bottle of Krug.

Kent waited until the champagne was poured to ask: “A celebration?”

“The Old Testament urges us to eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die.”

Raising his glass, Kent smiled: “I’ll drink to that.”

[Dear reader: the story will continue ... well, depending on demand]

# # #

Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN