The Sator Square

By Geoff Cook

A terrorist is on the loose in the UK - his target - a member of the Royal Family.
In France, a killer stalks the ranks of the paparazzi as he prepares to commit a series of ritual murders.
When compromising pictures of the Prince are published in a French tabloid, Broadhurst, the Palace's head of security is drawn into a murky world of fundamentalist fever, brutal revenge and sinister international conspiracy.
Across the Channel, Marchal, a widowed detective on the verge of retirement, is trying to investigate a series of suspicious deaths, but being thwarted at every turn.
Tying the two conspiracies together is the enigmatic Sator Square - an ancient code with a deadly new resonance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoff Cook
• Release date: Feb 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9789899730038

Geoff Cook

“Geoff was born in East London as the Second World War came to an end.Following a traditional grammar school upbringing, he was convinced by his stepfather to give up the notion of becoming a journalist and get a proper job as an articled clerk to an old-established firm of City chartered accountants at the princely sum of 20 guineas per month.Geoff’s professional career took him to Brazil for five years and then back to London where he joined an investment bank with interests in the world of film making and pop music, after which he branched out by establishing a chain of retail stores. An ambitious move into the leisure industry in Portugal eventually saw him back into the world of financial alchemy in the City of London where he participated in the spectacular rise of a fledgling public company, and sadly, as the recession of the early 80s took hold, its demise.More recently, true to the adage, “cook by name and cook by nature,” Geoff’s holdings have included interests, not only in a hotel chain, a leisure complex, and a water park, but also a restaurant ship on Canary Wharf. Prior to his retirement, Geoff ran two restaurants on the Algarve.Since he started his first street newspaper and lending library as a child, Geoff’s passion has been writing and will continue to be so until the ink dries up.Geoff’s first full length novel, Pieces for the Wicked, was published in 2010 and deals with the financial intrigue and white collar terrorist activity at a time when the aftermath of the Iraq war show that the ticking time bomb of civil and religious unrest could easily be manipulated to provide a vacuum for the rise of another dictator once the occupying forces have retreated.Since then, he has to his credit The Sator Square, a suspense thriller, taking a number of contemporary themes and weaving them in into a storyline involving savage revenge, family and ruthless commercial objectives. At its heart, is a terrorist plot and the desire to manipulate religious extremism as a tool to achieve far darker and sinister objectives.In 2019, Rotercracker Copyrights released Deaf WIsh, a dark, contemporary family drama set in Wales, Northern Portugal and Spain’s Costa de La Luz. Gil Hart is a man seeking reconciliation with the wife and two sons he abandoned sixteen years earlier for a younger woman and a new life in Spain.As he faces the prospect of a reunion with his bitter ex-wife at their younger son’s wedding little does he realise the need for revenge of those he cast aside and the lengths to which they are prepared to go to exact retribution.Geoff's latest novel, The Last Rights, was originally scheduled for release last October, but delayed because of the pandemic until February, 2021. It tells the story of Rita Krakowski, a Polish Jew who, seventy years after witnessing the greatest robbery and criminal conspiracy of all time, finds her life in danger as the secrets locked in a vault at a Lisbon bank are set to expose a cover-up with far-reaching financial and political implicationsGeoff has also written two three-act stage plays in the “Bloodlines” Trilogy. The controversial “Painful Truth” and “The Last Chapter” have been published on Stageplays and will shortly be available on Smashwords.He derives his inspiration from old timers like Frederick Forsyth, John Le Carré, Len Deighton and, more recently from a wide variety of contemporary crime writers including the very talented Sabine Durrant and Alex Marwood with their psychological thrillers.

Book preview

SATOR THE SOWER

AREPO THE PLOUGH

TENET THE HOLDER OF MAGICAL VOW

OPERA OPENS THE MYSTIC GATE

ROTAS TURNS THE WHEEL OF FATE

LET PATERNOSTER FROM THE STONE EXTEND

MAY ALPHA START FOR OMEGA MUST END

"See, I am coming soon; my reward is with me, to repay according to everyone’s work.

I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end."

Revelation 22: 12 – 13

Geoff Cook

THE SATOR SQUARE

BOOK ONE – SATOR – THE SOWER

BOOK TWO – AREPO – THE PLOUGH

BOOK THREE – TENET – THE HOLDER OF MAGICAL VOW

BOOK FOUR – OPERA – OPENS THE MYSTIC GATE

BOOK FIVE – ROTAS – TURNS THE WHEELS OF FATE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

In Loving Memory

Rita and Vic

My Inspiration

In Living Memory

Stephen, Simon and Daniel

My Expectation

BOOK ONE – SATOR – THE SOWER

One - @GerbenRosenberg

Gerben?

He detected both surprise and curiosity in the way she had framed his name. Surprisingly, there was no trace of hostility. He put a mental tick in the positive box. Even so, her ample frame blocked the doorway, defiantly barring access to the apartment. Still fences to mend.

On impulse, he took her hand and planted a delicate kiss, his lips hardly brushing the back of her fingers. As her gaze followed this gesture of outmoded chivalry, he ran his right hand up from the waistband of her loose-fitting cream silk dressing gown, avoiding her breast and gently squeezing her shoulder. She shuddered, a brief, but unequivocal response, yet there was no defiance. Another tick in the box.

Why? she asked, standing erect, pulling the dressing gown straight and tight around her, re-knotting the belt and folding her arms – actions that all said don’t do it again, but she hadn’t slammed the door in his face.

I wanted to see if you had forgiven me, Chantelle. It’s over two years now. Should he ask to come in? Better not force the pace.

And you feel this is the right approach? Touching me up like fruit at a market stall? Come on, Gerben. Get real! A trace of a smile creased her cracked lips.

She wasn’t conventionally beautiful. Yet her heavy features and unkempt appearance somehow enhanced the earthiness. He’d never asked her age. Early thirties, he guessed. She’d look like shit when she was sixty. Chauvinist maybe, but true.

Words when dealing with emotion are so often misunderstood, he answered. They tend to over or understate your intentions. Actions provoke an immediate and singular response. They can tell you much more and a lot quicker. He smiled. Besides, I couldn’t resist the temptation.

You never could, as I recall, Gerben. A bet, wasn’t it? The memory seemed to bring a flash of anger to her eyes. Her hand smudged yesterday’s mascara across her eyelid.

Going back over that incident was dangerous. He decided to fast forward, buy some reconciliation time. I came to your office nine months ago to apologise, but you wouldn’t see me. The recollection jarred. You sent down some snotty little hag of a secretary to tell me to bugger off in front of everybody in reception. It must have made the little cow’s day. How could he still be so angry? Wounded pride? If he could just have put his hands around that bitch’s throat.

You didn’t come to apologise, Gerben. Her voice cracked. You came to sell me some smutty little photos, like all the other times. You must have thought I’d got over our little encounter. What was the bet? Five hundred Euros if you managed to shag a lesi? Well, let me tell you, Gerben. Your little bet cost me a long-term relationship and a great deal of heartbreak. She sounded annoyed, but he felt somehow that it was staged for his benefit.

You got over it. He sounded unrepentant.

Once again, she retightened the belt of her dressing gown. The bitch had been having an affair for over a year. I never guessed. I was well shot of her.

Gerben went to speak, but she jumped in first. If you’re going to say ‘Well, lucky I helped you out or some such other banality that lets you off the hook, forget it. You fucked me for a bet and that’s about as low as it gets.

I wasn’t. He shook his head. I was about to say, it was a pity you didn’t buy the images of that footballer on the boat with his lover. They made a fortune for Paris Match. I heard you got grief from the owner for missing out on that deal. Mustn’t let our personal lives interfere with business, must we? he goaded.

She looked through him.

Got you, he thought. You’re still standing here talking to me for one reason. You’re afraid; afraid that if you send me away, you could be missing something your boss will make you feel sorry for. So, you stay with it, but you’re dying to shut the door in my face.

Well, lovely talking to you, Gerben, but I can’t believe that a good Yiddish boy who thinks he’s a woman’s dream in the bedroom would come half way across Paris on the Jewish Sabbath to apologise for his behaviour a year ago. She looked hard into his eyes. So, what do you really want, Gerben?

Can I come in?

I’ve got company.

He gave a twisted smile. On that one night they had spent together, she had told him that it reminded her of a fifties film set. He recalled her words. How did you put it? he said. I think that I detect the aura around you. It’s a mix of the stench of sexual abandonment, body fluids, perspiration and stale cigarette smoke; obnoxious, but, somehow, strangely compelling and so appealing to our basic animal instincts.

She shook her head disdainfully, waves of peroxide blond hair falling around her ears. The quiff above her forehead was almost yellow, much blonder than the rest of her hair. It was as if the perpetual trail of nicotine in the smoke from her cigarettes had, over time, somehow dyed it.

Can’t you get rid of her? We have to talk. It’s really important.

I promised myself a weekend away from the office. Can we make it some other time? Say Monday? It was more a plea than a statement of intent. Time to press home the advantage.

Look Chantelle. He took a step closer to her. Last time you missed a scoop by sending me away. Today, you can multiply the word ‘scoop’ a hundred-fold and still fall way short. I have something that will make your career, believe me!

She looked hard into his eyes, turned and went back inside the apartment. He took it as his cue to follow her as far as the lounge. He exhaled with relief as she closed the bedroom door.

From what he could remember, little in the apartment had changed. He slumped into the recliner that faced the TV. For someone on a mega salary, the place was small, pokey almost and sparsely furnished. It wasn’t a home, just somewhere to pass through as the days changed.

The floor was littered with copies of weekly magazines in various languages. The competition. He flicked through a Danish glossy. So much syndicated shit. It wasn’t a patch on Bien a Vous. Chantelle Dubois was a highly talented, professional editor with a gift for putting together the right journalistic mix needed to produce a successful weekly ‘kiss and tell’ ratings winner. Bien a Vous or BV as it was known in the trade was owned and backed by an Indian banking magnate who treated the magazine and, by default, Chantelle, as his toys. Expense was no object and he was prepared to lavish millions, as long as the deal was an exclusive and would keep BV at the top of the pile. That was the precise reason why Gerben Rosenberg was sitting where he was on the Jewish Sabbath and not in the synagogue in Montreuil where his parents, sister and two brothers with their families would have already noticed and frowned upon his absence. He was the black sheep. It would have to be a convincing excuse.

The raised voice from the bedroom sounded vaguely familiar. It was not Chantelle’s. Strident, high pitched and angry, it was full of venom, past reason, past Chantelle’s vain attempt to seek a compromise. Gerben was beginning to enjoy himself. Nothing like being a bystander at a catfight. How long would Chantelle keep her cool? Should he get involved if they started getting physical?

The shouting and pleading stopped as suddenly as it had started. The bedroom door swung open, the handle crashing heavily into the partition wall. He looked down at the floor. The footsteps accelerated across the room and stopped abruptly alongside him. There was no option but to look up. It was the hair that confused him initially. The last time he had seen this human version of a stick insect with bumps, she had dark hair tied up in a bun. Now, it was short, red and shaped around her ears. But there was no mistaking the raw anger in those eyes, framed by the thick rimmed glasses. He had seen it once before.

Bastard! she spat at him and then turned and stomped out of the apartment.

As the front door ricocheted on its hinges, Gerben’s thin lips extended into a self-satisfied smile. Getting your own back was a gratifying experience, even something as petty as this. That forlorn creature was the secretary who had once taken so much pleasure in evicting him from BV’s offices. What a result!

Well? Chantelle was walking from the bedroom door to the armchair opposite him. She had changed into slacks and a loose fitting open weave jumper. She was wearing no bra, the silhouette of her breasts far more sensual to him than had she appeared bare-chested.

He forced himself to look into her eyes. I seem to be making a habit of accidentally screwing up your relationships. I’m sorry.

She seemed nonplussed, but he could tell she was putting on an act.

Then make it worth my while. What have you got? She edged forward on the armchair, her legs closed, hands clasped around her knees.

For the first time since she had opened the door, Gerben felt on home territory. He swung into sales mode with the involuntary gestures of gently stroking the tip of his classic hook nose and then moving his hand to wipe the moisture from his balding head. Somebody had once suggested that he should either shave all the hair off or pay for a transplant. The wispy strands that stretched from the middle to the back of his cranium were neither one thing nor another. But Gerben had resisted. He was prone to perspire heavily and the remaining hairs helped to keep his skullcap in place whenever religious etiquette demanded.

He lurched forward on the recliner, nearly losing his balance as he tried to sit upright. His centre of gravity was continuing to move south. Now into his forties, he had to work harder in the gym to stall the traces of a spare tyre around his waistline, product of too many business deals over dinner. He struggled briefly for breath. As you know, Chantelle, I represent the interests of a number of experienced photographic journalists, artistically and technically talented individuals who rely on me to get the best commercial leverage for their output.

She mimicked a soccer referee, blowing a make-believe whistle and showing an imaginary card. Cut the crap, Gerben, please. I don’t need nor have time for the sales pitch. You’re a tenacious, lowlife, grubby agent for a bunch of equally lowlife paparazzi who daren’t show their heads above the parapet for the risk of having a dozen and one writs shoved in their unshaven faces. She waited for a response, but there was no reaction. Now, what have you got and how much is it? Two simple questions.

Her technique was easy to recognise. She was trying to gain the initiative from him, muscle the negotiation so that she called the shots. No chance of it working in his case.

Before we discuss the sordid details, let me just say one thing. He stopped for effect. She had raised one eyebrow way above the other in an inverted V. How the hell did she do that, he wondered.

A dozen other publishers would murder for what I’m going to show you, Chantelle, but I had to give you first refusal. I felt really bad about what happened that night and I’d like us to put our relationship on a new footing. You get my drift?

He leaned forward and placed his hand on her knee, which she casually brushed off. Listen, Gerben, let’s get this horseshit out of the way once and for all. Her voice was calm, emotionless. You’re one of the few men I’ve screwed in my life and, I have to say, I guessed there was some ulterior motive right from the start. As it happens, it was a very pleasing and rewarding night’s work which is in the past and which I have no intention of repeating. Whatever your despicable motive, you were a very subtle and considerate lover. I have to say that in the intervening months the experience seems to have aged you quite considerably. Your limited physical attributes appear to have turned to fat.

He didn’t feel like laughing, but he did. That’s a hell of a backhanded compliment!

As to your selfless gesture of coming to see me first, she went on. "Forgive me if I don’t buy that either. BV is about the only magazine that could raise big money in short order. All the others you’d have to go through the senior editor; the management committee; the finance director; probably the proprietors; not forgetting the legal eagles. She waited for a reaction. I’m right, aren’t I?"

He wasn’t about to admit that she was spot on.

With me, it’s a quick phone call to Benny in Dubai and the money’s as good as in your account. So, let’s forget the foreplay and go straight to the climax!

He leaned back in the recliner, resting his feet on the raised stool. Two million Euros, paid today into a nominated bank account in the Caymans. If you’re quick off the mark, you’ll easily treble that. All global syndication rights pass to you. As soon as Benny says yes, you call the shots.

She looked into his eyes, but he avoided her gaze. You’re either mad or you’ve... She hesitated. No. Two million? You must be joking.

I’ve never been more serious, he replied.

Show me, she demanded.

Gerben took an inexpensive camera from his floppy briefcase. Don’t worry, he said. They weren’t taken with this. Probably something a metre long with six different lenses. You know how these lads work. He handed it over to her. For God’s sake, don’t press the delete button by mistake. There are no copies. Guaranteed.

She studied the camera. It’s on a memory card?

Yes. Protected. You have to use an SD adapter with that camera. It’s getting on.

How about I put the card into my mobile and check what you’ve got?

No way. Don’t even think about it. I know what these smartphones are like. You blink and some app syncs everything to some album or a cloud in the stratosphere and the next thing you know is that the whole bloody lot is featuring on U Tube or your Facebook page. No way. This little beauty stays right where it is, the original with no clones.

You’re absolutely certain?

Stake my life on it. I paid a small fortune for this little lot.

She looked surprised. You’re the principal? You’re not commissioned on this one? The first image appeared in the viewfinder screen.

I’ve pledged my life savings, Chantelle. It’s all mine to sell.

She wasn’t paying attention. She clicked onto the first image and studied it closely. Is this who I think it is? she asked. It doesn’t look like him.

With a sigh, she clicked onto the next frame. Gerben had just started to relax when the camera landed back in his lap. She was shaking her head. This is what’s supposed to make my career? You spoil my weekend for this? I think you’ve lost the plot, Gerben. I wouldn’t give you twenty grand for that lot, let alone two million. Her frustration was beginning to show.

No?

For months now, the rumour has been doing the rounds that he was gay. So what? Sexual preference is not mutually exclusive to any one section of society. All you’ve got is a nice set of photos of various guys in the throes of getting it together. Sweet. Marketable? Barely. Confirms something most people suspected. Half the world say Aah and the other homophobic half say something offensive. Big deal!

How much did you say?

Maybe twenty grand and that’s pushing the boat out.

He released the micro card, taking another from the small case into which he clipped the first and then handed the camera back to her.

OK, he nodded. So, it’s twenty grand for that set and one million, nine hundred and eighty thousand for this one.

Is this some sort of a game?

No game.

With a look of resignation, she brought the first image into the viewfinder. Although her expression remained impassive, Gerben noticed her fingers begin to tremble as she moved through the frames. She could have studied no more than six images before the camera slipped from her grasp. We’ll never get away with it. She looked up at Gerben. This is dynamite. You could destroy a monarchy.

Gerben was on his feet. Before she could react, he had taken the camera back from her and switched it off. They don’t get any better, he said. Sixty images in total. My guess is you could probably publish about half. The rest you could try and sell back to the victim.

Blackmail?

He laughed. Don’t be silly. That’s criminal. The danger is that if you’ve got these images in the public domain, they are bound to end up on the internet. Best if they were out of circulation. Don’t you agree?

Her mind was elsewhere. These are kosher photos, right? No funny business?

Of course not. You’ll get your guy to verify anyway. But I’ll guarantee legitimacy. Taken over the course of this past Wednesday and Thursday. I completed the purchase last night and you’re my very first port of call.

Who took them?

You know I can’t tell you that, Chantelle. His tone was conspiratorial. Best you stay out of the loop, anyway. I’ll just say it was one of my clients.

Knowing your clients, there’s a dozen copies stored in cyberspace. By tomorrow, they will be all over the internet, whether you like it or not. You can’t stop the momentum.

"Don’t take me for an amateur, Chantelle. My source is impeccable; knows the value of sole exclusivity. A single leak and the merchandise is worthless. We all lose. The seller doesn’t get his hands on the cash I’ve deposited with the lawyers and my two million evaporates into thin air.

They’ll be on to me like a pack of hounds cornering a fox. Once this breaks every lawyer in Paris will be instructed to go after my blood. They’re bound to get an injunction to hand over the material.

She was beginning to backtrack, but he had planned for a cold feet reaction. "As you can imagine, I’ve given this a lot of thought overnight. This is your timetable. We do a deal this afternoon and you schedule an eight-page supplement plus new title page for the print run on Sunday night. Nobody in BV must know anything about it. He could feel the adrenalin begin to take hold. His mouth was dry. Any chance of a drink of water?"

She leaned across to the fridge, took out a bottle and, after taking a large swig herself, passed it to him. It was fizzy, but it did the trick. Go on, she said impatiently.

We spend tonight and tomorrow working on the supplement. You get your best graphics designer to come around in the morning to work on the cover story. It must be done here. Complete secrecy is essential.

We? she queried.

Figure of speech. Who’s your main man?

That will be Bernhard, she said.

Tomorrow night, you email one of the photos to an address I get for you. You offer him thirty similar originals and you name your price. Then,. . .

She stopped him in mid-sentence. You’ve thought all this through. How much do you suggest?

Ask for six million and settle for three.

You’re out of your tiny mind. She looked incredulously at him.

Believe me, they will bite your hand off.

And?

"Monday morning, you prime all the likely sources to which you can syndicate the publishable images to look out for the midday release of this week’s BV. Name your price, do deals and supply the product before the day is out. Job done."

She stood up and walked over to him, stretching, off balance, to reach for the water bottle. He kept a tight grip on the neck, forcing her to fall against him. Alert to the tactic, she prized the bottle out of his hand and forced the base hard into his crotch. He gasped with pain.

I told you, Gerben. No funny business. I’m not interested. She released the bottle and stood up.

Don’t blame me. It’s such a waste of . . She snatched the bottle out of his hand and threw it at him, narrowly missing his head.

I know, Gerben, I’ve heard it all before. Why such a woman as me should be lost to the pleasures of mankind. You men really think you’ve got what it takes to satisfy every woman’s physical and emotional needs. It’s a load of crap. Men are from Mars and they should have stayed there. Now, get real! When we publish, all hell will break loose. How do you suggest I handle it?

He squirmed in his chair. The bottle had hurt him. Silly bitch! It will be Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday before they can mobilize, probably Friday before they get a magistrate to listen and next Monday before there’s a hearing. That will probably give you another week’s publication with some more money-making revelations.

They´ll go for invasion of privacy, demand the product and force me to name the source. It’s a big gamble.

Well. I’m no lawyer, but there is a defence of disclosure in the public interest which could be used to counter the privacy allegation. After all, there’s so much outing in the press at the moment. Your legal team will be better placed to comment than I am. But I ask you, would you want someone like him to put his arm around your young nephew?

She nodded her acknowledgement. And your position?

If you’re forced to, you name me. It’s obvious. I’ll look after myself. It’s built into the price.

I was coming to that. Benny’s going to have to take a lot on trust. He can’t put it through the lawyers first. I might be able to convince him to go to one, but two is a big gamble. How about it?

Gerben gave her that ‘don’t give me all that crap’ look. Good try, Chantelle, but two million Euros is the starting and finishing point. He put the camera back into his briefcase. Take it or leave it. He walked toward the door. Time was passing. He had to close the deal. I’m out of here.

Do me a favour, Gerben. Give me a couple of hours. Go to your synagogue and pray. This isn’t going to be easy.

As he opened the front door, he glanced back. She was reaching for her mobile. Benny wouldn’t let this scoop go to somebody else. Gerben Rosenberg was home and dry.

Two - @Chas.Broadhurst.kp

Questions! Why so many damn questions?

God knows, there’s something to be said for military discipline. He would not accept that a soldier was any less curious than a civilian, but he could not conceive that any of the officers who had served under the SAS command of Captain Chas. Broadhurst would have dared to challenge an order with What’s all this about?

Not so the glorified arse lickers of the Royal press corps, whom he was supposed to handle with a kid glove. God forbid that he should offend their fragile sensibilities!

Never mind. Just two more to go and that was everyone dealt with.

He guessed it must be around three in the morning and his piles itched, a sure sign that he was feeling the stress. Wriggling in the armchair in a futile attempt to alleviate the irritation, his mobile slipped to the floor. Touching the switch, a soft glow from the table lamp pricked the darkness, casting shadows around the lounge of his grace and favour apartment. The motor in the security camera whirred as it registered the activity, then silenced as he located the mobile and extinguished the light once more.

Broadhurst preferred it that way. His most successful deployments in the Falklands and then, in the Balkans just prior to his discharge, had been night special ops. His senior platoon leader, Lambert, was now his second in command in the Kensington Palace security hierarchy. It had been a right royal battle to secure Lambert’s appointment against the concerted opposition of those pen-pushers from human resources. What did those grey men know about real life? Alright, maybe Lambert was a ladies’ man, but Broadhurst would not have survived Bosnia had his sergeant not taken out that sniper who had him in his sights. The shot that would have shattered his skull into pieces had ricocheted into the back of Broadhurst’s knee. Months of surgery and rehabilitation had left him with a limp and, from time to time, a nagging ache whenever he overdid the exercise. In the world of personal security, the competence and loyalty which Lambert had displayed were both essential and invaluable.

A woman’s voice, brusque and husky from sleep, answered the phone. Broadhurst was about to speak when the phone had obviously been taken from her.

Yes, Sir? Lambert’s voice. Broadhurst’s explanation for the call was received in silence and acknowledged with a second, Yes, Sir.

He pushed the speed dial a second time. Sarah? It’s Broadhurst.

Another female with a gruff, disoriented voice. What time is it?

Just after four.

Who is this?

Are you alright, Sarah? This is Chas Broadhurst.

No reply. The only sound was some heavy snoring in the background.

Finally. Sorry. You woke me from a weird dream. For a moment, I couldn’t work out if this was real or not.

His apology for waking her was cursory. Sarah Hansom was the media relations reporter at the press corps with a fairly predictable routine. Today was different.

Is there a problem? he asked.

Must have been last night’s takeaway, she explained. Lamb Jalfrezi. Terry insisted on extra spicy. Tasted like a puncture repair kit and now I feel like throwing up.

As keen as he was to get to the reason for his call, her comment reminded him that his own takeaway meal for one dietary plan had recently been missing a good Indian component.

Something bad happened? she asked.

He was getting good at ignoring questions. The eight o’clock meeting is cancelled.

Thank God, she replied. I could do with an extra couple of hours in bed.

Sorry to disappoint. You need to be at the Palace by six. A car will pick you up.

The significance of his last remark would not be lost on her. It must be serious. Taxis were never used whenever there was a panic. Palace officials working outside of their normal timeframes would prompt the more savvy taxi drivers into passing the information on to their contacts in the tabloid press. Unusual behaviour provoked curiosity and speculation, a staple diet for the suspicious journalist.

OK, she acknowledged. Anything I need to know?

We won’t be in the green room. Go straight to the cellar.

This had confirmed her worst fears. The cellar was rarely used. The room was in a nuclear blast proof underground complex in the east wing of Kensington Palace, surveillance swept every thirty minutes and policed by a group from Special Forces

Do you want me to contact Rashid or the others? she asked.

It’s done, he replied. Just get yourself there on time and it’s code one. No pillow talk.

The snoring in the background had become even more energetic.

No fear of that, she said.

Three - @GerbenRosenberg

Gerben extended his legs over the arm of the sofa. The small of his back ached. Two nights huddled up like a foetus, his neck crooked at an unnatural angle, exhaustion was beginning to overtake the adrenalin buzz that had kept him so pumped up. That and those funny little pink pills she kept in a pin box in the sewing drawer. He couldn’t imagine Chantelle being into crochet or knitting a jumper. For the first time in the crazy thirty six hours they had just lived through, from late Saturday afternoon when Benny had finally sealed the deal and transferred the down payment to just four hours ago when the magazine had finally been put to bed and released to the printers, he realized just how shattered he was. Six hours sleep over two nights, coffee after coffee. And the result? A work of art, even if he did say so himself!

Following all that archive research, photo setting, discussion, rejection and acceptance a new level of respect had been established with Chantelle. Their joint effort had been immense. The interchange of ideas; the arguments; the conclusions; the battles had been fought with consummate professionalism. As much as he still fancied her physically, he had come to admire her clinical approach to the challenge. He could only hope that she saw something more in him than just a rather shallow and solitary middle-aged gigolo.

On the downside, the one negative had been Benny’s insistence that Gerben stay with the deal once terms had been agreed. For his part, Gerben had pressed for a simple arrangement where he received the two million, handed over the goods, a polite thank you and exit stage left. No way. Unless he stayed on side, there was no deal. Benny or, the correct spelling as Gerben had learned, Beni Ram was a Hindu, originally from Mangalore, who had ended up as an influential middleman in Dubai, working for wealthy clients around the Middle East and, as a consequence, had become very rich himself.

As arranged, Gerben had returned to Chantelle’s apartment that Saturday afternoon, to find himself in a video conference call with Benny and his lawyer. They wouldn’t argue about the price, only the way it was paid. A ten percent down payment today and the balance following Monday’s publication of BV, at which time Gerben would meet up with a partner from the lawyer’s Paris office to iron out the legals and get his hands on the balance. Gerben respected the tactic. By Monday evening, Chantelle would have sold the rights around Europe and Benny would have already covered his outlay.

With two exceptions, there was also agreement on the marketing strategy that Gerben had proposed. The first of Benny’s demands was that Gerben join Chantelle in preparing the supplement for the magazine. She was obviously not happy and plainly confused at Benny’s insistence that Gerben be allowed to meddle in editorial issues, but Benny didn’t seem like somebody you argued with too much. The second was that Chantelle could not be involved in any proposal to sell the more compromising photos to the Prince’s representatives. That would be best done by a middleman.

Do you know anything about Hinduism, Mr Rosenberg? Benny had asked. There was a time delay on the line. He was dressed in traditional flowing Arab robes, sitting on a large cane chair with elephant’s ears. Gerben guessed that they were of an age. The one striking feature about Benny’s shiny coffee coloured face was a cleft in his chin so prominent that it could have clasped a coin.

I spend enough time trying to please my parents by keeping up with the traditions of Judaism, let alone other faiths, he replied.

The dharma we Hindus follow is one that treats men and women as equals, but insists that we revere and protect our women from the evil in this world. I could not allow Chantelle to front such a proposal.

You talk about a middleman, Benny. You mean you want me to front it?

I was coming to that, if you let me finish. You are bound to be implicated anyway. Our lawyers will have to eventually disclose the source of this revolting material. You might as well take centre stage from day one.

If I’m going to do that, I might as well make my own deal for six million. Why do I need you? Gerben countered.

There was a pause, and then Benny laughed. "Two reasons. One; you have to sell the photos as one package and not in two hits. Nobody in their right mind would buy half a camel. Two; you know as well as I do that once the legal wrangling starts, your two million will evaporate into legal fees like steam out of a kettle. You need BV’s legal backing to defend your butt from the red-hot poker they will try and stick up it."

He had been spot on and Gerben’s vain attempts to wriggle out from under Benny’s foot were just that - vain attempts. Five minutes later, the deal was sealed.

Chantelle had seemingly appeared from nowhere and was standing in front of him. I couldn’t sleep either, she said. She was back inside the cream silk dressing gown again. Too much going on. What do you think they’ll say to your mail?

"Nothing. We know the mail was opened, but they won’t reply. I suspect their main thrust will be to do everything possible to stop publication of BV. There are probably fifty lawyers in France working on that right now."

He pushed the blanket aside, standing to reveal a pair of striped, baggy boxer shorts. I’ll just go and freshen up. This could be a long day. The next contact will probably come from one of these lawyers, threatening you with God knows what if you don’t stop the magazine going on sale and me with charges of criminal intent if I don’t cooperate and deliver up the goods for zilch. Hold tight. This is going to be a bumpy ride.

The bathroom door slammed shut behind him, but opened again quickly. I suggest you give your young graphics artist a call, Gerben said, referring to the man who had spent a day in the apartment working on the front cover of the magazine. Make sure he stays indoors, away from the workplace and talks to no one.

You already covered all that with Bernhard when he was here, she replied. He’s reliable.

Maybe so, but we can’t take any chances.

A flash of anger crossed her face.

You don’t mind, do you? he added as a sop, retreating back into the bathroom.

Chantelle reached for the handset and knelt across the sofa to pull back the curtains, revealing a murky dawn, the sky full of dark, threatening clouds. Spots of rain began to splatter on the window pane. The streetlights on the road below were still on, casting shadows on the confusion of parked cars that occupied every conceivable space available. She noticed the Renault Espace simply because it stood higher off the ground than the vehicles around it and it was the only one she could see that was occupied. She made out the silhouette of two figures, one in the driver’s seat, the other, diagonally behind him. Curious. She waited, but the car did not move.

There was no reply from Bernhard. Putain! The day hadn’t even begun and she was getting bloody paranoiac! Pull yourself together woman! She leaned back across the sofa, her hand seeking leverage under the cushions. There was something hard to the touch. She pulled out a striped zipped toilet bag that Gerben must have put there. Strange he hadn’t taken it into the bathroom with him. Curiosity got the better of her. The little hard covered black book that sat on top was bound shut with an elastic band. Her instinctive reaction was to push it down between the cushions. A face towel was folded to cover the bulky object that lay below. She pulled out an ancient looking handgun by the barrel. A dozen or so little bullets clinked together in the bottom of the bag. What did he think was going to happen? A western style shootout in her apartment? This was all getting out of hand. She replaced the zipped bag under the cushions and looked out of the window again. The Renault was still there. Gerben! she called anxiously.

He heard the telephone ring. "Just give me a few more minutes, will you? I