55 Carrom

By Michael Fitzalan

McCool’s real name had been Demna and he had been called ‘Finn’ because his hair was fair. Oisin’s hair was fair and that had convinced Mike that they should stick with the name. It was also easy to translate and could be extended to Finian, which sounded similar to the French word fainéant, which means lazy. Finn had a reputation in the Irish guards for being more interested in the parties in Chelsea than in life in the barracks. It was for his charm and fighting skills that he had been given the job with Mike’s team. In legend, Finn had many adventures he had a reputation of fairness and being wise, which is how those in Finn’s troop felt about him. The ‘Fianna’, Finn’s tribe, had possessed magic weapons and this Mike and his team certainly had in abundance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291947076

Book preview

55 Carrom

55 Carrom

By

Michael Fitzalan

ISBN:  978-1-4477-8656-6

Copyright © 2009 by Finnian Fitzpatrick

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews.

CHAPTER 1 – HUNTING

I - FINN

Wedging a fifty pence piece between the door and frame prevented its closure. Finn slipped down the steps to the waiting Bentley parked in a meter bay. It was already dark outside. He strode over to the back seat passenger door on the pavement side. With consummate ease and in one swift movement he squatted down on his haunches so he could look up at the person he was addressing. He knew his place, he would never have deigned to lean on the roof and talk down to his boss.

She’s bought the story, he announced, smiling.

The blackened glass slid up and covered the face of the back seat passenger. At the same time, Finn rose to his full height and took a step backwards. The car was an impenetrable black box once again; it may well have been empty. Turning on his heal, Finn skipped up the steps, pushed the glass door open and retrieved the coin. There was a click behind him as the spring mechanism snapped the lock shut. Ignoring the sound, he bounded up the stairs, two at a time, reaching the sixth floor in three minutes. Managing to catch his breath while he pushed the bell to flat nine, he ran his free hand through his short, lightly gelled hair.

Nine was his lucky number he mused as he waited. Finn wondered why all the most attractive women, that he knew, lived on the top floor. Top floor flats provided good exercise and afforded excellent views of the neighbourhood, he admitted but they also deterred all but the most ardent and athletic of suitors. Several flights of stairs to climb helped to keep old admirers from even attempting to make it beyond the stone steps at the front door.

He certainly felt the years as he tried to restore his breathing to normal. Perhaps she perceived him as old, he was the wrong side of forty and she was the right side of thirty. The type who bounded up the stairs, he was sure. She had taken a long time to answer the door when he had first arrived, so he did not expect her to answer quickly. She had been dressed in a white blouse and tight ‘Moto’ jeans then and she had looked fresh and carefree.

When he had left to 'pop out for a minute' she was wearing a floating, silk Belmain dress, carrying a glass of New Zealand sauvignon Blanc and heading for the bathroom, which was deeper inside the flat. He welcomed the chance to compose himself, whilst congratulating himself on scaling the stairs so rapidly. While waiting, he imagined a line of escorts collecting her from her flat, waiting exhausted at the top of the stairs, then merely escorting her to the front door after supper, refusing an invitation to coffee on the grounds that it was a long way up on a full stomach.

He suspected that top flats were considered secure because few people would enter through the roof and most burglars would prefer to steal from a basement or ground floor flat.  However, earlier that day, he had gained entry into her flat through the kitchen window, which overlooked the stairwell sky light and the fire escape ladder that led onto the flat roof.

Finn had to be sure of an escape route should there be cause to extricate himself in a hurry but he also wanted to see the layout of the flat in three dimensions rather than on a plan. There was no need to bug the apartments; it would have been embarrassing if listening devices were found before they left. The team would install them while the flat was empty.

II -THE TEAM

In the Bentley, parked in Cadogan Gardens, Mike Bloom put down the receiver, slotting the large handset into an old fashioned, cumbersome car phone cradle. He was dressed for dinner, a pair of patent leather shoes, and black wool trousers with a satin black stripe running up each leg, a red cummerbund, white shirt and black silk bow tie. His jacket was neatly folded on the seat beside him. Mike Bloom was in his late sixties but exercise had kept him young looking. A permanent tan from life in the Far East, where he had cultivated a fondness for gold jewellery, added to the air of a successful businessman.

Right chaps, the games afoot, he chortled, rubbing his chubby hands together, addressing the two figures in the front seat. Shall we shog?

The driver, a capped chauffeuress, wore black, leather-driving gloves. The brunette hair was cropped short lying between the nape of her neck and the collar of her charcoal grey, fitted jacket. Her pretty heart shaped face gave her the appearance of a gamine and pale blue eyes flittered from the side mirrors to the rear view mirror, watching for any movement. She fired up the engine by jabbing on the starter button with an elegant finger, the nails were long and painted red.

Tight charcoal ski pants hugged her thin, long legs like a wetsuit and stretched over her muscular thighs leading to brown knee high boots, which were laced at the front and low heeled for running. If you could have seen under the uniform, she wore a simple, lilac body and the muscles of an athlete. Twelve hours a week in a gym had ensured that she was fit and toned. 

Pulling out across the road, from under the shadow of 87 Cadogan Gardens, and passing the church on her left, she steered the Bentley right into Moore Street, heading for Lennox Gardens. The front seat passenger, a handsome, young Ugandan, fresh from Sandhurst was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, white, Jermyn Street shirt and a guard’s tie. Physically fit and broad shoulder his small stature enabled him to disappear easily into crowds. In his right ear was a feed earphone from his mobile; he was after all a communications expert.

There was no building he could not somehow bug. He held a laptop on his knees and he was also busy processing information from the on board computer as well.

He turned to speak to Bloom. I've traced the number to Didier Porchaire's house.

Excellent work, it's as we suspected, make sure everyone in the operations room is familiar with the conversation, Mike ordered in the clipped accent of a chairman of the board. He leaned forward and rested a paternal hand on Derek's shoulder. I like it when things go well.

Derek tapped swiftly on the keyboard, pausing only when Mike's hand touched him. He looked up, gently touching George’s arm so she too looked up. Those in the front saw the brown, baldpate, the twinkling, hazel eyes and broad grin in the rear view mirror. The smile in the round face with its friendly, soft features added to the air of relaxed charm. They both smiled back before returning to their work. 

The GPS shows that Beauchamp Place is clear and that Knightsbridge traffic is moving, we should have you at the Dorchester by ten to eight, the driver informed her passengers.

Well done, George, it would not be correct to keep our American friends waiting. I love those satellite systems, we could have done an even better job in Malaysia if we had the use of that modern technology, enthused Mike.

George and Derek exchanged knowing glances. They were used to the stories of Sub-Lieutenant Bloom and his exploits during the Malaysian Emergency. Mike sat back in his seat, adjusting his clothing over his growing midriff bulge. He kept fit, cycling and swimming, looking more like fifty eight than sixty eight, but his love of fine wine and rich food, coupled with a weakness for veille vignes Armagnac, had left its mark on his waistline.

III – FIRST IMPRESSIONS

When Finn has gained his composure, he rapped three times on the heavy door unsure whether she had heard the buzzer. The sound of high heels clicking on the tiled floor of the entrance hall announced her arrival.  A click of the latch alerted him of the need to straighten his tie and assume the most charming of his smiles.

How did you get back in? she asked suspiciously, opening the door more slowly than before. The familiar waft of Chanel ‘Number 5’ fanned in the doorway, but the open smile from earlier was more forced.

Shrapnel wedged in the front door, he smiled, fishing in his trouser pocket for a fifty pence piece. Raising the offending article up to his face, he held it between thumb and finger for her to see. It was the only change that he had on him. In fact he had no other money, no notes, just a selection of cards, ATM and charge.

You were very quick, she noted warily, leaning against the door as if still unsure as to whether she should let him in.

The car was just on the corner, I'd left the invitation on the passenger seat, he replied casually returning the silver coin to his trousers. Her eyes followed his hand and then scanned the rest of his body for any signs of suspicious articles.

She decided to let him in. Finn pulled out the invitation that had always been in his dinner jacket pocket and followed her into the hall, shutting the door gently behind them. He was led into the drawing room again.

I have to finish getting ready now, give me ten minutes, have a drink, she said gesturing to the drinks tray that lay on a side table.

The suggestion was warm but some of the candid air was dispelled. She wanted to ask him where he had learnt to jam open the security door of London flats, how he had learnt to do it and more importantly, why he had done so. Was he worried she might not let him back in?

They did not know each other well enough for such searching questions; the evening was going to well to spoil things. It was this diplomatic role that proved the greatest challenge. 

These two would put on the pretence of being interested in each other when, all the time, they were only interested in finding out as much as they could about what was known to their respective offices. A comment or a compliment could be a lie or a lure. Sifting through the information and picking up on what was left unsaid or half said was what made the two of them such superb operatives.

The drinks tray had litre bottles of brandy, gin, and whisky, the seals were broken but very little fluid was missing. There were fresh quarter litres bottles of ginger ale, soda and tonic.

A stainless steel ice bucket contained cubes, which might provide entertainment when they came back but eschewed for his drink. Finn fixed himself a brandy and soda, remembering his grandfather’s advice to shake the bottle to mix in the fusil oil, a poison, which is a by-product of distillation.

Brandy brings down the blood pressure and he needed calming down. He had pre-flight nerves. In order to take his mind of the myriad of thoughts, he distracted himself by sitting strategically on the sofa, trying to peak into her room.

Her naked body was reflected in the glass of a black and white print of James Dean, just on the inside of the bedroom wall. The door was half closed and it afforded her privacy, but Finn could still see the outline silhouette of her body; it was extremely aesthetically pleasing.

The half open door suggested either lassitude or trust. Perhaps, it was a half-realised invitation. Finn was enjoying the view and the taste of the cocktail far too much to consider the psychological ramifications. He could not care whether her door was half-open or half-closed; there was still room for manoeuvre. His glass was more than half full and he had given himself a large measure of spirit.

He watched as she slipped on a thong and hold up stockings, then she moved from the foot of the bed and disappeared from view. She was slipping on a ‘Cosa Bella Soiree’ strapless bra, which matched her ‘Soiree’ thong, a vivid, fluorescent pink. There was the sound of a wardrobe door sliding gently on its castors as she selected a black dress from the rack.

When Finn could no longer see her, he suddenly realised the track had finished and the CD player was not on a loop. He wondered whether he should select another disc or play the same one again. In any event, he decided to leave everything and enjoy his drink. His interfering might upset her.

Finn wanted a cigarette to go with the alcohol but, instead, he sat fingering the embossed lettering on the invitation.  A melody started filling the room, she had the remote in her bedroom, and it was as well that he had not walked in on her searching for it. He recognised the tune, 'Let's Go Get Stoned'. It was from the era when getting stoned meant getting drunk, rather than high on drugs. The only drug that he approved of in excess was nicotine, which was out of his reach. He would have to sit on his hands and wait until tomorrow.

Finn had an innate restlessness; he had to be occupied, so he looked around the room to check for any signs of slovenliness. There were none. A professional cleaner had taken a hand in the pristine appearance, but you have to have confidence to use white covers on your furniture. There was no sitting up with a tub of chocolate ice cream on these sofas. The glass tabletop sparkled; a stack of the finest women’s magazines lay in the centre, alphabetically arranged, all from the current month.

It was not what was there but what was not there that told Finn more about her: no ashtray, no television, a state of the art stereo system softly playing a Ray Charles disc. Fresh flowers stood in the hearth that was perfectly capable of sustaining a real fire, an equally gleaming mirror. A handful of invitations displayed in chronological order on the white painted mantle shelf. Cream walls and stark furniture, reminded him of Phillipe Starck and also a Chiropractor’s waiting room.

She crossed the threshold wearing a black dress, tight at the torso, billowing, soft chiffon along her arms and a skirt slit to reveal long legs. She paused in the doorframe between the two rooms to allow her entrance to register on his face. Blonde hair, helped to a honey shade, cascaded down to her shoulders in a wild, wanton style, the look of just having risen from bed where sleep was the last consideration.

The absence of a padded bra allowed the dress to accentuate the curves and rises of her breasts. She had a good body, she knew, he knew it; everybody knew it.

She looked like she had been poured into the dress and forgot to say ‘when’. She knew the game, confidence and glamour. She needed seriously blonde hair; cash never followed ash, bold brunette or sunny honey that was the key to the men with the money. The old adage, ‘if you’ve got it flaunt it’, was not wasted on her.   

You look gorgeous, breathed Finn.

Where are you taking me? she asked brightly.

Can you keep a secret? Finn asked equally lightly.

Of course, she replied seriously.

So can I, he assured her.

Grabbing a small black clutch bag from the shelf by the door, she locked up.

I’ve ordered a car to take us there, he announced as they walked down the stairs.

That will save my feet, how thoughtful you are, she teased, letting him lead the way down.

My company use them a lot, they are very reliable, he ignored her comment. Then he decided better of it. I haven’t had to walk home ever and I wouldn’t ask someone like you to do the same.

But, I think it’s important to have some form of exercise to help with the figure, she opined.

There is a time and place for everything, he cautioned.

How boringly bourgeois, she complained. I find walking the least energetic of exercises and therefore the least appealing.

Tell me, Anastasia, do you like Russian food? asked Finn as he led her deliberately slowly down the broad staircase.

Of course, but like all Russian émigrés, I prefer French food, she admitted diplomatically.

I think with such eclectic tastes, he assured her. You will be happy where we are going.

I trust your judgement but maybe next time we meet, I will allow you to go to my favourite place.

I hope I’ll be able to get into your favourite place very soon. 

It’s very small but I think you’ll enjoy it.

I don’t need a special invitation to eat there.

No darling, you can eat there any time you like. You’ll love the different flavours.

I’m sure we’ll both savour the flavour.

"You have whetted my appetite."

You wait until you see what I have in mind for you tonight. It’s big and it can be unpredictable but I think you’ll enjoy it.

I can’t wait to try it, she simpered, smiling wickedly.

I’m so glad your open to new culinary experiences.

I always say that it’s best to suck it and see.

My view entirely, you can have whatever you like, I'll guide you, but I shall have to be strict with you when it comes to ordering the wine.

I’m sure you’ll lick me into shape.

Of course I will, I want you to come again and it's important to match the food to the wine.

Where is the ball afterwards?

Right, next door to the dance, isn't that convenient

Good, I hate walking in these heels.

I hope you like dancing in those shoes.

I do everything wearing my shoes, darling. I just like to limit walking in them.

Everything, are you sure?

Even eating my breakfast, I do everything in high heels.

I can imagine it.

Finn, you cannot always imagine, sometimes you need to experience to feed your imagination.

They had reached the door and their conversation halted as Finn opened the door to let her pass and then joined her at the top of the steps that ran down to the street.

Taking the lead again, he continued down the steps, pausing at the bottom to wait for her.

Walking on the outside of the pavement, he guided her to the waiting car, a Jaguar X-type.

The driver stood next to the open door, which led to the brown leather back, bench seat. Finn shook hands with the driver and assured him that he would take care of the lady. The driver held the lady's door and left Finn to his own devices.

Are all Russian girls such philosophers? he asked as he left her and walked around the back of the car.

Only the one's worth knowing, she replied before she slid elegantly onto the leather passenger seat.

She heard the roadside door open and Finn slipped into the seat next to her, closing the door without slamming it. She moved closer towards him when he settled into his seat

I want to get to know you over some fine wine and fine conversation, confessed Finn, leaning over to pass her the seat belt buckle.

It's the only way to get to know any girl, especially this Russian, she flirted, pointedly taking his hand and helping him to insert it in the lock.

She thanked him for settling her in and the driver shut her door. The driver wished her a good evening and she thanked and smiled. He moved around the bonnet to the driver’s seat. When he was settled behind the steering wheel Finn leant forward and passed him a business card.

Could we make it to Fulham Broadway via Earl's court, please? he asked.

Certainly, Sir, replied the driver activating the Satellite navigation system on the dashboard.

Thank you Geoffrey, said Finn as he sat back and buckled himself in. She crossed her legs towards him and turned her upper almost imperceptibly in his direction. Her legs were incredibly long and shapely and he admired them without any hint of restraint while he waited for her to say something.  The car swept off towards the Fulham Road through Earl's Court.

We should have some fun tonight, Finn said in order to break the silence.

I’m excited already, she murmured.

I’m glad to hear it, Finn replied. Her diary, which Derek had read, had revealed that she was at the peak of her cycle. She was ovulating and Finn knew it.

- IV - DIDIER

Explique, said Didier Porchaire into the cordless phone. He smiled at his two guests, raised a finger close to his face ambiguously suggesting either silence or indicating that he would only be a few minutes.

The tall, thin American businessman and his equally tall, willowy girlfriend sat perched on the edge of a brown leather sofa with square tin loaf shaped arms. He sat with his legs open, like a predatory male, trying to personify confidence. She gave off the opposite signal, nervous and uncomfortable. Her obscenely short, tight skirt forced her to lock her knees together like a prim ‘Prom queen’.

Didier would have enjoyed guessing what colour her underwear might be if she had been Continental, because she was American, he knew they would be white, some propriety brand that made bras or clinging underwear for middle aged women.   

Sorry about that, where was I? asked Didier with a smile breaking out on his face, eye contact warmth in his voice, charm personified.

The rules of the game, the man answered dryly, east coast intonation in his voice, mock enthusiasm in his manner, a shift forward on the sofa added to the acting.

We can play either two or four players, explained Didier with authority. He tossed the cordless phone onto the far cushion of the sofa opposite them and sat down, mirroring the stance of the other man; he could hardly mimic hers. For demonstration purposes, you will be one player. There are nine black coins and nine white coins, one red queen, a striker to hit the coins and most importantly potato starch to make the playing surface smooth. This is like chalk for a gymnast or for a billiard or pool cue. Read the rules, Mr. Lepley, if you would.

Certainly, Mr. Lapin, the American replied. The aim of the game is to sink all your opponents’ pieces.

He resented the Belgians insistence that they remain on second name terms but he had heard of the formality of the Europeans and he had suffered from it as well. It was best to play the game.

You have to keep seated throughout so that’s not as easy as it sounds, unless you have long arms, Didier joked.

"Place the red