The Conversation Club

By Declan J. S. Moloney

Centuries ago, the Egyptian Pharaoh Akhenaten appointed a council of 22 custodians to foster the flourishing of the human spirit through the pursuit of knowledge, the advance of the arts, and covert philanthropy. Today, the London Chapter of that council is known as The Conversation Club. It is helmed by Esau Monk, who guards its activities and astounding wealth with ironclad secrecy, but its very existence and purpose are threatened from within.

60 years ago, in Nazi Germany, Wolfgang Ackerman smuggled 22 boys and a hoard of stolen gold out of the country at the outbreak of the war. Their destination: London, and The Conversation Club. Unknown to anyone but him, he has secretly substituted his own son for one of the boys and is haunted by guilt.

Now, in London, someone is carrying out brutal murders. The security services are convinced Islamic terrorists are behind the atrocities. Former FBI profiler, Dr. Ben Whisker, disagrees. He discerns something far more deadly than meets the eye. His recent fall from professional grace, however, means he is not being taken seriously. Realising that the impenetrable Conversation Club is the focus of the violence, he teams up with the Grand Master of the Club, Esau Monk, to figure out what the connection is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398477490

Declan J. S. Moloney

Possibly following generations in seafaring, but seasickness interrupted, rock stardom called, but hung up. University in Trinity College Dublin did call and the love of story overtook, followed by adventures in the US and UK. A few books later, and a curious stumble into interior design, Declan J. S. Moloney is back in his happy place of imagination and a story to share.

Book preview

Chapter 1

London: present day

Monsignor Roberto Milano loathed using the overcrowded Tube but he hated the frustration of driving in London more. He raised his head and drank in the warm air as he exited Baker Street tube station. He looked up at his destination in the distance, the Islamic Cultural Centre and London’s Central Mosque. He clenched his grip on his bag and smiled as his day was progressing very well indeed. The ten-minute walk from the station along Regent’s Park’s outer circle was pleasant. He inhaled the buzz of the people at the open-air theatre in Queen Mary’s Gardens waiting for a mid-summer show. On the boating lake, his eyes were drawn to the twenty or more kayaks bobbing about in the evening sun. Joggers and power-walkers populated the footpaths, zipping by. The mood in London was good.

He looked skyward, never tiring of blue cloudless skies, his cheer always boosted on days like this. The cassock was heavy for this time of year, but it was Monsignor Milano’s preference to dress traditionally. He thought about the modern lightweight suits that many of the younger clergy chose to wear. Be your own man, he thought, as his hand ran across a full head of dark hair.

He thought of his childhood home in Liguria and the heat he so loved in his youth. Nowadays, despite his slim frame and sallow skin, it slowed him down. Slightly bent over in gait these days, nevertheless he walked with purpose. Parallel to his path, the A41 was alive with the shrill revving of mopeds and the niff of burnt petrol that so reminded him of home. He smiled at the familiarity and resolved to visit Italy very soon.

Monsignor Milano rubbed his hand over some of the thirty-three purple buttons on his cassock, inwardly saying a prayer as he contemplated how they represented the thirty-three years of the life of Jesus on earth. He lightly touched the purple sash which marked him out as a Chaplain of His Holiness the Pope, though, he believed, few people these days either knew, noticed or cared. He understood their lack of interest. He was, despite the many attacks on his church, a proud and devout Catholic. His disposition was always friendly and courteous and he appreciated that was why Rome had chosen him to be an ambassador. Although he often thought about what it would be like to marry and father a child, the church fulfilled him.

Monsignor Milano looked at his phone, and his facial features softened as he saw his sister-in-law’s name flash up. He took the call.

‘Good evening, Silvia. How are you?’ he said, in a distinct Italian accent that had never left him.

‘Hi, Roberto, I rang your office, but they said you were out at meetings. They said you were going to the Central Mosque to meet the Imam. I know today is important to you and wanted to wish you well. Are you remembering to eat? I’m in the kitchen, so I thought of you.’

‘Silvia, I am perfectly fed and will probably eat even more with the Imam. It’s such a beautiful day, isn’t it? You should be out enjoying it rather than worrying about me.’

‘But I do worry. You should be retired, back in Sicily in the sunshine, not here with us all in this overcrowded city. All this work, it’s too much for a man of your age.’

‘I beg your pardon. I’m not that old. Anyway, I’m enjoying it, Silvia. If this conference is successful, it will be the first meaningful congress of Muslims and Christians in centuries. One of the tribal leaders in Iraq has agreed to meet us in London. They want peace. It’s a gamechanger and I’ll do whatever I can.’

In his heart, Monsignor Milano knew that all the tensions and mistrust between the great religions had to be overcome. He prayed every day for the strength to complete his task. It burdened him greatly, but if this were his last act in the Church, it would be worth it. He fidgeted with his briefcase, which contained the agenda for the first all-inclusive, inter-religious congress where all elements of faith were to be discussed.

‘Will there ever be agreement on who God is, Roberto?’ said Silvia with a hint of playfulness, always a little cynical about religion.

Monsignor Milano chuckled. ‘Are you mocking me? I somehow doubt it, but if this conference gets us to agree to disagree it will be a start. Seriously though, should the congress be successful, all children everywhere will study an agreed syllabus on religion so children in Iraq will learn about Christians and kids in Arkansas about Islam. If we can lift the veil of ignorance and get children talking, we have a chance,’ he said, not rising to her tone.

‘It sounds ambitious, Roberto.’

‘Ambitious it is, but happily it has the backing of governments and the UN. The first exchange of students could potentially take place within three years.’ The Monsignor was used to cynicism about his faith, especially as a good deal of it came from his immediate family, despite considering themselves ‘good Catholics.’

The Monsignor smiled as he acknowledged a pair of older women who nodded respectfully as they passed him.

‘Oh, Roberto, I can’t imagine letting my children go to Iraq. All that trouble you see on the television…’

‘I understand, but we have to start somewhere. The walls of ignorance must come down. Believe me, with the governments of the world behind us, we can make a start. The world can’t afford for people to be at war over religious beliefs anymore. The work of the Imam here in the Central Mosque has been tremendous. I’ll tell you all about it over your famous ossobuco.’

‘Always the optimist, Roberto. And you manage to ask for an invitation in the same sentence; such a skilled negotiator you are. Will you come for dinner on Sunday?’

‘I would love to see Francesco and the kids,’ he replied.

‘And what about me?’ laughed Silvia. ‘Two o’clock.’

‘Perfect. And don’t forget the ossobuco. Bye, Silvia.’

Monsignor Milano hung up, happiness on his face, licking his lips as he did when he was enjoying a good meal or remembering one. He looked forward to spending time with his brother and his family and since they lived only twenty minutes away, he did so often. One rule, no talk of religion at the table. He tapped his briefcase again and reminded himself that change in the world’s religions might have to rely on a few brave men on both sides.

Always hopeful, he knew the Imam was a good man but there was one shadowy character from Iraq, who unnerved him. He would discuss it with the Imam and seek reassurances over dinner, always a good place to do business. The great golden dome of the Central Mosque, glistening in the evening sunshine, came into full view as he headed for the exit from the park. He looked up through the gate, coming towards him was a familiar figure. He smiled, with the sun in his eyes, as he embraced his friend.

*

An hour and forty minutes later a woman carrying her shopping through the park stopped and greeted the priest, a safe person for a woman of a certain age to address in this big city. She took a seat beside him, comfortable in the presence of this man of the cloth. She noted he looked pale and rigid as he sat awkwardly, sunglasses on, staring in the distance. No woman to look after him, she thought.

‘Isn’t it a beautiful evening, Father? Always, just when the children are going back to school, God bless them,’ she said, speaking hurriedly. She fidgeted in her seat, all the while rummaging through her bag, rearranging notes and objects, her birdlike frame wrapped in an ill-fitting beige overcoat despite the time of year. ‘Always good to take a load off your feet,’ she said, comfortable talking at someone.

The priest didn’t respond but the woman continued about the welcome lack of wasps this year and the programme on the television that had said snow would come this winter, her Irish accent almost musical as she delivered all her news for the day in one unrelenting broadcast in the warm evening sun.

‘Well, I must be going now, father. It was nice to speak to you. God Bless.’ Then she screamed as the plastic shopping bags, she lifted from the ground dripped a thick red liquid onto a pool of blood on the asphalt below the dead priest on the park bench.

*

An hour later, less than four kilometres to the south, eighty or so people were attending Mass at Westminster Cathedral. The late summer evening sun sent faint beams of light through the stained-glass windows. Faintly buzzing electric lights mixed with this to create a warm glow in its famously unfinished interior. Although it did not attract the numbers it once did, the Byzantine-style cathedral was still one of the busiest churches in England. Its red brick and limestone stood out amid the concrete and glass jungle of shops and coffee houses around the square outside its great arched west door. A few trees added some softening green, but there was no breeze in the air for them this evening.

The lone figure, who had been lingering at the holy water stoup, stared at a gold ring in his hand before carefully placing it into his pocket. He began walking up the nave. He attracted little attention from the congregation. He had traversed the square seconds before, weaving through the many tables where shoppers, tourists and people-gazers supped skinny lattes and macchiato coffees, and ice-cold pitchers of beer wept tears of condensation as they were drained into pint glasses. No one looked up at the man, uninterested in him and his backpack appearing like any other Londoner.

Inside the church, Fr. Jones barely had to look at his missal anymore. After thirty-one years of celebrating Mass, it came automatically to him. He knew he droned on the altar, but he was too old now for change. The echo of his voice in the Cathedral never ceased to annoy him, but what could he expect in a structure of stone and timber faced with panels of marble? The Liturgy of the Eucharist used to be celebrated with the help of deacons and altar boys, but these days he was on his own. He looked to the congregation, recognising many of them. As he raised his hands in prayer, he turned to face the altar, not noticing the man who was walking up the wide nave. He continued to pray over the chalice and bread while the small congregation mumbled their responses, not noticing as the man began to take some objects out of his pocket.

Fr. Jones was unaware of any danger as he turned to face the congregation. Something small and hard hit the high altar with a metallic crack, then a second and third sounded to his left and right. Although he had never actually seen one, Fr. Jones recognised the metal balls as grenades.

A shout of ‘Allāhu Akbar’ simultaneously echoed from the back of the church. Some of the congregation looked behind them, others looked aghast at Fr. Jones.

The M67 fragmentation grenades took five or six seconds to explode, enough time for the priest to shout ‘Move!’ but not long enough for the congregation to understand what he meant.

Timber and stone exploded, ripping through flesh and bone. The priest and four of his congregation were killed outright, and fourteen other people lost limbs and eyes. Tiny fragments of mosaic tiles rained from the walls and ceilings in a glittering shower. The rest of the congregation survived, but nobody was left untouched by the attack.

Outside, the noisy traffic flowed, and people walked by. A few heard a dull thud coming from the Cathedral, but nobody stopped. The man who exited the Cathedral sauntered through the crowded square and joined the passing crowds, as a smile broke on his face. His mission did not provoke any concerned reaction from busy city-dwellers, he observed. The Assassin had completed his second mission of the day. Unbeknown to the passers-by, the mood of the city would soon change.

Chapter 2

Concert Hall: Bethnal Green, present

There it was, the unmistakable knot in the pit of her stomach. The rising discomfort as time ran out to get to the loo. Hastily sprinting down the corridor and pulling the door behind her, Annie managed to grab most of her long strawberry-blond hair and pull it away before purging herself of her nerves. She had learned to vomit with efficiency, a great gift, she mockingly said to herself. Every bloody time, she thought to herself, every bloody time. The usual bloodshot eyes stared back at her in the mirror. Ten minutes and they would be okay. The water from the tap was cool on her pale freckled skin and the shaking began to ease. Annie began her mantra, I am the best, I am in control, I am the best, I am in control.

Annie shook herself and did a little Wupp sound, not caring if anyone else heard her. Her thoughts went to her approaching eighteenth birthday party. Happy thoughts. Sure, it was in her dad’s working man’s club in Shoreditch, but she was looking forward to it, and she knew he would drive his cab at night for a few weeks to pay for it.

At 5 foot 11, Annie was striking in appearance; high cheekbones, porcelain skin, bright green eyes, slim, broad-shouldered and outwardly confident. She regretted quitting school after her GCSEs and mildly resented her parents for letting her leave so easily. She mildly regretted playing bass in a terrible grunge band, the drugs, the alcohol and the inevitable dodgy boyfriends, but her parents never said a word, just telling her to be safe and happy. She shook out her arms. Put away the negativity, girl, she said to herself. I am the best, I am in control, I am the best, I am in control.

Annie shook herself again one last time and brushed down the skirt she was so unused to wearing. She stared at her hands, stretching her fingers and moving them, making a fist every so often. She had kicked drugs easily enough but reached into her purse and slugged back a few shots of vodka from the tiny bottle. I am the best, I am in control, I am the best, I am in control.

She couldn’t recognise anyone in the crowd as it was so dark but the sounds of voices chatting made her think the Church Hall in Bethnal Green was full. Breathe in to seven and exhale to eleven. Annie knew her parents were there and her wayward brother, who had promised not to be pissed at the gig. Of the prospect of that, Annie was not so hopeful. Taking her seat behind the piano, her nerves immediately left her, and the room shrank to just her and the piano. As soon as she hit the first note, Annie forgot about the crowd and, without the aid of any sheet music, launched into a mix of everything from classical, to rock, to Jazz, flawlessly moving between them to the awe of the crowd.

*

Sitting in the back of the hall was a slight, bald man, impeccably dressed in a petrol blue woollen suit, silk scarf and gloves. He sat rigidly in the impossibly uncomfortable plastic chair, but he was not here to be comfortable, he was here to see Annie play. Rarely impressed by people’s recommendations, Esau Monk—Master Builder of The Conversation Club—was reluctant to go to this concert but he felt compelled as Andre, his faithful doorman and friend, had asked it as a favour. Most recommendations, he believed, had less culture than yogurt. Monk smiled to himself at his own wit. He was used to attending events and taking long deliberations with other experts in The Conversation Club as to whom they might sponsor, but lately he was a bit tired and didn’t have the same enthusiasm.

Annie, on paper, was an unsuitable candidate. From his investigations into her, Monk had learnt that she had little education, even less dedication, and was a former drug user seemingly committed to nothing. One of the three could be forgiven but all three, well! His mind worked on a high-intellectual level, constantly weighing up pros and cons. Considering how the Club could assist people and possibly change their lives, and the impact that might have on the wider world was his only role now.

It was the best part of his job, bar his absolute joy in collecting rare books and artefacts. He cleared his mind and relaxed. As he listened, his mind drifted with anticipation to the arrival of a set of ancient scrolls of Euripides he had purchased from a trusted dealer in Athens. More guests took their seats and his mind shot back to the present. He frowned, mentally urging the concert to progress faster. He had prepared Andre that her father must know that sponsorship was very unlikely, but they wished the family well, even offering a generous deposit for musical equipment through a store The Conversation Club owned in Mayfair. I should never have come, he thought regretfully. Monk shuffled, another unsuccessful attempt to get comfortable in his seat.

However, despite his misgivings, once the music began, he could feel an unusual stretch on his face. It was a rare smile. Two numbers in and Monk, on condition of meeting Annie and not finding her to be a junkie, was going to sponsor her and help her build a career. His heart swelled with joy at her pure genius. She was truly worthy of the support of The Conversation Club.

*

The concert ended to an enormous uproar of shouts and applause and Monk could not help but join in, just the clapping, of course. It was not in his nature to raise his voice or show any sign of excess emotion. He stood and brushed his suit with a gloved hand in a very deliberate fashion, checking and double-checking his attire. He could feel the heat of the lights on his smooth chestnut skull as the hall lit up for the crowd to exit. The air was heavy and stuffy, and Monk pinched his nose in some vain attempt to expel it. However, he savoured this rare moment of joy, a welcome distraction from his personal struggles which he would have to address later. For now, he was hoping to spread some joy.

Monk, looking from the edge of the hall, observed Annie being surrounded by young people hugging and kissing her. Quite a number were young men, clearly mesmerised by her. There was also a guy who Monk thought was the wrong side of twenty-five, plainly intent on getting her attention. Monk thought he was trouble. Striding towards the family, with his usual confident gait, Monk noted the way the parents, were sheepishly standing together by the stage unwilling, it seemed, to interrupt their daughter’s fan-club. Andre’s description of the father was accurate; a small dumpy man with an ill-fitting jacket, his rather glamourous wife stooping down to talk to him.

As he extended his arm in greeting, the couple looked as if they were getting results from a neurologist. Monk had no intention of drawing the process out, so he got to the point. ‘My name is Esau Monk from The Conversation Club. As you know, Andre asked me to attend to consider support for your daughter’s career.’

Awkward handshakes and nods of acknowledgement from both prompted him to continue, ‘Would you and Annie be available to join me in the Club for supper now where we can discuss if we might be of assistance?’ Monk’s accent was very upper class and Monk saw their discomfort with this.

They nodded enthusiastically and Monk recognised that he would have to extend any help to Annie onto them too. ‘Could you introduce me to your daughter?’ he asked. More nods followed and they gingerly made their way to Annie who was talking to the handsome thug who was dressed in biker leathers, his long black hair flowing halfway down his back. The exchange looked a little tense and Monk could hear him saying, ‘Make up your fucking mind now.’ Annie looked unnerved and Monk noticed she jumped slightly when her father tapped her on the shoulder. Turning, the thug burst out angrily, ‘Hey old man, I’m talking to her. Why don’t you fuck off in your little black cab.’ Monk was appalled that anyone could speak to a person like that and even more horrified when he realised the thug obviously knew them all as a family.

‘Annie, can you meet Mr Monk?’ asked her father meekly trying to ignore the thug.

‘Oi, I told you I’m talking to her,’ the thug growled angrily. ‘And why the fuck did you bring Hercule fuckin’ Poirot?’ he said, laughing and pointing at Monk.

Annie piped up, ‘fuck off, just leave me alone,’ clearly distressed.

Monk stood in front of him undaunted, ‘You heard the young lady, now please move along.’

With a mean smile, the thug clenched his fists and stared at Monk, ready to pounce. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson, little toff toy man.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Monk in a cheery tone, ‘but it will have to wait until after you meet my friend.’ This confused the thug until a tap on his shoulder revealed all six foot six inches and 175 kg of Andre.

He backed off, hands in the air. ‘Didn’t want you in the fuckin’ band anyway, you ginger slag.’ With that he skulked off.

Monk, noticing the mortification in the family’s eyes, tried to lighten the air. ‘Well, I should come to church more often,’ he joked jovially, casting his eyes ironically around the now empty hall. ‘Annie, I’m Esau Monk from The Conversation Club. Will you join us for supper in my Club?’ She nodded meekly. Come along, I’m ravenous myself,’ talking in ebullient inflexion, Monk acted as if nothing had happened at all.

Monk made small talk for the forty-five-minute drive to the Club, made difficult by being in the front of the car, straining to turn and hear responses. He noticed that Annie was by far the chattiest in the family and was emerging out of her shell to him. Monk chuckled as she joked about having never been in a Range Rover before, unless it was stolen, and how she’d like to buy her dad one to drive her around in from concert to concert. He watched her bounce about merrily in the back seat and saw she really was just a young girl. Monk felt a deep responsibility to look after this family. He also resolved to get Andre to visit the thug for a little reminder course on etiquette, with a supplementary module on decorum.

Although there was still light in the sky, Monk was always comforted to see, from outside, the soft radiance of the chandeliers of The Conversation Club glowing through the windows. On entry, members were buzzing about; eating, attending lectures and tonight, a Beethoven Quartet performed on the ground floor. With pep in his step, he was excited to welcome the family. The marvelment in Annie’s eyes lit up the room as she stood mesmerised by the quartet. She beamed at her parents as staff fussed over them, taking their coats and guiding them to Monk’s private dining room. Monk smiled indulgently as Andre came in with a pint of ale from the pub across the road for Annie’s father, winking at his friend as he handed it to him. His wife accepted a glass of sherry with a grateful nod.

Rubbing her hands with glee, Annie skipped into the room looking like a child in a sweetshop. Monk beckoned her to a chair at the table. ‘Wow, it’s amazing, what exactly do you do here?’ she asked animatedly, hands in the air pointing to the wonders all around her. The room, like most others in the Club, was decorated with art, design and artefacts of such beauty that anyone with a soul could not help but be moved by it, in Monk’s not-so-humble opinion.

Monk chuckled at her appreciation. ‘The Conversation Club, Annie, is a unique organisation dedicated to cultivating talent and promoting excellence,’ he said with a broad smile.

‘Wow,’ said Annie, ‘can anyone come in or do you need to know a funny handshake?’ she asked, feigning a serious voice. Monk saw her parents stiffen, afraid she was insulting Monk but all he could do was laugh, which, for Monk, was an unusual and unnatural sound.

‘Yes, we do have a handshake,’ he replied seriously to Annie who went a little rigid in her posture. Monk giggled again, realising he hadn’t been this amused in an age. ‘No, no handshake. I hope you are not too disappointed?’ He beckoned them to the table.

‘Let me get to the point so we can enjoy our meal. Annie, I believe your talent is exceptional. I wonder would you be interested in deepening your knowledge and finding the correct piano or indeed other instruments for you? This what we do here, lend support to people with exceptional talent, which I believe you have in abundance. Think of us as artistic patrons as it were. We would like to arrange a place in the Royal Academy for you, if you want it?’

Annie looked crestfallen. ‘Mr Monk, I didn’t even pass my GCSEs and I know you give grants for instruments and stuff, but we don’t have that kind of money,’ looking knowingly and sympathetically to her parents, still as quiet as mice.

‘Oh Annie,’ said Monk, ‘I’m dreadfully sorry for being obtuse. As patrons we will offer you a full scholarship with a monthly stipend for ’good’ living,’ he winked at her. ‘I want you to think of it as your new job. We have a studio around the corner which is very well kitted out and a good place to meet the other music scholars, but I suspect your own piano will be essential so that you can use it at home every day.’

Her father cleared his throat, ‘Mr Monk, I’ll find a way to pay you back, I swear. We wasn’t expecting this much. I’d do anything for my Annie.’ He looked at her with great affection. ‘She deserves the best. Andre said there was no promises and it could take a while. Listen, things is picking up and I don’t mind working extra shifts,’ he said, his cockney accent beginning to speed up.

Monk stood up, ‘Oh dear Sir, forgive me. You would swear this is my first rodeo. Should you wish to allow Annie to take up her scholarship, you owe nothing, ever. This is what The Conversation Club can do, luckily. I can give you a legal document which you should get checked out to confirm this. Dear Sir, you’ve been driving your taxi for while?’

‘I’ll be fifty-eight years old in December, Mr Monk and been a cabbie since I were twenty-five.’

Monk was thinking mid-sixties, at least. ‘You rent, am I correct?’ asked Monk and the man nodded. ‘I don’t want to be overwhelming, but would you consider moving so Annie can be closer to the Academy?’

Annie put her hand on Monk’s arm and looked him in the eye, ‘We live in a shithole area. Dad’s car is always getting a kicking and you just met our next-door neighbour, the charming git in the leathers.’

‘Annie, stop. Things is not that bad but we wouldn’t have room for a piano. Not being ungrateful or nuffin,’ Mr Monk,’ interjected Annie’s mother.

Monk smiled but looked at her parents, ‘I probably only have one setting and that is direct. I would also like to offer you, Sir, a job.’ Looking at Annie’s father, he continued, ‘it is part-time and would involve you backing up Andre with driving duties for The Conversation Club; airport runs etc, perhaps two or three days a week?’ He pushed a piece of paper in front of him, ‘that is the basic pay. It is pensionable of course and I do acknowledge that driving Annie comes first. I’m afraid that you would have to drive one of those pesky Range Rovers as we have a small fleet of them. You see, the reason I ask about accommodation is because the job comes with a house on Silk Street. There is parking out the back and a superb basement that can be converted into a nice flat with a music studio. We would, of course see to all the works and take care of all bills. You would have it rent free for the rest of your natural lives. Oh, and the house is two minutes from the Royal Oak; best pint of ale in the area I’m told.’

There was silence and Monk feared he had dropped too much of the offer, too quickly, but he knew no other way. The man rose and Monk feared he was angry, but he walked over to him and hugged him, burbling tears and thanks. Monk was immediately unnerved and uncomfortable. His arms unable to embrace he was left rigid like a toy figure. He remembered again how he truly disliked physical contact. Some sounds emanated from him but then Annie joined in and there was no escape.

‘Well,’ he said as he rose, ‘let us eat.’ He held up a glass, ‘it’s your show now, Annie. Welcome to The Conversation Club.’

Chapter 3

MI5 HQ, Thames House, London: present day

Dr Ben Whisker was waiting impatiently in a dull room which he figured was a form of torture by bland that MI5 used to break people. Ben gazed around the room stretching his neck, tension ebbing away. He mused that somebody had spent time in their working life picking out several different shades of taupe to compliment the sterile black frames that held the glass in this dreary box they called a hospitality suite. Such irony, he thought to himself. The rest of Thames House was the same, he reckoned, some monster having savaged the building with hideous suspended ceilings sporting unnatural lighting, filling the rooms with insipid furniture choices and vapid blinds on every window that had once promised sunlight. Ben figured this is not where the intelligence service put their efforts.

Certain that cameras were on him, he struggled to sit soundly so he paced the room, hands behind his back, not for effect but to stop him reaching for his pills or pinching his nose, a habit he was accustomed to. Despite having a chance at being a professional footballer many years ago, he tended to stoop slightly to disguise his 6-foot 3 frame. Still fit but on the wrong side of thirty-five, he wore his Boss jeans well, his waistcoat and jacket a snug fit and never, never apologising for his love of wearing a cravat. Checking the lustre of his tan Barker brogues, he was trying any technique to avoid death by tedium, supressing the image he was in a small dingy heading slowly for the doldrums.

A bubbly, dark-skinned girl with impossibly curly hair knocked and asked could she get Ben anything. She smiled shyly at him, recognising his handsome face. Tanned after the summer in France, he was looking well, his blue eyes having broken a