CHAPTER EIGHT

  This is a short chapter that introduces one of Enda's friends from his university days. 'B' is a Whitehall mandarin within the Foreign Office and with an ear to the ground when it comes to information regarding scandal and corruption within the corridors of power in Brussels, political seat for the European Union. 'B' has a warning for Enda and, although Enda does not comprehend the significance of it, a cryptic message that has far reaching consequences that will put him and Jessica in fear of their lives on Cyprus.

About one third of this chapter was axed and the opening was cut by a half. I had put far to much information, both political and background, into a piece which only needed to let the reader learn two pieces of information that would mold the storyline and show the more serious side of Enda.             

 I was on my way to see an old friend, Roger Askew-Broughton, or B to his friends. We’d met at Oxford where we both studied politics and modern history. He eventually found a job in the Foreign Office care of a father in the diplomatic corps. When I joined the Herald he became a valuable source of information for all the intrigue as well as current world affairs, both political and financial.
Whitehall lives and breathes statistics. On reaching Great College Street I quickened my step as the cold breeze turned into stronger gusts. I made my way to a small but up-market bistro called Le Petit Dejeuner. It had been our comfortable meeting place over the years.

Decorated expensively with peach flock wallpaper and carpeted throughout in burgundy, it looked and felt more like someone’s living room. The furniture was highly polished reproduction Georgian. Overlaid with crisp white linen, the tables sat in two straight lines, each table   complemented with an ornate silver service.
Frequented by city types, the Le Petit Dejeuner was the kind of place that dared anyone in jeans or those without a sizable bank account to enter. Needless to say I wasn’t a regular.
Roger was already there, a bottle of claret standing opened on his table. He was poring over a copy of The Times that lay spread out before him. Dressed in dark navy suit and sporting his old Oxford tie, he was typical of the well-heeled Westminster set. He was forty-eight years old with well styled dark hair thinning on top. His face was young though, belying his age, with ruddy cheeks and bright blue eyes. In his middle age he had acquired an overweight girth that threatened to pop the buttons on his waistcoat. On his left hand he wore a gold wedding ring with one inset diamond, and an Oyster wristwatch. Ash from a cigar he had smoked earlier smudged his waistcoat.
Sitting down opposite Roger, I tapped the side of the bottle. “C’est combien?”
He didn’t look up right away but took several seconds to answer, engrossed in whatever he was reading. At length he said, “Don’t worry, old chap, the bottle is on me.” Folding the paper, he smiled broadly. “Thought I’d treat you to a drinky today, what?”
He guffawed and snorted at the same time, making me cringe.
"Now, let’s have a look at the menu.” He produced two menus from the small rack at the side of the table and handed one to me.
I looked for the cheapest omelet I could find. We had an arrangement that whoever called the other for a chat over lunch got to pay. It was my wallet that emptied most of the time but I didn’t mind. Many a story started from our conversations.
 I ordered the cheese omelet and he ordered the steak. B always ordered the steak so I have no idea why he studied the menu. I shook my head. He caught the look on my face as he ordered.

    “J’ai une allergie – du fromage et des œufs.’ He patted his chest and screwed his face into a pained expression. “I’m allergic to eggs and anything stuffed inside them.”

We sat looking at one another as he poured the claret without spilling a drop.
“So, what brings the bad boy from Wapping to my table?”
“You heard then,” I replied, smiling.
Tongue in cheek, B told me some of my great admirers were champing at the bit. The PM was furious and word was he’d told Hart to get rid of me, or else it would be a long time before the Herald got any favors from Number Ten.
He raised an eyebrow before burying his nose inside the goblet to capture the bouquet.
I told him to stop horsing around. Max was taking over while I served a ‘time out.’ There was a pause while Roger sipped the wine. I got the impression there was something more serious he had to say before we got around to discussing what I wanted out of our meeting.
B nodded.       He leaned forward and put a hand to his mouth.  The Americans were flying out to Toulon in the morning to talk a new deal with the European consortium. His opinion was they shouldn’t bother unless the price was right.
“The bloody French won’t have anything to do with it, you wait and see,” he said, his stubby index finger emphasizing the point by tapping the table.
We both knew the Americans stood to lose the most because of my column. I nodded and agreed with him. He joked I wouldn’t be welcome back in the west wing for the foreseeable future, then guffawed and snorted, nearly spilling his wine as he raised the glass to his lips.
 I waited until he’d finished and brought the reason for my visit up.
 “Yes, the bloody Elgin Marble situation.” He bowed his head and wagged a finger at me. “Enda, beware –it’s fraught with danger,old boy, fer-aught with danger. If Brussels-.”
“Hrisacopolis?” I interrupted.
He nodded, on the same wavelength. “Have you been digging?”
I nodded. “Can we share?”
“By word of mouth only, old boy. No tape, no memos, no phone calls.”
That meant the Foreign Office was briefing intelligence agencies and Roger was not going to talk in great detail. However, if I’d figured it all out right, he would nod and agree now and then, adding some unimportant detail that helped push another piece of the Greek jigsaw into place.
We talked through lunch, or rather I did, and on through coffee until around two o’clock. As I finished my coffee, we wound up the conversation.
Roger quaffed down the rest of his wine. “He will dread letting someone else run the company.”
I’d suggested that it was a shame Hrisacopolis son, although a terrorist for a brief moment in time had not lived to stand in while his father entered the EU battlefield. Things could have been be a lot different.
“That’s if Paul makes it to the EU table, old boy,” he added.
Before we parted he warned me to be careful a second time. There were other eyes watching our Greek. Some were friendly and others not but neither would be happy if I got in the way.
I walked back to Westminster tube station deep in thought. There hadn’t been much new information but it was interesting to note that the government were so concerned over Hrisacopolis that intelligence were looking at him, probably checking for any contact with terrorist groups or arms dealers, given his nasty past.

 I knew that by ‘other eye’s’ not being too friendly if I got in the way, Roger referred to a Turkish terrorist group called KKA, Kaygisiz, Korumak, Aydinlatmak – Care, Protect, and Enlighten. The group had reformed during the last two years since talks on Turkey joining the EU began. Now considered active, they operated in Turkey and on Cyprus. It was widely being thought in Whitehall that the group would cause trouble if Greece – and therefore Hrisacopolis – held sway in Brussels over crucial political decisions on the island’s future role within Europe. But then I already knew that.
Political rumors did not influence the EU though. Only concrete proof of corruption would put a stop to Hrisacopolis getting his own way. Many EU Commissioners and Euro MP’s from member countries needed to be convinced that the Greek had hidden agendas if my hunch about him proved correct. That was a pretty hard thing to do when Whitehall were dragging their heels over the European governments economic policies and Hrisacopolis, hero to his countrymen, was spending money on a glorious cultural renaissance.
Greece itself had been a member since nineteen eighty-one, enjoying strong diplomatic and trading ties within the Union. The Hrisacopolis shipping empire was part of that strength. The phrase ‘political impasse’ came to mind.

 I was mad at Max and Hart for not having the insight to see what Hrisacopolis was up to. I decided to tackle Max one last time. I wasn’t going to do that alone though. I’d write the script and Jessica would help sell it.