Chapter Eleven - Hatred And Resolve

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Another chapter that had to be spot on. Here we find out what is going on within the mind of  Anthony, the man who plans to bring about the death of Hrisacopolis and the demise of the Hrisacopolis family. It had to be a chapter that held the readers interest , as there is little action. There is, however, a hint of how he plans to achieve his ambition. He is alone and within reach of his goal. Money, the only obstacle between him and revenge is now hanging on the wall in front of him. Not only that but he won't feel guilty taking from Barbara - because he's going to make sure she gets her property back. 

Anthony took one last look around the stateroom and felt a deep sense of guilt. Barbara had not called and that was a relief. He knew she would be upset, not just at losing the paintings but also at him for betraying her trust.  Anyway, he would be dead by the time she found out. And she would get the paintings back. It would take the dealer several weeks to find a collector who did not ask too many questions. In the meantime he would tip the police off from the safety of a boat moored off Malta.

       He peered out of the windows at the harbor lights. It was an hour away to the art dealer, De Sauveterre. At that time of night the traffic was light and the Rolls would be back in the marina garage before the manager arrived at eight in the morning.

       Each painting proved easy to remove from its frame before he rolled it into a cardboard tube.  Another twelve paintings hung on the walls of cabins and the stateroom. Money raised on the three he had chosen would be enough.

       Baris tip about De Sauveterre proved invaluable. The man was easy to deal with and very greedy. Anthony’s asking price was a fraction of the true ‘backstreet’ value and the dealer didn’t argue. Now all he had to do was deliver the paintings and pick up four million American dollars in cash; one million reserved for the Turk. The rest would buy the two patrol boats, arms, and explosives.

      

Anthony had first heard of the Turk three years previously when the ship he was sailing in had to put into Genoa for engine repairs. In conversation with some other seamen in a bar, they had told a story about being mercenaries in North Africa. Their leader, a big Turk, had hired them to fight in Angola. He had a reputation as a gun for hire and arms dealer who, in underworld circles, was a dark legend.

       Three years on, Anthony heard rumors in the red light district that the gendarmes was seeking a man called ‘Turk’ for a horrific attack on a prostitute. Later, a local prostitute confirmed the Turk was a deserter from the French Legion.  It was also rumored he had a fifty thousand franc bounty on his head.

        After finding out he would be looking after Barbara’s yacht, Anthony seized the chance to plan revenge on Hrisacopolis, the man who had ruined his life, and knew the Turk would be ideal as an accomplice, even if an uncomfortable one.

       It took several days to get a message to the Turk. Anthony moved from one bar to another, meeting with past shipmates and prostitutes he’d known, spreading rumor that the Turk’s services were required for a million dollars. If the Turk swallowed the bait one of his men would have a local point Anthony out.

       He also spent two days asking around in the busy east end of Vieux Port.  Nothing turned up except some wary stares from fishermen on Belges quay and sealed lips in the seafood restaurants huddled between the southern quay and cours d’Estienne-d’Orves. The Belsunce quarter lay on the other side of the boulevard. Notoriously rough, the quarter was mainly an Arab area. It was an area Anthony wished to avoid but knew if he was to meet the Turk it would be there. He had walked into the area the day before and made enquiries at some cab ranks where Turkish drivers hung out.

       Anthony stood smoking outside a restaurant the following day after lunch when a cab pulled into the curb. The driver called him over. He was one of the Turkish drivers Anthony had spoken to. A small unshaven man with balding gray hair, he drew and exhaled on a Gauloises that drooped from his lips. The pungent odor escaped from the driver’s open window. 

       Anthony climbed into the back of the battered green cab, an old Citroen, without a word. They pulled away from the curb amid squealing tires and a cloud of oily smoke. Five minutes later they drove up to Rue Tapis Vert, part of Belsunce and stopped opposite a covered alleyway on the other side of the road.

       “There is a large blue door down there,” said the driver, pointing across the street. “You’ll be met.”

       The cab sped away, leaving Anthony standing next to a crowd of Arabs. He crossed over, looking around him, and walked hesitantly into the passage. A huge man with shaved head and a small gold cross hanging from an ear leaned against the wall with arms folded. Secured behind a wide black leather belt he wore a sheathed knife. He beckoned Anthony with large fat fingers.

       “I’ve come to see the Turk,” said Anthony, holding the man in a steady gaze. The man stared back and unfolded his arms. “Well, where is he?”Anthony put his hands on his hips and glared.

       The thug grabbed him by the neck and spun him into the wall, running both his huge hands down the front of Anthony’s body and both sides of his legs.

       “I don’t have anything, I just want to see the Turk,” Anthony told him, gasping.

       The door opened and another man, smaller than the first, appeared. Jerking his head in the direction of the steps, he disappeared back down the way he had arrived.

       The first thug tightened his grip on the back of Anthony’s neck and pushed him to the stairs. The door closed behind them and in the gloom Anthony stumbled several times before reaching the bottom. He found himself in a dingy cellar lit by a small bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was no furniture save a desk and one chair. On it, in the dark, sat the Turk.

       “Stand in the light. I want to see a man who has balls.”

       Anthony clenched his fists and took a step forward. A fist smashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling across the floor. Excruciating pain shot across his face. He picked himself up and stood, rubbing his jaw.

       “What do you want?”

       “I want someone killed.”

        “You want someone killed. Don’t we all?” The Turk laughed, his deep guttural tone echoing off the walls of the small cellar.

       “Paul Hrisacopolis is nothing to laugh about if you are a true Turk.”

       The laughter stopped abruptly. The Turk leaned forward into the light. His shaven head bore a deep red scar that ran slantwise across the top from above his right eye to behind his left ear. His large nose looked as though it might have been broken at some time. Another small scar ran from the corner of his mouth in a downward slope. It left his bottom lip curled permanently to one side. Tattoos that had faded with time covered the rest of his face, neck, and muscular hairy arms. One, a large serpent, draped its body over one shoulder with its head appearing over the other, mouth open.  Both arms bore a cross with the word ‘Death’ written across one and ‘Honor’ across the other. Dark brown eyes bore into Anthony, studying him for several moments. “What’s this about Hrisacopolis? Who is he to you?”

       Anthony shook his head. “Wouldn’t you be more interested in a million dollars as well as revenge on this murderer of our countrymen?”

       “Ah, you are Cypriot.” The Turk wanted to hear the story but Anthony resisted, giving the man a rough outline of the mission and what he required including twenty men trained in the use of automatic firearms and an explosives expert. Hrisacopolis was to be left for Anthony to deal with.

       “You would kill him yourself?” asked the Turk.

       Anthony nodded and promised half the money on his next visit. The Turk agreed and they shook hands, arranging a time and place for the meeting.

Anthony left the Golden Daffodil with the tubes under his arm and climbed down into the zodiac.  The outboard spat into life and he headed for the pontoon.  

CHAPTER TEN - WRITTEN IN STONE

CEMENTING THE RELATIONSHIP

I didn't have too many problems with this chapter although it went on and on so the knife came out. I did, however, have the opportunity to show Enda's sarcastic wit in a short scene with Max that I loved to write. In this chapter Enda gets the love bug and Jessica applies just the right amount of guile and temptation to start hauling him in. Of course, there is another piece of the Greek puzzle to ponder too. Not just a pretty face but Jessica surprises Enda with an arranged trip to see an old soldier.

                                                                    CHAPTER TEN

“No! No! NO!”

     Max should have been on the stage. I’d told him that many times. He went into the same routine each time he lost his temper, normally with me, but it was a joy to watch. Arms extended, hands waving in all directions. The mouth overemphasized each word. Wild eyes glared while he paced around the office, stopping briefly now and again to shout out of a window. His voice changed pitch as he grew angrier too. He sounded like a hysterical woman. It made me laugh. It was wonderful stuff. My reaction made Max even angrier and more expressive.

     Jessica sat quietly in one of the armchairs trying hard not to show her true feelings. I don’t think she was upset, more like amazed, perhaps appreciative of how Max was turning temper into a new art form. As soon as she’d opened her mouth he’d looked at me accusingly. I should have known.

     I waited until there was a lull in the storm and tried again. “Max, under normal circumstances you’d be foaming at the mouth for a story like this. It has all the ingredients of a real political scoop. At least let us present our case so you can -.”

     “NO!”

     Max turned away and collided with his desk. One large glass ashtray fell to the floor, spilling butts and ash all over the carpet. Jessica moved quickly to avoid the cloud of dust billowing toward her and put a hand over her mouth. She stepped over to the window and opened it.

     Max, unconcerned, lit a cigar and sat on the desk. “You two are on a special assignment. Mr. Hrisacopolis has made a very generous offer to the Herald for an exclusive interview and hospitality arrangements for staff to cover the cruise and arrival of the Elgin Marbles in Athens. You will toe the line or you will no longer work for this paper. Am I getting through to you?”

       Jessica and I nodded together.

        Max held a hand up. There was going be an election in Greece. To be seen to or accused of influencing the Greek public in any way by exposing one of the country’s most notable industrialists involved in government corruption, meant torn relationships in Brussels.

        Max blew a cloud of smoke into the air and stared hard at both of us before continuing

       The Prime Minister was in Brussels with other EU members, trying to reach diplomatic solutions to Greek demands for increased farming subsidies as well as a decision – albeit one we already knew the answer to – on the future of the marbles.

       Max sympathized with us but was adamant. We couldn’t embarrass the British or Greek governments. Hrisacopolis shady business dealings and political plans were on hold.          

       “I take it this directive comes from Hart?”

       “Leave it alone, Enda. I’m warning you. You’re walking on thin ice.”

I sat in the car looking at raindrops dribbling down the windshield. Somewhere another journalist would get the same slant on things as I had and start digging for the real reasons the old man was being so generous with his money.

       I could see how things would turn out in Greece before a general election but disagreed with Max, or rather Hart. The Greeks had a right to know if Hrisacopolis was corrupting and manipulating the present government. Damn Whitehall and farcical diplomacy.

       There was only one bright spot on the horizon. Hrisacopolis’s plans for political muscle would have to wait, regardless of the formation of the new ways and means committee in Brussels. All EU member countries voted representatives onto the committee but Spain and Ireland were refusing to name their selections. They were vetoing other members’ selections too, as a protest over fishing quotas. I hoped they would continue arguing which would give me more time to unravel the rest of the Hrisacopolis story. I didn’t want that honor going to one of my colleagues.

       My cell phone rang. It was Jessica.

       “Hi there, what are you doing?”

       “Sulking and plotting Hart’s murder.”

       “Where are you?”

       “In the car park.”

       “Enda, I left you there almost an hour ago.”

       “I know, I’ve been thinking.”

       “Well, carry on thinking until you get here. Dinner is in forty minutes.” She chuckled softly. “You would like to come to dinner, I suppose?”

        I was about to excuse myself from dinner on the grounds I might end up making a complete ass of myself when she said, “Bring some white wine, we’re having fish. By the way, I have some news regarding the photograph you gave me this morning.”

       I forgot the excuse and turned the key in the ignition.

       Jessica gave me a Hampstead address and when I got there I found myself looking at something out of Town & Country. The house was a big thirties style place with long bay windows and at least four bedrooms, and it smacked of class and money. Daddy really loved his daughter. With the rain pounding the ground I didn’t hang around outside to admire the long lawn or manicured privets. What I saw through the living room window as I lunged for the porch steps did grab my attention though.

       Two four stemmed candelabras stood on a polished dining table, the flickering candles creating dancing patterns of light around the room. Jessica, wearing a backless white cocktail dress, stood with her back to the window adjusting a place setting.  

       I was so out of place. I was wearing a pair of gray cauldroy trousers, a shabby jacket that should have been thrown out but kept because it was comfortable, and a pair of brown shoes that hadn’t seen polish in weeks. Feeling miserable, I punched the bell.   

       The porch light came on, adding to my discomfort. The door opened. If she noticed my dilemma she said nothing. She just smiled and held out a hand to usher me in.

       “Hi, did you bring the wine?”

       My face said it all. This was beginning to look like the worst week of my life. “No,” I said, apologetically. “Jessica, I forgot.”

       Some good news about the photograph and the euphoria of spending the evening with her had been enough to cast everything else from my mind.

       “Don’t worry, you won’t get sent to the Tower of London. I’ve got some sparkling wine.” She gave me a playful nudge.

       Putting her arm through mine, she led me toward double doors across the reception hall, an area my mews apartment would fit into comfortably. Her soft breast pressing against my arm was an experience I’d not enjoyed for some time and when she withdrew her arm to open the doors, I felt a pang of disappointment.   

       The dark green living room stretched from one end of the house to the other. An archway in the center indicated that renovation had made two rooms into one. The rear area was tastefully full of opulent eastern sofas and armchairs stacked with large scatter cushions. Two small brass dragon lamps stood either side of a wide bay window and two more, one on top of a small bookcase by the side of a music center and the other standing on an occasional table at the other side of the room completed the illuminations. There were no wall or ceiling lights. Unfortunately, fluorescent lighting coming through an archway from the kitchen spoilt the overall effect.

       “Make yourself comfortable while I serve dinner.”

       I settled on a chair at the table and watched her walk back to the kitchen, her breasts gently

moving with each graceful step. It was hard to understand why there wasn’t a man in her life. Or

maybe there was.  

       She was wearing the same scent. I wondered if she wore anything else. Not too strong, but there whenever she drew near.   

       After several trips to the kitchen she announced, “Dinner is served. Enjoy.”

       Halibut cooked in white wine and a superb tossed salad. I decided that the need to fill my stomach came first and information came second. A perfect hostess, she soon had me enjoying light conversation on a variety of topics and proved extremely adept at maneuvering around anything to do with Hart or the newspaper.

       I waited until she cleared the table and we were mulling over a glass of port before turning the conversation to Hrisacopolis.

       “I had the most extraordinary piece of luck this afternoon,” she explained.

       She’d called the editor of the Cypriot newspaper that printed the photograph.

       She’d told me this as we settled into the huge armchairs.

       It happened the editor was a staff reporter at the time of George’s death. Jessica asked him to wire the complete story and photo. When asked if he personally knew George, he’d told her ‘no’, but everyone on the island knew George by reputation if nothing else. He was a popular leader of men.

       I saw that little glint in Jessica’s eye and knew she’d dug up more good news. This time I settled back in my chair and prompted the conversation while sipping wine.  I asked about the girl and whether or not the editor had taken the photograph.

       He’d told her he didn’t have any idea who the girl was, probably a girlfriend, but I was expecting that. Denial is a good first line of defense. Again, denying any knowledge of the photo’s origin, he said he came by it by bribing an intelligence officer with the British army a week after George’s death. I agreed with Jessica. The chances of an officer taking a bribe were ridiculous.

        Jessica raised an eyebrow. “Something wasn’t quite right though.”

       “What wasn’t?”

       “I’m not sure. He answered as if the incident were fresh in his mind, not something he was trying to remember.”

       “Primed, maybe?”

       “Yes.”

       Jessica paused. There was something else on her mind. She’d received the requested wire with the story and accompanying photo. It was a copy of the one I’d shown her from my file. She frowned as she studied it. There was something odd about it and then she realized the photo had been cropped.

She wondered why someone, even an amateur, would take a photo of George without including the woman sitting next to him. Surely it made sense for George to be photographed on his own or there would be a shot of him and the woman together.

       “Did you call the editor back?”

       “Yes. I asked him for a copy of the whole photo.”

       “And?”

       “He said the picture in the paper was ‘as is’.”

       “You didn’t believe him, right?”

       She nodded. “No. As soon as I got off the phone I called a friend in the Ministry of Defense for some information regarding intelligence personnel on Cyprus at the time.”

       I smiled. “Of course, I forgot, you must know a few of those….” I stopped short as she sent me a warning signal with her eyes.

       Without dwelling on my near slide back to sarcasm, she was quick to finish the report on her day’s enquiries. Her useful contact supplied her with the address of the retired Captain who had been in charge of the ambush. After giving the Captain a call, she fixed a meeting for the following day at his home in Devon. I was a little wary after learning he knew why we wanted to see him but was cautiously pleased. Jessica was obviously beginning to see past the Elgin marbles to the real story.

       “I don’t want to pour water on your achievement but this wasn’t exactly the right thing to do, Jessica. If this gets back to Max, we’re finished.”

       “The captain knows how confidential our enquiry is,” she assured me. “I only told him we wanted to talk about Hrisacopolis.” She gently shook her head and raised her glass toward me, to emphasize a point. “Nothing more. But he was keen to see us. He blames Hrisacopolis for the deaths of many servicemen. He’d like nothing better than to settle that score.” She paused and sipped her drink. “I think I rekindled bad memories for the old man. He sounded angry.”                 

        That was fine with me. If the old boy still carried a grudge, he had a story to tell. I wanted to hear that story.

       My research revealed that by the eighties the Greek government loved Hrisacopolis for his industry and money. For the sake of unity within the EU and a lot of other behind the scene deals, parliament decided to love him too.

 Whitehall diplomacy intervened and Hrisacopolis survived.      

        “Thanks, you did great,” I said, giving her arm a light squeeze.  “Maybe you should melt his heart tomorrow and ask a few of the questions yourself.”  

       Jessica beamed and I felt great. She rose and held out a hand. “Now, if you don’t mind I want an early night. Can you pick me up at six in the morning? I told the Captain we would be there at noon.”

       I stood and held her hand, feeling a little irritated that she cut the evening short but also relieved I needn’t make a fool of myself. She withdrew her hand hesitantly, then slid both hands behind my neck and pulled me close. Our lips met, gently brushing against one another until I could stand it no longer. I kissed her hard, my hands holding the small of her back. Her bare skin felt warm and smooth.

       “Time to go home Enda.” The combination of soft breath in my ear and the faint scent of gardenias under my nose set my heart thumping yet again. She pulled away, her head bowed, her hands holding my arms. “We should start on the article for Max tomorrow too.”

       “Taken care of,” I said. I gulped and took a deep breath. “I started on it yesterday. The first part will be in the bag by the weekend. I just need some pictures from you and historical notes.”

       She nodded and led me to the door, her arm through mine. The door closed behind me. Cold air outside dampened my ardor, not my feelings. I looked down at my shoes before stepping off the porch, then walked briskly back to the car. I was determined to clean up my act, starting with my shoes.

BLUES IN EMERALD CITY

Seattle is a vibrant city full of affluence, local industry, container shipping, and Starbucks. Tourists flock here each year on cruise ships, stopping off to walk the sights before continuing on up to Alaska. The city lives and breathes twenty-four seven and at any time cool jazz floats into the air around Pioneer Square from cellar clubs, bars and nightclubs. It's an 'in' place to live and the hub of a unique ferry system that serves the entire Puget Sound.
Seattle also has a darker side like all cities. Homeless gather in little pockets at night, sleeping in squalid conditions and relying on various charities for a meal. During the day the homeless find a niche along the waterfront or outside little eateries around the city, begging. I was suprised at the young age of some of them and was reminded of the thousands of kids on London's darker streets.
Seattle, like London, is what you make of it.

Blues In Emerald City

I'm waitin for the ferry

Yeah, lookin cross the Sound

My sweet baby's left me all alone

she was big dream city bound

Somewhere in a crowd of troubled souls

She'll be hangin round the square

The square that shows no pity

Only dream my woman has

Is blues in Emereald city

There's heartache on the ferry

Oh, no-one knows my pain

I'll keep walkin till I find her

Walkin through the tears and pain

Hammerin man on second avenue

He's not sayin where she's at

He hammers without pity

Iron giant without soul

There's blues in Emerald city

A poor man stands in Pike Place

He's holdin out his hand

In his empty eyes I see her

Earnin booze with one night stands

Somewhere on these blacktop slopes

Gonna find her in a bar

The bartend pretends pity

Red eyed singer sings the blues

Sings blues in Emerald city

copyright  Raymond Stone    c.Feb2001

The Rocky Start To An Affair

 

Trying to convey the beginning of a relationship is probably harder than writing what happens to the people later on in their affair. Enda is a character who is set in his ways. He is attracted to Jessica, a very sophisticated lady, but hides his real feelings behind a wit that keeps getting him in trouble. Now and again, when feelings do surface through anger or sarcasm, his reward is a verbal slap. There's no brake on his mouth.

Jessica, brought up in diplomatic circles, knows how Enda feels but has him on a psychological tightrope. Before she decides if this savvy Irishman is right for her, he's going to have to be trained. The trouble is, she can't get through to him and its time for a few home truths.

Another chapter that went back and forth but I think its almost there. The trouble with this kind of chapter is it is never finished. Drawing from one's own experiences, I keep thinking back to my own affairs and remembering all the verbal slaps I received.                                                                         

CHAPTER NINE

I was sitting in the back of a taxi, almost back in Wapping, when Jessica called. She was in the British Museum library and asked me to meet her there. The cabby shrugged when I asked for a change of direction, and then shook a fist at a motorist who wouldn’t give way as we tried completing an illegal U turn in East Smithfield.

       Twenty-five minutes later I entered the building I have a quirky relationship with. Inside there’s a towering three storey curved gray wall that reminds me of the elephant house in London Zoo. It surrounds the library and blurs into an invisible vertical horizon against the gray outer concourse wall, no matter what angle you view it from. The concourse itself reminds me of some grand railway terminal full of travelers, either scurrying to catch a train or waiting to meet arrivals: a Lowery painting – busy, informal, and filled with anonymous people.

       It’s a different picture inside the library. A splendidly preserved Victorian legacy that boasts the works of authors, from great literary genius to obscure writers with one publication, both old and new, and one of the biggest first edition collections in the world that stands as a monument to the power of the word. From floor to ceiling, around three hundred and sixty degrees, the hearts and minds of adventurers, romantics, academics, heroes and storytellers adorn the shelves in a sea of priceless paper record.

      

 I stood for a couple of minutes soaking up the atmosphere, gazing around at students sitting at the original leather-topped desks with small brass reading lamps illuminating their intent faces. Oxford and all the nice things that I associated with university life flooded back into my mind.

       Gazing across the floor, my eyes focused on a face I recognized. Jessica stared back at me, one hand waving tauntingly, accompanied by a wry grin as I came out of my daydream. I took a deep breath, stuck my hands inside my trouser pockets, and ambled as nonchalantly as possible towards her.

       If I thought she was going to be facetious I was mistaken. She was excited. She had a big juicy bone she couldn’t wait to share.

       “Guess what?” she enthused as I slid into a seat by the next desk.

        She’d called Athens and spoken to Hrisacopolis secretary. Very little information came from the woman until she asked about the girl in the picture. Jessica paused, waiting for a reaction.

       “Okay,” I said, “so who is she?”

       “Don’t know. The secretary ended the conversation abruptly.”

       “So there’s a cover-up, a skeleton in the cupboard.”

       Jessica nodded. That wasn’t all though. She’d got a call back within a half hour authorizing her to receive as much information about the great man’s family, his Business Empire, and political career as she liked.

       There had to be a punch line. I waited patiently as she rose with an armful of reference books and notepad she’d been working with. She looked down at me with a big smile.

       I told her I wasn’t going to move until she told all. If it was good enough I’d buy her dinner. Don’t know why I said that. Well, I did, I guessed. It was one of those spur of the moment things that present themselves when the more conventional way of asking a girl out seems to get lost in some dark corner of a dormant brain, namely mine.

       She sat again and, still clutching the books, bit her bottom lip before telling me. We were going on an all expenses paid cruise. Her face lit up, excited at the prospect.

       I didn’t know whether to be excited or not. Going on a cruise was great but my offer of dinner didn’t quite match up to a Greek billionaire’s invitation. I swallowed my pride and smiled. Not only a cruise but we had a private meeting as well.

        While aboard his flagship, our opportunity to interview him exclusively for the Herald included heads up on a statement being made public twenty-four hours later. This statement, according to the secretary, was of great importance to the future of the Hrisacopolis industry, the Greek people, and the European Community.

       Jessica’s face lit up. It could be a world exclusive.

       “Crap.”

       “Enda!”

       “I said it quietly.”

       “I don’t care.”

        Too late, I realized I’d gone too far again. Me and my big mouth.

       Jessica rose from her chair, very angry, dropping some of the books on the floor. I bent down to pick them up. She brushed my hand away. “I don’t think this is going to work. Maybe you should do this assignment with someone else.”

       I stood and gently tugged her arm as she made to leave. “Jessica, wait a minute, we need to talk.”

       “No we don’t!” she hissed.

       Turning on her heel, she faced me, her eyes on fire and her voice full of anger. “For all I know you could be right about Hrisacopolis and any number of other subjects you care to name. As a journalist you’re on the top table and well read. The British Establishment – the very people you appear to despise – love your column. I wonder what they’d think if they knew about your bad manners and foul language. As a writer you’re one of the best: as a gentleman, a damn disgrace. You need to grow up and stop being so bloody childish. Max was right about you.” She glared at me and marched off, leaving me stunned.

       I left the library feeling guilty and embarrassed. Her words stung in much the same way Max’s had. She knew me better than I knew myself. I walked across the concourse feeling thoroughly miserable and annoyed at my stupidity.

       I stopped to pull my collar up at the main entrance. Somewhere inside my head was a self destruct switch I needed to disarm. The weather matched my mood as I descended the steps to the courtyard. I started analyzing myself, wondering what the hell I was doing letting feelings about Jessica get in the way of work. She was right. I did a lot of cursing. I wasn’t much of a gentleman. Why would I ever assume she might find me interesting when I couldn’t even be polite?

       My cell phone rang. Her voice sounded in my ear before I could say a word. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so spiteful. You are truly the most irritating man I’ve ever known.”

       My pulse quickened. “I was going to say-.” She hung up. Elation turned to disappointment.

       By the time I reached Great Russell Street, the rain returned with a vengeance, battering my trilby and soaking the shoulders of my coat. People dived for cover in little book shops or under canopies. Me, I was so full of mixed emotions I didn’t care about getting wet. I didn’t care about Hrisacopolis, the paper, Max, Hart or the rest of the world either. She said she was sorry for being hurtful. I was trying to read between the lines but couldn’t find any hidden message. The tone of her voice was flat and unfeeling despite her apology.

       The phone rang again. It was her.

       “There’s a coffee shop in Dyott Street, this side of Oxford Street. Meet me here. Do you want coffee?”

     

  “Yes…. thanks.”

       She hung up again.

      

 I found the coffee shop five minutes later. Opening the door, the hum of conversation accompanied by clattering crockery, a hissing cappuccino machine and a squeaking overhead fan jangled in my eardrums. Jessica was sitting over in one corner, sipping coffee. I approached cautiously with a half smile on my face.

       “Hi,” I said, and sat down. I felt a sudden urge to throw myself at her feet. “Please don’t throw in the towel. You had some great news and I spoiled the moment.”

       She was looking down at her coffee, fiddling with the spoon in the saucer. “We both spoiled the moment, Enda. You have a sense of humor that thrives when directed at the establishment or those who grew up more privileged than yourself. Max filled me in on a few details.”

       Again, I felt annoyed at Max but let it pass. Saying nothing, I picked up my coffee. She wasn’t finished and I had no intention of interrupting her again. The noise around us faded and her words became loud and clear.

       She was far too sensitive, she continued. A young black girl brought up in predominantly white diplomatic circles was hard. Her father spent his whole life climbing the diplomatic ladder, serving the British Crown’s far flung territories in the Caribbean, and finally the Cayman Islands as Deputy Commissioner. Her mother taught her to be mindful of the silly British Colonial culture that dictated dress sense for breakfast, afternoon tea and evening dinner. She was discouraged from talking too much until she could talk like an English lady. Piano lessons and ballet classes were an absolute must. Her parents frowned at her if she talked to another child not of her class. Class was very important to her father. He was proud and rose from a sugar plantation cropper to a respected government official. Unfortunately, unlike those who arrived in a diplomatic bag direct from London, he was never part of the Westminster club. It took more than appearances and money to become a member.

       They lived in a style others of their color envied. They mixed socially with other staff and their families as long as they knew their place in the pecking order. Her father and

mother loved the life, though she knew her mother was hurt on many occasions by the sharp tongues of other diplomats’ wives who spent half their lives gossiping. There was never any obvious racism but it was there. One could decipher the hidden messages in conversations and remarks made around the tea table at four in the afternoon for example. Surrounded by snobs and having to constantly turn the other cheek, Jessica got bored and eventually convinced her father to send her to Europe.

        She sighed, then smiled, seemingly glad to have said what was on her mind.        

       “It’s strange that I get a little touchy now after such an upbringing.”

       “No, it’s not,” I said, “you’ve shaken off the rule book but retained the guidelines. You know, we come from different backgrounds but are both rebelling against something we don’t like.”

       “Perhaps, although I think I’m rebelling against more than a childhood, Enda.”

       She looked straight into my eyes and spoke. It was almost as though she’d said it to herself.

       I smiled. “Maybe.”

       It could have been my overactive imagination but I thought I heard more than a conciliatory tone.