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.
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