Brandis walked down the central aisle in the shadowy darkness, turning right halfway along and heading down between two of the tall racks to the far end. He then made his way up a tight spiral staircase of wrought iron that disappeared through an opening cut into the ceiling, six metres above the warehouse floor. He went up the stairs quickly, two at a time, and it was a testament to his fitness that his breathing was barely laboured by the time he reached the top.
Brandis’ London home was a huge, studio-style apartment built directly above the warehouse floor. In stark contrast to the darkness below, the entire place was bright and naturally lit by floor-to-ceiling windows on either side, each opening onto a long balcony that ran the length of the apartment. The balconies were wide and allowed the windows to be set well back from the sides of the building, specifically designed so as to prevent the existence of the apartment being detected by any casual observer on the ground.
The interior was filled with expensive, hand-made furnishings that included a fully-equipped kitchen at one end, a dining area with a mahogany table and six high-backed chairs, a lounge area with several leather-bound armchairs and a large, matching sofa and, at the other end of the apartment, a king-sized bed flanked on either side by huge wardrobes filled with tailored clothes. A small fireplace set on bricks and surrounded by a cast-iron flue and chimney stood against the opposite wall, and a narrow hallway near the entrance from the stairs led to a small but well-appointed bathroom that included a washbasin and shower cubicle but no bath.
Most (if not all) of the credit for the style and décor of Brandis’ apartment could be solely laid at the feet of Rupert Isaiah Gold. At thirty years of age, Rupert was tall, slim and dark haired. Well-educated at Cambridge, with a degree in the arts, he was a native Londoner and of Jewish ancestry, and during his short life so far he’d on occasion found both to have been a hindrance to the advancement of his career and attainment of his desired social standing within polite society.
Rupert was nevertheless proud of his heritage on both counts, and as a child growing up within the London middle class, he’d often been forced to fight in defence of his lineage. That being said, he followed his faith in his own quiet and very private fashion, and could by no means be considered an extremely pious young man as strict adherence to the Torah or to any of the mainstream ‘orthodox’ religions would’ve been difficult to reconcile with other aspects of his lifestyle.
Rupert had first met James Brandis ten years earlier at a public house, while still studying for his degree. The pair had struck up a conversation over a drink at the bar, and had gotten along famously from the start. At first, he’d suspected Brandis of attempting to seduce him. Already aware of his own homosexuality since his late teens, Rupert hadn’t been particularly affronted by the idea, although the man was markedly older and generally wouldn’t have been considered attractive enough for his tastes. It soon became apparent however that seduction was the last thing on James Brandis’ mind. Instead, the man had come to Cambridge that afternoon to offer him a job.
And in the following decade, the career that had sprung from that offer of employment had far surpassed anything Rupert Gold could’ve dreamed of or asked for. Gold became Brandis’ personal assistant, or ‘PA’ as his employer preferred to refer to in shortened form, and the reality of the position meant that by default, he’d become the second-in-command of a huge, global business empire almost overnight.
Rupert was taller than Brandis by a few centimetres and markedly thinner. Wiry and athletic, he’d engaged in sports at school, and had been an active member of the rowing club at Cambridge. Despite (or perhaps because of) an upbringing that was middle class at best, he also had quite an aristocratic style and carried with it a taste for fine clothes and expensive accoutrements to match. Brandis had offered a ridiculously huge salary, fully intended to be impossible to refuse, and of course he’d accepted. Rupert had purchased his own quite reasonable flat in one of the more fashionable areas of London — one which so far, god willing — had been spared destruction at the hand of Luftwaffe bombs — and he was quite a wealthy man in his own right.
Working for James Brandis had become a dream come true for the young man, and the strategy behind the exorbitant wages was based on a simple yet effective premise: that those excellent wages would ensure his assistant was completely trustworthy. Considering the amount of responsibility often expected of the man’s PA, absolute trust was an essential requirement that couldn’t be taken for granted.
“I suspect I shall have to call and reschedule my booking at the Dorchester,” Rupert observed with exaggerated sourness as Brandis reached the top of the stairs and opened the door that opened into the apartment near the bedroom area. “Nicholas was expecting me there for dinner at six…”
“He was, yes,” Brandis replied bluntly with the hint of a wry smile at the corner of his lips as he slipped off his shoes at the door. “With what I pay you, I should think you could buy the Dorchester!” The harmless banter was a normal part of their professional relationship, but as Brandis moved away from the doorway, he nevertheless made sure the shoes he’d removed had been placed carefully together on the mat: Rupert took great pains to make sure the weekly cleaners did their job, and Brandis knew he’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t also do his part to ensure the apartment remained neat and tidy.
“I assume then that I’ll not be leaving straight away?” Rupert wasn’t all that upset in reality; he was used to changing his personal plans to fit in with work on an almost daily basis — it was the nature of his position after all — and as Brandis had already indicated in harmless jest, he was very well paid for that work. It was only fair that the level of commitment expected in return was equally high.
“Sorry, Rupert, but there’s a bit more to be done tonight before either of us finish up here,” Brandis was genuinely apologetic now as he removed his suit jacket and hung it in one of his wardrobes. “There’s something important I need to go over with you regarding the business here in London…”
“That sounds ominous, James,” Rupert grimaced, trying to laugh the remark off but inwardly feeling genuinely concerned for the first time.
“It is and it isn’t: I need to talk to you about what’s going to happen over the next two months… and beyond…” Brandis shrugged simply, not really explaining much as he walked across to the large, roll-top writing desk near his bed. Pulling out the chair in front of it, he turned it around and sat down. Rupert took his lead and sat on the edge of the bed beside the desk, patiently waiting for his boss to continue.
“Britain’s pretty much done for,” Brandis began the explanation in his characteristically roundabout fashion, as usual providing background information to support his decisions prior to revealing them. It was a standard practice that Rupert was familiar with, and it unsettled him a little as Brandis normally only spoke in that fashion when there was bad or difficult news coming… or both. “There’s still a slim hope we may stop the Krauts from invading, but I wouldn’t be betting the farm on that any time soon.”
“The situation’s as bad as that, really?” There was plenty of doom and gloom in the daily newspapers, but Rupert had discovered over the years that his employer seemed to have a preternatural ability to somehow know what was happening in the world as (or sometimes even before) it happened, and experience had shown that Brandis was right ninety-nine percent of the time. If he thought Britain was ‘done for’, then that was serious news indeed.