In 1998, Jasper Lockhart overheard, and covertly recorded a conversation between two junior ministers in the corridors of power, which he promptly sold, to three separate tabloid newspapers for undisclosed sums. He was immediately fired from his job, threatened with a prison term for breaking the Official Secrets Act. But, nothing more came of it, except that Jasper had the last laugh on the Government at that time. In a way it was this incident that gave me the idea for the new European Network. Now Jasper made a living by hanging around and offering hospitality to foolish people with access to secret or semi-secret information.
“Yes, I live well,” he said, “picked up my new Jag convertible last week, had it specially painted in the colour of my choice — you’re right, life’s just one long party.”
At the next table a small group of advertising executives and their clients sat drinking Champagne at one hundred and fifty pounds a bottle, paid for with the generosity that only an expense account brings. Extolling the virtues of their particular strategy to generate higher sales volumes of a particular software system or something as interesting, no doubt.
Jasper took a sip of his cocktail, and crunched the bright red cherry while talking at the same time. “Could sell you a morsel of information you’d like I reckon.”
“The private email address of the Prime Minister?”
“Very funny, but keep the wisecracks to yourself.”
“What have you got,” I said.
Looking around furtively, he said, “It’s going to cost you a grand.”
“Look, Jasper, just give me the sales pitch, we’ll get to the estimates later.”
“Well, I got a call from a certain party in Winchester the other day. This chap’s a real high-class operator, only gets into very expensive houses, if you know what I mean. I’ve got to know all the breaking and entering boys.”
“Anything they pick up unusual or official looking, I get to see very quickly.”
“They know I’ll pay top dollar with no frills attached. Anyway, this villain unbeknown to him is doing over a high profile Cabinet Minister’s country residence, on the outskirts of Winchester, when he flips through the desk and finds a rather tasty leather desk diary. Knowing I’m a collector he passes it across to me for five hundred notes. What I’m offering you is just one page…”
I caught the attention of a hostess over Jasper Lockhart’s shoulder and it amused me to see him spin round as if the boys in blue were just about to lift him out of his very expensive jacket.
I said, “A vodka lime soda and another of whatever my friend is drinking, but can you ensure that there are two pieces of lemon and at least three cherries, please.”
Jasper smiled in relief and embarrassment.
He said, “Phew, for one moment…”
“Yes, you did, didn’t you.”
At the next table one of the ad-men said, “…but excellent copy stateside.”
“What do you think, then?” Jasper Lockhart ran his tongue round his mouth in an attempt to dislodge the particles of lemon and cherry.
“So you’re still doing a bit of ‘Politico black marketing’ on the side,” I said.
“Well, we’ve all got to live, haven’t we?” This was a man with little or no scruples; he would even rob his old granny of her pension. Given half a chance.
“I’ll want a second opinion?” I said.
“I haven’t told you what’s on the page yet.”
“You aren’t going to tell and trust, are you?” It didn’t seem like him.
“You must be joking. All you’re getting is just the first and last word.”
“OK, what are these words?”
“The first word is ‘Italian,’ the last word is ‘hardware’. Thought that might make you sit up and pay attention.” He used a toothpick to remove a stubborn piece of lemon, from between his teeth.
“I don’t get the bit about ‘hardware’.”
“Weapons, you moron.”
“So, what about them.”
“Don’t take the piss, Dillon! Retired Italian Generals?”
“We don’t get involved with the military, past or present.” I pretended to think deeply. “There’s a chap called Jerry Franklin at the U.S Embassy, here in London. More his kind of thing, I’d say.”
“Listen, pal, it’s got the name of your firm on the same page.”
“I’m not deaf, you know,” I said irritably, “I didn’t write it.”
“Well,” said Jasper Lockhart somewhat subdued. “I’m just trying to wise you up.”
“That’s as may be, but still no sale.”
The drinks came. In Jasper Lockhart’s iced glass were three bright red cherries. Two slices of lemon and a slice of lime clung to the edge.
“Well, I didn’t think they’d do that,” he said in a breathless voice, and to tell you the truth, nor did I.
I said, “How big is it?” He raised his eyes to me, and only with difficulty remembered what we had been talking about. “How big?” He measured about fifteen centimetres by ten with his fingers.
“How thick?”
“About three centimetres — why?”
“Doesn’t sound like a grand’s worth to anyone I know.”
“Hilarious, I’m only selling one page for a grand.”
“You always did like a laugh,” I said.
“So make me an offer then.”
“Nothing. As I’ve already said, the firm doesn’t get involved with military stuff.”
Jasper Lockhart speared the cherries with a cocktail stick after chasing them around the bright pink drink.
“Look, I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to do.” I said. “Bring it to my address here in London at nine this evening, and please be on time. I’ll have Vince Sharp, my department’s special operations specialist, come along as well. But, I can tell you now, I don’t think there’s a flying pig’s chance, that he’ll be able to get the Partners interested in it. Even if he does, payment will be by the normal route, and you know how long that can take, so don’t go spending it just yet.”
The ad-man at the next table said, “But the market in India is enormous!” I knew that Jasper Lockhart was acquainted with our friend Oliver Hawkworth the Cabinet Minister and owner of the Gin Fizz. They had both worked at the Treasury around the same time. Either he hadn’t put the connection with Ferran & Cardini together yet and was trading off the cuff, or he did know, and was playing a game of cat and mouse.
When I got back to the hotel, the plastic plants were still heavy with dust, and there was a different middle aged man sitting at the small reception desk clipping his fingernails with a pair of oversized scissors. I remembered the name I had given his Slavic friend. “Fisher,” I said. He reached back without looking, unhooked my room key and cracked it down on the worn desktop without a pause in his manicure routine.
“Visita’ waiting for ya’.” He said with a heavy Cockney accent. He stabbed the scissors upward. “In ya’ room.”
I leaned forward until my face was close to his. His razor had missed parts of his face and his rancid breath smelt of stale coffee and cigarettes, with a little dash of rotten food between the teeth thrown in. “Do you always let strangers into your guests’ rooms?” I asked.
He stopped what he was doing — without haste. “Yeah, when they tell me they’re related or official, I do. You got a problem with that — ‘ave ya’?”
I picked up my key, and began to climb the stairs two at a time. “Yeah,” I heard him say again.
I went up to the third. The light was on in my room. I switched off the hall light, put the key in the door and turned it quickly.
I flung the door open wide and moved through it stooped.
Since joining the firm’s special operations department, I’ve gone through life making sure there is no light behind me when entering a darkened area, scanning rooms for listening bugs and hidden cameras. This becomes second nature and then on one occasion it all becomes worthwhile.