I said, “Well, they certainly aren’t working for any Government department we know of, judging from the cut of their suits and the car they’re driving.”
Taking the binoculars from me, Tats went over to one of the tall narrow windows.
“They appear to be getting back into the Porsche.” She turned back to me.
“And they look like professionals, whoever they are.”
“I was just thinking the same, but what are they doing following me around London on a Sunday afternoon?”
Tats put down the binoculars and poured out the coffee in silence.
“Go on,” I said, “Why I am I being chaperoned do you think, or could there be a connection between those two outside and this Gin Fizz project we are just about to start working on?”
Tats handed me the mug of black coffee. I took a sip. “Umm — Colombian blend.”
“You like the Colombian blend, don’t you?”
“Depends on what mood I’m in,” I said.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, I’m in the mood, so I’m going to drink it, of course.”
“No, silly, about those men outside.”
“I’m going to find out who the hell they are.”
“And how exactly are you going to do that?” Tats asked.
“Well, I thought I would go out of the back door, run down the alley and around the block, I’ll then come at them from the other side of the road. As I approach them on the passenger side I’ll pull my automatic from its holster and smash the side window with the butt. At the same time I’ll shout instructions at them to get out of the car with their hands high in the air. Got it?”
Tats looked at me wide eyed. “It’s really not had a good effect on you, that trip to the seaside, has it?”
“Or perhaps I’ll try Vince Sharp, he’s bound to be in this weekend.” I used my mobile phone to ring the firm’s switchboard. The number I was using didn’t officially exist, courtesy of a favour called in by the Partners from one of their pals at the Home Office. While waiting to connect I asked Tats what my pass code was for the current project.
“Why is it that you can’t remember a simple word?” she said tersely, continuing to look out of the window.
But before I could even comment, she answered for me.
“No, don’t say it. It’s because you have much more important things on your mind and it all seems a bit trivial to you, doesn’t it? But, due to the very clandestine nature of the department that you occasionally work for, the firm has to have that added security; you know that as well as I do. The word that you’re racking your brain for, by the way is Tomcat”. She said. “Most appropriate, if you ask me,” she added with a smile.
“Tomcat,” I said quickly to the voice at the other end, and was immediately connected to the special operations co-ordinator, Vince Sharp.
“Vince,” I said, “it’s Jake.”
“What an unexpected pleasure, and on a Sunday? It must be important.”
“What can I do for you?”
By this point in the conversation, voice recognition had been completed, with the recorder and scrambler running as standard procedure.
“I’ve gone and grown two tails, Vince.”
“I’m sorry to hear that old chap?” I could hear Vince tapping away furiously at his keyboard.
“According to our data, we have no known reason for your current problem, but I’ll check with a specialist down the road; give me a description of both, will you.”
I gave Vince the two car registration numbers along with details of make and colour just in case the plates were fake. I waited while he typed in the information and then read it all back to me.
“Thanks, Vince, ring me back will you, I’m at Tats’ place here in London.”
“Give me ten minutes, I need to make a phone call and more importantly make myself a nice cup of tea,” he said jovially.
Tats poured me a second cup of coffee and produced a large fruitcake.
“What is that?” I said in mock horror.
“Don’t be cruel, you know that mummy likes to bake, anyway it’s your duty to eat a slice and say how nice it was next time you see her. I must say, you are careless sometimes, telling Vince where you are, you don’t know, someone could have been eavesdropping.”
I said, “True — but highly unlikely. The software that we use for telephone scrambling is the most sophisticated on the market and with a chap like Vince sitting there well, need I say more?”
The phone rang; it was Vince, asking me for the pass word. “Tomcat, what have you got for me?” I asked.
“OK, you really do have a couple of tails, don’t you? The black one I’ve traced back to a security company in Hertfordshire. It’s a regular, used on the whole by the Government, my guess is that I’ll find that this one has cropped up a few times before. I’ll have to ferret around a little deeper tomorrow morning though.”
I said quickly. “Try this Minister in particular, along with any dubious acquaintances he may have.” I gave Vince the name and left it at that.
“What about the Porsche, why has that one appeared?”
“Well, I’ve drawn a blank at present with that one, but I reckon it’s connected to the assignment that you’re about to start. I’ll have to come back to you when I know more, but why do you think the Mondeo is connected to this job?”
“Call it a gut feeling. Anyway, thanks for checking these out for me, especially on a Sunday; I really appreciate it Vince.” I hung up.
“What did he say?” Tats asked.
“He confirmed what I thought. That maybe, just maybe, the reason those cars are following me is because of the Gin Fizz. Any movement outside while I’ve been on the phone?”
“No, nothing, but hang on, the guy in the black Mondeo is walking up to the two in the Porsche and is now talking to them.”
I walked over to the window. Peering through my binoculars, I could see that the two men in the Porsche were both speaking on their phones. The chap from the black Ford was standing with his hands deep in the pockets of his shabby check jacket. The men got out of the car and all three were talking on the pavement. Soon the two got back into the Porsche and drove away, but the black Ford remained outside.
Tats and I spent the rest of Sunday afternoon waiting for Vince to call back.
In between, she washed her hair and I read the Sunday Times from front to back. The TV was on, but I wasn’t watching; some sort of fly on the wall programme was coming to an end when my mobile phone rang.
“The Porsche belongs to an acquaintance of our Minister, Oliver Hawkworth.” I said into the phone before he could speak.
“Uncanny,” said Vince. “How did you know?”
“Well I’ve been sitting here pondering;” I said. “I should have thought of it before. Friend Hawkworth has obviously got into bed with whoever really owns the contents of his safe on board the ‘Gin Fizz’. Whoever that is, owns the blue Porsche, I’d guess.”
Vince said. “Good thinking chap. My source has come back with a confirmed owner for that blue Porsche. It belongs to a Robert Flackyard from Dorset.”
“What else have you managed to find out about him, anything or nothing?”
“What, at such short notice, give me a chance.” Vince said congenially.
“But according to the tabloid info that I’ve been able to locate on the Internet, Flackyard likes to live life right on the edge, shall we say. At fifty-eight years of age, he owns a string of night clubs on the South Coast, as well as being a successful property developer. The only other thing that I can tell you from these articles is that there has been some speculation about how he conducts his business dealings. But, one thing’s for sure, he most definitely enjoys a playboy lifestyle around the globe. There is also a definite link between him and our ministerial friend. They have been photographed together at various functions on more than one occasion, but I’ll have to speak to someone tomorrow morning and request a detailed file on him. I’ll mark it urgent shall I?”