The porter at The Garrick, that most exclusive of London clubs, greeted him with a smile and took his coat.
“Nice to see you, Sir Paul.” He came out with the title as if he’d been doing it all his life.
Chavasse gave up and mounted the majestic staircase, with its stunning collection of oil paintings, and went into the bar. A couple of ageing gentlemen sat in the corner talking quietly, but otherwise the place was empty.
“Good evening, Sir Paul,” the barman said. There it was again. “Your usual?”
“Why not?”
Chavasse went and sat in a corner, took out his old silver case and lit a cigarette while the barman brought a bottle of Bollinger RD Champagne, opened it and poured. Chavasse tried it, nodded his satisfaction and the barman topped up the glass and retreated.
Chavasse toasted himself. “Well, here’s to you, old stick,” he murmured. “But what comes next, that’s the thing.”
He emptied the glass rather quickly, refilled it and sat back. At that moment a young man entered, paused, glancing around, then approached him.
“Sir Paul Chavasse? Terry Williams of the prime minister’s office.”
“You must be new,” Chavasse said. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Very new, sir. We were trying to get hold of you and your housekeeper told us you would be here.”
“Sounds urgent,” Chavasse said.
“The prime minister wanted a word, that’s the thing.”
Chavasse frowned. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“I’m afraid not.” Williams smiled cheerfully. “But I’m sure he’ll tell you himself. He’s on the way up.”
A moment later John Major, the British prime minister, entered the bar.
His personal detective was behind him and waited by the entrance. The prime minister was in evening dress and smiled as he came forward and held out his hand.
“Good to see you, Paul.”
Williams withdrew discreetly and Chavasse said, “Thank God you didn’t say Sir Paul. I’m damned if I can get used to it.”
John Major sat down. “You got used to being called the Chief for the past twenty years.”
“Yes, well that was carrying on a Bureau tradition set up by my predecessor,” Chavasse told him. “Can I offer you a glass of champagne?”
“No thanks. The reason for my rather glamourous appearance is that I’m on my way to a fund-raising affair at the Dorchester and they’ll try and thrust enough glasses of champagne on to me there.”
Chavasse raised his glass and toasted him. “Congratulations on your leadership victory, Prime Minister.”
“Yes, I’m still here,” Major said. “Both of us are.”
“Not me,” Chavasse reminded him. “Last day tomorrow.”
“Yes, well that’s what I wanted to speak to you about. How long have you been with the Bureau, Paul?” He smiled. “Don’t answer, I’ve been through your record. Twenty years as a field agent, shot three times, knifed twice. You’ve had as many injuries as a National Hunt jockey.”
Chavasse smiled. “Just about.”
“Then twenty as Chief and thanks to the Irish situation, leading just as hazardous a life as when you were a field agent.” The prime minister shook his head. “I don’t think we can let all that experience go.”
“But my knighthood,” Chavasse said, “the ritual pat on the head on the way out. I must remind you, Prime Minister, that I’m sixty-five years of age.”
“Nonsense,” John Major told him. “Sixty-five going on fifty.” He leaned forward. “All this trouble in what used to be Yugoslavia and Ireland is not proving as easy as we’d hoped.” He shook his head. “No, Paul, we need you. I need you. Frankly, I haven’t even considered a successor.”
At that moment Williams came forward. “Sorry, Prime Minister, but I must remind you of the time.”
John Major nodded and stood. Chavasse did the same. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Think about it and let me know.” He shook Chavasse by the hand. “Must go. Let me hear from you,” and he turned and walked out, followed by his detective and Williams.
And think about it Chavasse did as he sat at the long table in the dining room and had a cold lobster salad, washing it down with the rest of the champagne. It was crazy. All those years. A miracle that he’d survived and just when he was out, they wanted him back in.
He had two cups of coffee then went downstairs, recovered his raincoat and went down the steps to the street. The Jaguar was parked nearby and Jackson was out in a second and had the door open.
“Nice meal?” he asked.
“I can’t remember.”
Jackson got behind the wheel and started up. “You all right?”
Chavasse said, “What would you say if I told you the prime minister wants me to stay on?”
“Good God!” Jackson said, and swerved slightly.
“Exactly.”
“Will you?”
“I don’t know, Earl, I really don’t,” and Chavasse lit a cigarette and leaned back.
As they reached the turning into St. Martin ’s Square, Chavasse said, “Stop here. I’ll walk the rest of the way. Time I took a look for myself.”
“You sure you’ll be all right?” Jackson asked.
“Of course. Give me the umbrella.”
Chavasse got out, put up the umbrella against the relentless rain, walked along the wet pavement until he came to the next turning, which brought him into the Square on the opposite side from his house. He paused. There was a touch of fog in the rain and he seemed to sense voices and laughter. He crossed to the entrance to the garden in the centre of the Square.
The voices were clearer now, the laughter callous and brutal. He hurried forward and saw the mystery man clear in the light of a street lamp, being manhandled by three youths. They were typical of a type to be found in any city in the world, vicious animals in bomber jackets and jeans.
One of them wore a baseball cap and seemed to be the leader. He swatted the mystery man across the side of the head and the trilby hat went flying, revealing a shaven skull.
“Christ, what have we got here?” the youth in the baseball cap demanded. “A bloody Chink. Hold him while I give him a slapping.”
Chavasse, seeing the man’s face clear in the light of the street lamp, knew what he was. Tibetan. The other two lads grabbed the man by the arms and the one in the baseball cap raised a fist.
Chavasse didn’t say a word, simply stamped hard against the back of the lad’s left knee, sending him sprawling. The youth lay there for a moment, glowering up.
“Let’s call it a night,” Chavasse said, putting down his umbrella.
The other two released the Tibetan and rushed in. Chavasse rammed the end of the umbrella hard into the groin of one and turned sideways, then stamped on the kneecap of the second, sending him down with a cry of agony.
He heard a click behind and the Tibetan called, “Watch out!”
As Chavasse turned, the one in the baseball cap was on his feet, a switchblade in one hand, murder in his eyes. Suddenly, Earl Jackson seemed to materialise from the gloom like some dark shadow.
“Can anyone join in?” he enquired.
The youth turned and slashed at him. Jackson caught the wrist with effortless ease, then twisted hard. The youth dropped the knife and cried out in pain as something snapped.
Jackson picked up the knife, stepped on the blade and dropped it down the gutter drain. The other two were on their feet, but in poor condition. Baseball cap was sobbing in pain.
“Nigger bastard,” he snarled.
“That’s right, boy, and don’t you forget it. I’m your worst nightmare. Now go.”
They limped away together, disappearing into the night, and Chavasse said, “Good man, Earl. My thanks.”
“Getting too old for this kind of game,” Jackson said. “And so are you. Think about that.”