Masquerade
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The writing of this story
1-1: East
I
April, 1996
It was a million to one chance, maybe even more.
‘That comes to £108.99, with the shirts.’ The woman took the Burton’s Card, swiped it and began to wrap the purchases.
‘I’ll wear the trousers, if you don’t mind.’
‘Let me remove the labels.’
So that was one job done this Saturday before the Easter weekend. It was always a pleasant drive up the A2, park near Greenwich and take the boat to the city. Turning to exit Debenham’s, such thoughts were interrupted by two sirens before him, two obviously foreign sirens, two stunning sirens and his throat went dry.
True, London was a city of foreigners but these two were something else again, they had to be those ice dancers you see on television, definitely continental the way they moved … he had to find out. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked quickly, lest they walked past and out of his life, ‘but are you … er … Russian?’
‘Da, mi Russkiye,’ the one with the golden hair replied, taking in everything of note – the cheeky grin, the now balding pate, the nerve in even addressing her, she thought she liked his sheer gall.
II
In the 12ème arrondissement this Saturday morning, Cafe Chose was quiet.
Nicolette Vasseur curled a strand of fair hair round her little finger and shuffled on her chair, observing the other woman. ‘Will you take Philippe’s name?’
In her eyes, Geneviève should long ago have pushed her casanova into a yes or no and this was Nikki’s way of pushing her but Mlle Lavacquerie was not the type to push, she was seriously indecisive. The events of five years ago in Paris had sent them both over the edge, they’d both vowed revenge on every man who’d ever treated a woman that way. They weren’t what they’d have called feminist, either of them, but they sure as hell weren’t putting up with that type of treatment.
Nikki had arranged for Genie to meet this Philippe Legrande, the only one with sufficient clout in Bercy, so she’d been told, who would take their idea for a security Section seriously. She’d always been the little organiser, Nikki.
He hadn’t laughed, Philippe, he’d seen the value of Section 37, ostensibly to expose corrupt officials but it had had other distinct political possibilities too in his eyes, he’d taken a shine to Geneviève anyway and as usually happened with herin turn, she’d fallen in love.
He’d organized the finance and they were off and running.
‘The most Philippe can expect is a hyphenation,’ she murmured. ‘Anyway, he’s not even broached it. If I could think of a way, Nikki, I’d have done it already, the nightmares are back too.’
‘I can deputize.’
‘No, I have to know how the money is put through, why they don’t just wire it to us – why must I fly there, why always in cash?’
‘Russian law perhaps? I can go if you want.’
‘No, I’ll send Marc, that’s more his line. Besides, there’s no point going yet, the next collect’s not until July – he’ll go a week ahead of me.’
‘Seriously, does it really matter? You return with the money as usual, we do what we do, what’s the problem?’
‘I am. I’m the problem.’