This Is Your Carstairs SpeakingChapter 9 Open Sushime
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This Is Your Carstairs SpeakingChapter 14: There’s No Office Like The Home Office free porn video
The trip back home was luxurious but uneventful. I had taken Caroline out to dinner for our last night in Doha, after an afternoon spent in Souq Waqif. I liked it there, because even though it was rather sanitized, there was more than enough to see, smell and taste. Sure, one or two of these hole in the wall shops sold the inevitable Gucci handbags, but it was actually fun to learn from Caroline how to spot fake goods.
“Take this GG canvas horse bit hobo bag,” she said, while the salesman was standing right next to us.
“Excuse me, a HOBO bag? And something about a horse?”
“Yes, dear. I don’t pick the names. Well I do, but mostly for Prada when I meet with my friend Fabio. Now the first thing we look for is symmetry in the pattern, front and back. That’s okay here. Then the hardware, clasps and such. They seem a little light. Next, heat stamps. There are markers on each and every strap, belt, you name it. I’d expect one here, but it seems to be missing. And therefore no production code either. Let’s check the back of this zipper for a stamp. Oh, it’s there, but it’s slightly crooked, you see? And it opens very smoothly.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is. Gucci zippers never open easily. And that’s why they never break.”
“So Gucci bags are extra heavy and have difficult zippers and that’s why they’re so expensive. Got it.”
“You like?” asked the salesman, who had not been able to keep up with Caroline.
“I’ll pass, thank you. But let me see those silk ties. Martin, that blue one would look good on you. It matches your eyes.”
“No thanks. If I start getting my own ties, nobody will have any idea what to get me for my birthday.”
There’s also a section where they sell animals. Don’t worry, I’m not about to launch into a horror story. I do have my reservations about selling animals, but it happens all over the world and pet shops all feed their dead rodent inventory to the snakes. Such is life, I’m afraid. And I did like seeing the falcons that were on display, because that’s what they specialize in. In fact, there’s a falcon hospital right there in the souq! A very nice man allowed me to pet one and he thought he could freak Caroline out by offering her a leather glove, so the falcon could sit on her hand. If you think she even flinched, you don’t know my pet dragon! But then she briefly worked with a magician when she was young, so she’s not even afraid of snakes.
We had a late lunch at the souq, visited the Al Koot fort, found it wanting and partly under construction and went back to the hotel to enjoy the air conditioning. I spent some time writing my journals and Caroline always has a few phone calls to make.
I had picked the restaurant for that night, which was located in the Tornado Tower. It wasn’t very good. Not at all bad, just not very memorable, but the view was nice and Caroline ‘tied one on’ as she called it, so I got to hear many entertaining and very libellous celebrity stories. It was a wonderful ending to a very bizarre visit.
I spent the next morning by the pool as well, until it was time to get dressed and drive to the airport. This time I didn’t have to fly the damned thing, which was nice. Caroline and I parted ways at Heathrow, because we both had our own drivers pick us up. I was glad to see Ali as I came through the sliding doors after the baggage pickup. Caroline and I kept our goodbye businesslike, because here people were looking at me again. I hadn’t missed that.
I had missed my family, obviously. It hadn’t even been a week, but it was still good to be back. They were all there, waiting in the doorway as Ali opened the passenger door to me. I couldn’t wait for him to unload my suitcases and bugger off. I kissed Melody first, but I’m afraid I did it without taking my eyes off my lovely little boy.
“DA!” yelled Edwin, who generally had something to say, even if he never picked the right number of syllables for the job.
“You could at least look at her,” said Kate, thumping my arm while I kissed Mel and winked at Edwin. Kelly giggled.
“It’s okay, I’ll have his full attention tonight,” said Mel, who stopped kissing me and handed me Edwin. His hands were covered in tiny red spots.
“What’s this?!”
“He had his vaccination last week. This is Rubella Lite. It doesn’t hurt, he just feels like a Braille book,” explained Mel.
“You might have told me! Oh, poor boy! Look at you! You had skin like a peach when I left!”
“I have peach-like skin,” said Kelly, who came up to me. “All over. If you like that sort of thing.”
And then she did an adorable wiggle with her eyebrows that would have made Groucho Marx giggle and try to copy it off her.
“Stand back, you hussy!” said Kate. “My turn! Hey big guy, put down that adorable kid and pick up your adorable sister!”
I had a decision to make. A very easy one.
“Well, I guess one of you is coming upstairs with me for a long, intensive play session on my bed,” I said, looking at each of them in turn. I didn’t fool anyone, though.
“It’s Edwin, isn’t it...” sighed Kelly.
“Yup,” said Mel. Kate just growled and kicked my shin, albeit only for show.
“You bet your sweet patootie. Come on, little man. Nobody has dribbled on me for almost a week and I’m starting to miss it.”
“DA!”
It was good to be back.
The next day I went into the office bright and early, even though it was way past midnight when mom and dad left the night before. Wild horses couldn’t stop dad from coming over to hear about my Qatar adventure and so I spoon-fed it to him and the others in a narrative of almost an hour and a half, starting with the dead pilot and working my way towards the quiz I had failed. I kept them guessing as to the whether or not I got the contract to the bitter end, although Kate obviously knew already.
I’m not really much of a raconteur, but as I had recently updated my journal it was easier to make my way through the story without too many distractions. They howled when they found out I’d been left out of the first round, they cheered when I won the checkpoint race, I was called terrible names for bailing out at the circuit race and derided as a pathetic fool for not knowing what brake callipers even were. Not that any of them did, mind you. ‘Something to do with brakes.’ Yeah, that’s how far I got, dad. (They’re called ‘brake claws’ in Dutch, so that didn’t give me much of a clue.)
“You watch Wheeler Dealers all the time!”
“I’m sorry, dad. I guess you failed to raise me properly. Because I sure as shit don’t recall you ever taking me into the garage and opening the hood to point out what’s what.”
“That’s ‘cause you were always busy with your bloody computers. Damn it! I told everyone I know you’d be the new face of Aston Martin!”
“You weren’t supposed to tell anyone, you old coot!”
“It’s not as bad as it seems,” said mum. “He only knows Fred and the man from the vacuum cleaner repair shop. Everyone else he’s alienated by his refusal to wear a hearing aid and his increasingly bizarre sense of humour. And nobody believes him, anyway.”
“Fred does!”
“Fred nods when you speak. That’s not actually listening.”
“That’s what you think. So anyway, all that work for nothing! Not even a free car!”
“Not quite. I did actually get the gig. I won.”
The looks on their faces! (Except for Kate, who smirked.)
“You see, there were cameras in all the cars and I was the only one not caught doing coke, masturbating or having sex with hookers in the back seat. And I didn’t pick my nose, either. Or nearly run over half a dozen pedestrians. So they went with me.”
“WHAT?!”
“KAK?!”
“Oh, can someone take Edwin to bed?”
“No, I want to hear this!”
They ended up calling Caroline to confirm my story, because they found it very suspicious I wasn’t sure of all the details Caroline had hammered out on my behalf. But eventually my story was over, nobody wanted their glasses refilled and I could go to bed and hold Kate in my arms. Yes, Kate. Because Mel knows me. She knows that I love her and she also knows I need Kate, especially after a week like that.
The first days back at the office were mostly spent with the boys from the IT department, the least diverse department within Keller & Fox at that time. I have my own office in a different building, but I sat down behind an empty desk and answered any and all questions that they had been saving up for the past week. Winston had it all under control, but at the end of the day there are always things you need to kick upstairs and upstairs was me nowadays.
Daphne wasn’t in very often, because she was in the final year of getting her legal degree and I gave her all the time she needed for that. I resumed my daily swimming routine and wondered when I’d be called upon to do my first Aston Martin commercial. They didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.
It was a Tuesday when Alice, Caroline’s secretary stepped into the IT department. This turned quite a few heads, because it is uncommon for the beautiful people to come down to the boiler room and converse with the Morlocks. We were having a meeting, although I was also trying to hit one of them in the head with a Mars bar. They’re great for that: not firm enough to cause any sort of injury you might get sued over, but if you aim it just right it packs a punch that isn’t soon forgotten. I’m quite good at it. Balls I throw like a girl, but I can take out any IT dweeb at thirty paces, provided I have a suitably hefty candy bar at my disposal.
“Oh, you’re here!”
“Yes. Hello. Guys, this is Caroline’s sec...”
“You’re not answering your mobile,” Alice said, ignoring the leering looks.
“No, I’m in a meeting. Of sorts. Oh stop whingeing, you fucking pansy! It’s only a bit of chocolate. You know what? You should have done one of your damned rocket jumps. Ha! Sorry, please continue.”
“I’ve been looking for you in your office.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t pick up your office phone either!”
“So you thought: ‘He must be in?’”
“No, I thought you’d had a stroke or something. And stop messing about. Caroline wants you in her office.”
“Oooooooh!” said my entire staff, as if this was some bloody Carry On movie.
“Shut up, you inbred bunch of greasy code monkeys. When I come back I want TWO proposals for shoring up that database and if I don’t get them we’re using sodding Oracle. I’m done with this. I don’t even know why we bother, anyway. Half of bloody China must have it memorised by now, judging from the access log.”
“NOOOO! Not Oracle!”
“Well then give me an alternative! Okay, just coming. Go right ahead. My necktie is here somewhere.”
“I am to escort you to her office right away.”
“Oh. Sounds serious.”
It was serious. Caroline’s office was in the same building as my IT department, so we were there in under two minutes. A man in a suit was waiting outside the door to the outer office. I didn’t know who he was, but he wanted to wave some sort of wand over me.
“Let him do his job, Martin,” said Alice.
“Sorry about this, Sir. Do you have any keys, weaponry or metal items on your person?”
“Keys. And my phone. I left my bazooka in my other pants.”
“May I see them? The keys, not the pants.”
“Here. And who are you again?”
“All will be revealed, Mr. King. They’re waiting for you inside. You can go through, Miss.”
Alice stopped at her desk and pressed the intercom button.
“Mr. van de Casteele is here, Miss Keller.”
It’s always nice to hear my real name. Alice said it perfectly, as her mother was Dutch.
“Show him in, dear.”
It felt as if I was about to walk on stage: Alice positioned herself in front of the door to Caroline’s office, took half a second to compose herself and then opened the door for me.
“Mister Martin van de Casteele,” she announced.
Caroline’s office is as magnificent as she is. It’s quite different from the rest of the building, which is very bright and modern and filled with printers, designer furniture, glass doors, those chairs where you can isolate yourself by pulling a dome over your head and lots of bearded hipsters and girls with woolly hats, doing ‘media’ things. Unless they work in the actual Media Monitoring Room, in which case they’re dressed more like bank tellers. But Caroline’s office is nothing like that: it has a massive skylight and on Caroline’s desk, which is made entirely of glass, sits a very modern iMac, but other than that it’s all weaved carpets, mahogany furniture, red leather club seats, drinks cabinets and very expensive art. Her windows have thick velour curtains and her office has hosted kings, presidents and even some people who were actually important.
I was met by three people, who all stood up as I walked in. Caroline stood behind her desk and didn’t look pleased. Two men, both in dark suits, had been sitting with their backs to the door but turned around as soon as they were on their feet. One of them walked towards me, all smiles. He was about sixty, with grey curls and wearing an immaculate herringbone suit. He seemed very keen to shake my hand, but waited for Caroline to make the introductions.
“Martin, meet Sir Rupert Dupree, director general of the Home Office. Sir Rupert, Martin van de Casteele, one of our assets and our current head of IT.”
“Indeed! How very nice to meet you! I must say I was about to call you Mr. King. We don’t meet many celebrities in our line of work, much less those who have become British institutions.”
“Martin is fine, Sir Rupert,” I said, somewhat overwhelmed. Elderly British gentlemen aren’t usually this personable on a first meeting. Mind you, neither am I.
“Please! Just call me Rupert. I do believe your birth name is Flemish in origin, is it not?”
“Yes, originally it is. That’s going back a bit, though.”
“And yet here you are, the man behind Reginald Carstairs. Forgive me for namedropping, please, but I did just come from Buckingham Palace and as I mentioned my next appointment to Her Majesty, she did let it slip she hopes to see you and Kelly at one of the command performances. Although I would appreciate it if you could keep that under your hat.”
“Rupert, would you give it a rest?” asked Caroline. “Martin is about as likely to respond to flattery as Gandhi’s urn. Introduce your associate, if you would.”
“Ah, yes! Martin, this is Commander Simon Sixsmith, with MI6. Commander, meet Martin King.”
The other guy smiled, but didn’t put on a song and dance.
“How do you do,” I said, as I briefly shook his hand.
“A pleasure,” he replied, and sat down again. Meanwhile, Sir Rupert had busied himself by fetching a chair from behind a small desk where Caroline keeps her fashion magazines.
“I’ll sit here, you take the swivel chair. Can we get you anything? Cup of tea? You know, perhaps we should move proceedings to the seating area?”
I doubted very much that Sir Rupert would make me tea, but I just needed to glance in Caroline’s direction. I knew her nod to mean tea was already underway. Being predictable has its advantages. I rarely drink coffee.
“Stop fussing, Rupert. And we do not need to move to the club seats, because this won’t take long. Martin, listen carefully. These gentlemen are here to make a request. I have said no on your behalf and the only reason I’ve asked you to come over is to stop them from going behind my back. Sir Rupert and I have a long and storied history, but what you should know is that he is not to be trusted.”
Sir Rupert feigned outrage, pretending this was a joke.
“Caroline! You’ve changed your tune! Oh, she’s awful. You were all smiles five minutes ago!”
“Yes, of course I was. I wanted to know all you had to say. If I had kicked you out, you’d have spoken to him without me present. Well, he’s here now and so am I. And Martin, this man is not trustworthy. And neither is anyone even remotely connected to MI6. I speak from experience, since we’ve had dealings in the past.”
“Have you?” I couldn’t help saying. Behind me I could hear a cup rattling ever so slightly on a saucer. That must be Alice with my tea. Odd, that. She’s not generally nervous.
“Two sweeteners, Martin,” she said, as she placed a cup and saucer on the edge of Caroline’s glass desk. They seemed to float in mid-air. It’s not your average glass coffee table, you know. Her desk would have pride of place in any museum of modern design, and its own Perspex safety cage around it.
“Yes, dear. Both the government and our security services call on us from time to time, when certain theatricals are needed. A mock demonstration in front of an embassy, to cause a diversion while someone is smuggled in or out. A ball or even an orgy, set up just so two people can meet. Making it appear as if someone had a very public, gruesome accident, so they can assume a new identity elsewhere. A video recording of an event where no camera was actually present. Things of that nature. That is when these men come knocking.”
“Caroline herself has played ambassador’s wives and much more on our behalf. There’s a reason her car is that particular shade of blue,” grinned Sir Rupert. “Now, Mr. King: what I am about to tell you falls under the Official Secrets act. Are you aware of it?”
“Uhm ... I’m aware of a bloody great tower in Fitzrovia that’s supposed to be invisible because of it, even though there’s a restaurant at the top. Is that the act you’re thinking of?”
I was referring to the BT tower, a 189 metres tall telecommunications tower that I could actually see from my office window, provided it was winter and I was prepared to lean out of it. It was completed in 1964 and its location was an official secret, meaning it didn’t appear on any maps. Yet there it was, all 621 feet of it. It had a souvenir shop, a revolving restaurant and of course an array of receivers and transmitters. Some secret!
Kaidence
- 03.04.2021
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