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    World War O: Tales of MI7, #7
    World War O: Tales of MI7, #7
    World War O: Tales of MI7, #7
    Ebook351 pages3 hours

    World War O: Tales of MI7, #7

    By James Ward

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    About this ebook

    "John Mordred comes alive on the page and is a character readers will not soon forget!" – The Booklife Review.

    "World War Offshore" – no one knows how it started, or who's behind it, but one thing's for certain: it's the biggest anti-capitalist demonstration the world has ever seen. Hundreds of thousands of demonstrators, spread across six continents, demanding an end to the "non-accountability of the 1%", re-regulation of the world's financial services, and a new era of social justice.

    MI7 takes the view that it's a problem best left to the appropriate law enforcement agencies – with the exception of one little detail. In order to get off the ground so effectively, its organisers had to bypass GCHQ in Britain, and the NSA in America. A breathtakingly impressive achievement, and possibly an ominous one. Next time, whoever does that may not be so benign. 

    Agent John Mordred is assigned to investigate. His enquiry takes him halfway across the globe before depositing him in the Crown dependency of Jersey for what looks like a war of attrition. 

    And then, completely out of the blue, there's a breakthrough.

    Written before the publication of either the Panama Papers or the Paradise Papers, World War O tackles one of the most hotly-debated topics of recent times. Taxation and corporate wealth. Just what, if anything, do the rich owe to the poor?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCool Millennium
    Release dateOct 25, 2016
    ISBN9781540115898
    World War O: Tales of MI7, #7
    Author

    James Ward

    James Ward's London-based blog, I Like Boring Things, has featured in the Independent, Observer and on the BBC website. He is co-founder of Stationery Club and the Boring Conference, featured in the Wall Street Journal and on Radio 4. Adventures in Stationery is his first book.

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      Book preview

      World War O - James Ward

      World War O

      Tales of MI7, Volume 7

      James Ward

      Published by Cool Millennium, 2016.

      This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

      WORLD WAR O

      First edition. October 25, 2016.

      Copyright © 2016 James Ward.

      ISBN: 978-1540115898

      Written by James Ward.

      World War O

      ––––––––

      James Ward

      COOL MILLENNIUM BOOKS

      Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or means, without written permission.

      Copyright © James Ward 2015

      James Ward has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

      This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and events are the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. All resemblance to actual events, places, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      First published 2015

      A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

      Cover picture taken by the author on 20 February 2014 shows London’s Tower Bridge.

      This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of trading or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including the condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      To My Wife

      ––––––––

      www.talesofmi7.com

      Other books in the same series:

      The original Tales of MI7

      Our Woman in Jamaica

      The Kramski Case

      The Girl from Kandahar

      The Vengeance of San Gennaro

      The John Mordred books

      The Eastern Ukraine Question

      The Social Magus

      Encounter With ISIS

      World War O

      The New Europeans

      Libya Story

      Little War in London

      The Square Mile Murder

      The Ultimate Londoner

      Death in a Half Foreign Country

      The BBC Hunters

      The Seductive Scent of Empire

      Humankind 2.0

      Ruby Parker’s Last Orders

      Tales of MI7 Spinoff

      Hannah and Soraya’s Fully Magic Generation-Y *Snowflake* Road Trip across America

      Contents

      Chapter 1: Trouble at TB

      Chapter 2: Welcome to TV Hell

      Chapter 3: Ladies and Gentlemen, Introducing the Remembrancer!

      Chapter 4: Brian, Lord of Powerpoint

      Chapter 5: Into Grand Cayman

      Chapter 6: Conversation With Satan

      Chapter 7: Your Satisfaction is Our Credit

      Chapter 8: Wishing on Kiki

      Chapter 9: The ‘Other’ Bob Wellington

      Chapter 10: Er, Deceived By an Egg?

      Chapter 11: Look at Altamont, Sixty-Nine ...

      Chapter 12: In Bed With Jeremy Pownall

      Chapter 13: Fish & Chips and the Sea

      Chapter 14: Beware Ye, Men With Drums and Pointy Sticks

      Chapter 15: Hanging Loose With the Coal Tars

      Chapter 16: The One With All the Men In

      Chapter 17: Putting the Wind Up ‘Em

      Chapter 18: The Return of Fenella

      Chapter 19: The Power of Imitation and Echo

      Chapter 20: A Lovely Day For Arson

      Chapter 21: Bad News About Phyllis

      Chapter 22: At Mansion House

      Chapter 23: Just For the Sake of Argument

      Chapter 24: So What About a Luxury Yacht?

      Chapter 25: The Tears of a Brian Penford

      Chapter 26: Ambush!

      Chapter 27: Seriously, Totally Peeved, Man

      Chapter 28: Things Pan Out

      Chapter 29: The Best Teen Movie Never Made

      Chapter 30: The Missing Link

      Acknowledgements and Afterword

      Books by James Ward

      Note on Language

      This novel was produced in the UK and uses British-English language conventions (‘authorise’ instead of ‘authorize’, ‘The government are’ instead of ‘the government is’, etc.)

      Chapter 1: Trouble at TB

      Including the bride and groom, there were fifty people at Annabel’s wedding, the exact capacity of London Tower Bridge’s North Lounge, as advertised in the brochure. A solemn three-course meal followed a no-frills civil ceremony in front of the room’s main gothic window. The bride’s mother wasn’t there because, despite the best efforts of a private detective, she couldn’t be found; the bride’s father was in prison, and hadn’t been informed; the bride’s boss, Ruby Parker, was at an official funeral. So most of the guests were from the groom’s side: Mr and Mrs al-Banna, their three grown-up daughters, and twenty-seven extended family members. The remaining attendees comprised six of Annabel’s work colleagues – not primarily friends: she didn’t make those easily – and ten of Tariq’s. Because both bride and groom worked in the same building, there was the occasional overlap: usually someone who knew and liked Tariq a little more than he or she did Annabel.

      The rumour was that the bride had paid for everything. Not that the groom’s side had been unwilling to chip in, but Annabel had forbidden it. Throughout the afternoon, she was the main focus of curiosity because hardly anyone – the groom included, some said – knew a thing about her. For this reason, and because the Master of Ceremonies had arranged the seating plan so that Annabel’s guests were exiled amongst members of the al-Banna family, John Mordred spent almost the whole time fielding polite questions about her from obviously desperate-to-know-anything-at-all semi-strangers.

      My son doesn’t tell us a whole lot about what he does in London, Mr al-Banna said. He and Mordred sat next to each other at a round table with six other guests, eating. He was small with black rings beneath his eyes, and a thin head of grey hair. But they don’t give job descriptions in a lot of places any more. Apparently, it makes it easier to fire or demote you.

      We know he’s doing quite well, the woman sitting next to al-Banna chimed in, putting half a green bean in her mouth. She hadn’t introduced herself: she was about forty, with a bob. He works in the City, apparently. Something to do with IT.

      You’re a friend of the bride, I assume, al-Banna asked Mordred.

      From university, he replied. 

      What does she actually do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking? the woman asked. She must be pretty wealthy to afford all this. Tower Bridge, mid-afternoon, fifty guests, fine food.

      I believe she works in the City too, Mordred said. I haven’t seen her for a few years. Not in the flesh. She’s on Facebook.

      "I couldn’t find her, Mr al-Banna said. Mind you, I’m not really au fait with social networking. I tried."

      People always talk about ‘the City’, the woman went on, "as if it means something. Whereas actually, it’s just a pretentious way of saying someone works in London. I could say I work in the City if I wanted. The city of Bradford."

      London isn’t the City, al-Banna told her gently. Only a part of London is. The so-called ‘Square Mile’.

      She looked at him as if he was mad. Whatever you say, Ali.

      It’s sometimes difficult to find out precisely what someone does when they work in the City, al-Banna went on dejectedly, ignoring her. A lot of it’s pretty murky stuff, from what I hear. Libor fixing, bankers’ bonuses, hedge funds, that sort of thing. Things that make you rich rather than good. 

      Maybe, Mordred said.

      My guess is she’s with an investment bank, or something like that, the woman said.

      I must ask her, Mordred said. We haven’t really had time to catch up yet. He couldn’t stand much more of this. He caught sight of his reflection in the silver vase at the table’s centre: a tormented curly-haired blond guy of thirty-one. He felt more like shrivelled, bald and ninety. To the vase’s credit, though, ‘tormented’ was accurate. He stood up. Excuse me a moment. Bathroom.

      It was a silly name for it. There was never a bath in there, but most people didn’t quibble if you employed an Americanism. The alternatives - ‘loo’ versus ‘toilet’ – were just more landmines in the Great UK Class War. He couldn’t step on a landmine right now. It would be the perfect end to a perfect day.

      When he reached the bathroom/toilet/loo, he found Alec leaning against the row of washbasins, next to the drier. Tall, with  receding hair, but looking haggard for a change. I can’t take any more of this, he told Mordred. It’s hell.

      You always felt better when someone you liked was suffering alongside you for exactly the same reasons. Who is this ‘Annabel’? Mordred said, trying, and failing, to imitate the woman next to Mr al-Banna. Where does she come from? What does she do for a living?

      What did you tell them? Alec asked.

      Something in the City. You?

      A vet.

      "A vet? What – like a veterinary surgeon? Where did you get that from?"

      She told me that’s what I had to say. She’s got Phyllis telling everyone she’s a high-flying architect, apparently. I didn’t find that out till a few moments ago. I’m actually shit-scared to go back out there.

      I wonder what Edna’s telling them.

      She’ll have been given a completely different story. Mind you, knowing Edna, she’s probably having a whale of a time. She’s young enough to think complete anarchy’s cool.

      Suddenly, the door flew open and banged against the wall. Annabel in her wedding dress. What the hell? Both men froze. This was the gents’, so ... She looked at them as if she was having the same breakdown they were, only worse. For a moment, none of them spoke. Annabel faced the two men. They faced her.

      Sorry, she said quietly. I thought this was the Ladies’. She did an about-turn and left.

      Mordred and Alec looked at each other. They were about to vocalise their consternation when the door banged open a second time. Annabel again, but this time they didn’t get chance to take her in. She ran across the floor and threw herself at Mordred’s feet and grabbed his shirt in what seemed like a single gesture.

      You’ve got to save me, John! she exclaimed. This is my last chance! For God’s sake, drop everything and come downstairs with me, and let’s go! We don’t have to work at Thames House any more, we can do anything! Anything you like! I’ll do whatever you want! Please, John, I’m begging you, PLEASE!

      Er - ? Sudden light-headedness, almost like the prelude to a blackout. Her words were lost on him for a moment: all he saw was her frenzy.

      Then the thoughts began. How it didn’t make sense, this was her wedding day. He could just about understand The Graduate, everyone could – someone being torn from the altar by a plea from the heart – but this wasn’t that. She must have had countless opportunities to voice something like this. Why wait until now of all times? He opened his mouth to speak – he had to, didn’t he? – but nothing emerged.

      She stood up and wiped her eyes. Sorry, I ... she said. She turned round and left at exactly the speed she’d entered.

      Five whole seconds elapsed.  Alec let out a long stream of air. He laughed, but not in a humorous way: more like someone in psychiatric shock. Penny for your thoughts, he said at last.

      I haven’t any, Mordred snapped.

      You’re not thinking of going after her, are you? Because that would be -

      Of course I’m not thinking of going after her! This is her bloody wedding day! Where did it come from, that’s all I want to know. What’s going on?

      Alec put a hand on his shoulder. "Steady on. Bloody weird, I know. Bloody weird. We’ll talk about it later. People will be starting to ask where we are."

      The door opened again, but this time it was Tariq. Thirty, slim and well-built, slicked back hair and a goatee, he wore his morning suit as unaffectedly as if been born in it. I know what you’re up to, he said. His expression made it clear he’d come in here expressly to find them, but he didn’t look angry. Mordred felt sick.

      We’re strategizing, Alec said weakly.

      Understood, Tariq replied. I wasn’t aware she’d given you all different tales to tell. I’ve just been talking to Phyllis. I didn’t realise my wife was one of the designers of Bishopsgate Tower.

      I’ve been telling everyone she’s a vet, Alec said with a little too much relief in his voice. I don’t mean this to sound rude, but I never realised she had a sense of humour.

      Now you do, Tariq said tetchily. Listen, I’ve come to help. A piece of advice. You must have seen everyone looking surreptitiously at their mobiles? Well, just talk about that. It’s what’s on just about everyone’s minds, after all. No one’s thinking about Annabel and I.

      You mean ...? Mordred said. He didn’t know what Tariq meant. His mind was still blank, but he had to say something, just to look normal.

      Come on, John, Alec said. "All those refugees in boats off the Italian coast, all those Hollywood stars snuck in there with them, it’s the only thing that’s been on the news for about a week now. It’s all anyone’s talking about, let alone here."

      Yes, I remember, Mordred said.

      Tariq smiled. Just talk about that.

      They nodded obediently as if it was an instruction rather than a piece of advice.

      Incidentally, have either of you seen Annabel? Tariq asked. I couldn’t find her a moment ago.

      Mordred and Alec looked at each other.

      She came in here by mistake, Alec said, but she headed straight out again when she saw us.

      Tariq didn’t smile. He looked like he thought something might be up, but he stood aside to let them out.

      When they reached the lounge, she was standing over Tariq’s father, talking to him as if nothing had happened. When Mordred resumed his seat, she didn’t even acknowledge him. She was speaking about architecture.

      I don’t think she was joking, Alec said, two hours later. They sat on a bench on the Thames embankment, watching a barge plough upstream. Around them, tourists ate and took photos and looked at the skyline. A small fairground with a roundabout and a coconut shy piped canned organ music. The sun shone hard, low and bright, a perfect evening in late July.

      If she was, it wasn’t very funny, Mordred replied.

      That wouldn’t necessarily be relevant. She never used to have a sense of humour at all. It’s only since she met you that she’s changed in that regard. Nowadays, she’s trying hard to produce the impression that she knows what a laugh is. I’m not saying she loves you but you’ve definitely had a lasting influence on her.

      Bloody hell, I don’t want to think about it. I had a narrow escape there. Imagine if Tariq had come in a few seconds earlier.

      You honestly didn’t foresee it? She did tell you she was in love with you, about a year ago, when we were on the ISIS case. I was there.

      "Er, how could that have made me foresee that?"

      Alec shrugged. Point taken.

      Anyway, afterwards she practically ordered me to forget it. And she was going out with Tariq at the time, remember? Her future husband.

      You should have pursued her. Maybe.

      Exactly the opposite of your advice at the time. ‘Run a mile’ was what you said.

      Yes, well ... was I right, or was I right?

      Mordred sighed. He shook his head. On her wedding day! I mean, if she’d come to me last night, even.

      What? You’d have run off with her?

      Probably not, but it’d have been comprehensible. I could have got my head round it. Cold feet, but in a conventional way.

      Just ‘probably’ not?

      I like her. And as you keep reminding me, she’s very attractive.

      And of course, you feel sorry for her because she was ‘badly abused as a child’. We’ve only got her word for that, remember. And we do have evidence that she’s a fantasist.

      Mordred looked at him. And yet we both believe her, don’t we? We know it rings all too true.

      Alec thought for a moment. It makes sense of everything else, yes. She’s probably not going to make Tariq a very good wife, I’m sorry to say.

      She took me aside about three weeks ago and told me he’d proposed and she’d accepted.

      Nice of her. Why do you think she did that? I mean, to you specifically?

      "She said it was because she’d once told me she loved me and meant it, but that was all in the past now. ‘Life isn’t like Grey’s Anatomy. We don’t have soul mates. I was in love with you for a while. Now I’m not. I’m in love with Tariq’."

      Must have affected you quite deeply to remember her actual words.

      I suppose so.

      I think you’re actually in love with her, John. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting you should do anything about it. That boat’s sailed now, thank God. But I do think you’ve got a more general problem. You’re in love with everyone. It used to be Dao-ming Chou, then it was Gina Fairburn, now it’s Annabel Gould. It’s anyone that sets their cap at you.

      The so-called ‘curse of Mordred’.

      I really fear for Phyllis and Edna.

      Mordred laughed. I can’t see either of them ‘setting their cap at me’.

      Why not? You’re a good listener, kind to animals, slightly wet, all your own hair, four functioning limbs, thirty-two inch waist, clean shaven. Women love all that.

      Women are just people. They’re all different.

      Just for the sake of argument, let’s say Phyllis or Edna, or both, took a fancy to you, what would you do?

      What do you mean, ‘do’? Obviously, if I knew one or the other was keen on me, I’d probably ask her out and we’d see how it went.

      You’re quite big on the probablies. Most men would jump at the chance.

      Is that what I’m supposed to say? I’d jump? It makes me sound a little desperate.

      And aren’t you?

      I haven’t got a girlfriend. I wouldn’t say I’m ‘desperate’ for one. I hardly lack for female company. I’ve got four sisters and three female colleagues, four if you count Ruby Parker.

      You never cease to amaze me.

      Meaning what?

      You’re thirty-one. Pretty soon you’re going to be ‘on the shelf’, as they used to say.

      Mordred looked at the river but didn’t see it. He was back in the gents’ on Tower Bridge. Please, John, I’m begging you, PLEASE! And instead of going into shock, he grabbed her by the arm, and they made for the exit. Yes, it was wrong, he could see that, and he had no idea what was going to happen next, but –

      Would you like a candy floss? Alec asked. From that booth, over there? I’m having one.

      A candy floss?

      I know it’s a bit infantile, but I just feel like one.

      Thank you. Yes, I will.

      Alec got up, leaving Mordred alone with the temporal bifurcation. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, he and Annabel were at Heathrow now. What was that like for them? Where would it lead? Would the universe somehow restore the balance someday, making both couples end up in the same place and state, or were they forever separated? Her Please, John! was still fresh in his mind. Other-Mordred and Other-Annabel. Like the originals but somehow subtly different ... and becoming more so all the time. They only existed as a couple now, not as two separate individuals. And in two dimensions. And on the other side of the galaxy.

      I got cinnamon, Alec said, coming up behind him and handing him his candy floss on a stick. I thought they only did it in strawberry. Shows how old I am. 

      Thank you.

      I’ve never asked you this before, he said, as he sat down, but it’s not a trivial question. I’m genuinely interested. Who’s your ideal woman?

      How do you mean? Looks-wise? I’ve never thought about it.

      Rubbish. You must have.

      I know what an attractive woman is. I don’t rank them. That would be pointless.

      "Okay, put it another way. If you could go out with any woman in the whole world, who would it be? And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it this time. Think about it now."

      Probably Naomi Klein.

      Who?

      Naomi Klein.

      Singer, model or actress?

      She writes books.

      Alec clicked his tongue. Bloody typical of you. Is she attractive?

      To me, yes.

      How old?

      Late thirties, probably. I don’t know for certain.

      She’s famous, yes? She’s not just some spinster from down the road who writes Thomas the Tank Engine sequels for Kindle and Kobo?

      You’ve got a phone. Look her up.

      Damn right I will. He scrolled through his smartphone for a few moments. Yeah, not bad for a writer, he said at last. Bone structure and teeth, I mean. I’m assuming she’s actually a hardened leftie underneath?

      Of course, otherwise we wouldn’t be getting married. There’d be no future.

      Alec turned to look at him. What the -

      I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity to tell you. We met at a climate change conference last January. Naomi Klein-Mordred she’s going to be called, once we’ve tied the knot.

      "You’re joking. She’s on the internet. I mean, on there big time. Wait a minute, though, of course you wouldn’t have as your ideal woman someone you didn’t already know. That’s so typically you. Why didn’t I - "

      Sadly, yes, I am joking.

      They sat in silence for a few moments. Eventually, Alec nodded. Another brilliant joke, John. Well done.

      Thank you for the candy floss.

      Good God, I’ve just thought of something.

      What?

      Everyone was saying, Annabel’s paid for all this. All the wedding stuff: venue hire, hotels, the honeymoon, etcetera. She didn’t let the groom or his family pay for anything. Not even the taxis or the clothes they arrived in.

      So?

      Well, don’t you see? She must have known something like what happened was going to happen. She took care in advance to limit the blowback.

      Only you can’t pay upfront for people’s emotional investment.

      "But you can isolate it. And she’s not exactly compos mentis."

      Let’s just forget it, shall we? Listen, can I ask you a favour? Please don’t mention the gents’ episode to anyone else. I mean anyone.

      "As far as I’m concerned, it’s forgotten. Or put it another way: I’m going to try and forget it. It was disturbing enough to ruin my day, actually. And I say that without the prior advantage of being a complete drip. God knows how it must have affected you."

      Don’t mention it to Phyllis or Edna.

      I do understand what ‘anyone else’ means, John. I may not know who Naomi Klein is, but I’m not stupid.

      Just being cautious.

      Paranoid. Alec’s phone beeped. He took it out and looked at it. Good God.

      What is it?

      I’m on e-mail alerts about the Mediterranean.

      Not you as well. Funny, nobody seemed to care before all the celebs started getting involved.

      That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Anyway, a boat’s capsized. Fifty refugees plus Jennifer Hallowell.

      Are they okay?

      "Not sure. Imagine that. An A-lister. Funny November’s up for an Oscar. And everyone knows The Veil of Green Sand."

      Even me.

      Jennifer Hallowell-Mordred, how does that sound? You’re both bleeding hearts. You should get on like a house on fire.

      Assuming she survives today.

      Yes, we shouldn’t joke, Alec said. She’s already lucky not to have been kidnapped by ISIS. They’re active in Libya. And a person’s only got so much luck. You’ve got to admit she’s got guts.

      And of course there are the other forty-nine non-celebrities on board.

      "What are you saying? She’s just doing it for the publicity? Because that doesn’t ring true. She’s got two Baftas and a Palme d’Or, for crying out loud."

      Sorry, you’re right, I’m not thinking. I’m still in the gents’ with Annabel. God, what a day. I hope she’s okay.

      Who? Alec asked. Annabel or Jennifer?

      Both, obviously. I might stop by at a church on the way home.

      I like that about you. The way you’re religious and yet not religious. Wishy-washy, but not necessarily in a negative sense.

      Will you get an e-mail when she’s okay? Mordred asked.

      "If, not when. I’ll get a message if she drowns, so either way at least I’ll know."

      That’s nice.

      Don’t get me wrong, I’m rooting for her. Be fair, John. There’s not much else I can do, sitting here on the Thames embankment with a half-eaten candy floss.

      Guess not. Doesn’t it make you want to join in?

      Alec chuckled. With what? The Great Hollywood Migrant Protest? I’d be no good. I’d just be taking up someone’s place. One less refugee in the safety of Italy or Malta.

      Or lying waterlogged at the bottom of the Med.

      True, but I’d be giving my life for theirs. One for one. Who’s to say their life’s worth more than mine? I’m not saying it’s worth less, obviously, but in the absence of further evidence I think a good case can be made for rough equivalence.

      I suppose.

      "What would be immoral, Alec said, would be betting on the outcome. Will Jennifer drown or will she make it?"

      That would be obscene, Mordred said.

      The unacceptable face of capitalism, yes. And not remotely legal.

      You’re not trying to tell me it actually happens? Are you?

      You’d be surprised.

      Who? Where?

      Commercial and investment bankers, financial advisers, non-doms, hedge-fund administrators, stockbrokers – mostly people not so very far from where we’re sitting now.

      Mordred smiled. Did you know they’ve taken the word ‘gullible’ out of the Oxford English Dictionary?

      I’m not saying I’ve encountered it first-hand but -

      "It’s an urban myth. It must be. Come on, people hate those guys, so they make things up about them, and everyone’s all too ready to believe it. You’ll be telling me they sacrifice children and poison

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