On the train back to their hotel Claire went through the Andy McNab book, carefully checking whether Ryan had written anything in the margins. Eventually she sighed and closed the book.
"Nope. Nada. Nothing. Well, except that he seems to have played pretty close attention to the sex scene on page 54, as the book falls open there. Look".
She held the book with the spine down and sure enough it seemed to open on a particular page.
"Give us a look", said Lexa, taking the book from her. She opened it and started reading.
"Holy Jesus", she said, closing the book and handing it back to Claire. "I've never read a sex scene that was so indistinguishable from a military skirmish".
"That seems to be Mr McNab's thing".
"McNab – that is a rather unusual name, isn't it?"
"Yes", said Claire. "I gather it's a pseudonym. And he never lets himself be photographed either".
"Why? Is he pig ugly or something?"
"No, apparently a lot of terrorists want him dead, so he has to hide his identity".
"I didn't know that terrorists were enemies of bad writing".
"No, stupid!" said Claire. "He used to be in the SAS or something, so he would have been involved in bumping off terrorists and stuff, so now they want revenge. Or so he says".
"If I ever write a book I'll have to change my name so that clowns won't be able to track me down".
"You really don't like clowns, do you?"
"No. Look, I know a lot of people talk about how it's racist or something to not like clowns, but I know what I'm talking about. When I was small my family lived for a couple of years in Brighton. The area we were in was full of clowns. Jokerville, they called it. And when you can't walk the streets outside your home without fear of practical jokes and physical comedy, well it does rather turn you against those painted morons".
"It's hardly fair to judge them all by a couple of bad apples who crossed your path when you were young".
"They're all bad apples, Claire", she said sharply, and then she stopped, annoyed that she had used her colleague's real name while on a field mission. "They're all bad apples. If they're not dicking you over now, it's because they're waiting for when it would be funny for them to mess you up. According to their stupid sense of humour, I mean".
"Mmm", said Claire.
Back at the Hotel Moonlight the sleazy receptionist was on duty but they rebuffed his attempts at conversation and went straight to their room. Once there, however, they found that a note had been left for them.
"Hi dere,
Pardon me 4 writing 2 u. I was wondering if u ve ever taught of trying a bit of GLAMOR MODELLING. I tink u wd be good at it and cud make bit of money. I have camera and things u cud wear + some ideas for shoot. So cud help make portfolio for u. Call down to me at reception and let me know if u r interested.
Norbert"
"Good god, that creep gets worse", said Claire.
Lexa said nothing. Instead she reached for the room's phone, dialled a number and then said: "Norbert? We got your note. You fucking perv. Don't ever leave us a note like that again. Or any kind of note. And don't come into our room again either. If you do, I'll stuff your severed balls down your throat". She hung up.
"I really hope that's the end of it", she said to Claire.
"So do I".
"Tomorrow, though, we're going to have to think about how much longer we'll be here. I think we'll be in London longer than the four nights we booked in here".
"So do I".
"We'll have to decide whether we want to stay here or go somewhere else. Somewhere else won't have Sleazy McSleaze downstairs, but it may have its own attractions".
"I can live with Sleazy", said Claire. "I don't mean that literally. I mean I think we should put up with him and just stay here".
"OK, we'll do that".
The following morning they got up early and had their breakfast, being greeted in a typically cheery manner by the happy woman who looked after reception duties in daylight hours. When they extended their stay by another four nights she collapsed into a paroxysm of chuckles.
After breakfast Claire and Lexa left the hotel and went to a public library. From looking at telephone and business directories they were able to establish that Grieg Industries appeared to only have one premises in London. That premises was located far to the north, in Tottenham. They had less luck in working out just what kind of business Grieg Industries was engaged in. It sounded like some very non-specific kind of computer software manufacturer, the type who wants to make their very everyday products sound like they somehow represent the next stage of human evolution. The company was headed by the twenty five year old Sigismund Grieg, yet another of those precociously rich nerds who had swept the world in recent years. A photograph of him in a news story revealed him to be a dark-haired young man with a serious but open facial expression. And a moustache. The financial backers of the company were unknown.
Then they went for a walk to ponder their next move.
"We could go out and check out this Grieg Industries", said Claire.
"We could", answered Lexa.
"But maybe we would not find out much there".
"We'll only know when we get there".
"Of course. And I don't think we really have any other options".
"Not at this stage, no".
"We'll need to be on our guard out there, of course. If they have Ryan there, they may be expecting someone to come looking for him".
"Yes. They might. If they know where he's from they might be particularly on the look out for Irish people. So it might be a good time to use the amazing accent related abilities they gave to us back home".
"Excellent idea is that", said Claire, adopting a strange and mysterious accent.
"Where in the name of Christ is that meant to sound like it is from?" said Lexa.
"I'm not sure. Somewhere other than Ireland".
"It might be enough".
19/11/2011
An inuit panda production
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