lower step.
‘Assuming I believe you are both spies – which I don’t – why do you need my help, exactly?’ I asked.
‘One of our agents is mad on reality shows and…’
I raised an eyebrow.
John was the sarcastic one, now. ‘Yes, Gemma, agent or no agent, we are still normal people with common interests, like everyone else.’
‘My colleague told me about you on Million Dollar Mansion,and mentioned she’d read you were coming to Paris for a month,’ continued Joe.
It still surprised me when newspapers reported stuff about me and Edward, months on from the end of the show.
‘I watched the series online.’ Joe sat more upright. ‘I was impressed, and hoped you’d be my eyes and ears at Chez Dubois.’
‘Your eyes and ears? So – pretending for one second that I believe this spy crap – is this official MI6 business, or not?’
His cheeks reddened. ‘No.’
‘And what exactly would this mission be, at some restaurant?’ But it was no good – uttering those words produced another bubble of laughter and I giggled, expecting to suddenly be accosted by Tom Cruise or Daniel Craig.
Joe Bloggs waited for me to control myself before leaning closer. ‘Something’s going down on the internet, about a “MiddleWin Mort” at the charity football game. “MiddleWin” could be a combination of the names Middleton and Windsor– and “Mort”, in French, means death.
I gasped. ‘You think someone is going to assassinate the royal couple?’
Joe shrugged. ‘There is no evidence whatsoever to support that… It was just a few comments, spotted in a couple of French forums in recent weeks, discussing the upcoming match. People got chatting about emails they’d received… Chez Dubois was mentioned as well as some cryptic dance terms.’ Joe shrugged. ‘I investigated but before I could take a screenshot, the comments were deleted along with the profiles of the people who’d made them. I’m wondering if the mastermind works at Chez Dubois.’
Blimey. Potentially, this was serious stuff. ‘It’s all a bit vague.’
Joe nodded. ‘Discreetly, MI6 agreed to check out Pierre Dubois who owns the restaurant. His records are clean. In fact, he does a lot of charity work locally. Seems like a decent bloke. Then there’s Cindy Cooper, she has joint French/American nationality and started working there as the sous chef almost one year ago. The head chef is called Jean-Claude Brun and was cautioned for shoplifting as a teenager, but that’s all. Then there’s Hugo Petit, the headwaiter, who’s been there years and has never received so much as a caution. The agency did basic background checks on the rest of the staff who’ve been there longer than six months. They were all clean too. Plus we’ve hacked the restaurant’s laptop and checked all the staff’s email accounts we could find. Nothing to report – just messages to suppliers and customers. Nothing about a MiddleWin Mort… So MI6 closed the file and won’t deploy any agent – not even a junior one – into Chez Dubois.’
‘You must be dedicated to pursue this investigation on your own,’ I said.
‘Or mad,’ muttered John and rolled his eyes. ‘If it were up to me, this thing would be dead and buried.’
Joe pursed his lips. ‘Protecting our country… It’s a commitment every day of the year; a vocation for some of us, I guess.’
‘But if you’re doing your official work and then this on the side… Don’t you get any free time?’
‘I bloody make sure I do,’ said John.
Joe shrugged. ‘It’s not like I’m married, with someone else to think of, dinners to prepare, outings to arrange… My time is my own.’
‘Sounds like you talk from experience and have been hitched in the past.’ I smiled.
For a second his maple-syrup eyes darkened. ‘I don’t discuss personal details.’
Ooh, I sensed a bit of emotional baggage.
‘Jet-setting Joe and I don’t have the time to follow up every lead,’ said John, his voice over-friendly. He stretched out his legs. ‘There are lots of rumours to follow up and hopefully rule out during the coming months. The commemorative events grow in number during the summer and we are here to eliminate all potential terrorist or criminal threats. At present, we’re focusing on the security of the world leaders visiting Paris the day after the football match, for a peace conference.’
My stomach tingled with excitement, now that I was reassured these two men honestly meant me no harm. Joe Bloggs, international spy, was actually asking for a favour. But why get little old me involved?
‘What good will I be?’ I shrugged.
‘Last year you carried yourself off perfectly as Abbey, fooling the public and the Croxleys,’ said Joe. ‘Gemma, you are loyal, determined and take initiative. Whatever the consequences, once your mind is made up, you see a mission through… And today has confirmed that you’ve got guts. I believe you are one tough woman.’
‘That’s what comes from growing up with two brothers who think hiding spiders in your knickers drawer is funny…’ I cleared my throat, still not quite believing what was happening.
‘But what makes you really special,’ continued Joe, ‘is that I can tell you’re a royalist. Kate Middleton is one of your heroes. Your heart will be in the job and that’s the most important thing of all.’
John muttered something snidey. But I got what Joe said. Guilty as charged. Like Abbey, I totally crushed on KMid, plus loved funny William and cute little George… Auntie Jan was royal mad. I’d been brought up drinking out of Prince Charles and Diana mugs. There’s no way I’d stand by and let them come to harm.
‘All in all, what more could I ask for in an undercover assistant?’ Joe half-smiled. ‘The dealmaker was that you’d be in Paris, just at the time I needed you.’
I stared at him for a moment and then my jaw dropped. ‘That mix-up over our jobs – you somehow changed them, right at the last minute so that I’d be working at Chez Dubois…’
Joe nodded. ‘I pretended to be a catering recruitment agency headhunter and persuaded a kitchenhand to leave Chez Dubois – not difficult, as he didn’t get on with chef Jean-Claude. I sent him to the restaurant you were supposed to be working at, as well as writing them a letter of apology from you, saying for personal reasons you could no longer accept their job. Then I emailed your details to Pierre, still in my fake role as a recruitment agent…’ A muscle in his cheek flinched. ‘Of course, I’ve mostly observed you on the television. I don’t know you well. It’s a risk, for me, getting a civilian secretly involved. And it’s a risk for you – whilst it’s unlikely this is a real terrorist threat, I won’t rest until every avenue has been thoroughly explored, and that could be dangerous.’
‘Good old strait-laced Joe becoming a rogue agent, going behind his bosses’ backs… who’d have thought?’ said John, in a smarmy voice and shook his head.
‘I’m trusting your absolute discretion,’ said Joe, staring me bolt in the face. ‘Relying on you not to let me down. Counting on your judgement. And most importantly, I need you to understand that things could get unpleasant.’
‘Why aren’t MI6 backing you, about carrying on the investigation, if I’m free and willing to help? Even if they think the risk is minimal, what have they got to lose?’
‘Sometimes, agents’ hunches are wrong and lead to trouble for the organisation, girlie,’ said John. ‘To be honest, I’m not convinced about this threat either, but seeing as I’m deployed here with Joe and in a position to help him…’ He shrugged. ‘Joe will owe me a favour. And if he’s wrong and the investigation goes pear-shaped, it’ll be him taking the rap. Tell her about the 2012 Olympic