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

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Thirty-four

(Thursday, October 13th)

We are putting our suitcases in the trunk of Richard’s S-Type Jaguar, when the black suits arrive. Richard opens the door to the backseat and orders us to get into the car quickly.

Special Agent Randolph Milligan approaches, smiling engagingly as ever, and motions for me to roll down the window. Richard tells me to ignore him, as he puts the Jaguar saloon into gear and pulls away from the curb. We watch them nervously through the back window. The suits are piling into their cars for the chase.

“They’re going to come after us.” Raph sounds worried.

“Of course, they are. That’s what goons do.” Richard is the epitome of composure. “Just ignore them.”

“What if they get us?” Raphie is starting to tremble. I take him into my arms and stroke his back.

“There is absolutely nothing they can do, Raphaël, except waste American tax-payers’ dollars, arsing about.” He chuckles.

Driving south on Main Street, Richard slows the car to 20 mph, which makes it really obvious that the FBI cars are following. Other motorists honk and flash obscene gestures at the three-car procession for hindering Thursday morning’s late rush-hour traffic. Right at the Nichols’ fountain, where Main empties onto 47th Street, going into the Plaza, a motorcycle cop pulls us over, and Raph releases himself from my arms and sits up.

The young cop gets off his tricycle and salutes as Richard lowers the driver's window. "Good morning, Sir.” The patrolman asks very slowly and distinctly. “Are you in distress?"

“The two cars behind me have been following us rather conspicuously for some time." Richard replies pleasantly.

The young man smiles cordially and returns to his normal speech, realizing that he is dealing with someone who speaks English. “I’ll detain them. You can continue, Sir.” The patrolman puts his hand onto his holstered gun and approaches the unmarked FBI cars cautiously.

“That should do the trick.” Richard laughs, as he signals and pulls away from the curb, continuing at the normal speed of traffic.

“How did that work?” I’m wondering if Richard has some special deal with the cops.

“This car has consular identification plates, and driving slowly is an indication to the police that something is wrong.” Richard signals to turn left at the corner of Central.

“So, what’s going to happen to Candy Randy?” I watch Richard’s face light up in the rear-view mirror.

“Do you know him?” Richard gets a short honk from the car behind us as soon as traffic clears enough to turn.

Raph sneers sarcastically. “Yeah. He was investigating a homicide and fake cops at our place, when he propositioned Dan and me.”

“Yeah, but decided that he couldn’t have sex with us when he found out that we’re foreigners.” I laugh.

“All right, Lads, tell me all about this, when we get home.” Richard chuckles. “I have to pay attention to traffic, and I can’t concentrate with an erection.”

We drive in silence down Wornall Road and Richard turns right onto West 55th Street. There are beautiful homes on the left and Loose Park on the right. In the 600 block, he stops at the driveway gates of a very large, three-storey, brick, half-timbered, Tudor-style mansion. The gates open; we enter.

For some reason, I find it extremely comforting that the Union Flag is flying from the flagpole in the front yard. As Richard stops the car in front of the garage, Raph grabs my hand on the seat and squeezes. “Are we safe now?”

Richard’s voice is soothing. “Indeed you are, Raphaël.” He opens the car door and we climb out.

“I'm curious, Richard,” I point up at the flag. “how can you tell if the Union Jack is flying correctly?”

He puts his arm around my shoulder. “Can you see the cross of St. Patrick?”

“Huh?” I shake my head. “Could you explain that, please?”

Raph comes over to us and is standing on my right. Richard drops his arm to include him and continues. “There are actually three flags superimposed on one another. The blue background and the big white X-shaped cross is the flag of Scotland, called St. Andrew’s cross. The thick, red, cross in the middle, is the flag of England, called St. George's cross, and finally, how one can tell if it is flying correctly, the thin, red, off-centre, X-shaped cross is the cross of St. Patrick, for Ireland, uh, for Northern Ireland. When the thin, red, off-centre, X-shaped cross is in the lower portion of St. Andrew's cross next to the pole, it's flying correctly. Scotland takes precedence over Ireland.”

Raphaël is nodding. “And what happens, if you fly it the wrong way around?”

“That happens frequently when the Queen visits foreign countries.” Richard laughs heartfelt. “Officially, it’s a sign of distress. But on this flagpole, it would mean that the mission has been abandoned, while remaining exterritorial.”

“And when do you take it down for the day?” For some reason, I can’t remember when the Americans take theirs down.

“Generally, it is flown from sunrise to sunset.” Richard looks at a black sedan with four men in it, parked across the street at the curb alongside Loose Park. “But since this pole has illumination, and it is important to stress the fact that this is exterritorial, we fly it 24 hours a day.”

Raphaël still needs reassurance. “So, we are standing on British territory, right now?”

“Correct.” Richard affirms.

“So, the Kansas City Police Department, the FBI, the truant officer, the dog catcher and the rest of them cannot come into this yard?" He is giving Richard his own version of Dad's Irish look.

“Not unless we invite them onto the grounds.” Richard laughs at Raph’s utter stubbornness. “It’s the same rule that applies to vampires; you have to invite them in. Otherwise, it doesn’t happen.”

But my Raphaël refuses to let it go. “And what if they do, anyway?”

“I don’t live here alone, Raphaël. See that two-storey house next to the garage?” Raph nods that he does. “That’s the guards’ house. We have armed guards here, and, believe me, we would react accordingly.” Richard’s tone is friendly but firm. “You are safe, here, Lad. Now, let’s go inside and have breakfast.”

The kitchen is huge, the kind you find in a hotel. Richard tells us that it’s necessary for representation purposes. The gentleman, standing at one of the stoves and frying bacon, hash browns, eggs, tomatoes, and, finally I get to taste it, black pudding, is introduced to us as Colour Sergeant McAnally. Richard points out that Colour Sergeant McAnally is, in fact, the Sergeant of the Guard and the best cook, he’s ever known.

When Raph and I look confused at the military title Richard explains: “Although I am nominally in command here, the Sergeant of the Guard generally, and most particularly this Sergeant of the Guard, runs the show. This man has served in three Embassies, two High Commissions and this and another Consulate-General. He is conversant in six languages, has a photographic memory and is loyal to a fault. I would be mad as a hatter if I didn’t listen to him.”

“Excuse me, Richard.” I raise my hand. “What’s a High Commission?” Neither Richard nor Colour Sergeant McAnally react in any way to what must be at best a naïve question other than to reply kindly.

“You explain this one, Colour.” Richard crosses to the door. “I’ll get the baggage out of the boot.”

“Well, Lads, in a nutshell.” Colour Sergeant McAnally puts the fried eggs, bacon and black pudding onto plates covered with a double layer of paper towel. "A High Commission is almost the same as an Embassy with regard to most of its functions, but it’s located in a country that either was or is part of the Empire and is more than likely a member of the Commonwealth. That is, of course, with the exception of the Republic of Ireland. We have neither an Embassy nor a High Commission in Dublin.”

“But like Canada, though?” Raphaël’s voice is somewhat unsure.

“Correct, Yves-Raphaël.” His pronunciation of Raph’s name is perfect. French is obviously one of the six.

“But how does the High Commission in Ottawa represent the Queen, when she is the monarch of Canada in the first place.” I’m not quite sure if that is even a real question, but Colour Sergeant McAnally doesn’t flinch.

“Excellent question, Daniel.” The good Colour Sergeant loads four plates with breakfast fry-up and sets the table. "An Embassy represents the Head of State, i.e. the Queen. The British Embassy in Washington represents the British Monarch and her government. The High Commission in Ottawa, on the other hand, represents the head of government in London, that is, the British Prime Minister and his cabinet. In Ottawa, Elizabeth the Second is the Queen of Canada, not the Queen of the United Kingdom. And she is represented by the Governor General not by the High Commissioner.” He smiles at us understandingly. “I know it’s bloody complicated, but you’ll get used to it. It’s like driving on the left.”

“Good work, Colour.” Richard has the suitcases on a dolly and Raph and I jump to help him. “What have you got in these cases, Lads. They’re heavier than our ammunition crates.”

“Uh, three…” Raphaël lets his voice die away, but then decides to come clean. “Three five pound cans of Cajun coffee and our French coffee maker.” Raph’s rapid, blunt response makes him blush.

“Yeah, Dad warned us about English coffee.” I blush at this possible insult.

Richard and our Sergeant of the Guard look at one another and start to sputter then snort and finally laugh in a roar. Colour Sergeant points at the cases. "You two are worse than the bleedin' British Officer Corps in the First World War! The feckin' FBI are after you, and a picture of your old man is probably already hanging in every post office from coast to coast as the most wanted blighter, ever, and the one thing you bring with you, when your being evacuated by diplomatic envoy, is your feckin’ coffee. Fair play to you, Lads. True feckin’ Brits.”

Since I’m not quite sure whether this is a scolding or not, I must look somewhat dejected. That is, until Colour Sergeant McAnally says: "Don’t just bleedin’ stand there, looking like a month of rain. Give us some of the coffee and the percolator.”

“Um, it is not a percolator.” Raph sounds slightly offended. “We don’t murder coffee; we prepare it.”

“All right, then.” He’s still eyeing the suitcases. "Let's see what you've got."

Raph opens the case and hands the Colour Sergeant the already opened can of coffee and the French coffee maker. Our Colour Sergeant is impressed. “Ah sweet Jesus, authentic Frogware.” He opens the lid of the can. “Lads, this is heaven. Let’s put the fry up in the warming ovens and make a pot of this. Do you mind?”

“Be my guest.” Raph is smiling, glad that he approves. “Uh, what’s Frogware?”

“Anything from France.” Richard explains. “But it is not to be used in polite company.”

Before we know it, Liam has the water in the base and the coffee in the pressurized strainer, the whole thing assembled and on a small gas burner. He grins and nods. "Haven't seen one of these, since my Embassy days in Paris."

“Before I forget it, Colour,” Richard is grinning wickedly. “we’re having an overnight tonight. A lad named Ron Upton.”

Raph looks stupefied. And “Uh Oh!” is what he says.

“Are you sure that his name is Upton?” I inquire still taken aback.

“That’s what he told me.” Richard says matter-of-factly. “Well?” He pauses, looking at Raph and me in turn. “Aren’t you going to tell us what the stir is.”

“He’s Jennette Volker’s cousin’s fiancé.” Raph chuckles. “I let my girlfriend’s sister’s fiancé suck my dick.”

“Now, that is disappointing.” Colour Sergeant McAnally states sadly.

Raphaël goes on the defensive. “What’s disappointing? That I let a man suck my cock?”

“Not in the slightest.” Our cuddly Colour Sergeant shakes his head. “It’s disappointing that you have a girlfriend.”

“She’s a dyke decoy.” Raph winks at him, obviously thinking what I’m thinking. “No reason to be disappointed, Sergeant.”

“Excuse me, Yves-Raphaël.” Richard straightens his back. “Of course, you have no way of knowing, but you never call a Colour Sergeant, sergeant. He’s either Colour Sergeant or Colour, but never, ever, just sergeant.”

“I am sorry,” Raphaël blushes at his blunder. “I didn’t--”

Colour Sergeant McAnally interrupts Raph gently. “--Just call me Liam. That’s a lot easier.” He takes a deep breath.

“Okay, Liam.” Raphaël smiles and nods toward the stove. “I think the coffee’s ready.”

During breakfast, I discover that black pudding is far too greasy for me, but other than that, it tastes fine. I also discover that the English mustard, that goes with it, certainly does open sinuses. Our coffee is a real hit with both Liam and Richard. So much so, that Liam makes two more pots. It also becomes obvious during breakfast that Liam is quite taken with Raphaël; he hardly takes his eyes off him and is fussing over him like a mother hen, refilling his coffee cup, making more toast. And Raphaël is enjoying the attention.

“Uh, Colour,” Richard again straightens his back. “you do know that Yves-Raphaël is Daniel’s partner.” I guess that this is Richard’s way of politely telling Liam to back off.

Liam immediately stops fussing and his face turns to stone. “Sorry, Sir.”

“Whoa, may I add something here?” I look at Richard, who is obviously pulling rank on Liam.

“Of course.” Richard says blandly.

“Now, I don’t know how the hierarchy works here.” I clear my throat and belch some black pudding and mustard. “Excuse me.” I belch again. “Raph and I have known you, Richard, as a friend from the theatre for quite a number of years. You also just happen to be our diplomatic representative. But in essence, we regard you as a good friend. And I realize that you are trying to protect Raph and me by ordering Liam to back off.”

Raph nods, looking at me quizzically. He does, however, smile at Liam and pat his hand.

“And in the very short time we have known Liam, I think that both Raph and I would like to get to know him better.” Now, this reddens the Colour Sergeant’s face. “So, my suggestion is that we disregard the fact that Raph and I are lovers for the time being and enjoy ourselves today, or for as long as we have to stay here. Or does that destroy your chain of command, irreparably?”

“Not at all.” Richard takes my hand kindly. “I know for a fact that Colour sleeps with a Teddy Bear named Cyril,” This really makes Liam’s face go the shade of beetroot. "and they have replaced my hot-water bottle on occasion. That’s not the problem. I just didn’t want anything unpropitious happening to you and Yves-Raphaël, while you’re staying here.”

“I can’t imagine that Liam is capable of doing anything unpropitious.” I glance at him gazing at Raph. "And having sex, being infatuated and falling in love, even, is not unpropitious, Richard; it’s beautiful, the way things should be.”

“And what would happen if Yves-Raphaël were to fall in love with Colour to the point of wanting to leave you to be with him?” Richard seems really concerned.

“I’d wish them all the best and consider Liam my new brother-in-law.” I stroke a finger across Richard’s cheek to remove the single tear. “Love is one of the only ways we humans have of getting along. We have to encourage it, not stifle it.”

At this Liam leans across the corner of the table, takes hold of my face gently and kisses me on the mouth. “You’re a feckin’ hippy, Daniel.” He sits back down. “But you’re right.”

“Excuse me.” Richard gets up and leaves the kitchen.

I must have hit a nerve. And I’m getting facial signals from Raph to go after him. I go through the same door that he did, but he is not in the formal dining room. Then I notice a door implanted into the woodwork, which is slightly ajar. I open it cautiously, not wanting to set off alarms, or cause anything to explode, and start to climb the narrow stairs, that lead up to the top floor.

Richard is standing at the bay window of a large but much less formal room with well-worn but very comfortable-looking furniture. There are posters from various plays from the Rotunda Theatre on one wall, amongst which are framed photographs of actors, in and out of costume, and newspaper clippings, mostly reviews from the Kansas City Star, written by Giles Fowler. Richard appears to be grappling for composure.

I approach and take him into a hug from behind. “Why haven’t you ever told him?”

Richard bristles with propriety. “Tell whom what, Daniel?”

“Why haven’t you ever told Liam that you love him?” I make it unavoidably clear.

“I believe that he’s aware of it.” Richard wipes more tears away.

“But have you ever told him point blank?” I press my body against his back and place my chin on his shoulder.

“No, I can’t.” He turns around to look at me; his eyes are filled with pain. “He’s beneath my station.”

At this point, our future Sir Richard, could well be speaking Chinese, for all I understand. He chuckles at my befuddled look and sets me down on a very soft, leather chair. He opens the bar. “I know that it’s much too early to start in on this, but we’re both going to need it.”

I take the whiskey glass with ‘three fingers’ of light-amber liquid in it. Richard sits down with his glass on the well-worn leather couch across from me. “I have to tell you about class society and some of the dos and don’ts.” He raises his glass. “Sláinte.”

“We have three stations in Britain: the upper classes, the middle class and the working class. The upper classes consist of royalty, nobility and landed gentry. The middle class are those of us without a title, who have a good education and generally a profession, own our own house and adhere to a strict code of values. The working class is exactly that, i.e. people who have learnt a trade and generally do not own their own house."

“So, with your knighthood, you’re moving into the upper class?” I think I'm grasping it quite well.

“Nominally, yes. In actuality, not.” He takes more than a sip. “My knighthood is basically because I am a senior civil servant and have managed not to become acquainted with Christine Keeler and because I’m a backer of the Labour Party and am a friend of a friend of Harold Wilson.”

“Do you get to sit in the House of Lords?” He coughs at my question.

“Good god, no.” Richard shakes his head. "This isn't a peerage, just a silly little knighthood. A Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire, if it got any lower, I’d be off the chart. But your family is much more interesting.”

“How so?” The whiskey is starting to make me feel giddy.

“You are a direct descendant of William Bourke, 1st Baron Bourke of Connell. It was a barony created on 16 May 1580 by Elizabeth the First, and you descend from Étienne Jacques Joseph Alexandre MacDonald, 1st duc de Taranto. He is why your father's given names are Joseph Alexandre.”

“And what does that make Raph and me.” My head is slowly starting to spin and not just from alcohol.

“Nominally, it makes you members of British nobility and French royalty. Sadly, the barony was forfeited in 1691 and France is a republic without even the slightest hope of restoration.” Richard sighs.

“So, you and Liam can’t become a couple like Raph and me, because of the British class system?” I’m still not sure, if I get it.

“Quite so.” He sneers and pulls out a hanky and wipes his eyes and blows his nose. “It’s not just the system and establishment; it’s the way we were brought up."

“You can get over your upbringing, Richard. Raph and I did.” Of course, it crosses my mind that he’s probably thinking how presumptuous it is of me at the age of seventeen trying to be a role model for two men, who are over fifty.

Neither Richard nor I heard Liam and Raphaël come up the stairs. Aside from the emotional intensity of our conversation, our brains are partly stewed with booze.

“Daniel, you are terribly sweet but just as naïve.” Liam’s voice is coming from directly behind my wing-back, leather chair. “The only way, and I seriously mean the only way that Mr. Ashton and I could be together would be if he were to hire me as his manservant, after I retire. Other than that, it has to remain a dream.” Liam smiles at Richard fondly. “But I am looking forward to his knighthood, so I can call him by his Christian name, even if it will be prefaced with ‘Sir’ until I die.”

“But you do love him. I can see it.” I try to coax it out of him.

“It is not my position to be that bold, Daniel.” Liam corrects his posture. “I shall never say one way or the other.”

“But why?” Raphaël pries some more. “You both speak French. Why not retire in France?"

“As do all the other Britons of the more gentle persuasion.” Richard laughs. “We would be moving from a British community in Britain to an identical ex-pat community, with the same rules and the same structure and virtually the same people; but we’d be living in France.”

“No,” Raphaël insists. “Don’t live with the British in France, live with the French. It is, after all, their country.”

“According to some.” Liam argues. “But be that as it may. My point is that both of you were brought up absolutely bilingually in an egalitarian society.

“Mr. Ashton has told me how you switch back and forth at will between educated French and educated American English. Apparently, the size of your vocabulary is the same in both languages. You identify with being both Francophone and Anglophone.

“That alone, my dear Lads, could get you shot in Canada or seriously socially isolated from the Anglophones in France. Believe me, there is an American community in Paris, which is much more insidious than the ex-pat Brits. They hate the French and conversely, the French hate them.

“But, having said that, I’m sure that you’ll fit in wherever you decide to settle. Your generation is the only hope humanity has left. Our generation has missed the goal completely by following in the footsteps of mythical Victorian society. And that’s the trap that Mr. Ashton and I can never escape. It’s too late for us to become hippies.” Liam laughs at the absurdity of the thought.

“Rather well put, Colour.” Richard raises his glass.

Silence thickens the atmosphere for several moments before Richard wants to know about “Candy Randy, wasn’t that what you called him?”

“His name is Special Agent Randolph Milligan from the Kansas City Field Station of the FBI.” I do notice the way Liam and Richard look at one another, but think nothing of it.

“Dan thought that Milligan might be Russian because of his high cheekbones. But I told him that he is probably part Comanche. So, Dan wondered aloud if he has straight pubic hair, like I do. Anyway, to make a long story short, Milligan understood our French, since he was at the Defence Language School with Martin. So, he says…"

Raph starts laughing, so I continue. “So, he propositioned us. Well actually, he offered to babysit us for the weekend until Dad told him that we had to go to the Consulate to get my passport. Then he found out that we're all British. And out of the blue, he reneged on his offer, and said that he can’t have any contact with us, other than on official business.”

“I’ll bet he did.” Liam snickers and turns to Richard. “Do they know, Sir?”

“I doubt it.” Richard finishes his drink and hands his glass to Liam, who places it on the bar. “Joseph is always very professional. But let’s ask them.”

“Ask us what?” Raphaël starts to look worried again.

“Did Joseph ever mention to either of you what he actually did?” Richard asks us point blank.

“All he told us was directly before he and Martin left.” I finish my drink and Liam takes the glass waiting for me to finish what I’m saying. "He told us that he worked for the British, spying against the United States and that he worked in Kansas City because most of the non-nuclear parts of the American nuclear arsenal are made here, and that he could get access to the contractors by posing as a handyman.”

“And that was all?” Liam wants to know. When I nod, he grins. “That man is fucking brilliant, absolutely fucking brilliant.”

“There was no mention of the mafia, or the mob?” Richard pries once again.

“No.” I reiterate and Raphaël shakes his head in confirmation.

“I’ll get the forms, Sir.” Liam says and takes Richard’s glass from the bar and mine downstairs. “Meet you in the bunker.”

“Right, Colour.” Richard takes us to the stairs, and I have to steady myself on the handrail. Richard’s whiskey is smooth but definitely packs a punch.

We come out of the moulded wooden door, and when Richard closes it, it becomes invisible in the woodwork. He leads the way through the short corridor between the kitchen and the formal dining room. Everything is tastefully done in subdued colours, as one would expect. There is, however, a never-lived-in feel to the ground-floor rooms.

We pass through a large, reception cum entrance vestibule with a broad winding staircase and massive chandelier. Past that, there is another reception room with a baby grand piano at the far end and small tables, settees and chairs and commodes lining the walls.

Of the two massive, dark wooden doors, one is ajar. The library walls are lined from floor to ceiling with brimming bookshelves, one of which is turned on its centre axis and serves as a door. It’s standing open.

Richard ushers us through. “We have to close this, or it would let the proverbial cat out of the bag.” He giggles.

Liam is waiting for us at a table at the top of the winding metal stairs. “Here are two forms for each of you to sign. The first form states clearly in large print that you will comply with the Official Secrets Act. This means that anything you see and hear from this point forward must remain secret. Neither of you may discuss it with anyone, not even amongst yourselves where you could be overheard. The second form states also in large print that you have understood what I've just told you. Have you understood me?”

We both nod. “All right, then, Lads, sign the forms.” We take the ballpoint he gives us and sign two forms each. He’s right. The forms are simple and in very large print. So far, so good.

“Lead the way, Colour.” Richard collects the forms from the table, puts them into the folder and brings them along.

Descending the winding metal stairs makes me dizzy again. The alcohol is still having its effect, but walking in near endless circles isn’t helping. Finally we reach the bottom. What appear to be elevator doors open when Liam inserts the key. We enter. They close.

"This is an air lock. You will experience a change in air pressure and your ears may pop as they adjust.” Liam tells us. “It’s like being in an aeroplane.”

Raph mumbles somewhat intimidated: “We’ve never flown.”

“All right,” Liam pats Raphaël on the shoulder. “When you feel your ears become stuffy, like when you have a cold, hold your nose and blow slightly.”

“Oh, okay.” Raph grins and tenses slightly as we wait for the pressure to change. When it does, we all hold our noses.

The doors on the other side of the airlock open. A large room, which is utilitarian in design, is well lighted but somewhat austere. The walls are white without ornaments. The floor is painted concrete. There are eight aluminium-frame chairs surrounding a large glass conference table. Bottles of water and glasses are in the centre. One place has an ashtray and a packet of Rothman’s and a small, white box of wooden matches with the embossed seal of Great Britain next to it.

“Make yourselves comfortable.” Richard goes to the filing cabinet and places the folder with our forms into it. He removes a folder the size of a Sears catalogue. He clears his throat. “To start out with, your father works for an organization, that does not officially exist. It's called the Secret Intelligence Service, or better known as MI6. It’s like the abominable snowman, everyone thinks it could exist, but no one knows for sure.

“He was selected for this, which has turned out to be, an extremely long-term assignment mainly because he’s Irish, fluent in several languages and a very gifted musician.”

“Over the past week or so,” I light a cigarette and exhale while talking. “when Raph and I finally found out about his and Geneviève's musical ability, I’ve been wondering where a ‘yobbo’ like he always claimed to be, learn to play the piano with that much nuance."

“Very astute, Daniel.” Richard concludes. “Apparently not only musical talent runs in the family.” He and Liam chuckle. “He graduated in 1925 from the Royal College of Music, after completing his studies in Paris, and he sacrificed a promising career to take on this assignment for King and Country.” Richard notices our confused look. “That was during the reign of George V. He has been, until yesterday, undercover, actually using his own name, which is rare, for almost forty years.”

Liam beams. “If that’s not a peerage…”

“I rather think so.” Richard nods. “Caroline Mahoney, your real mother, Dan, was not an au pair from Ireland, as, I believe, Joseph told you. She was our Canadian liaison officer.”

“And how did Mildred Busby fit in?” I might as well find out everything, as longs as someone is willing to give me some straight answers.

“If her maiden name was Busby?" Raph laughs. "Why didn’t she name her first son after her own father rather than giving him her stupid maiden name?”

“She did.” Richard is sorting papers. “She, uh, named him Archibald, after her father.”

“So, why does everybody know him as Busby? Raphaël is trying for immediate clarification, so we can move on.

“He was born out of wedlock.” Richard reads from a yellowing typed sheet. “He was born in April of 1926 and Joseph married his mother in June. So, I would imagine when Joseph adopted him, they just tacked Bourke onto the back of Archibald Busby.” Richard laughs heartfelt. “The poor bastard didn’t have much choice of names, now did he."

Raph’s laughter dies and his face becomes serious. “What about my father?”

“Ah, yes, Joseph’s big love, Maurice Albert Shaba Shinkah Mongrain…”

“Shaba Shinkah?” Raphaël has obviously never heard this before.

“Hum,” Richard shuffles more papers. “Just a tick…” He smiles. “Here it is. From what our sources say, Shaba Shinkah is Osage for ‘little beaver’.”

“Your father was part Osage?” Liam inquires very softly.

“Mostly Osage and French.” Raph nods, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. Liam hands him his handkerchief. “He was the great grandson of Noël Mongrain, named in the Osage Treaty of 1825, and retainer to François Gesseau Chouteau, the founder of this shit-eating city.”

“And your Ma?” Liam probably hasn’t been privy to all of the file.

Richard picks up another page full of type-written text. “Geneviève Sylvie Mongrain née Maillet, born at Vieux Carré, La Nouvelle-Orléans in 1919. She is the mother of Yves-Raphaël and Jordan Albert Mongrain. Her ethnicity is Cajun Métis, that is, Choctaw, French and Haitian and, interestingly enough, is the great-great niece of Pushmataha, head chief of the Choctaws. She was also a well-known blues singer, who stopped performing regularly after being the victim of a race-related incident.”

“My word, Yves-Raphaël, you’re related to Pushmataha.” Liam states reverently.

Raph smiles somewhat indifferently at Liam. “And why are you in such awe?"

“Pushmataha was a far better strategist than that bloody hillbilly, Andrew Jackson,” Liam enthuses. “And if it hadn’t been for Pushmataha, we would have burnt quite a bit more than just Washington. The feckin’ Yanks wouldn’t have had a chance. As it was, the American war of 1812 was a draw. Status quo ante bellum.”

Richard clears his throat to regain our attention. He looks at Raphaël. “And your father’s shooting” Richard’s face is stern if not stoic. “was apparently politically motivated. The robbery at the off-licence, uh, liquor store was staged. Now, we have no clues as to whether it was because your father was the assistant to the honorary French consul, whose office was at the Commerce Bank or whether it was a warning from the Irish mafia to Joseph. The two Irish-American policemen have, however, disappeared and are presumed dead.”

“Yeah,” I relate in a pleasant, calm voice. “Seph and his pals buried one alive in Maurice’s plot at the Negro cemetery, out on Truman Road.” I light another Rothman’s. These are stronger than their American counterpart. They have a bite that I could easily get used to. I exhale slowly and continue. “And the other got himself dismembered bit by bit and then ground into dog food.” I tap the ash off the end.

“Holy mother of god.” Liam obviously believes in the supernatural. “And yer sittin’ there as peaceful as ya please…”

“Colour,” Richard taps his finger on the table. “Don’t be fooled by their sweet appearances. You are talking to the man who put two 9-mm bullets through his step-mother’s head at close range to protect Yves-Raphaël and Joseph.” Richard chuckles. “In comparison, the Kray twins are altar boys.”

Liam winks at us, letting a light grin creep onto his face.

“Now, then,” Richard takes a drink of bottled water. “let's get to what Joseph’s missions were.”

“He had more than one?” I’m new to this, I admit, but I fail to see why one mission per person wouldn't be enough.

“They were interrelated, granted,” Richard is trying to find specific sheets again. “But they did change over the years. His last one being the more spectacular one. Ah, here we have it, I believe.”

“There’s another stack in the second file, Sir.” Liam retrieves it from the metal filing cabinet. He places it neatly in front of Richard.

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Colour.” Richard sneezes. “As you probably know, the war for Irish independence ended in 1921 with hostilities finally dying down in 1922-23. His Majesty’s government had traced a good amount of funding and arms for the war to the United States and particularly to Boston and Kansas City, where the Irish Mob was strongest.”

I look at Raphaël, who shrugs. "Irish Mob?”

“Indeed.” Richard leans back on his metal chair and crosses his legs. “Back in the 20’s, the Italians ran petty crime, i.e. protection, numbers racquets, and during prohibition, speakeasies. The Irish ran politics. They overlapped with alcohol. And they were making foreign investments ‘back home’. The Italians were financing Mussolini and the Irish their revolution.

“Joseph’s original mission was to infiltrate the Pendergast Machine, here in Kansas City and find out who was bankrolling the arms shipments.”

“Was Tom Pendergast really that powerful?” I watch Richard’s eyebrows rise.

“Let me put it this way.” He lays the papers down. “He had twenty nightclubs and bars, not speakeasies, but actual bars within the 12th and Vine district, serving perfectly good bonded alcohol from Canada, Mexico and Cuba, not the illegal shite the Italians were mixing,” Richard leans on the table, looking at Raph and me for emphasis. “not even a bleeding 500 yards from the Kansas City Field Office of the FBI. He put Harry Truman into the US Senate and then eventually into the White House. And kept unemployment in Kansas City to an absolute minimum during the Great Depression by building mammoth projects, like the Jackson County Court House, City Hall, the Municipal Court House, Municipal Auditorium and on, and on, of course using concrete from Ready Mix, which he owned. And he contributed an enormous amount to the Irish revolution through the Catholic Church.”

“So, the King thought that it was a good idea to keep tabs on Tom Pendergast’s crew." is Raphaël’s comment.

“As it were.” is Richard’s. “And to accomplish this, we needed someone who could work on construction sites during the day and in nightclubs at night. And, what was his bloody stage name…” Richard looks for another sheet.

“Jose, el ratoncito blanco.” Raph helps him out.

“Exactly. Jose, el ratoncito blanco, filled the bill. He’s Irish, a fantastic musician…”

“Hear, hear.” Liam spouts.

“Have you heard him play?” I wonder.

“Indeed, I have.” He chuckles. “Upstairs in this very house, Rachmaninov’s piano concerto No.2. Excellent.”

“And,” Richard continues. “he proved to be motivated and quite able, considering the manner in which he took revenge on those members of the IRA involved in killing his friend George, who was...” Richard shuffles more papers. “Joseph’s friend and presumably lover was George de Paugh, the second son of the 5th Earl of Glenacurragh.”

“Wow,” Raphaël is bright-eyed. “I’m impressed.”

“So was British intelligence.” Richard nods. “Aside from the fact that he speaks impeccable French and was able to learn enough Italian and German before he left London to be able to report on what the Italians and Germans were up to.”

“Then when Prohibition was repealed and then Pendergast went to prison,” I try for a logical assumption. “did Seph’s mission change?”

“Yes and no.” Richard shakes his head. “Pendergast was out of play, but the tentacles of the Irish Mob in Kansas City were not. They had, however, moved into, at least on the surface, more respectable jobs in government, the police department the FBI and, above all, armaments.”

Raph nods. “Armaments being the operative word?”

“Quite.” Richard does not need to refer to his papers now. “The Secret Intelligence Service has reason to believe that the Irish Republican Army is reforming here in the States and in the Republic.”

“To accomplish what?” Raphaël asks. looking at Liam rather than Richard.

“Be my guest, Colour.” Richard gestures with a broad stroke. “You’re the expert among us on the North.”

Liam leans forward onto the table, propping himself on his forearms. “Basically to reclaim the six counties.”

Raph and I both raise our eyebrows requesting an explanation of ‘the six counties’. Richard grins and shakes his head.

“Sorry ‘bout that, Lads.” Liam’s Ulster accent becomes slightly more audible than usual. “Kayp forgettin’ that yiew iron’t from Belfahst.” He chuckles and continues with his normal, more easily understood vernacular. “Ireland consists of four provinces, Munster, Leinster, Connaught and Ulster. Ulster has nine counties. Six of them belong to the United Kingdom. That’s why ‘United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’ is on the covers of your new passports.”

Raphaël pulls his passport out of his jacket’s inside breast pocket to check. Liam watches him like a good-humored, patient father would, as Raphaël runs his thumb across the gold embossed lettering. Liam smiles. “Before the revolution and the partition in 1921, it read: ‘United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland’. And, therefore, there are many people in the Republic of Ireland, who want to reunite the six counties with the South. And are prepared to use force.”

“Terrorism.” Richard corrects. “The SIS is warning us in the Diplomatic Corps and British Forces abroad, like in Germany, to expect terrorist assaults. And they’re expecting the reorganized Irish republican forces to start using, as a worst-case scenario, radiological dispersal devices.”

“Which are?” I can imagine what they could be, but I want confirmation.

“Not really nuclear weapons, but normal explosives that use radioactive waste, such as the kind you can find in hospitals.” Richard’s voice starts to quiver slightly. “One such bomb, set off in the centre of London at, say King's Cross St. Pancras tube station, during rush hour, would be devastating beyond our wildest dreams.”

Liam picks up the thread. “And thanks to Joseph's information about the company here in Kansas City, that manufactures the detonators for such salted bombs, Her Majesty's government has been able to secure the worldwide patents for the detonators and can now control access."

“And,” Richard’s voice is still shaky. “the Irish mob contingent in the FBI was trying to keep this from happening. We have to assume that Special Agent Milligan appeared this morning with orders to kidnap you both.”

“They’re getting desperate, since young Bartholomew Breitinger failed to nab you.” Liam carries on with a grave expression. “They gave him his comeuppance and planted his body in your flat, in hopes that the FBI could take you in.”

Richard, chuckling dryly, clears his voice. “But apparently Dr. Volker’s presence scared off ‘Candy Randy’, on the day. That's why he came back to get you.”

“In order to,” Liam looks troubled. “have you disappear.”