Acquiring intercept. Intercept acquired. AES256 detected. Acquiring trapdoor. Decrypting.

Zurich: You have recovered it, yes?

London: Holland’s won’t co-operate

Zurich: Unacceptable. Cut off their credit and freeze their accounts.

London: Done but they have a substantial reserve

Zurich: Swiss accounts?

London: They are not that unwise.

Zurich: Order a stakeholder take over

London: Unlisted family business. We could remove their immunity. The police can then raid them, shut them down and recover the object

Zurich: Overt action would make us unpopular with their client base, many of whom are bank stakeholders. We cannot risk it.

London: There is another option. The private detective. We steer him to recover the object then...

Zurich: Someone’s listening. Hang up.

Trace detected. Disconnecting

The name’s Jim Priest and I’m on the trail of a stolen artefact [JIMP#19]. This has led to Holland’s auction house and Principal Newman of St.Agatha’s Domestic College in London, where I was posing as an IT manager [JIMP#21].

Security ‘testing’ had got me into their members only website [JIMP#23]. Working through an online catalogue featuring descriptions in many languages and astronomical prices, I finally found what I was looking for:

Lot: 666 Very rare mechanical artefact of unknown function

Origin: possibly Aryan circa 2000 BC possibly earlier

Reserve: $2M

Meeting up with Detective Michael Jenkins, I showed him what I had found. “I could run this stuff through our database, but there’s no proof that your object is stolen. Only you and the maid saw it in-situ” he said. “Wouldn’t do you any good anyway. We can’t touch Holland’s” he added. “Why ever not?” I asked.

“Banking immunity” he said quietly. “You’re pulling my leg” I scoffed. “I’m serious. You’ve heard of diplomatic immunity? Well its like that but gold-plated. They can do whatever they want; exempt from all national laws. Don’t even have to pay taxes”. “That’s outrageous, how come I’ve never of it” I asked. “Because they finance the media and keep it quiet. Causes nothing but trouble for The Met” he said.

“They’re not a bank” I pointed out. “Don’t matter, those rich bastards know all the loopholes and register themselves under bank protection” Michael said. “Every few years, Holland’s organises a big event with all the top rich knobs from around the world attending under banking immunity. Murder, rape, theft, we’ve seen it all and we can’t touch the blighters. They even have their own armed security force” he told me.

I looked up the announcement for the next exclusive auction and baulked at the admission price. There was no way I could afford that. I needed another angle. Then I remembered Newman’s password ‘Louise French’.

Mrs. French. The mere mention of her name conjured up images of tight leather mini-skirts, sheer black nylons and calve hugging knee length boots. Standing 5’8” with a very slender build, she was quite sexy in a strict severe way. Her face was small with good complexion, high cheekbones and a sleek nose. Her brown hair featured highlights and was cut so severe to be almost mannish. Small penetrating light brown eyes under slim eyebrows looked out through stylish designer spectacles. A slender jaw and a small but sensual pouting mouth completed the picture. However whenever she spoke, especially when in French, one couldn’t fail to notice prominent incisors.

A swan-like neck led to a slender body with a nice thrusting bust courtesy of brassiere engineering that stirred the loins. This was usually shown to effect with a tight top with a V-neck that gave a hint of cleavage. Below the waist, Mrs. French always wore leather mini skirts in a variety colours, browns, reds, greens and occasionally black. These clung alluringly to her compact backside and thighs. Some women wear unflattering shapeless boots, not Mrs. French. She wore proper kinky boots, again in a variety of colours that hugged the shapely contours of her calves enhanced by high heels. Between these alluring leather items, her legs were covered in sheer black nylons. The overall impact was of a stylish sexy looking woman in her late thirties or early forties, who dressed to emphasise her femininity. I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stop staring at her pointy breasts and sexy legs as she walked by.

They say that some people’s names are vocational. I’ve never felt inclined to become a member of the clergy, however Mrs. French was the French mistress!. Although I had seen her around the college, she seemed very aloof and had never acknowledged me. At the end of one day, I saw her alone in her lecture room. She had on a tight grey V-neck top, a short dark green leather mini-skirt, sheer black nylons with shapely red knee length boots. She didn’t even glance at me as I approached her. “Hello. I’m Jim Priest, the IT manager” I introduced myself. “The computers are fine. If they weren’t you’d soon know about it” she told me abruptly. She spoke with a well-educated English accent, not French. That would have been too much of a coincidence; Mrs French the French teacher being French. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got to take detention” she dismissed me.

I had just left the room feeling rejected when suddenly I was grabbed and thrown roughly with my back against the wall. Startled I looked at my attacker to see a young man in his early twenties. “You’re a fraud Priest” he snarled, shoving my shoulders against the wall. “The police will be very interested in you since there’s young people involved” he continued. “I’m going to argh argh argh” he squealed, his face screwed up in pain.

The source of his pain became apparent. Mrs. French had taken hold of his little finger and was bending it back sharply. She was in complete control as she calmly kept his arm straight and twisted it into the air behind him. “Argh argh argh” he cried as she raised his arm forcing him onto tiptoes. “How dare you attack a member of staff, Monsieur Pratt. Get in that detention class now and I’ll punish you in a minute” she said firmly. “Argh please let go” he cried.

“You can either walk into that room on your own, or I’ll march you in like this. Which is it to be Malcolm?” she asked sternly. She looked magnificent; the chic French teacher in a tight top and mini skirt making this young man dance in agony at her fingertips. Some passing students sniggered at his distress. “Ok ok I walk. Let go” he gasped in pain. Releasing his finger, the young man turned to enter the room. But not before a passing remark to me. “See you later you phoney”.