Code 17.6: Code 17, #6

By Francis Booth

Praise for Code 17

 

'A wild and witty thriller'

Set in London in the swinging sixties with a brief whizz over to New York and back, this is a thrilling, action-packed page-turner. Lady Laura (not her long name) is a glamorous international art dealer who can handle a gun, a sword and, in fact, any kind of weapon. She cons and is conned, shoots and is shot at as she fearlessly seeks the one who is targeting her. Ruthlessly, she pursues her enemy, wiping out anyone who gets in her way with a nod to Twiggy, Warhol and all the other icons of the time who hover in the background of her life among the rich and famous. There are many twists and turns as the reader gasps breathless unable to put the book down. At times you laugh out loud shouting yes, yes, yes as, once more Lady Laura extricates herself from a seemingly impossible situation. She's unputdownable - like the book.

 

'Compelling, assured and darkly satisfying'

Now here's a novel that churns with contradictions. Compelling, assured and darkly satisfying, Code 17 thrills and chills. Its deeply dislikeable characters have exquisitely addictive redeeming factors that keep us coming back for more. The plot shocks and amazes on every page. Its unexpected format and terrifying subject matter force the reader to ask questions of himself: wouldn't we behave similarly, in such situations, if only we could get away with it? Code 17 is set primarily in Swinging-Sixties London, plunders the intriguing worlds of fine art and forgery, aristocracy and auction houses, and drops names. Twiggy, John and Yoko, Warhol and the Velvet Underground are all here. The sex is zipless, the crime ruthless, and it's every man, woman and murderer for himself. Kill or be killed. Read this novel, but notez bien: it will turn your stomach even as it curdles your heart. It's the size of it.

 

'Smashing!!!'

I'm a child of the 60s and fondly remember all the great TV series of the time: The Man from Uncle, The Girl from Uncle (perhaps a little more fondly. . . swoon), Department S, The Persuaders and of course The Avengers. Beautiful girls running around in catsuits shooting people and karate chopping people is all okay by me. This book has it all . . . Go-Go boots, Twiggy, Venus in Furs, Jensen FFs . . . smashing!!!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wu Wei Press
• Release date: Jul 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227103239

Francis Booth

As well as Comrades in Art: Revolutionary Art in America 1926-1938 Francis Booth is the author of several books on twentieth century culture: Amongst Those Left: The British Experimental Novel 1940-1960 (published by Dalkey Archive) No Direction Home: The Uncanny In Literature Text Acts: Twentieth Century Literary Eroticism Everybody I Can Think of Ever: Meetings That Made the Avant Garde A Girl Named Vera Can Never Tell A Lie: The Fiction of Vera Caspary Girls in Bloom: Coming of Age in the Mid-20th Century Woman's Novel Francis is also the author of two novel series: The Code 17 series, set in the Swinging London of the 1960s and featuring aristocratic spy Lady Laura Summers Young adult fantasy series The Watchers

Book preview

Praise for Code 17

‘A wild and witty thriller’

Set in London in the swinging sixties with a brief whizz over to New York and back, this is a thrilling, action-packed page-turner. Lady Laura (not her long name) is a glamorous international art dealer who can handle a gun, a sword and, in fact, any kind of weapon. She cons and is conned, shoots and is shot at as she fearlessly seeks the one who is targeting her. Ruthlessly, she pursues her enemy, wiping out anyone who gets in her way with a nod to Twiggy, Warhol and all the other icons of the time who hover in the background of her life among the rich and famous. There are many twists and turns as the reader gasps breathless unable to put the book down. At times you laugh out loud shouting yes, yes, yes as, once more Lady Laura extricates herself from a seemingly impossible situation. She’s unputdownable - like the book.

––––––––

‘Compelling, assured and darkly satisfying’

Now here’s a novel that churns with contradictions. Compelling, assured and darkly satisfying, Code 17 thrills and chills. Its deeply dislikeable characters have exquisitely addictive redeeming factors that keep us coming back for more. The plot shocks and amazes on every page. Its unexpected format and terrifying subject matter force the reader to ask questions of himself: wouldn’t we behave similarly, in such situations, if only we could get away with it? Code 17 is set primarily in Swinging-Sixties London, plunders the intriguing worlds of fine art and forgery, aristocracy and auction houses, and drops names. Twiggy, John and Yoko, Warhol and the Velvet Underground are all here. The sex is zipless, the crime ruthless, and it’s every man, woman and murderer for himself. Kill or be killed. Read this novel, but notez bien: it will turn your stomach even as it curdles your heart. It’s the size of it.

––––––––

‘Smashing!!!’

I’m a child of the 60s and fondly remember all the great TV series of the time: The Man from Uncle, The Girl from Uncle (perhaps a little more fondly. . . swoon), Department S, The Persuaders and of course The Avengers. Beautiful girls running around in catsuits shooting people and karate chopping people is all okay by me. This book has it all . . . Go-Go boots, Twiggy, Venus in Furs, Jensen FFs . . . smashing!!!

––––––––

‘Had me gripped’

This book had me gripped. The characters transported me back to the swinging sixties. It had me reading ‘just one more chapter’ before I could put it down and I didn't want it to end! Can't wait for the sequel.

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‘Vitesse .... Inspired choice .... Soundtrack please!’

Fast moving 60s thrill ... our heroine drives a Triumph Vitesse (oh so cool, well-chosen Mr Booth) ... I believe there's a soundtrack that goes with this. Great fun, brilliant touch points throughout, one almost wants to be transported back for a few days.

Author’s Note

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Code 17 was originally a musical idea. Ten years ago I made an album that paid homage to the theme music of 1960s British TV spy series like The Man from UNCLE, The Baron and Department S, and to films like Modesty Blaise and The Ipcress File. The music on the album was from an imaginary TV series called Code 17, featuring the glamorous art dealer/spy Lady Laura Summers. She was imagined as a cross between Sharron Macready of The Champions, Emma Peel of The Avengers and Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward of Thunderbirds, though none of these women was the lead character.

Ten years later I thought I could make a novel out of Code 17 and Lady Laura, set in the Swinging London of 1967. I kept to the format of a twelve-episode TV series and tried to imagine each chapter as a fast-moving thirty minute episode, split into short scenes. For Series Two onwards of Code 17 the episodes have been expanded to an hour but I hope they are just as fast-paced and thrilling.

The music is at mixcloud.com/planckmusic/code-17

Francis Booth

PREVIOUSLY IN CODE 17.5

JULY 30TH, 1969

one

I’m in Venice, about to get on a cruise ship bound for the Adriatic. Last October I was on the same ship as both a Playboy model and a guest lecturer, talking about mostly Italian art. The ship is small and discreet, the cruise line’s clientele is very posh, very discerning, they like serious talks after dinner. The subject of the Code 17 paintings is very serious indeed. And I am of course an even bigger attraction now than I was then, as both a world-class patroness of the arts and the scion of a very old and prestigious English family, don’t you know. I might have mentioned that one of my ancestors fought at the battle of Agincourt. The audience on the ship are impressed by that kind of thing and I’m not too shameless to flaunt my credentials in front of them.

I rang the owner of the cruise line, Gianni, to see if he could squeeze me in at such short notice. He was delighted, the lecturer he had booked had let him down at the last minute. Gianni was a friend of my father’s and something more than a friend of my mother’s – they had a daughter together, my half-sister. I didn’t even know of her existence until the last cruise. Sadly I never got to know her, she drowned in the Venice lagoon while trying to assassinate me – she was in league with the group of neo-Nazis I was involved with at the time. Her accomplice died shortly afterwards, also drowned, but in the bath at home in England. I cannot tell a lie: it was I, the assassinating angel who killed him, though not in the Charlotte Corday manner with a knife.

Apart from the failed attempt on my life by neo-Nazis, the last cruise was a fun, relaxing and invigorating experience which I am hoping to repeat. Since I have no friends left, and no enemies to worry about, I might as well join a cruise full of strangers. Though in fact they will not all be complete strangers: on the last cruise I was seated at dinner with three mature American widows who were uproarious fun nightly. I use the word mature loosely as they were constantly giggling like schoolgirls, making smutty jokes and leering at innuendo-filled remarks about the men in the dining room. The ladies had had at least two marriages each and had deliciously cynical opinions of men. Gianni told me on the phone that two of them are back on this cruise – one of the original three has just remarried her first husband and they are on honeymoon elsewhere – and would I like to sit with the two of them again? I would.

But the highlight of the last cruise was Effie: the Pre-Raphaelite-haired Glaswegian/Italian steward who looked after our rooms and served at the table. She was taking a break from studying art at St Andrews so I’m not expecting to see her again; she must have finished university by now. It was a holiday romance only, we never had any contact afterwards. But the memory of that brief, passionate interlude came flooding back as soon as I saw the ship again.

Then . . .

two

There’s a knock on the door. It must be the luggage being delivered to my stylish stateroom, the same one I had last time.

‘Come in.’

‘Lady Laura, welcome on board.’

‘Effie . . .’

three

I’m leaning on the rail at the prow of the ship after dinner, taking the air. We haven’t sailed yet, I’m looking at the lights on the Venice lagoon. Effie has promised to bring a nightcap to my room later. Goodness knows what innuendo my table companions could make of that sentence, though I’m sure they don’t suspect anything.

I wave at Sergeant and Mrs Johnson as they stroll past, looking relaxed and happy. I thought it was the least I could do for Johnson after all he had done for me; his wife so appreciated the Caribbean holiday I sent them on I thought she might like to go on a cruise this time. Perhaps they will come to my after-dinner lectures; Johnson has been as involved in the Code 17 saga as much as anyone, anyone still alive anyway.

four

Looking upwards, above the bridge, behind the funnel, I think I can see someone moving. They’re holding something. Pointing.

It’s . . .

A rifle.

BAANNGG!!

BAANGG!! BAANNGG!!

SPLAASSHH!!

code 17.6

JULY 30TH, 1969 continued

one

This is the second time in less than a year that I have been adrift in the Venice lagoon late at night in a cocktail dress. Last time it was a lovely velvet Jean Varon that I bought from the designer John Bates in person, this time it is my beloved Courrèges silver mini. The last time I wore this dress I was also on a yacht – on that occasion it was a private yacht moored off the coast of Croatia. I didn’t go overboard while wearing it on that occasion though something even worse happened that night, something involving a Saudi sheik and a French escort, both now deceased.

If you have forgotten that incident I’m not going to be the one to remind you.

Both times I’ve been in this lagoon I have rolled myself deliberately over the side of a boat to avoid a bullet – both times successfully. On the last occasion I had to swim the best part of two miles to the shore but this time the ship is moored, I just have to swim round the prow to the dock. As I found last time the problem is not the swimming, it’s the getting out of the water. There is no ladder going up from the water to the dock which is at least six feet above the water level.

Fortunately, after someone shouted ‘man overboard’ a crewmember let down a rope ladder from the side of the ship and I’m easily able to climb up it. I don’t think many people heard the rifle shot or saw the assassin – it’s quite late, most people will either be in the bar or back in their rooms; the average guest on the ship is of an age to retire to bed early – so there is very little kerfuffle as I climb back on deck with as much dignity as I can muster.

Two uniformed Italian seamen lead me solicitously back to my room where Effie is just arriving with a bottle of warming grappa. In case you have forgotten Effie, she was the room and table steward the last time I was on this very ship in October last year and is performing the same role this time. Last year she also brought me a bottle of grappa on my first night – I thought it was poisoned and tried to pour it down her throat which resulted in my kissing her which resulted in . . . well I’m not going to go into the details of our holiday romance but suffice it to say that I hadn’t seen her again after the last cruise until I came on board earlier today and that I was very pleased to see her again.

Very pleased.

The two crew members are frantically fussing and fumbling around offering me a doctor, a blanket, a painkiller. They are probably right to be nervous: I shouldn’t think it’s considered good form to let guests fall into the water, especially when the guest is the star after-dinner speaker and fabled art patroness the lady Laura Artemisia Claudia Summers who is a close family friend of the owner of the entire cruise line.

But Effie waves them away, says she will take care of me as my personal steward. I enthusiastically support her – Effie can look after me in ways the two male sailors could not even dream of. Or perhaps they could. Who knows what men dream of? I don’t, though I do think Effie may well be the woman of many men’s dreams – like her namesake Effie Gray, also christened Euphemia, who was the muse of the Pre-Raphaelite painters and wife of both John Ruskin and John Everett Millais, the voluptuous Effie in my suite at this moment has thick luxuriant tawny hair, sumptuous lips and dark deep eyes.

Euphemia Lucchesi is Glaswegian/Italian, descended from the nineteenth century diaspora which resulted in there being tens of thousands of people of Italian descent in the Glasgow area today. She was about to go back to St Andrews University when we parted in October to start the last year of her degree in Art History and Italian; the stint on the Italian cruise ships was a one-year placement as part of the course.

As soon as the two men leave the room Effie goes to run me a bath. I am just unzipping my Courrèges dress and hoping that the ship’s laundry can save it when there is a knock on the door. Effie pops her head round the bathroom door, looking concerned. I look cautiously through the peephole. I have no weapons with me but even soaking wet I am ready for more trouble.

I recently adopted the Israeli Armed Forces’ philosophy of Krav Maga: try to avoid trouble but as soon as trouble becomes inevitable act fast, act first, use maximum force, maximum aggression, without any mercy or hesitation. Stop the opponent immediately, instantly, permanently, before the opponent has chance to react. If there is someone outside the door who wishes me harm, he will not live long enough to regret it.

But I needn’t have worried. It’s Sergeant Johnson, my former nemesis but current trusted police ally. Johnson now regularly plays Inspector Lestrade to my Sherlock Holmes, Chief Inspector Japp to my Hercule Poirot, Commissioner Gordon to my Batman. I paid for the cruise for Johnson and his wife though not with the intention of his being my bodyguard. I open the door. Johnson, still in full black tie comes in heaving and panting. I don’t think Johnson is very fit – he’s probably in his late forties, with something of a beer belly and a slightly florid complexion, both no doubt caused by the rich, heart-attack-inducing dinners they probably consume freely at his Freemason’s lodge in London featuring, I imagine large quantities of red meat, red wine and port.

In fact Johnson currently looks in worse shape than me. I motion for him to sit on the settee. He does so gladly, speaking in short bursts between deep breaths, trying to get the oxygen back into his lungs.

‘Caught him . . . shot him . . . Italian . . . guards . . . armed . . .’

‘Carabinieri?’

‘Soldier types . . . uniforms . . . rifles . . .’

‘Well a lot of wealthy guests bring their best jewellery and fanciest finery to these cruises. I’m sure Gianni wants the ship to be well-guarded while in port. It seems like he failed this time though. Perhaps the guards were having a quick nap. Italian policeman are not noted for their alertness.’

‘Ran up to him . . . still alive . . . last words . . .’

‘You heard his last words?’

‘Code . . . 17.’

two

Effie, still dressed in her steward’s uniform thoughtfully pours Sergeant Johnson a grappa. He gratefully accepts, downs it in one go which is the only way to drink grappa: it’s so foul that if you sip it you will never be able to finish it. This seems to help Johnson recover his poise slightly. I sit next to him on the settee, still in my wet cocktail dress. Effie continues to hover inconspicuously in the background like a female, Scottish Jeeves, though I shouldn’t think Bertie Wooster’s relationship with his valet was anything like mine with my room steward.

‘Sergeant, I don’t know how much you know about the distaff Professor Greenslade, former wife of the Professor Greenslade who is a member of your Lodge.’

‘Not much your ladyship.’

‘She is of course the mother of Griselda Greenslade who as far as anyone knows is hiding out in Israel under a false name, having killed Qadir and having tried to kill me.’

‘And very nearly succeeded your ladyship.’

‘Indeed Sergeant. The seventeen stitches are still in my tummy to prove it.’

Now, while it is true that I have seventeen stitches in my side and while it is true that I got them when Griselda Greenslade stabbed me with my own sword with fatal intent, it is not true that Griselda is in Israel. Griselda is dead. Having threatened my half-brother Cosmo, the true heir of Code 17 – I am merely his trustee and executrix – Griselda was shot by Cosmo’s adoptive grandfather on his private island in the Stockholm archipelago. She is currently resting there in the Swedish equivalent of Davy Jones’ locker, where she will remain until the end of time. But only the two of us know this; only he and I were on the island with Griselda and neither of us is going to tell anyone about the incident.

Griselda solved the code in Code 17. She believed that because of this the Code 17 paintings and the Code 17 house – both worth enormous amounts of money – ought by right to be hers. She did have a point: without her these treasures would never have been found. Griselda believed it so strongly that she forged a document, with my forged signature attached, assigning them to her – Griselda was a world-class forger. That document went to the same watery Swedish grave as Griselda. Again, no one but me and Cosmo’s adoptive grandfather knows this.

I continue to dissemble with Johnson.

‘So Sergeant, after Griselda fled to Israel it turned out that her mother Professor Greenslade, née Noémie Levy was behind her murderous intentions. Both wanted to get hold of the Code 17 inheritance.’

‘Yes, that’s what I heard, your ladyship.’

‘To misdirect me Professor Levy posed as Madame Claude, the French society procuress who is linked to MI6 and its French equivalent. She fooled us all.’

‘Sounds like a slippery customer.’

‘As an