Code 17.8: Code 17, #8

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: 9798227574213

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.

Previously in Code 17.7

One

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BAANNGG!!

BAANNGG!! BAANNGG!!

I use my tried and tested technique – aim for the heart, fire, keep the gun steady, fire again. As the body crumples, the second shot should go through the head. I added an extra shot for good measure. Then you have to wait, immobile, for a couple of minutes to see if there is any movement.

There isn’t.

I stand up carefully, still watching. Then, when I’m sure, I sling the rifle over my shoulder in the debonair, nonchalant manner that the blonde assassin should affect, head cautiously along the roof and back down the fire escape.

It will be a long time before the body is discovered in the gutter between two rooftops overlooking the back alley behind the Kings Road. In fact it might never be found.

Canna Lily might of course have taken the flight to Jamaica and retired. But on reflection I didn’t think it was very likely – she didn’t resist or object in the back of the van; she was too calm about the whole thing, too resigned, like she had a plan in her head.

Fortunately I hadn’t actually transferred the money to her mother’s bank account or rented the house. When I got back home I rang the local Jamaican agent who meets the flights for Lucille’s clients and asked him to meet Canna Lily, under her new name. I asked him to ring me when she landed, even though it would be the middle of the night in England. He did phone but he said she wasn’t on the flight.

I assumed Lily would come for me the next morning. Even if she had come straight back to central London from Heathrow, she wouldn’t have had time to get hold of a rifle to do it any sooner. She would have had to assume that the police really were going to raid the Notting Hill flat so she couldn’t have gone there to collect any weapons she might have had stashed away.

I spent the afternoon and evening in my flat with the scary loud alarm switched on so she couldn’t have got to me there. But Canna Lily knew that I often go out early for coffee and breakfast at the local cafe which, in the hour or so before Chelsea gets going, is mostly used by cleaners and security guards.

As I left through the back door with my torch and rifle it was still dark – there is a light over the back door but I didn’t switch it on in case I was already in a sniper’s sight.

I took a couple of leaves out of Lily’s book – take plenty of snacks and drinks. Check. Wear warm clothing. Check. Look for likely places for a sniper, who must be invisible from the ground but have a clear line of sight from a high vantage point. A rooftop with an external fire escape is ideal – getting to the roof from the inside of the building would involve too many risks and uncertainties.

That left only one possibility. I climbed up in the dark to the roof. I wouldn’t have liked to do it with a bullet hole in my leg but if I was determined enough it would have been possible. I found the ideal spot to for an assassin to lie down and aim the rifle downwards. Then, having found Canna Lily’s most likely vantage point for my attempted assassination, I stepped back out onto the gutter, leaning forward onto the roof with my arms out and slowly shuffled sideways to the next gable end. I found a place from which I could watch the watcher, snipe the sniper, then got into position and waited.

It wasn’t in Lily’s sniper’s manual but I wore black from head to toe with a black balaclava over my face and wigless head.

Afterwards I went back into the flat to ditch the rifle and the balaclava, put on my wig and headed out to the cafe for a hearty full English breakfast.

Two

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After finishing the job on the roof early in the morning and with a whole day ahead of me I realised that I hadn’t driven my lovely new BMW since I brought it home. I thought I might take it for a spin – perhaps out to Heathrow and back, just for a jaunt. Canna Lily said that it either had to be bugged or have a bomb in it. Well it was bugged and, as Lily said, if there was a bomb it would have gone off already.

After plodding slowly back following my very heavy breakfast, I pick up the keys from the office and go out of the back door again. The Fiat is still there – I don’t know what to do with it. Perhaps Crystal would like to use it to drive to her new workplace. I sit in the driver’s seat of the BMW – it’s very sleek, very modern, with lots of dials and gadgets I’m sure I will figure out eventually.

I proudly put the key in the ignition . . .

BAANNGG!!

Code 17.8

Prologue

Hi. It’s me. Don’t worry, I’m fine. I’m currently in my bright red swimming costume, sipping an ice-cold Rum Punch by the pool of the hotel Sans Souci, which means carefree, overlooking the Caribbean Sea in Jamaica. Lucille booked it for me – it’s the hotel in which James Bond stays in Dr No, which seems rather appropriate.

The monumental misdirection of the bomb explosion was Sir Granville’s idea; the car really did have to be blown up, which was a bit sad but any good con has to contain as much truth as possible. It apparently caused some damage to the back door of the gallery, though it will be easily repairable. I personally was nowhere near the gallery at the time of the big bang, I was already in the air on the way here.

Sir Granville told me that if some egregious atrocity could be blamed on East Germany, his men could immediately round up all the suspected East German spies in London and bang them up in Paddington Green, to be interrogated and then either prosecuted or deported. The West German authorities, now very grateful to the British for uncovering the plot against Chancellor Brandt, were cooperating fully.

Sir Granville pointed out that I could do with some rest and recuperation – my hand is still in a cast and my ribs still hurt from the efforts of Ronni’s German torturer. Also, as he pointed out, my hair will grow back more quickly in a sunny climate. I travelled here on my trusty fake passport, under my usual nom de guerre, Penelope Hornby, which is a homage to my two favourite arboreal models, Tree and Twiggy respectively, though it’s also a reference to Lady Penelope from Thunderbirds, to whom I have often been compared, and not always unkindly.

I had put all my affairs in order before the explosion. The Louvre had been sniffy about loaning the preparatory Leonardo drawing for the portrait of Isabella d’Este I recently bought, which may be by Leonardo. No one does sniffy like the French and French art curators are le plus sniffy du monde. As you know, the finished portrait was believed not to exist until it was discovered in a Swiss castle and I bought it for what turned out to be a bargain price, though it was a big gamble, risking £50,000 sight unseen on what might well have been a worthless fake. I thought it highly unlikely that the painting would turn out to be genuine and I’m still sceptical myself, but the consensus among the cognoscenti is that it may be the real thing and one of the greatest art discoveries of the century.

So, in the spirit of my CBE citation, I offered my possibly-Leonardo painting to the National Gallery in London, who accepted graciously. They may suspect I was behind the first News of the World article that accused them of being con artists but they can’t prove it and my donation more than makes up for it anyway.

They will put a plaque next to the painting calling it the Summers Leonardo, which is all I asked in return. It is currently still in the Kings Road gallery, being guarded twenty-four hours a day by the same security guards I used for the Code 17 paintings, so it’s quite safe. Crystal’s mother Maureen will continue to come in every Saturday to take a look around, even after the painting has gone.

Whenever they are ready for it, the National will hang their new acquisition in a prominent place and throw the party of the art world season to celebrate. If I’m sufficiently recovered I may attend in person. I could wear my Thea Porter outfit though I may wear that to go to the Palace to officially receive my CBE from the Queen. What a popular girl I am for one so dead.

On the other hand I may just stay here, away from all the social whirl. It’s quite idyllic. The hotel is fabulous, all the staff are disarmingly friendly and smiley. Apart from Michel, the concierge at the Carlton, staff at the top hotels don’t normally have genuine, heartfelt smiles, don’t make you feel welcome, feel at home, feel wanted like the Jamaicans do – in fact I don’t know anywhere else I have ever felt quite so welcome.

There were no less than three welcome gifts in my suite when I arrived: a bowl of fruit, a whole bottle of champagne – not just a half as in the Carlton – and Lucille, posed on the bed as an odalisque straight out of a painting by Ingres, Delacroix or Boucher but duskier and looking a lot less fleshy than the plump and overdressed odalisques by Matisse and the Renoir in the National Gallery.

Lucille was wearing nothing but what I assumed was Madame Claude’s very alluring, very skimpy lingerie from her last assignation. It certainly beat the chocolate on the pillow you get in lesser hotels.

Still, after a while even the best hotel begins to feel like a prison and sans souci doesn’t really sum me up, so I may feel the need to go back to London soon.

The White Album

One

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Pink would have been perfect but white is nice too. I’m in a colossal white, chauffeur driven Rolls-Royce Phantom V, registration EUC 100C, specially modified with white seats, white steering wheel, a telephone and an aerial. Just the very thing for driving through the arch into Buckingham Palace. To match, I’m wearing Dusty Springfield’s short white dress with the feathered collar together with the white tights and shoes I wore when I was presented with the freedom of the city of Venice. The outfit isn’t entirely appropriate for such a solemn occasion on such a gloomy, autumnal London day but since I’m still wearing Dusty’s wig and I haven’t worn the outfit before I decided to give it an outing.

The stunning and very classy Thea Porter outfit I had originally planned to wear for my formal investiture as a Commander of the Order of the British Empire is currently gracing the elegant form of my chosen companion for the day, Lucille’s assistant and second cousin, former MI6 secretary Crystal Modeste (pronounced of course Cris-TAAL Moh-DEST). Next to her on the capacious back bench seat of the Roller is her mother Maureen (More-REEN), my cleaner, who is possibly the greatest living admirer of the Her Majesty the Queen despite, or perhaps because of her having been born in Trinidad. Maureen is having the best day of her life – to such an extent that she is uncharacteristically speechless.

Even I am a bit overawed, though being dressed as Dusty in the back of the tank-sized car helps. I got the idea of the car from my alias on the fake passport I just used to sneak back into the country. Having been holed up in Jamaica I’ve been missing presumed dead since my lovely new blue BMW was blown up, ostensibly by East German spies. As you know, the name on the passport is Penelope Hornby after my two favourite models but as you also know, the first name also refers to Lady Penelope from Thunderbirds, who along with Sharron Macready from The Champions and Cathy Gale from The Avengers (though not Emma Peel and absolutely not Tara King) triangulate my personality nicely.

Lady Penelope of course has a space-age pink Rolls-Royce and that was what I was hoping to find, along with a chauffeur with a very bad Michael Caine/Cockney accent whom I could dress as Parker. But I quickly found that there are no pink Rollers and I didn’t have time to have one specially painted. Then I heard of a white one for sale, a very special white one. I didn’t want to buy it but I did want to borrow it, so I asked the owner’s wife.

John and Yoko don’t need any more money but Yoko does need to build back her credibility as an experimental artist and musician, having just married into the Beatles, at whom her snobby avant-garde New York friends no doubt sneer (the New York art scene is nearly as sniffy as the French). I knew Yoko slightly on that New York scene a couple of years ago when she was one of its leading lights and regularly hosted New York’s most far out musicians at soirées in her apartment.

It was Yoko who put me on to the New York gallery where, following Persephone’s attempt to blackmail me, I put on a show of sapphic pictures of myself and became the Topless Heiress. I was also present when Yoko first met John a couple of years ago – it was at the Indica Gallery in St James’s which was partly owned by Paul Asher, brother of the lovely Jane, who is Paul McCartney’s girlfriend.

What Yoko needs is to put on a radical, stunning art show in London and I have just the space – my gallery on the Kings Road is currently empty, it still has the viewing hole cut in the blind and the bullet hole in the glass, an ideal venue for avant-garde art. I decided to offer it to Yoko to do with whatever she wanted and ask for a loan of the car for a couple of days as a