Isolde -- Part II

Having learned of Isolde's involvement in things that she shouldn't be involved in (why couldn't she just stick to the violin?) I decided to have it out with her. I had to cross the ocean anyway, to expand the Strunsky sugar beet enterprise. BP wanted to double the beet intake for its eco-fuel enterprise -- stimulus money from one G. Brown -- and this necessitated a trip to Lviv in Ukraine. There the proposal to expand was well received (Ukraine always has fiscal problems) and I was also happy to make a not insignificant contribution to that rather funky opera house located in Lviv's central square. One must always support the arts.

Then from there it was on to London, to solidify the sugar beet thingy. I had arranged for the wayward Isolde to meet me there as well. All this meant using the Strunsky Lear jet, and fortunately the pilot I use on such occasions, Hank Grimsby, was available. Hank was a former member of the US Air Force, and used to fly F 16's hither and yon in Iraq. At least he did until he realized he was in the wrong war, and when the time came to re-up, he didn't. After that, it was simply a matter of making him an offer he couldn't refuse. (Hank is not only a crack pilot, but has other qualities as well. But I digress.)

Irving accompanied me, since these trips are always a bit dicey -- those fatwas again -- but not being on an assignment, I wasn't expecting trouble. However, I was glad to reach my flat in Knightsbridge, where I got together with a serious martini. A shower, a good sleep, and I was ready the next morning to face Isolde.

We met at The Grill, Dorchester, where they do wonderful things to Cornish scallops. Then, both sated, certain cards were put on the table.

"Who approached you," I began, "with this courier thing?"

"That's classified," she said.

"Isolde, honey, my own classification level is that of the Home Secretary's. One phone call will reveal all, but I would rather hear it from you. And I'll make a wild guess. Smidge was involved."
Isolde was silent for a minute as she absorbed this, and then the story came out. "Smidge" was my nephew, Stephen, and was very much involved in The Trade. Lord Stunsky had recruited him early on, when his talent for foreign language mastery had emerged, along with a love of secrets and, more importantly, the ability to keep them. He was not, unfortunately, that effective at the sharp end of things (my particular forte) but it takes all kinds. Smidge had indeed approached Isolde, saying the courier thing just a "one-off", and would not recur again. The enterprise had gone so well that Isolde, all excited and agog, said she was willing to do it again, depending on her concert schedule. Smidge, perhaps fearing my wrath, (as well he might)said Isolde's little courier adventure was truly a one-off, and would not recur. Good for Smidge.

Isolde, however, had been bitten by something she saw as exotic and exciting, and at a reception for the orchestra in the Mozart Conzerthall had somehow overheard the information about the Stinger missiles -- she thought it was a planned attack of killer bees -- and passed the information on to Smidge. This, of course, had led me and colleagues to retrieve the missiles from Africa, as earlier described.

"Well, all this stops now," I firmly stated.

"But I helped," she said plaintively.

I took her hand. "Note, Isolde, you still have your fingers. You need them to play. Keep this activity up with Smidge and you will lose your fingers. and other parts of your body. Very painfully. You are not trained for this type of work. It's not your talent, and it will detract from the marvellous talent you do have. You see my point?"

She nodded glumly.

"Still got the Strad?" I enquired, wishing to change the subject.

"Under lock and key in the Staatoper," she replied. "Don't worry. It's safe."

"It better be," I replied. The obtaining of the Stradivarius had taken some ingenuity. An Italian businessman with whom I had done business had called me in a panic. Apparently his daughter, a fanatic birdwatcher, had wandered too close to the North Korean border and had been snatched. He wanted her back, and I obliged. This was not overly difficult. I knew that The Dear Leader, Kim Jong Il, had a certain passion, and from an earlier foray into that benighted country had procured a videotape of that passion. It showed Kim happily playing with his Barbie dolls, When I mentioned to his handlers via a Chinese colleague that this would look great on the Internet, given Barbie's 50th anniversary, well, things moved rather quickly. The daughter was returned post haste, and her Italian father, in gratitude, parted with one of three Strads he had acquired.

Occasionally things work out rather well.