WATER WORKS: 21) NECK-TIED

Sunday Funnies: A Novel of Intrigue, Lunacy & H2O

27.

I drive out to the Angler Inn, a long-time spook haunt near Great Falls Park, the Maryland side, to meet David Smythe-Burke of SIS, otherwise known as MI6.

Smythe-Burke wears a Marks & Sparks suit, a James Pink shirt and tie, and a quick smile featuring sloped teeth that give his otherwise bland face a smidgen of character.

As SIS liaison to the Beltway Bog, Smythe-Burke fills his days, and evenings, schmoozing with counterparts and collecting intelligence gossip for his superiors in London. For him, this posting is a prestige swansong after a distinguished career in less desirous world capitals and a stint near the top in London.

We enjoy a round of pleasantries about the weather before getting down to business.

"I'm working directly for Director Pikestaff," I say. "Have you met him?"

"Not yet," says Smythe-Burke, hoping for an introduction.

"We've become interested in Tommy and Teddy Scrogg. Are you familiar with the twins?"

Silence.

"Specifically," I add, "we'd like to know what unusual foreign connections the Scroggs' may have."

Smythe-Burke nods. "In what context?" The Englishman's chattiness is gone.

"Water. The Scrogg twins have gone into the water business. We'd like to know context ourselves."

Smythe-Burke produces a pen and notepad. He jots something. "Have you asked them directly?"

"You know we can’t do that without your knowledge and permission," I say. "In any case, I'm not a lawyer but I prefer to know the answers before I ask the questions."

Smythe-Burke says nothing, but his brain appears to be stirring. "If you wish to pursue this," he finally says, "I propose that your director phone C, and that you be prepared to travel to London for a briefing."

"Sounds ominous," I chuckle.

Smythe-Burke nods, chuckle-less.

28.

I board United that evening; next morning a London black cab rolls me to the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair.

A German receptionist somberly welcomes me to England, then says my room isn’t ready. "We will serve you breakfast in the dining room," he orders.

I take two steps toward the dining room and the concierge steps between it and me. An interception.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wear a necktie in the dining room," he says.

"For breakfast?"

"I'm afraid so. Hotel policy. I can offer you a necktie. We keep several..."

"Thanks, I've got my own."

I dig into my garment bag, pull out an old tie, knot it around my neck, amble into the empty dining room.

Four stewards jump to attention and watch in horror as I remove my rumpled navy blazer and hang it around a chair.

The maître d' approaches. "I'm sorry, sir, but you must keep your coat on."

"But there's no one here to offend," I say.

Coat and tied, I read a Herald Tribune and pick bones from poached haddock filet.

Then I claim my room and snooze.