AH Novel: Funny Money

First welcome aboard.

Second, we try to help to give feedback if possible.

Are you going to post a timeline, as information? Or do you want readers to find out what happened from reading your book?

I was not planning to post a full timeline - this is more about the book tbh.
However, happy to receive feedback and provide answers to questions as it helps me make sure I am not contradicting myself or making other big mistakes.

1. Alexandria, Egypt

“Yoghurt, figs, toast, a pint of iced orange juice and a pot of coffee. Thankyou.” Brook replaced the telephone receiver and slowly lowered his head back to the pillow, rubbing at the dull throb in his temple. “Clever,” he muttered to the empty room, the bitter taste of the penultimate drink a warning he now regretted ignoring. Brook eased his six-foot frame out of bed, ran a hand through his light brown hair and pulled on a terrycloth robe to open the door. The corridor was oddly quiet given it was gone nine – no sign even of the cleaning staff. With a shrug he picked up the newspapers, clicked the door shut and lowered himself into a chair.

Brook opened The Times first and scanned through the major stories. He already knew most of the news, given the newspapers took a few days to reach Egypt, but he read a preview of the upcoming Ashes series with interest. The team had left England on the long voyage south for what promised to be a tight contest. Speculation centred on whether Hedley Verity would break Clarrie Grimmett’s two-decade old record for test wickets, and Bradman’s attempt to pass ten thousand Test runs.

The Egyptian Times was one of the local English language newspapers, and Brook scanned the headlines, dominated by news of a riot in Cairo involving followers of the Free Officers Movement. The article was highly critical of the FOM and Brook frowned as he picked up the final newspaper in the pile, this one in French. The tone was starkly different, as was the conclusion – unknown troublemakers likely infiltrated the peaceful march and attacked the police, causing the violent confrontation. Instinctively Brook felt this more likely as it was out of character for the FOM. Although confrontations between the police and nationalist protestors had increased markedly since Heydrich’s summer speech, the FOM steadfastly refused to endorse violence.

A loud knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and Brook dropped the paper and moved quickly to avoid a repeat of the unpleasant sound. An immaculately dressed waiter started to push the loaded trolley into the room, but Brook raised a hand. “Thanks, I can manage,” he muttered as he pulled the trolley forward, eager to avoid a conversation. The waiter nodded and moved away as Brook closed the door.

He poured and quickly drank a glass of orange juice, refilled the glass, and edged the trolley to the table as he lifted the cover from the toast rack. He bit into the triangle of bread without butter, chewed, swallowed, and repeated, devouring the slice in three quick bites as he pondered the headline. Brook poured a cup of coffee, sighed. He needed to cable home with an update, but progress was slow. He sat, dropped a cube of sugar into the cup, and sat down to eat.

As he spread butter on a slice of toast, he smiled at the thought of the previous evening, largely spent in the company of Grace Rigby. Brook decided with an ironic smile the hangover was entirely her fault. If he had not been enjoying her company, he would doubtless have left the reception earlier. In the weeks since his arrival in Alexandria, their acquaintance had been limited to brief hellos and smiles, but nothing more. A formal introduction before dinner led to a brief conversation before she was dragged away by a friend, and Brook thought that might be the end of it until just after dinner when she asked him to dance. Brook looked up in surprise and she winked and told him she was trying to avoid the attention of one of the consul staff. He rose, happy to help, and they spent the remainder of the evening together.

Grace Rigby was outgoing, beautiful, and smart. She revealed she was working in Alexandria, and casually mentioned her uncle was Admiral Albert Rigby. Rigby was also CNOME, Commander of Naval Operations – Middle East, the most senior Navy officer in the region. Brook attempted to hide his surprise at the revelation, but it explained why she seemed to know a bit more about him than expected. Curious. He would have a chance to quiz her later as she had agreed to meet for lunch.

Brook tuned the wireless to the BBC World Service and listened to the news. The candidates for the upcoming US Presidential election were stepping up campaigning, and the accompanying rhetoric. President Byrnes’s criticism of rumoured German arms shipments to Palestine were also used to insinuate the Republican candidate, Governor Stassen, would be weak on such activities.

Stassen’s response was unexpected strong. Arms shipments to both Israel and Palestine should be banned as they were at odds with the League of Nations Mandate that created the two countries. He added that he believed if British forces left Israel, Palestine would not feel the need to buy arms. In his view, if the League of Nations were not promoting peace, what was its purpose?

Brook emptied the last of the coffee from the pot and frowned as he recalled Emil Normanson’s prediction Stassen would become president, and his concerns. Stassen sounded presidential, and recent pronouncements suggested a more interventionist presidency than expected. His unexpectedly dominant victory in the Republican primary clearly given him the confidence to speak out, calling the American Fascist Party a threat to democracy and the States' Rights Democratic Party racist thugs. Now he was picking a fight with both Britain and Germany and spoke of a desire to expand the already vast spending on the US armed forces should he be elected.

Breakfast finished, Brook pushed the trolley into the corridor and headed for the bathroom. His headache was now a dull tick rather than the pounding of an hour earlier, and the grey-blue eyes staring back over the slightly pointed nose, were mercifully clear. He allowed a rueful smile, ran a hand over his tanned cheek and reached for his razor. Shaved and showered, he donned a lightweight tan suit, thin cotton shirt and a broad Panama hat, then set out for his lunch date. As he walked along the dusty streets, Brook pondered the meeting with Lawrence Belanger that led to him being had sent to Egypt.



It was an unexpectedly wet day, at odds with the glorious summer Britain had enjoyed, and a depressing reminder winter would soon be upon them. Fat raindrops splattered against the windscreen and the air was thick and humid. The Allard’s fan failed to keep him cool, and Brook was pleased to find a parking spot close to the office on Curzon Street. He raised an umbrella, locked the car, and pulled his jacket closed as he walked the hundred yards to Leconfield House.

The cuffs of his trouser were already damp when he offered a quick greeting to the doorman, then he climbed the three flights of stairs, and engaged in a brief conversation with his secretary as she handed over his morning reading. He put a pot of coffee on in the corner of his shared office, smoked a cigarette whilst waiting, then took a cup back to his desk and got stuck into the papers. An hour later, the office air was stuffy with cigarette smoke from the three men all quietly reading. His ashtray contained three cigarette ends and the foil from a new packet.

Concentration wavering, Brook threw the remaining briefing pages on the desk. There was only so much you could write about increasing German influence in French West Africa, but this analyst seemed to have perfected the use of five words when one would suffice. He stood, stretched out his back and glanced out of the window. The rain was easing. He tugged at the stiff catch and pushed the window open, to allow fresh air into the room.

“Good idea,” Tom Branson said. He rolled his neck with a crack. “It’s a bit quiet.”

“Bloody hell Tom,” Charles Cartwright protested. “Don’t jinx it!”

Brook smiled, but it was hard to disagree. He was about to retake his seat when the intercom buzzed. He looked pointedly at Branson and clicked the switch and Carol, their shared secretary, informed him he was to head up to the seventh floor.

“You bloody idiot,” Brook said playfully, as the man held up his hands. In truth, Branson and Cartwright watched with some envy as Brook dropped his unread reports into his top drawer, locked it and left the office with a wave. He handed the finished reports read to Carol who would pass them on to the next victim and jauntily walked up the stairs to the top floor where the head of the service kept his office. A left turn at the top of the stairwell took him towards the south-west corner, and through the windows of the doors to the terrace, the grey sky continued to leak over Green Park. “Morning, Colleen,” Brook said. “Rotten day. Winter’s coming.”

“Hello David,” Ms. Symonds said, and gave him a stern look. “It’s still summer! You’re eager today. Bit quiet?” He stared at her, but she gave nothing away. A pretty redhead, around thirty, but with the manner and authority of someone older, confident in their abilities. The confidence was well placed – she was good at her job, protecting her boss from unnecessary interruptions of which there were usually plenty. She pressed a button to connect the intercom. “Mr. Brook is here, sir.”

“Send him in.”

She released the switch, her dark brown eyes flicking to a diary. She nodded at the door. “In you go. He has something in fifty minutes. If you can try to keep him on track...” She trailed off, shaking her head slightly as David raised his eyebrows.

“Thanks, Colleen.”

Brook tapped on the door and waited until he heard the sharp call to enter. A light on Ms. Symonds desk flicked red – no interruptions. She reached for the telephone as Brook pulled the door behind him and strode towards the large desk. Lawrence Belanger waved him to the seat opposite and nudged the ashtray forward, a signal he could smoke. “Good morning, David. How’s things? Good leave I trust. Plenty of golf?”

“Good morning, sir. I'm fine thank you. And yes, and excellent week. Few days in Scotland. Managed to get out most days. The Old Course, Carnoustie. Rather tough in the wind. And you, sir?” Brook took out his cigarette case, selected a cigarette and offered the case across the desk.

“Lucky bloody you,” Belanger said, shaking his head. He did not really begrudge Brook his time off. He grinned. “Not enough. Can't break six.” He referred to his golf handicap which stubbornly remained unchanged for a second year. “Too busy. How about you, much on?”

“Nothing too important, sir. Reading about the Germans and Francophone Africa. Riveting stuff.” Brook answered evenly. He hoped the conversation might offer something more interesting. It was three months since his return from Germany following the atomic research project, and he was itching to get his teeth into something.

“Know much about money?”

Brook shrugged. “The physical stuff, or managing it?”

“The former.”

“I know it when I see it.”

“I wonder?” Belanger said mysteriously. He pulled a manilla folder from his desk and slid it across the desk. Brook reached forward, pulled it towards him and opened the flap. He smiled. Four banknotes in cellophane. They were Egyptian, one pound and five pound in denomination. He lit the cigarette and picked up the notes in turn. The front of the one pound was largely blue and contained a mix of Arabic and Roman script. A pair of circles framed the words One Egyptian Pound, one pure white the other a sepia Tutankhamun mask. The reverse was green with an archaeological scene between similar circles, one white, the other containing a number one. The five pound was a similar colour, but the King replaced the pharaoh. Brook glanced across the desk.

“Thoughts?”

“I suppose there’s something wrong with them, sir. Counterfeit?”

“Rather good ones apparently,” Belanger said with nod. “Excellent paper and ink, the plates top quality.” He retrieved the notes and glanced at them, pushed the two fakes back, and Brook picked them up as Belanger explained the faults. “They arrived at the consulate in Alexandria. A note, written by a modestly educated Frenchman apparently, said there were boxes of them coming to Egypt. And they were fake.”

“Boxes of them?” Brook said. “How would a modestly educated Frenchman know they were fake?”

“That’s a good question,” Bellanger said. “The other question is, why send them to the consulate.”

“Hmm, I see what you mean sir,” Brook muttered. “Where do I fit in?”

“It might surprise you to know that although the National Bank of Egypt issues the currency, they don’t print it. In fact, British companies print their banknotes and mint their coins. The Egyptians are talking to the Bank of England about new banknote design.” He waved a hand at the notes. “To stop this sort of thing! Anyway, about two months ago they announced they wanted to print the new notes themselves. National pride and all that. The Foreign Office and Bank of England advised against, but they’re adamant. Now, we’re getting information Egypt is about to be flooded with counterfeit money.”

“I see, sir,” Brook allowed slowly. “The timing is, er, inconvenient.”

“Or convenient!” Bellanger said pointedly. “There’s been an uptick in anti-British sentiment. Not just in Egypt, mind, but throughout the Middle East. You’ve seen the briefings on the trouble in Cairo, Alexandria, Tehran, and Tel Aviv in recent weeks.” He looked at Brook, who nodded. “It’s bloody Heydrich’s speech. The nationalists are all over it, griping about colonialism. There not even a dominion, they’re independent.” Belanger noted the twitch in Brook’s eyebrows. “Ostensibly independent. It’s not our fault the King can override parliament when he wants.” He paused. “It’s not a good time. Can you imagine the furore if there is a glut of fake money? The economy will crash. It’ll get out the money is printed here. The nationalists will be all over it, claiming we’re sending them inferior products. Never mind the NBE didn’t want to print the stuff. Your job, officially, is to represent the Bank of England. Assess the printers, tell them what they need to do to get up to snuff. If the counterfeits appear, you’ll formally investigate.”

“That’s fine, sir,” Brook said dubiously. “But I’m not qualified to pass judgement.”

“You’ve appointments with the Bank and the printers all next week. Crash course in printing money, spotting counterfeits, security features, all that. Enough to pass as a bureaucrat, who defers anything controversial to London. While you’re there, you can investigate these nationalist groups in your spare time.” So that was it! Belanger grinned, taking Brook’s nod as agreement. “There’s been no reports of fake notes yet, but it might be useful to have someone on the ground when it happens. And you speak a bit of Arabic. Might help.”

Brook nodded dubiously, although the prosect of a trip away as the weather turned was not altogether unappealing. “Pretty rusty, sir.”

“You’ll dust it off. Doesn’t have to be perfect. You’ll be representing the Bank, so they won’t expect it. Look Brook, the Foreign Secretary told me the cabinet are terrified of what might happen after Iraq. They got rid of us and turned into a Nazi puppet within a couple of years. We can’t afford the same to happen in Egypt. At some point, we’ve got to stop interfering,” he allowed as he looked across the desk. “It’s making sure it’s the right people. This Free Officers lot seem reasonable. And they’re well organised. But if some fanatics like the Islamic Liberation League take over, it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Understood, sir,” Brook said. “And the extension to the thirty-six Treaty hasn’t helped. The government said no, and the King signed anyway.”

“Quite! But we can’t be seen to retreat if there are riots raging in Cairo or Alex, and the nationalists are claiming we’ve crashed the economy. Let’s be honest, we can’t lose the new base in Alex, or access to Suez. Malta’s fine, but the only other bases in the Med are Gib, which is miles from the action, and Israel, which isn’t big enough to host anything bigger than a frigate. Egypt is critical.”

“Of course, sir,” Brook said with a nod. “It’s a bit flimsy, sir. Might be a wild goose chase.”

“It might. Can’t be helped,” Belanger said with a frown. “I’d bet the German’s are behind this. There were rumours they were working on it during the war, but someone fell out with Heydrich before he got promoted. It’s the perfect oblique attack.” Belanger glanced at his watch. “Talk to Ms. Symonds about your appointments next week. She’ll get the travel arrangements sorted with your girl. Any questions?”

“No sir,” Brook said, rising to leave.

“Oh, one more thing,” Belanger said, and Brook paused, hand poised on the door handle. “It’s not been announced yet, but the canal will be shut for a week in November. Carrier deployment to the Indian Ocean. It’s lousy timing, but it might also be useful in terms of making nationalists a bit more brazen. Or careless. We need to figure out who we can work with.”



As Brook turned the corner and approached the hotel where he was meeting Grace, he considered how he had left things with Belanger – his aim was to stop the counterfeit notes from getting into circulation, but if it proved impossible, he was to remain in Egypt for as long as it made sense to do so. He walked up the long drive, nodded to the doorman who held the door, and wandered through the lobby towards the bar. He found a seat facing the entrance, ordered a drink and watched the room whilst he waited for his lunch date to arrive. She arrived ten minutes early, and he stood and pecked the offered cheek.

“Hello Grace. Good to see you so soon. Drink?”

“Hello David. A glass of champagne?” She smiled broadly, her long dark blonde hair draped over the shoulders of her pale blue cotton dress, green eyes sparkling. Brook waved at the waiter, ordered two glasses, and signalled they were ready to go to their table. The drinks arrived and they talked about the previous evening for a few minutes until the maître d' strode over and escorted them to their table.

“So, why Alexandria? I know you said you were working here,” Brook asked as the waiter removed the last of the plates and the sipped the last of the wine. A fan rotated slowly above them, circulating the warm air.

“Daddy got me a job. Through Uncle Bertie.” Grace paused for a moment, shrugging slightly. “Chance to get away for a bit.”

“Get away?”

“Hmmm, well, I was sort of engaged.” She noticed the look on Brook’s face. “OK, I was engaged. To what I thought was a very nice, but exceedingly duuulllll chap. A banker, so perhaps I should’ve expected it. No offence.” She looked at him and smirked. Brook’s eyes narrowed. He could not remember talking about his reason for being in Alexandria. “We’d been engaged for about a year, and it all just started to be such hard work. I wanted to work; he wasn’t keen.” She looked at Brook defensively. “Anyway, I spoke to mother, she told father. I said something like I couldn’t stand the thought of that being my life forever. They said if that’s how I felt I should break off the engagement because it wasn’t fair to either of us. So, I did. That was a couple of months ago. His family were furious, accused me of being, well, accused me of all sorts of horrible things. Daddy was away, but Uncle Bertie happened to be at home on leave. Did a bit of sorting. Anyway, he said it might be a good idea to go away for a bit. Let the dust settle sort of thing. The next day he’d found me something to do over here. I’ve been here a couple of months.”

“That sounds rather unpleasant,” Brook said sympathetically. “Very understanding. Your parents I mean. Quite right too. Not sure your ex-fiancé sounds up to much. Lord, I’m sorry.” He held up a hand of apology and appraised her. “How old are you?” The raised eyebrows and smirk were as good as a soft slap round the face. “Bugger. What the hell is wrong with me? Sorry. What work did you do?” Brook said, hoping he was on safer ground.

“I was at Bletchley.” The look of surprise on Brook’s face prompted a frown. “There’s lots of women I’ll have you know. Some of the girls are very smart. I speak German, studied mathematics. Joined when the war started. I rather enjoyed it.”

“Are you meant to tell me that?”

“Oh, I suppose not. But you’re trustworthy. I can tell.” She paused, and added mysteriously, “you know more secrets than me, I’m sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Grace answered and finished her wine. “But I know bankers, and you’re no banker! Anyway, thanks for lunch, but I’m meeting a friend at five and I need to change.”

“Hold on,” Brook protested. “You can’t blurt something like that and run out on me,” Brook said with more uncertainty than intended. His lack of control was amplified when he stood as she did.

“Oh, but I can. I’ll tell you next time. Dinner perhaps…” Once again, she offered her cheek, then winked and disappeared. Brook slumped back into his seat. The only consolation was, given she had worked at Bletchley, he knew she was trustworthy.

There is always the route of creating a thread for the author ore people to discuses these kind of things without the need to put it in a novel, ore in Nick Sumner case when he wrote the Drake Drum series, a entire Appendices filled with ships to tanks who roam his universe