by John Gardner
‘Fools,’ said Klara Thirel. ‘Come, Ingrid. Move.’ Her hand caught the blonde a swipe across her leather-clad backside. Ingrid shrugged and slid into the driving seat. ‘You first, Angela.’ Klara almost pushing the other girl into the back of the car. ‘Quickly, quickly, quickly.’ Angela got in, hunched up near Boysie who was sprawled over the seat. Last, Klara pushed herself in on the other side of Boysie.
‘Back to the school. As fast as you have been taught, Ingrid, or the whips will be out tonight,’ said Klara Thirel, a pleased grin spreading over her face. The car moved of towards the lakeside road which leads to Ascona and Brissago.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHITE VIRGINS: BRIS SAGO
MARTIN was sipping his coffee in the Departure Lounge of No 2 Europa Building in London Airport, remembering the times he had loitered, with intent to observe, around the halls, escalators and bars of the gehenna which shovels souls in and out of the metropolis. He had enjoyed that time as stake-out man at London Central: lurking, watching (and watching for) people. Over five years he had learned everything there was to know about each square inch of steel and glass, each chip and stain in the fabric of the place. Now, on the other side of the fence, he had two hours to wait. By this time young Duncan, or one of the other boys, would have reported the fact that he was in transit. Two hours to wait before flashing off into the sky: thundering into the night. That expression made Martin feel a bit more glamorous—a real live Eastmancolor-type spy. Martin, the agent, thundering off into the night on a mission. It had a good ring to it, even though in his heart of hearts he knew that a vile attack of wind, caused by airline food, was all the thundering into the night would ever do.
Mostyn had whipped him out to the airport in double-quick time. The Second-in-Command had been up in the chief’s office for about twenty minutes, returning with a face the colour of a ripe Victoria plum, hands dancing like nervous puppets.
‘Some,’ Mostyn had said, ‘should be doctored. Hands off the au pair scandal, that’s the word.’
‘Whose?’
‘Whose what?’
‘Word.’
‘Director of Supreme Control. And we all know who he is—bloody little Jack-in-Office. Chief’s given his oath that we haven’t taken any action. Denied we had anyone in the field in that area.’
‘Had to really, didn’t he? It being the Oakes boy.’
‘Yees.’ Mostyn drew the word out, facing the fact reluctantly. ‘The darlings are jumpy as rabbits in clover. One of the Departments has obviously got something big going on. Major operations. Churning it, Martin, old horse. Churning it with dear old Special Security left right out in the snow. Mustn’t even whisper words like Wimbledon, Il Portone, Thirel, Wheater or Amber Nine. Mustn’t whisper ‘em let alone ask questions. Lord help us if Boysie’s got himself tangled in anything.’
‘Important I get him out quickly then. More important than ever.’
‘You’re joking of course. Even broken the rules and telephoned his hotel. He’s out. With a Miss Whitching if you please. Left a message telling him to phone his uncle as soon as ...’
‘He gets back ...’
‘Yes. As soon as he returns from his libidinous excursion.’
Martin did not know that once Mostyn had scooped him into the Zephyr outside HQ, the 2 I/C had made a record dash back to his office. Mostyn was equipped with too much of an enquiring mind to leave a shroud of grey mystery hanging over the clamp-down which had pressurised the Department of Special Security since Boysie’s telephone call. Mostyn always preferred to be at least one jump ahead of everybody. On a blank sheet of paper he wrote a list of the offending names. He sat and looked at them for a long time, then picked up his red scrambler telephone.
‘Give me Central Four.’
Central Four—Mostyn’s opposite number in the Special Branch—came on the line.
‘Hallo, James.’ The voice could, at a nip, be taken for yet another Mostyn. ‘Just been talking about you. To my boss.’
‘Strange. Just been talking about you. To my boss.’
‘Oh yes.’ Central Four sounded disinterested, in a cat and mouse way.
‘Yes.’ Firm.
‘Anything I can do for you, James?’ Slinky.
‘Seem to remember you owe me a couple of favours, old lad.’
‘No can do James. Not if it’s the au pair thing, no can do.’
Mostyn silently breathed a word not usually associated with Civil Service procedure. ‘What about Colonel Wheater of Wimbledon?’
‘The shutters are up, James. This is not—repeat not—any of Special Security’s business. Now, please, keep out. It ain’t your pigeon.’
Robin Villiers—a very high-ranking member of MI5—pulled the same poker-faced stunt. So did Bonzo Imes at MI6. Trying his last card Mostyn called the Personal Secretary to the Director of Supreme Control—a pasty young man with protruding teeth who fancied Mostyn’s younger sister Geraldine. The PS to the DSC was very rude. Mostyn, furious and frustrated, decided to tell Geraldine that he knew, for a fact, the young puppy had been having it off with a WREN Third Officer. The fury and frustration turned to anxiety. He was fumbling in the dark and it was bloody black.
*
At London airport, the Public Address system came to life. ‘Swissair regret that owing to a minor technical fault their Coronado flight SR 101 will leave approximately one hour later than its scheduled time.’ Martin looked at his watch. Two and three-quarters hours to wait.
*
Twice Boysie managed to pull himself out of the dizzy daze in the car. Vaguely it occurred to him that the rapier points had been drugged. He had not lost enough blood to make him this woozy. Each time he looked up his watery vision took in a blue of lakeside road moving fast. There was a smell of crushed strawberries. Female breasts rubbed against his shoulders. Both shoulders. What kind of woman was this? Eventually, because the sensation was so pleasant, Boysie gave up fighting and allowed a clerical grey mud to slush over the bulk of his brain. Now he was Hamlet having the final duel with Laertes. Christ, Kadjawaji was playing Claudius. No, was he hell: it was Mostyn, blacked-up, sitting there with the crown square on his head and that damn great sceptre, and Petronella as Queen Gertrude next to him. Rot Mostyn, he was after Petronella now.
Half of Boysie’s numbed senses felt the car stop. Gertrude, or somebody, said, ‘Let four captains bear Boysie, like a soldier to the stage.’ He was being lifted. He forced the eyelid muscles to work. Grey shirts amiably filled with girl. Soft, tender faces looking down.
‘My god that stuff’s potent. He’s only had a scratch, and look at him,’ said Klara Thirel.
‘A hit. A palpable hit,’ drowsed Boysie as he sank into a great pile of swansdown.
*
It was a sensation he had never experienced before. Not the slow waking from a long sleep—that drag up the hill to consciousness—but a new, quick way of coming back to life. One minute he was away; the next, wide awake, alert, refreshed. The smell of crushed strawberries was still in the air and one of the grey-shirted blondes was bending over him.
‘He’s awake, Principal.’
Boysie sat up. He was lying on a bed, at the foot of which stood Klara Thirel. The room was cool: decor light grey; two tall windows open—heavy blue curtains swinging to the occasional stir of air—spring flowers on a table near the door; a couple of modern chairs; on the wall opposite the bed a Walter Keane lithograph—it looked like La Scunizza—a waif’s saucer eyes engulfing Boysie from the frame. Somewhere, far away, Sammy Davis and Paula Wayne wanted to be with each other in stereo.
‘Angela, tell the girls to turn that record player down. Now! Pronto!’ said Klara rather bossily. Angela straightened up and walked, like a tall cat, to the door.
Boysie looked down the length of his body. The clothes were not his. A cream nylon shirt and tight denim trousers. He moved, realising that the comforting bump of the Sauer & Sohn was not there in his hip pocket. Boysie allowed his hands to sli
de over the shirt. The movements were vague, uneasy.
‘Who ...?’ He started.
‘Undressed you?’ Klara smiled—a full, knowing, sophisticated smile. ‘Please don’t worry, Mr Oakes. We have several trained nurses here. It was all most respectable.’
‘I should hope so. What is all this anyway?’ He swung his legs off the bed. Checked himself, expecting to feel muzzy. He was quite steady.
Klara ignored the question. ‘There are some sandals for you. On the floor. I only hope that they fit.’
‘What the hell happened?’ He could remember the duel. Since then, only a daydream sequence. His thigh was throbbing.
‘You looked as though you had been in some kind of an accident.’ Her speech was precise, but without the clipped self-consciousness, or the studiously correct grammar which often distinguishes the well-educated Middle-European. ‘We couldn’t just leave you there. So, as we were hoping for your company tonight anyway, we thought it best to bring you straight along. Instead of taking you back to your hotel. Or the hospital. Are you feeling all right?’
‘Fine,’ said Boysie mistrusting every word. His hand strayed to his thigh. Under the denim he could feel a wound dressing of some kind. Klara Thirel detected the questioning look.
‘You have a rather nasty scratch there. It was not necessary to provide stitches. Angela put a dressing on it and gave you a shot of penicillin.’
‘Did she now!’ Boysie felt himself blushing. He slid his feet into the sandals. They were a size too large but he would manage.
‘You really are all right now?’
‘Like I said. Fine.’ The next move was up to him. ‘I suppose I’d better telephone the hotel. Messages and that kind of thing.’
‘We’ve already taken care of that. They know where you are; any calls will be transferred here. You see, for a girls’ finishing school we are really very efficient.’
‘Yes, I thought you would be.’ Then, craftily. ‘How’s Lynne?’ She wouldn’t be expecting that one so soon.
Klara Thirel smiled again. Not altogether friendly. Like a school Matron of your first day. Sadistic. ‘She’s been confined to the sick bay but you may see her before you go.’
Boysie tried to work out whether she meant that he might see her, or that he would be allowed to see her. He glanced at his watch. Seven thirty. He had been out for less time than he thought.
‘Well, if you’re ready I should imagine the girls will be waiting.’
‘For what?’
‘Dinner, Mr Oakes. You’re dining with us.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I know I asked you to eat with me privately, but I’ve had second thoughts. It seemed a pity to deny the girls a treat.’
‘You sound like a cannibal chief.’
Klara went off into a gust of laughter. ‘I see what you mean. The girls. A treat. Ah, filet d’Oakes.’ She looked very attractive —in a mature sort of way. Kinky even, still in the black polished riding boots and breeches—though the shirt was now a crisp blue matching her eyes. Boysie was conscious of danger, yet, strangely he did not feel his usual stomach-cramping fear. Perhaps his normal confidence with women helped to alleviate the nerves and restore a balance. He took a pace towards Klara, automatically putting out a hand, fingers touching the woman’s shoulder.
‘Aw, call me Boysie,’ he said almost bashfully. ‘Everybody does.’
‘Yes, I think I like that better.’
‘Good.’
‘Yes, filet de Boysie sounds more like a gourmet’s dish.’ A giggle turning into an almost dirty guffaw. Klara steadied herself with a hand to Boysie’s arm. They were close. There was a tap on the door and handsome Angela high-stepped into the room. Klara turned slowly. A woman of some experience thought Boysie. Most girls would have pulled away quickly in a flurry. Angela looked hard at Boysie. Boysie’s eyes dropped to his sandals. He was blushing involuntarily.
‘Dinner is ready, Principal.’
‘Good. Thank you, Angela. You may go down to the others now. I’ll see the Seniors later.’
‘Very good, Principal. I hope you’re all right now, Mr Oakes.’
‘Great.’ Boysie still had his eyes fixed on his large shuffling sandals. Then he looked up straight at Angela. ‘Just great.’ Happy to see that there was a kind of admiration in the blonde’s eyes.
*
It was like being in some fabulous harem. They passed out of the room into a wide hall. Facing them, large double doors, flanked by ceiling-high windows which looked out on to a broad snake of gravel. To the left an ornate lift cage into which Angela stepped. Boysie vaguely noticed that the blonde took the lift down. On the right, another set of double doors outside which stood a pair of delectable redheads—uniformed in thin white cotton shirts and the ubiquitous black leather short-shorts. As Klara and Boysie appeared, the girls opened the doors in unison. At the same time, the one on the left called out, ‘School stand for Principal’.
‘The Geschlechtlich twins,’ whispered Klara.
‘Ah,’ said Boysie sagely.
‘Nice girls. Daughters of the Baron Von Geschlechtlich. Good stock.’
From the other side of the doors came the scraping of chairs. There must have been a good 150 of them. A sea of white shirts which would have made a launderette manager drool, and leather short-shorts in abundance—one great beautiful mass of girls standing straight and sexy behind chairs along three refectory tables. At the top of the room the high tables flashed with studded silverwear. Everything—the girls, the room itself, cutlery, the serving tables down one wall, the three original Picassos—shouted wealth. As he followed Klara past the sinuous wall of backs, to the high table, Boysie could not help feeling that 11 Portone had a great deal to offer as far as this world’s moth and rust corrupting goods were concerned.
From his vantage point between Klara and a bright brunette, Boysie saw nothing sinister in the pupils of Il Portone. He could have been in the dining hall of any expensive finishing school. Certainly the girls were stamped with a definite military obedience (the way they had stood as Klara entered, the manner in which they had reacted to her order, ‘Sit, girls,’ their almost over-correct postures, a rigidity of the back now they were seated). But they all looked pretty normal and well developed. The brunette on his right stretched out her hand and grinned an introduction.
‘Mary Van Bracken. Boston, Mass.’
Boysie shook hands. The Van Bracken girl’s grip decidedly firm. ‘Boysie Oakes, London, Eng.,’ said Boysie searching for something not too banal to counter the introduction. ‘I didn’t realise this was such a cosmopolitan place.’ It was a lame gambit but the best he could muster.
‘Oh gee, yes, we got them from all over,’ said Mary Van B chirpily.
A shirt-covered breast grazed Boysie’s right ear as a plate of smoked salmon was placed in front of him. He raised his eyes and did a square search of the tables. The resulting montage was itchily satisfying—long, beautiful fingers gently squeezing the juice from the lemon segments over pink slices; forks daintily conveying small rolled portions of fish from plates to ready, willing lips; teeth caressing, tongues savouring. Occasionally a pair of eyes—hazel drops, misty blue invitations, deep brown promises—flashed up at him, then away with disturbing eyelashes. Eating, as Boysie had noticed many times, could be very like a complicated love play.
The tinkle of wine in his glass caused him to turn his head. A Saint-Croix-due-Monte. He sipped. At a guess, ‘53. Doctor Thirel and her girls lived well. A razor blade of sharp ice scraped the short hairs on the back of Boysie’s neck with the realisation that he was being lulled into a sense of well being. The incident that morning with Lynne Wheater and Doctor Thirel should have been enough warning about II Portone. Since then had not a brace of swashbuckling thugs tried to skewer him against the mountainside? Lynne had not turned up. Petronella had disappeared. The au pair girls? Penton MP? Klara herself? A regiment of randy females. Good food and excellent wine. It was all far too easy. He
bit into another slice of salmon. His perception seemed sharp, but there must still be some of the drug working in his system. Perhaps it had the same deceptive effect as alcohol which seems to stimulate yet really depresses. Boysie felt a sudden wave of sick terror. The feeling of ease had been accompanied by a slight drowsiness. He must fight. Watch it, Boysie. Case the joint. Look at the girls. Remember the au pair file—it was the only thing on which he could anchor.
Once more Boysie allowed his eyes to slide furtively around the tables. This time a thorough examination of the girls’ faces. He got as far as an exquisite Chinese doll—half-way down the table to his left—when Klara spoke.
‘You are interested in our school, Boysie. Mary here has been in residence for six months now. She would be a good person to talk with.’ An admonishing note. For the first time, Boysie took in the other women who shared the top table. Mary Van Bracken was the only pupil. The rest were middle-aged or frankly elderly women—all dressed like Klara. The staff, he presumed—and a pretty rum lot they looked.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Boysie, forcing the charm. ‘Not used to eating in the company of so many distractions.’ He smiled at Mary Van Bracken, knowing it was coming out as a leer.
‘What do you wish to know, Mr Oakes? I’m at your service.’
Boysie opened his mouth, then thought better of it. Finally, ‘Well, your Principal tells me she uses—how did she put it—odd methods?’
The American girl laughed. ‘True enough,’ she shrugged. ‘Why beat about the bush. Before we came here we were all, well, hard cases. You have to be from a certain strata of society to afford this place.’ Mary pouted seriously. ‘Lower down the scale every girl here would almost certainly have ended up in some juvenile delinquent home—reform school and all that. We’ve all been difficult teenagers and most of us fought like hell not to come here. But, you can see, it works.’
‘What works?’