by John Gardner
‘You? You’ll live to be a hundred and get a telegram.’
‘Don’t want a rotten telegram. I’d rather have the rotten money.’
‘Oh, Boysie, love. For you I might change the hormones of a lifetime.’ She laughed, the hint of a secret joke.
Boysie remembered the BOAC advertisement he had seen in the paper on the way over—There’s Always Time for a New Experience. He was not thinking in terms of riding on a cushion of air, across the flat surface of Maggiore at—what was it? The airspeed indicator read thirty-five knots but that meant little because he could not remember how to convert knots into miles. Or was it the other way round?
‘Boysie?’
He glanced at her—the craft dipping slightly as concentration wavered. There were dark smudge marks of fatigue under her eyes and the face looked thinner than it had been over the lunch table at the Palmira yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours ago.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve trusted you. I could have gone for you back there in the boat, in the speedboat. Saved Lynne.’ A sharp cough, an emotional tickle in the throat.
‘What stopped you?’
‘The name. What was it? Khavisomething?’
‘Khavichev. Big man. Chief of their Counterespionage. Equivalent of our Paymaster-General or the Director of the CIA.’
‘Thought he didn’t come from a good Anglo-Saxon family. Tell me about it? I mean is Klara not ...?’
‘Don’t really know. Nothing makes sense—except the obvious. Lynne’s people are Khavichev’s people which makes Klara the lesser of the two evils. She must be OK—I’ve just remembered, she used our code for radio silence. She said “incommunicado”. Lousy for you. Your Karen on the other side.’
A deep V creased between her eyebrows.
‘It’ll ruin my father.’
‘There’ll be screenings and questions.’ Boysie knew well enough how they would take Wing Commander Whitching through the mill. And his family. The smooth quiet gentleman he had often met in Mostyn’s office. The boys in the velvet-collared overcoats. All dressed by The Tailor and Cutter. University men down to the balls of their hard little feet. Putting you at ease then stripping your mind with the efficiency of a shoal of piranha going over a cadaver. Petronella’s professional father would have little career left when they had finished with him. Brainy all of them. Too brainy if you were innocent.
‘Have we got to go back to her?’
Boysie was still thinking of the interrogators. The searchers. ‘Boysie?’
‘What? Sorry.’
‘Do we have to go back to the island? To Klara Thirel?’
‘I do. She’s got to be told about Ingrid for a start. Drop you off first if you like.’
They covered another hundred yards.
‘No, I’d like to get at the truth.’
Boysie nodded. ‘Whatever?’
‘Whatever.’
*
They were within half-a-mile of the islands. From this side the house loomed large and grey behind a palisade of trees. In the foreground a small wall held back the lake. There was a dinghy moored near by, and a stone slipway which looked wide enough to take the hovercraft. It all romped closer every second. Boysie started to ease back on the throttles, cutting down speed. Soon he would have to face stopping the wretched machine.
‘They go on land as well as water, don’t they?’ he shouted, doubt tangling with his vocal chords.
‘I think so.’ Petronella anticipated the problem. ‘Why don’t you stop now and let us drift in?’
‘It’ll look bloody silly. Rather try and give the impression of expertise. Arrive in a blaze of glory.’
‘Or gasolene.’ Petronella looked round for something to grab when the time came. Her hand fluttered on the guns’ trigger. ‘And don’t touch that for Chrissake.’
The slipway was getting very close. Boysie reduced power. As low as he dared, bringing the airspeed indicator needle a paper-width from the red line which he presumed was the stalling speed. Yet they were still moving with considerable momentum. It was like putting on ineffective brakes. What if they did not slide neatly up the ramp? It would be quite a bump. There was some activity on the island, figures moving along the wall. Concentrate. The slipway appeared to rise out of the water at a ridiculous angle. Fifty feet. Power reduced a fraction more. Juddering. Without noticeable slackening of speed. Forty feet. Thirty. Twenty. They were going to smash straight into it. Still going too fast. Ten feet. Petronella screamed. Boysie lost his nerve and cut back on both throttles. The craft began to move effortlessly up the ramp. Then it hovered, buffeting as though it would fall apart. A series of red lights flickered on from the dashboard, and they dropped with a slushy sound. Not the bang but the whimper. They were at a standstill, half in and half out of the water, poised on the slipway. Boysie slid his hatch open, leaned out and took a lungful of air.
‘Come on Pet, I’ll help you down.’
They had to climb into a good four feet of water. At the top of the slipway stood the two blond gentlemen with whom Boysie had crossed swords at the Madonna Del Sasso. Neither looked happy at the reunion. Both wore similar blue denim suits. One had a bandaged head, the other a plaster cast on his right arm. The swordsticks were not in evidence. Instead they held Mauser automatics. They advanced down the slipway towards Boysie and Petronella, a single intention in their eyes.
‘Now look, fellows,’ said Boysie, pushing an invisible wall away from him with the flat of his hands as he came up from the lake. ‘Look ...’ He stumped and slid back into the water, getting a mouthful. He spat and gave a tired sigh. ‘Aw heck. Look, take me to your leader, huh?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TANGERINE WHATSITS: ISOLE DI BRISSAGO
LARGE pips of pain bombarded Martin’s right knee cap. He tried to be fatalistic about it. After all, one could not deny the power of that kneecap. It had yet to be proved wrong. Just like his mother, he thought. Only she told you when it was going to rain. Rheumatic twinges in the left elbow she got. Infallible. But this was not merely a case of rain. Rarely had the knee been so bad. This would be the full donner und blitz. The 1812 with the guns and bells. The real Strudel.
There had been delays all the way. First, the wait at London Airport, then a further hanging around in Zürich. It was nine-thirty in the morning before Martin finally walked into the elaborate foyer of the Palmira—a little plush for Martin’s bedsitterish tastes. He signed the registration form with a nervous flourish.
‘Ah. Mr Martin.’ The gangling concierge discreetly peeped at the signature. ‘There is a cable for you.’
Until then the pain had just niggled. This was the moment of its full flowering.
The cable said:
HEAD OFFICE SUGGEST I JOIN YOU STOP HAVE ARRANGED HEL FLIGHT SPECIAL CHA 14 ARRIVING MONTE CENERI NOON STOP REQUEST MEET ME PREFERABLY WITH OUR LIQUID SAMPLE STOP UNCLE STOP
Mostyn was on his way. Martin had to meet him at the airport with Boysie. He crumpled the telegram into his pocket. The sober, dark blue Galashiels Homespun felt conspicuous, out of place with the spring sun beaming down like a mad thing.
‘Room 234, Mr Martin. The boy will look after your baggage. We hope you have a good stay.’
‘I believe there’s a friend of mine staying here.’
‘Sir?’ pleased and helpful, the concierge was the Swiss ideal—gleaming quiet comfort and service, from the polished shoes to the shining crossed keys on his lapels.
‘Mr Oakes. Brian Oakes. Brian Ian Oakes.’
The concierge’s face underwent a mild, just detectable, change. Normally it would have gone unnoticed, but Martin—formerly a trained, though dull, journalist—was quick with these things.
‘There’s something wrong?’
‘Oh no, sir.’ Very quick. ‘Mr Oakes is a guest in the hotel.’
‘His room number?’ Eyebrows raised questioningly.
Embarrassment. ‘Room 472. But you will not find him there, Mr Martin. He has gone out.
’
‘Out?’
‘Out.’
‘You expect him back?’
The concierge spread his hands wide. Then, confidentially: ‘You are a close friend?’
Martin did his famous omnipotent move—eighty per cent smile, twenty per cent laugh. It suggested that he knew everything, from all angles. ‘As close as a brother.’
Boysie had been out on the previous afternoon, Martin had learned that in Mostyn’s office. He was worried.
‘When did he leave?’
‘That is the point, sir. He left yesterday afternoon.’
Another flair of pain.
‘Well?’
‘Well, sir.’ The concierge, doing an inverted version of Martin’s move—eighty per cent laugh and twenty per cent smile.
‘There was a young woman.’ As if that explained the whole kibbutz.
‘Do I know her?’
The concierge shrugged and remained silent.
‘Try me.’
‘It was a Miss Whitching.’ He pronounced it Wee Ching. Could have been Chinese. ‘Miss Petronella Whitching.’ Accenting the ‘on’ in Petronella. ‘She is also a guest and ...’
‘She has not returned either.’
The concierge nodded. Big knowing nods.
Martin wagged his head in irritated understanding.
‘It’s important that I find him quickly.’ He gave the impression of a reward. ‘We work for the same firm. Did he call anyone yesterday?’
‘I don’t think ... Yes. Yes, sir, he did. He called the Muralo—the little hotel down the road.’
Martin had seen the Muralo on his way from the station. It was nearly as big as the Palmira.
‘Anyone in particular, or just a friendly word to all the guests?’
‘Huh.’ Such a good sense of humour the English. ‘I am trying to remember. I put the call through for him. It was to a Mr Gold ... Gold ...’
‘Finger?’ said Martin with some alarm.
‘No-no-no.’ Searching the memory. ‘Gold ... blat. Mr Goldblat.’
‘Would you like to get him for me? On the telephone.’
‘I’ll have it put through to your room, sir.’
Martin smiled affably. ‘See you later then.’
‘Not me, sir. I have a two-day holiday now. For the weekend I go away.’
Martin fumbled for his folding francs.
‘Mr Goldblat?’ Martin’s call came through within seconds of the door closing behind the departing bellboy.
‘Goldbat ‘ere. That you agin, Mr Oakes?’
The voice, Martin thought, identified Goldblat as one of proletarian origin.
‘No actually it isn’t. I wonder if he was with you.’
‘What? Oakes?’ Wary.
‘Yes.’
‘‘E’s not with me, chum. No. You a friend of ‘is then?’
‘A friend, yes. A friend and colleague. We work for the same firm.’
‘Ah, well I can’t help you Mr ... er ...?’
‘Martin. You know Oakes well?’
‘No, not really. Acquaintance like. Sorry I can’t ‘elp, Mr Martin.’
Martin could almost see the receiver poised over the rests.
‘Look, Mr Goldblat, don’t hang up. This is rather important. You’ve no idea where he’s gone? Seems to have disappeared.’
At the other end, Griffin tried to hedge. He liked Oakes. ‘Tell yer what. ‘E was out with a bird yesterday.’
‘I know that.’
‘Ah. Then ‘e was going off to some snobby birds’ finishin’ school.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. Picked up with ‘im on the train comin’ down ‘ere. We was goin’ out for a bit of a booze last night, then ‘e rung me and said as ‘ow ‘e ‘ad to go off to this birds’ finishing place. For smart birds it was,’ lied Griffin, with a gloss finish.
Martin was stuck. ‘You staying on long, Mr Goldbat. I’d like to have a talk.’
‘Couple of days.’
‘I’ll be in touch. If that’s all right?’
‘Yer. Yer. You do that.’
Martin burbled his thanks and put down the telephone. Up the road at the Muralo Giffin thought it was about time to do something—like getting back to London, or something.
Mostyn was in an ugly mood. He kept offering snide advice to Martin who was at the wheel of the Rent-A-Car Merc 230SL.
‘Just watch it, old Martin. Don’t want you to be involved in a road incident do we?’
‘No, sir.’ He was still getting the feel of the car—and of driving on what, to him, would always be the wrong side of the road.
‘Grief,’ said Mostyn with over emphasis as they shaved a cyclist—a girl, trying to manage the bicycle with one hand and her skirt with the other. ‘She’d’ve looked nice sprayed silver on the bonnet.’
Martin negotiated a long bend around which two motor coaches seemed to be doing a ton. When they reached a straight stretch, coming into the outskirts of Locarno, Mostyn got back to the matter in hand.
‘You didn’t visit this Goldblat?’
‘Didn’t have time. What with being late, and your cable, and hiring the car. It’s a long drive out to Monte Ceneri. We can stop in at the Muralo on our way to Brissago if you like.’
Mostyn looked at his watch. ‘No time now. Better get straight out there and see what’s cooking.’
They plunged into the more dense traffic crawling through Locarno. Mostyn changed his tactics.
‘The old firm, eh?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘The old firm. Mostyn and Martin.’
‘Oh yes, sir.’ Without thinking, ‘And Boysie.’
‘Yes.’ Mostyn’s face hardened to the texture of flint. ‘Yes, and Boysie.’ The vocal pitch would have satisfied any devotee of the Theatre of Cruelty. ‘Bloody Boysie Oakes.’
They were passing the bus station and depot for the Centovalli Railway—the long blue and white coaches bearing, on each side, the initials FART.
‘B ... O ...’ said Mostyn.
*
‘B ... O ...’ Breathed Boysie in a hollow whisper, like the television ad. He was lying on his back examining the lighter which, with his cigarettes, had been returned to him. Under the circumstances Klara had shown a great deal of restraint. Cool, but ready to listen. After she had heard Boysie’s side of the story she picked up the telephone.
‘Angela? Where’s Ingrid?’
Boysie could hear the yackity noise of the female voice at the other end, floating across the desk from the earpiece.
‘Good. Take two of the girls and put her under close arrest. Be careful. She may be armed; she may resist. Treat her as an enemy.’
Surprise sounds from Angela.
‘Now. This instant. Just do as I say, then take her along to number four cubical and wait until I send for you.’
She looked over the desk at Boysie, whose attention was dis-tracted for a moment by Hector banging his revolting hairy front legs against the glass door of his home. Though the nest was a good six feet away, Boysie cringed. The legs made a phdump-dump sound on the glass. Klara smiled.
‘That does not mean I am convinced, but I have to play it safe. You understand, Boysie?’
Boysie wagged his head—enthusiastically, like a pleased puppy.
‘You will be looked after with care and consideration but, I’m afraid, under maximum security. Now I will talk with the unfortunate Miss Whitching.’
The two blond men—who were called Cyril and Frederick—took him off through the underlake maze, stood over him while he bathed, shaved (gear provided by Il Portone) and dressed. His own clothes—the ones he had been wearing before the Madonna Del Sasso incident—were waiting for him: cleaned, pressed and with the small rent, made by Cyril’s sword blade, invisibly mended. Back along the corridors to the cells.
‘Doctor Thirel said to give you these,’ lisped Frederick. With all that talent around it was not surprising that Klara’s strong arm couple were screamin
g queers. He took the offered cigarettes, watch and lighter, and walked into the cell. Ten minutes later Angela came in bearing a tray—coffee, eggs, bacon, toast and Keiller’s Dundee marmalade. The girl looked flushed and worried.
Smiling half-heartedly, she put down the tray. ‘A real English breakfast.’
‘No kidneys in a silver dish and people in white trousers sauntering in saying “Anyone for tennis?” Don’t think I’ll bother,’ said Boysie briskly.
Angela managed a laugh.
‘Stay and keep me company.’ Boysie patted the bed on which he was lying.
‘Some other time.’ She was off through the door. Two other Seniors hovered outside. One carried a sub-machine gun. Klara was not going to take any chances this time. Boysie looked at his breakfast and the gastric juices bubbled. An hour later he was replete and asleep.
His watch showed five minutes past one when he woke, but it was impossible to tell whether it was afternoon, or if he had slept right through the day and into the next. Boysie lit a cigarette, coughed a little, stretched back on the bed and examined the lighter.
‘B ... O ...’ He breathed. Should really have had his full initials engraved on the Windmaster. Just BO was not really his right style. It left him open to rude and vulgar comment. BIO—for Brian Ian Oakes—would have been better. Years ago, at school, he had BIO over everything. Even looked it up in the dictionary and committed it to memory—it seemed to suit him: ‘Bio—prefix. (Course of) life of, concerning, organic life.’ Boysie’s mind, being what it was, the word ‘organic’ took him straight on to ‘orgasm’. Hands shaking. Ageless instincts. He sighed. It was not that he was promiscuous. Mentally he was not promiscuous. He just needed a lot of love—especially when under strain. The absurd life into which he had stumbled made it absolutely necessary. A woman one liked, even loved a little; who would react like a dancing partner; there had to be give and take; it had to be mutual in order to make that cocoon of warmth, safety, contact and pleasure. The way Mostyn talked about it you would think the whole business was dirty. It was obvious what kind of man Mostyn was. Like a bull. ‘Wham-wham thank you ma’am,’ and away. A taker. Nothing of a giver about Mostyn. Boysie’s body was disturbed.