by John Gardner
“What does that do?” asked Snowflake Brightwater indicating the Ramp Veyor.
“Saves airline companies employing a lot of guys to do the loading and unloading. You bring the baggage up in trucks. You have a couple of men loading the baggage onto the Ramp Veyor. When you set it going you get an endless belt …”
“There’s an answer to that.”
“An endless belt which carries the baggage up to the cargo hold where you have a couple of guys to off-load and stack it. Okay?”
She nodded. “Puts an end to all that humping.”
It was an odd sensation to be alone in the aircraft. Normally you associate the cabins of stationary jet airliners with those moments of pre-takeoff stress: stuffed full of people, nippy hostesses being nimble with your hand baggage or telling you to sit down and fasten your seat belt: soothing piano and strings on tape to keep you cool.
They went up front, took a look on the boggling flight deck, peeped into the galley, crew rest area, forward loo, then walked up to the rear. Row upon row of empty seats. Tomorrow, Air Apparent’s passengers would be filling the seats and the Boeing would be occupying air space to Africa. Dicing it to the dark continent, thought Boysie who did not like aeroplanes even when they were on the ground and unlikely to move anywhere.
They looked into the rear loo and walked forward again, the aisle floor rocking, minutely unstable, under them. Half way down Snowflake Brightwater bent to squint out of one side of the oval windows on the starboard side.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “We’ve got company.”
Boysie crouched behind her. From the window he could see a big red fuel bowser moving, almost cautiously, alongside the aircraft.
“Keep back and down,” whispered Boysie, sliding into the outside seat and placing himself for a good view.
The bowser stopped and began to reverse. It was backing directly towards the Ramp Veyor.
“That man said it had been fuelled.” Snowflake turned.
“Sshsh, and keep well back.”
The rear of the bowser was now almost over the Ramp Veyor. It stopped and four men jumped down from the cab, taking their time. Two of the men climbed up the Ramp Veyor into the cargo hold. The aircraft gave a tiny movement: a worried tremor. One of the remaining men was still standing by the cab looking around. Boysie lowered himself and stared out into the blackness which lay beyond the light illuminating, the apron and parkway. Nobody in the terminal building would be able to see the bowser which was also shielded from the rest of the airfield by the Air India 707.
The man by the cab went round to the rear of the bowser and joined his partner who was fiddling with the stopcocks. They caught hold of one of the hand grips and pulled. Half of the rear swung away. The rear of the bowser was constructed so that it formed a pair of heavy double doors.
They could hear muffled conversation from below. Then the whine as one of them started up the Ramp Veyor. The two men on the ground climbed up and into the open hatch of the bowser. One of them now reappeared, jumping to the ground and assisting his mate with a long, coffin-like box. They unloaded the box from the bowser and placed it gently onto the Ramp Veyor where it was carried up out of sight inside the cargo hold.
The aircraft gave another gentle shudder as the pair of loaders in the cargo hold began to handle the box. By the time they had completed their job there was another box on its way up the Ramp Veyor.
The boxes were made of wood: stout, around five feet long. Medium sized coffins with rough rope carrying handles at each end. Boysie had only seen boxes like that used for one purpose: packaging rifles and similar weapons.
The team worked for around three-quarters of an hour, loading some forty boxes, followed by a number of smaller, more square boxes.
Finally the whine of the Ramp Veyor stopped. The pair came out from the cargo hold and began to uncouple the Ramp Veyor. From the noises Boysie guessed they were closing the cargo hold door. The other men had shut the doors at the back of the bowser and one of them disappeared out of sight under the aircraft.
Boysie heard the footfalls on the gangway steps.
“Quickly, and as quietly as you can. The rear loo,” he whispered.
Snowflake followed him up the aisle and by the time the loader arrived on board, they were jammed tight together in the narrow rear lavatory, the door partially open.
The intruder walked the length of the aircraft and came to a halt outside the lavatory door. They could hear his breathing, and Boysie was conscious that he was holding his own breath, Diamondback out and ready in his right hand. Snowflake Brightwater’s face betrayed terror. Boysie’s little finger to his lips.
The man stood still for around half a minute, then began to walk back to the front of the aircraft. They heard him go right forward onto the flight deck before leaving the way he had come.
They waited for a couple of minutes before coming out of the lavatory. A quick glance from the starboard windows showed that the bowser had gone.
You take no chances in a situation like this. It was conceivable that one of the men was still there, on the ground below.
Boysie motioned Snowflake to stay where she was. Still clutching the Diamondback, safety catch off, he walked quietly to the front of the aircraft and stood in the doorway for a moment before descending. There did not seem to be anybody near the aircraft. Boysie circled the machine. The cargo door was closed and the Ramp Veyor stood a little away from the aircraft. Everything else was normal.
*
Boysie was red with anger. It was as though the whole of his mind and brain was suffused with a violent crimson fury. Snowflake Brightwater drove; and they had hardly exchanged a word since getting into the car.
Mostyn was all Boysie could think of in the centre of the crimson whirlwind: hurricane red with Mostyn as the eye. There was no doubt in Boysie’s mind or heart. Mostyn’s game was illegal arms dealing and Air Apparent simply operated as a means of moving weapons out of the country. If something went wrong, Boysie Oakes, king of the airline pirates, would face not only the civil actions rising from the intricate running of Air Apparent, but also the criminal charges of smuggling illegal arms.
The fire within cooled to ice as he thought about the complexity of the operation. The weapons and ammunition had to be brought to some central point; they had to be loaded into the bowser; the bowser had to get to the aircraft. There would be bribes and fiddles. At any point in the chain a link could break, and who would be the one to be dropped straight into the fertiliser? Joseph Mugging Oakes, and on that day he would not be wearing his brown suit.
“Did those boxes contain what I think?” asked Snowflake Brightwater.
“It depends what you think they contained.”
“Automatic rifles, machine guns, sub-machine guns, pistols, revolvers, grenades and the wherewithal to use such things.”
“Yes.” Curtly.
“And we report this to our superiors?”
“You report it to Frobisher. You also say to him that I want out now, this minute. Sooner. I don’t want to take the responsibility.”
“He won’t like that.”
“I don’t suppose he will, but I am taking an independent action, and I do not wish to be associated with Air Apparent any longer. Finished, paid off, closed. I wish my quietus to make with Air bloody Apparent. Pig Dung.”
“What?”
“A vulgarism used in my youth instead of the expletive shit.”
“Oh I see.”
Snowflake Brightwater dropped Boysie at his flat. She said that she was anxious to get on and make the report as quickly as possible.
Inside, he emptied his pockets and stared at the assorted objects. All my danger man gear, he thought. Aloud he muttered. “Dad, old Dad, what would you have done?”
Danger man, Christ I was scared when that geezer came on board.
He dialled Griffin’s number.
“You busy?” he asked curtly when Griffin came on the line.
“Tr
ade’s terrible, Mr Oakes. Must be the credit squeeze still biting.”
“I might have some work for you.”
“I’m sure we’ll give you every satisfaction.” Griffin brightened.
“You’ll be dead satisfactory.” He gave Griffin his new address. “Six tomorrow evening?”
“Well, now, Mr Oakes, I don’t usually like meeting people in a confined space.”
“Come off it, Charlie. After all we’ve been through together.”
“Very well. Six o’clock tomorrow.”
*
An hour later Boysie was in bed with one of Frederick H. Christian’s Sudden books and friend Sudden was sure getting stuck in: he had hornswoggled that pesky dude mine owner and shot up a couple of outlaws who were planning to rob the stage. Now Sudden dealt a bit of rough justice to those no good brothers who were out after getting their hands on the clean-limbed, hard-working rancher’s land. Boysie liked Westerns. He could get involved without getting hurt.
The telephone bleated.
“Yip?”
“Boysie darling.”
“Snowflake angel.”
“You sound in a better humour than when I left you.”
“Yes, well I’m working on it.”
“You were most grouchy and there I was all frightened. It’s no fun to be locked in an aeroplane loo with some maniac wandering around.”
“I know. I was there.”
“My hero. I have messages for you.”
“From the Trinity?”
“All three. Very heavy messages, Boysie. You are to do nothing of your own accord. They say that would be fatal. Mr Pesterlicker stressed the word fatal.”
“You still there, my sweet?” asked Snowflake Brightwater.
“Palpitating,” replied Boysie truthfully.
“They also said I was to tell you not to worry. You are to do anything your man tells you without question, and you must show him no animosity. You will carry no blame.”
“It’s all very well them saying that.”
“You can see them and get their confirmation in person if you wish.”
“I do not wish.”
“I do wish I was with you.”
“Yes,” Boysie reflected.
“What are you doing?”
“I told you. Palpitating.”
“Yes, but where?”
“In bed.”
“Oh, my. Palpitating in bed. Do you think we might palpitate in bed in the very near future?”
“I’m certain of it,” grinned Boysie.
*
The farce at Victoria Coach Station was as bad as before. Worse if anything, for they got entangled with a girls’ school on a day trip, shepherded by penguin nuns with no sense of direction.
A bald-headed man, aching to be on his way to Africa, found himself back in the Lower Fifth, while two maiden ladies, travelling to meet their long lost brother in Johannesburg, were almost swept into eternal virginity within the Order of Saint Martha Without Broom.
Boysie caught sight of Snowflake Brightwater at Gatwick, but they had agreed not to have any contact. She appeared to be lurking with considerable effect.
The red anger returned as Boysie watched the 707 rise gracefully into its native air leaving thin dark trails behind. He thought of what he knew was on board: the fact that he was carrying a weapon for his personal protection did not seem to make any difference. The stuff on that aircraft was for disruption, revolt, violence, rebellion. That was the only reason you smuggled arms and weapons. Weapons spoke a special language. Universal. The language of death and disease and famine.
He thought of Mostyn and how he hated the strumming evil that throbbed in the man. Mostyn and his superior manner intimidated people. Now he was adding to his gallery of nastiness, for the weapons would intimidate far better than Mostyn and his slippery ways.
He thought of Pesterlicker and Colefax and wondered what they were really about. He also wondered, for the umpteenth time, if he could trust them.
He thought about his father, and Boysie’s determination became stronger.
He thought about Snowflake Brightwater and just wondered.
He thought about Charlie Griffin and recalled that he had a meeting with him that evening.
*
Charles Griffin was a nondescript man: thin faced, wearing glasses. To the outside world he looked faded. You would not have taken a second look at him. This was an asset to Griffin. He knew it and liked to keep it that way.
He rang Boysie’s bell precisely on the dot of six.
“Dead on time.” Boysie opened the door.
“We all will be, Mr Oakes. That is for certain. When our time comes it will be accurate. Trust in it.”
“I do, I do. Have a drink?” He ushered Griffin inside and took the light raincoat.
Griffin stared about him rubbing his hands. “I don’t mind if I do, Mr Oakes. Don’t mind if I do at all. A spot of rum if you happen …”
“Yes I have rum. Good black rum from the Caribbean.”
“Nelson’s blood.” Griffin smiled benignly. “Always partial to a spot of rum. When I was in the undertaking trade we always had it during the winter: after the interment of course. Never drank before. Always best to be steady, grave and sober, though I did hear of one time when a parson turned up well seasoned for an interment. Fell into the grave and climbed out making blasphemous comments about the doctrine of the Resurrection. Not good. Nice little drum you got here.”
“Not as good as some we’ve known, Mr Griffin. Cheers.”
They saluted each other with alcohol, and Boysie offered Griffin a chair. When Griffin was settled, Boysie took the chair opposite.
They smiled at each other.
“Come on now, Mr Oakes, we’ve known each other a long time. What’s on your mind? Or should I say who’s on your mind? If you’ll excuse my little joke.”
“Know anything about illegal arms dealing?”
The smile dropped from Griffin’s face. “Now Mr Oakes, have a care. That’s not a nice business.”
“I know. But I’m still asking, because you know a lot of people.”
“I know it goes on. I know how some of it is done. But I know nothing if you follow me. I regard arms smuggling in much the same way as I regard the White Slave Trade.”
“But there isn’t a White Slave Trade any more. Or a black one come to that.”
“You would be surprised.” Griffin laid a bony finger alongside his nose.
“You’re against it anyway?” One had to be precise with Griffin—it was all part of the business.
“Absolutely.”
“Then you’d not be adverse to taking on a small contract to deal with someone who’s been at it?”
“Delighted. Just supply me with the details.”
“Mostyn,” said Boysie with venom.
Griffin’s jaw dropped in a spectacular manner. “Never.”
“Mostyn,” repeated Boysie.
“Now look here, Mr Oakes, you know my rules. We’ve both worked for Mr Mostyn in the past. Been colleagues. I never terminate former colleagues, you know that.”
“I know, but I wondered in this case …?”
Griffin wrapped himself in thought. “The evidence would have to be pretty conclusive.”
“I’ll provide the evidence.”
“Once I have considered the evidence then I will give it my attention.”
“That’s all I need to know, Mr Griffin. There will be another as well.”
“Two?” Griffin raised his eyebrows. “Who’s the second?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ah. It’s always better to know.”
“I get that information from Mostyn so I can’t let you do Mostyn until I know.”
“A very complicated situation, Mr Oakes, but I’ll do my best to oblige.”
Griffin left around seven o’clock. Griffin never overstayed his welcome.
Snowflake Brightwater telephoned at seven thirty. “Have you tim
e for a quiet and private téte à téte?” she asked.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” said Boysie who had shaved with care and anointed his jowls with the pungent spices of Aramis.
“I wish to talk business, but that will not take too long,” purred Snowflake Brightwater. “As they say, all work and all that.”
When he arrived at the flat she was wearing the long white gown made up of many layers of diaphanous material: the gown with which she had covered her body on the night of Boysie, the brandy and the Micky Finn.
“You looked lovely at the airport.”
“I thought you hadn’t noticed. You looked nice as well. I love your flat cap. Most official and avant-garde.”
“I shall wear it at fancy dress parties when I go as a British Rail avant guard. Now what’s the business?”
“I took some very pretty pictures.” Snowflake crossed the room and returned with a photograph and a book. “The tricky trio are in possession of most of the prints, but I kept one specially for us. This,” she held out a colour print, “is Peter Suffix: the person Frobisher and his friends are so agitated about.”
Boysie took the photograph. The man was leaning forward over a check-in desk and Snowflake had got him from head to waist, full face. He looked tall, the face bronzed and he was wearing a denim battledress jacket with a coloured scarf in the neck. A silver medallion hung from a thin chain around the neck.
Boysie scowled. The features were familiar.
“Suffix,” repeated Snowflake Brightwater. “You recall him now?”
“I know the face and the name but I can’t …”
“He got a lot of publicity in the sixties. Much mud-throwing. He even wrote a book.” She held up the copy in her hand: The Mercenaries of Europe by Colonel Peter Suffix.
“Of course. I saw him on television once. We had a file on him in the old department. Christ, he was once a possible target.” He clamped his mouth shut. “I never said that. I just contravened the Official Secrets Act.”
Snowflake Brightwater snapped a smile on and off: quick as a kingfisher in August. She tapped the dust jacket of The Mercenaries of Europe. The jacket design consisted of dark black and red swirls, clouds: a fire in the wake of bombs. In the centre was a black drawing, a cobra with its head raised spitting fire. She tapped the cobra. “That’s Suffix’s personal device. Men serving under him wear it as a flash on their sleeves. If you look at that photograph through a magnifying glass you’ll see he’s got it on the locket round his neck.”