by John Gardner
‘Let’s get one thing straight.’ I slid a cigarette between my lips and flicked the gold lighter I’d bought myself for Christmas. ‘Is this really in the national interest?’
Control’s eyebrows rose about a centimetre and I flicked the lighter again. Harder.
‘In the national interest? Couldn’t be more so, old Upsdale, couldn’t be more so.’
On the third flick the flame arrived and I lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. The fit of coughing which followed held up conversation for several minutes.
‘I thought you said you’d got him fit?’ Control looked at Hester.
‘Miracles you want?’ She hunched her shoulders. ‘Hopper does his best but time is against us.’
‘If it really is in the national interest then I feel I should put myself at your disposal.’
‘Disposal,’ repeated Control’s shadow. The word took on an unpleasant connotation.
Control looked wearily at him. ‘Dear boy...would you bring in the bags.’
The dear boy grinned and nodded enthusiastically.
‘Glad to see that you’ve begun to take it all seriously, Upsdale. Those who are not with us are against us. I’m sure you understand that; it’s part of the rules.’
In my Gascoigne pose I decided I would give him enough rope with which to top himself. Let him shoot his mouth off. That way I would get to hear what the plot was about. Control’s hired help had left the room.
‘Haven’t seen him before.’ Hester made the observation sound a shade obscene. ‘Is he new?’
Control spluttered. ‘Old as the hills. But he’s rather special.’
‘Rugged,’ said Hester. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Call him Brian. It’ll make a change.’ Control sniffed, dabbing at his small nose with a white silk square. I wondered how a dandy little man like this could get a job which carried so much responsibility.
Brian returned weighed down with two pieces of luggage: a slim green suitcase, the kind you see in all the ads about travelling light and going to far away places. The other was a battered old Revelation bound round with leather straps: it looked like something one would have taken on the Orient Express in its heyday. He dumped the cases in the middle of the room and looked at me in the manner of a famished buzzard.
‘Yours is the heavy one, chum.’
‘I might have known.’ Already I was off on the exotic old train, dressed in my long 1920s overcoat and the wide-bottomed trousers with turnups designed to collect six tons of dust. There was this darling girl in black with the pill-box hat and net veil the colour of whose cami-knickers I would discover before we had covered the first two hundred miles.
She was obviously in distress because there was this suave bloke keeping an eye on her compartment. Come to think of it she looked not unlike Claudette Colbert. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window, as we rattled over unfamiliar countryside, and I definitely had a touch of the Ray Millands. The scent of railway smoke and Gauloises in the nostrils, the sting of adventure, the lights of Europe again on the brink of going out if I did not get the papers back to our Embassy by the end of the week.
Frontier control. Claudette and I exchanged knowing glances across the cases. The burly customs men.
‘Open them up.’ Control was getting pushy. We were still there in the drawing-room and not on the Orient Express but I could not really work out which was the fantasy. Possibly I had been exchanging knowing looks with Hester. This was almost certainly the way to play it. Retreat fully into a fantasy world and refuse to believe anything.
Brian fumbled with the straps and, finally got the Revelation open. Inside it looked like someone had crammed the thing full of last week’s laundry. I might have packed it myself.
‘Your style?’ asked Control, his permanent sneer becoming more pronounced.
I ignored him and waited for the other case to be opened. Inside multicoloured feminine fripperies lay beautifully pressed and folded.
‘And your style, I think, my dear.’ Control smarmed at Hester who flashed teeth in all directions. ‘Let’s have the exhibits out then.’
Brian delved into my case and removed a Remington cordless shaver, standing it to one side. It was followed by an unopened bottle of Seagram’s VO Canadian whisky. To these two objects he added the straps of the case, before turning his attention to Hester’s luggage.
‘Watch carefully.’ Brian shot his cuffs and demonstrated that his hands were empty. ‘Nothing up my sleeves but the maker’s name.’ His fingers slid along the inside front edge of the case and came to rest on one of the tiny studs which held the lining in place. ‘Depress the third stud from the right at the same time flick the lock spring below it four times.’ He did just that. ‘And presto.’ A panel, almost the length of the inside edge of the case, shot forward revealing a long hank of neatly coiled nylon rope.
‘Devilishly ingenious.’ Hester spoke without humour then looked across at me. ‘I told you so. All the tricks and gimmicks.’
‘Fun of the fair.’ Control beamed.
‘It’s always me,’ Hester continued whining a trifle. ‘There was the hollow tooth bit, then we had exploding lipstick, the powder compact transmitter and the camera in my Tampax. Always me. Just because I’m a bird they get these weird ideas. Rex, I had a most unpleasant rash for three weeks once just because they invented a new method of carrying microfilm. Now what’ve we got? A trick suitcase full of old rope. My mother would go hairless. She thinks I’ve got a good respectable job with a kosher travel agent.’
‘I thought you were dedicated.’
‘I am, but one has to keep up one’s image with the bosses.’
‘All right. Work.’ Control tossed a pair of thick manila envelopes on to the floor with the other gear. ‘Sort those out later. Your tickets, authority, National Union of Journalists cards, assorted cover letters and passports. You leave from Heathrow at 10.50 tomorrow. Flight BE 910. Tourist class. Arrive Moscow 16.15.’
Tomorrow. Wednesday. It was all a shade too fast and sounded sewn up with zips on it. For a minute or two I returned to the Orient Express to see how things were turning out there. Not too bad as it happened. I had persuaded Claudette to dine with me. The lovely old Pullman car with the padded seats and large tables. Little shaded lights reflected in the windows, black with the night of foreign. affairs. The waiters were attentive, silver shone and an amalgam of subtle smells hung on the air.
Control broke it up.
‘Like everybody else you will be under the auspices of Intourist.’
‘Lovely people,’ said Hester.
Control lifted a hand for silence. ‘However, we have seen to it that our man with Intourist has made all the necessary arrangements.’
Like hot and cold running samovars, I thought.
‘The Embassy PR boys know you are coming to interview Styles but, of course, only Freezer has been put in the picture regarding the full extent of the mission.’
‘Who the hell’s Freezer?’
‘The code tally for the Department’s man in the British Embassy, Moscow.’ Brian was bored.
‘You will be staying at the Hotel Ukraine, Moscow’s answer to the London Hilton.’
‘They never even heard the question,’ muttered Hester.
‘Your rooms will be on the fourth floor rear. Four-ought-seven and Four-ought-nine.’
‘You bet mine’s Four-ought-nine.’ Hester again. ‘Added together it makes thirteen.’
‘Right. Upsdale will be in Four-ought-seven and that is where the interview is scheduled to take place.’
‘Just like that,’ I observed to Claudette over the fish course.
‘Yes, just like that.’ Control gave a firm nod. ‘We don’t leave much to chance. Doubtless the authorities will be in touch, but the meeting will take place on Thursday evening at nine o’clock. Styles will come to your room, Upsdale. No formalities. No watchdogs. Hester, who is an expert, will take care of the bugs...’
‘Makes me
sound like a delousing station.’
‘If there are any. You will treat Styles with courtesy and care. You will begin to interview him quite normally.’ Control paused, stood up and walked over to the grouped articles which Brian had taken from the cases. ‘Only after you have established some kind of rapport will you offer him a drink.’
‘He likes Seagram’s?’
‘It is as mother’s milk to him.’ Control’s face took on a satisfied glow. ‘And you cannot get the stuff for love nor money in Moscow. On arrival, Upsdale, you will pour a little of the liquid from the bottle. You will do the same on the second morning so that it is about half full when Styles arrives. On no account will you drink it.’
‘Why?’ I felt sullen and wanted to get back to Claudette.
‘Because it’s spiked.’
‘A little Michael Finn.’
‘A big Michael Finn. Enough to send him night-nights for a couple of hours.’
‘And leave him vague and confused for several,’ added Brian.
Control did not even look at him. ‘You can pour drinks for three, but for heaven’s sake make certain he gets his down without you having to drink any.’
‘That’s a pretty obvious order.’ Hester, I noticed, was still showing a lot of her thighs.
‘It’s a pretty obvious way of rendering Styles unconscious.’ So Control had a sense of humour.
‘And I suppose once he’s unconscious we carry him downstairs, arms over our shoulders, pretending he’s drunk like they used to do in all the 1930s movies.’
Hester picked up where I left off. ‘Into a fast car and the mad dash to the frontier. Over and a code message to London. The style is changed.’
Wearily, Control contemplated his finger nails. ‘Much more ingenious than that. Show them, Brian.’
Brian, the big lug, began to do things with the luggage straps from my Revelation. It appeared that, if connected together in sequence, they made up a stout harness.
‘The thick one goes round Styles’s waist. These two loop over crosswise and can be adjusted back and front.’ He explained. ‘Hester’s an expert on knots. The nylon rope must be secured where the straps cross at the back.’
‘And all you have to do,’ Control pulled himself up to his full five feet one, ‘is lower him from your window to the floor below. To room Three-ought-seven.’
‘And who’s going to be there?’ You could not blame me for sounding incredulous. ‘Matt Helm, Callan or Napoleon Solo?’
Brian and Control exchanged furtive squints. When Control spoke it was smooth but tacky, like phlegm. ‘Shall we say a couple of our best operatives?’
‘Come on. Let’s hear it.’
‘Ever come across James George Mostyn and Boysie Oakes?’
‘Can’t we be serious?’
‘I am being serious, Mostyn and Boysie will be in Three-ought-seven all rarin’ to go.’
‘Boysie Oakes is a fictional character.’
Control gave me a flash of the pearlies. ‘Careful, laddie. Some people have said that about the Prime Minister. B. Oakes is alive and well and living in...well he’s living there.’
‘And Mostyn?’
‘And Mostyn. Have no fears, they will be there and they will take over from you.’
I was not winning. ‘Won’t there be a...?’
‘Furore?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of enormous proportions I should imagine.’
‘What happens to me?’
Control leaned forward, an attitude of some menace.
‘Where’s your chivalry, Upsdale? What about the fair Hester?’
‘My chivalry’s where it always was: packed away with my armour, a couple of old shields and my best jousting lance. As for the fair Hester she never lets up on the fact that she’s a professional in this game so I reckon she can look after herself. Me, I’ve been press-ganged.’
‘Temper, temper,’ muttered Brian.
‘My hero,’ commented Hester with no particular fervour.
‘Well it’s true isn’t it?’
No reply.
‘I think that’s all.’ Control got to his feet. ‘Pack the bags, Brian.’
‘What’s the Remington shaver for?’ Ha-ha, I had him there.
‘It’s one of our standard tape recorders. Hester, being a professional, knows how to use it and when. Go to your room.’
I went. Ten minutes later Brian appeared.
‘Nearly time to go.’ Grinning like a mail box. ‘Don’t bother about Control, he just acts tough. Bit of a shit really. Turn out your pockets.’
‘Why?’
‘Got to make sure you’re not going to break your cover.’
‘Break my cover. You’re all a bit nifty with the jargon aren’t you?’
‘Got to keep up the old image.’
‘Anyway I haven’t got a cover to break. I’m just a writer who’s going over to interview Styles. All above board.’
‘Nevertheless.’ Brian made signs that he wanted to see what was hidden on my person. I had almost forgotten about the envelope with the tickets and documents. Automatically I reached for it.
‘After you’ve turned out your pockets,’ soothed Brian.
I began to toss things on to the table. Wallet. Three unpaid bills. Handkerchief. Keys. Brian went through the wallet, removed a couple of photographs which I had taken during the days of wine and roses and handed it back to me. He also passed over the handkerchief and keys. The bills he kept.
‘Before you leave Heathrow, spread the stuff Control’s provided through your pockets.’ He indicated the envelope.
‘Any other helpful hints?’
‘Do as you’re told and all will be well.’
‘Don’t I get a code manual and a gun?’
‘What do you want a gun for?’
‘Shooting my way out.’
‘Nowadays you talk your way out.’
‘That makes me feel very happy.’
‘It should, you’re a bloody intellectual.’ He sounded as though he had a chip on his shoulder. I decided to probe.
‘Me? Don’t be a twit. I write thick-ear spy yarns as they say in the trade.’
‘Yes, well that’s better than just being used as extra muscle all the time.’
‘They use you as extra muscle?’
‘I know. Say it. They must need their heads examining. Me I’m a punch bag, a bloody neurotic punch bag. Get your skates on, we’ve got a helicopter ride down to Northolt.’
Nobody talked much in the chopper. This was mainly due, in my case, to acute terror and the ear-splitting noise of the rotors. I returned to the Orient Express.
Dinner was over and Claudette was making come-to-my-compartment signs. When you looked at her full face you could see that she was not really Claudette Colbert. She just looked like her.
I did not get to find out the colour of her cami-knicks because she made me wait outside the door, but once inside I got an eyeful of her in this peach crêpe de Chine negligee with the generous panels of coffee coloured lace at throat and hem.
‘Not in public,’ Hester screamed in my ear.
‘You what?’
She took my hand gently from her knee but still allowed her head to rest on my shoulder. In this comfortable position we arrived at Northolt.
There was an hour’s wait. Hester collected a pile of photographic equipment with which she festooned herself. Control made observations and wished us luck. It was not until I was in the back of the Humber, driven by the heavy Windsor, that I spent a couple of minutes ruminating on the situation. By some incredible confidence trick I was on my way to Moscow to assist in the abduction of a defector. Madness.
‘What does happen once the balloon goes up?’ I asked Hester with remarkable calm in my tone.
She smiled sweetly and ravished my knee with her hand.
‘Don’t ask me, darling. I’m only the photographer.’
Chapter Four — It Gets Lonely Early...
It was a gr
eat day for the blue tits. Cold as charity and twice as humiliating. Our Trident taxied in towards the drab terminal building at Sheremetievo airport and you could see the long low piles of hard, swept snow lining the perimeter.
I had spent the bulk of the journey trying to get Claudette out of that crêpe de Chine nighty. Her name, incidentally, turned out to be the Baroness D’Eztikal and not Claudette, even though she looked like Claudette. By the time I had the generous lace of the hem up to her exquisite firm milk-white thigh she was asking me to call her Freddie. A strange name for a lady, you may say, but apparently it is short for Frede-rika. I settled for Fred and we were both happy. She was acting as a courier and taking ‘the papers’ to Istanbul (wouldn’t you know it?) or some other melting pot. The guy following her was one of them and she was very worried.
‘You mustn’t bother that pretty little head about anything.’ I spoke gallantly though I would have to use all my ingenuity to thwart the rogue. He had that caddish look which betrayed him as a brute who would strike a lady — or worse. We rattled on into the night.
I played this fantasy along because I knew I was going to need a great deal more of it before the next forty-eight hours were through and I didn’t want to get rid of Fred or the Orient Express too quickly.
Hester was strangely quiet throughout the trip and only perked up on landing.
‘Looks a bit polar out there,’ she grimaced.
‘Very barren.’ I thought that quite witty in a sixth form kind of way.
Hester gave me a bleak, pitying look.
As we left the aircraft a nice Russian soldier collected our passports giving one the feeling of nudity. This psychological effect did not help the physiological state as we trudged over the few yards to the terminal building — who invented that title anyway. Terminal building: the mind conjured horror.
The customs hall had the warmth and appeal of an execution shed at dawn, and a short lady in a leather coat examined our luggage.