Traitor's Exit

by John Gardner

  I looked down for the first time in an hour. There was nothing but water.

  ‘I’ll try to make the far side but it could be interesting,’ Mostyn shouted.

  It still came back. Why? I was thinking rationally for the first time in days. Perhaps it was because we had not eaten since the previous evening. On cue, Boysie’s guts made a rumble audible over the helicopter motors.

  ‘Even if you get to other side of lake you are still far from border.’ Boris had recovered enough to grin.

  ‘Only around eighty miles according to your Russian maps.’ Mostyn smiled back.

  ‘Pah.’ Boris shrugged. ‘Russian maps like British Railway timetables: poetically unreliable.’

  We were getting lower but the far side was now visible: rocky and tree lined. We would make a nasty mess if we hit head on.

  The engines held and the water sped away below. About fifty yards from shore Mostyn lifted her slightly so that we would clear the trees, shouting, ‘That’s it. We’re out of fuel as from now.’

  We crossed the shore. No sign of life. A road. Trees. Trees everywhere, shoving their dark evergreen points up towards us. Mostyn slowed, hovered, crabbed to the right and dropped. The trees parted and we whistled down softly into a small, dark clearing. The motors gave a final cough and stopped.

  Mostyn unbuckled himself and looked around as if for applause. ‘I could have just made a larger one over there,’ he pointed to our right, ‘but there seemed to be something going on. Upsdale, you’ll come with me. Boysie stay with Hester and look after Styles.’

  ‘And what about me?’ Boris half rose but Boysie rested a hand on his shoulder pushing him back into his seat.

  ‘Yes, Boris, what indeed about you? Hester, Comrade Boris is tired.’

  ‘No,’ said Boris.

  ‘Oh, yes, Boris.’ Hester approached him, producing a slim tube from her waistband. ‘I’ve still got a few of these. One-time hypos all loaded and ready. Just bare your arm, Boris, and six hours health-giving sleep will be yours.’

  Boris struggled, but the combined forces of Boysie, Mostyn and Hester were too much for him. It took about a minute before he subsided into his seat, snoring already, his face gently relaxing into a smile.

  I followed Mostyn out of the machine and into the darkness of the trees. The air seemed warmer and the ground was soft and dry underfoot. A hundred yards or so and we broke cover again into a small crescent clearing. Mostyn put up a hand. From behind the trees at the far end came the unmistakable sound of music. A whole symphony orchestra. Behind the trees someone was playing In The Hall Of The Mountain King.

  Chapter Nine — A Day In The Life Of A Fool

  Mostyn motioned me to move with care. We crossed the clearing and entered the band of trees at the far end. Ahead there was a second clearing and, from what I could see, a road of reasonable quality. We both stopped and stared. In the clearing a group of approximately thirty people, men and women, mainly young and dressed in furs, coats and assorted garments of brilliant colours, sat in a half circle. To their right Grieg’s In The Hall Of The Mountain King was thumping from a battered and antique loudspeaker system linked to a massive trailer caravan. At first sight there seemed to be four or five such caravans drawn up off the road.

  In front of the group five men and a girl clad in leotards were performing a fast, furious display of acrobatics with deadly precision. As the music rose to its finale they began flipping up in triple somersaults from a low springboard: one after the other, faster and faster until two were in the air at the same time, then three, four and five.

  It was a spectacular performance and as the group of bearded, long haired, psychedelically-dressed watchers began to applaud I found myself raising my hands and joining in.

  I heard Mostyn suck in a deep breath beside me, then he stepped out of the trees into the clearing. The applause dribbled to a silence. Eyes turned to look at us as though we were visitors from another world — interlopers.

  A giant of a man, black bearded and with long hair which curled round his shoulders, stood up and took a pace towards us. He looked at us for a moment, then spoke one short sentence in Russian.

  Mostyn replied. The giant shook out his hair and guffawed. ‘You are English and your Russian is about as good as mine. You come in peace?’

  Mostyn, a shade put out by the remark concerning his Russian, said that we came in peace.

  ‘Great. Good. We are people of peace. My name is Mullka. By origin Latvian.’ He put out a large hand.

  ‘George Mostyn.’ Mostyn was visibly confused by this big bear-like man with tanned skin and eyes which shone brightly from the shaggy head. The others were gathering round. Mullka grabbed my hand. A boa constrictor could not have done better.

  ‘Rex Upsdale,’ I said when my breath returned.

  ‘Great, but what are two Englishmen doing wandering in a Russian wood?’

  ‘What is a Latvian doing watching acrobats?’

  It sounded like a code.

  Mullka looked towards the heavens and gave one expressive laugh. ‘Here you see a truly international gathering.’ His hand swept in a circle around the grinning faces. ‘We are the International Travelling Circus. We know no politics, no boundaries, no country of our own. Here we are bound together by our talents, the joy of living close to nature, of entertaining others.’

  ‘You must find it difficult crossing frontiers.’ It took a lot to impress Mostyn. One could see that from his view we had run into a load of unwashed layabouts who probably indulged in smoking pot.

  From where I stood the International Travelling Circus looked a pretty nice set up.

  ‘Oh, we have the formalities,’ smiled Mullka. ‘We have visas. But we have played in many countries, have many friends. And we are from many places — Luvja,’ he pointed to a pretty blonde girl, ‘is from Turkey; our acrobats, The Bellicovis are Italian; Kirsty and Karl, high wire experts from Sweden, even one American Al Kapstan, hey Al, come meet Englishmen.’

  Al was short with tight grey hair. ‘Glad to meet you. Al Kapstan The Flaming Marvel.’

  ‘We have all countries,’ continued Mullka. ‘Denmark, Germany, Syria, Mexico. You name it we have it. Even English now you come.’

  I decided to take the plunge. ‘I don’t think you would wish us to stay,’ I said. ‘We are wanted by the authorities.’

  ‘All the better. We are haters of all authorities. They will not find you with us.’

  ‘There are more. Another man and a girl. And a man who has been injured. We’re making for the Finnish border.’

  ‘So get your friends. We also go towards Finland. Maybe we perform tonight in a village near frontier, then tomorrow — Finland. Good.’

  Mostyn gave me a soiled look and nodded grudgingly.

  ‘You’re a fool, Upsdale.’ He told me as we made our way back through the trees towards the helicopter. ‘That lot’ll shop you as soon as look at you.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Who’s running this operation?’

  ‘Technically you are, but I’m beginning to wonder what the operation is all about.’

  Mostyn snorted. ‘It’s perfectly simple. We have to get Styles out.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because they want him out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It isn’t our job to ask questions.’

  ‘Look, you were once an experienced Intelligence officer. You know Styles’s history. If you had any pull with the government would you want Styles back?’

  ‘Ours not to reason why.’

  I gave up.

  We left Boris slumped on the flight deck. Boysie and I lifted Styles on to the stretcher that was part of the first aid equipment stowed along the port side of the fuselage. Together the four of us tramped back to the caravans of the International Travelling Circus. Styles was made comfortable in a bunk in Mullka’s caravan where Hester refused to leave him. She had gone very silent and, I felt, obsessive about her duties of watching over
our prisoner.

  I had been right about the members of ITC. They were all lively, gentle people who immediately banded together and entered into the spirit of hoodwinking the authorities. We were given hot potato soup with coarse black bread, three of the younger girls hovering over us, offering more helpings of the welcome food as if we were prize guests at a Cordon Bleu restaurant.

  ‘It is best if you dress more suitably. Like us,’ Mullka said.

  Mostyn wrinkled his nose but accepted the change of clothing with as much grace as he could muster.

  By the time the waggon train was ready to roll, Hester was dressed, preened, and very happy with herself, in black leather jerkin, skin tight pants and boots. She covered this basic outfit with a long heavy black maxi coat, more like a priest’s cassock, edged with fur at neck, hem and cuffs.

  In comparison to Hester, the rest of us were more brightly garbed: Boysie in boots and scarlet cord trousers, a rough blue shirt and short fur jacket. His most treasured find was a large broad-brimmed hat which he wore at a tilt.

  Mostyn took one look and began muttering things about middle-aged hippies. But Boysie took on a new dash, a panache which he seemed to inherit from the clothes. He was everybody’s friend, an immediate success with all the members of the circus, running around, helping with small jobs, doing anything asked of him. The girls buzzed about him and it was as though he had been blessed with a new personal magnetism.

  I was given a pair of green slacks, in the familiar cord, together with a yellow, belted, serge smock. Mona, the girl member of the acrobatic team, shyly hung a medalion round my neck. A leather thong from which dangled a circular brass disc engraved with a device that looked like a spade, the top of the handle was dissected with a small cross.

  ‘This is very lucky charm,’ Mona told me. ‘Ancient Egyptian writing. A nefer meaning the heart and windpipe. It will guard your tongue and heart. Keep it near you.’

  She had big dark eyes and looked very serious. So I told her that it would never be far from me.

  Then Mostyn appeared, decked out in olive green breeches and a smock similar to my own but in a violent shade of purple. He looked unhappy, his beady eyes con-stantly on the move showing clearly that he mistrusted everybody.

  ‘Damn hippies,’ he mouthed at me. ‘Dressing up like god knows what.’

  ‘They’re nice people.’

  ‘Sell you down the river if you don’t watch them.’

  ‘You don’t think we’ve been sold already? By your chums?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well think about it.’

  I was getting edgy, but this group of multilingual, happy people struck me as being the most honest I had met for some time.

  Mullka came over to say that they were ready to move off. Mostyn was to travel in his caravan with Hester and Styles.

  Boysie and I were given places in a large van driven by a small ever-smiling coloured man. The interior was spacious and hygienically clean, its walls covered with photographs of the owners: a group of three Romanian clowns, bright men with sad faces and fat extrovert wives.

  We conversed fitfully with them, using sign language while they offered us foul cigarettes tasting of horse dung. The trio of wives constantly filled our tin mugs with a strong coffee-like fluid which happily served to cancel out the taste of the cigarettes.

  We had been on the road for about an hour. The three clowns stretched themselves out on their bunks and the wives were clustered round the small stove.

  Boysie and I sat on a spare bunk at the far end of the van.

  ‘What do you think then?’ I asked him.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘This. Getting out with this lot.’

  He looked at me for a full minute. You could not tell what, if anything, was going on behind those ice blue eyes. He was remarkably good-looking for his age and there was a rugged, ruthless toughness about his face. He finally said—

  ‘Why ask me? I told you once, I’m only the hired muscle.’

  ‘Come off it. Mostyn doesn’t like it. You know him better than any of us. Why doesn’t he like it?’

  Boysie grinned. ‘Because he didn’t think of it first, chum. That’s James George Mostyn for you. There’s a trick to handling Mostyn. Make yourself inferior to him, but show him that you resent it. Mostyn’s a little man who’s always had a lot of power. He lives on power. That’s why he clings to me. Because he thinks he can bully me. It’s the old comedy team relationship.’

  There was more to Boysie than I imagined.

  ‘I’m worried...’ I began.

  ‘You’re worried? How do you think I feel? For years I’ve been worried.’

  ‘No, worried about the whole setup. I can’t figure out why any government security department would want friend Styles back in...’

  ‘The jolly old mother country?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ours not to...’

  ‘Reason why. Your chum Mostyn’s already used that one. What I can’t see is why do they involve me and why pull you and Mostyn out of retirement for a caper like this?’

  Boysie thought for a while. ‘You’re quite right. In the old days, when I was in the Department, we didn’t ask why. We grumbled a lot, but we didn’t question things. This one happened a bit sharpish. I don’t think even Mostyn questioned it.’

  ‘Who actually called you in?’

  ‘Mostyn. When we left the Department we set up this sort of super security agency. Well, that was just getting off the ground when the economy got rocky so we split up. I was living on me blooming capital. Happy, almost contented, then bloody Mostyn called and like a clot I came running.’

  ‘But who called him?’

  ‘Him? Special Branch.’

  ‘Who in the Special Branch?’

  Boysie’s face went blank. ‘I can’t name names.’

  ‘Did you see anyone from Special Branch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know them? From the old days I mean.’

  He shook his head in a negative. One of the clowns’ wives came over to refill our mugs.

  ‘Were their names mentioned?’ I asked.

  ‘Yep.’ He took a sip of the coffee.

  ‘They weren’t by any chance called Clyde and Knowles?’

  Boysie looked at me hard again. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’re the boys who recruited me.’

  ‘They’re the jolly blighters. Bonnie and bloody Clyde I called them.’

  ‘Bit obvious. I thought that as well.’

  Boysie sighed and looking pained.

  I still had the nagging doubts but couldn’t work out what I was on to. ‘Did Mostyn know them from way back?’

  ‘Don’t think so. He didn’t give that impression.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone else? Anybody official?’

  ‘No. Mind you Clyde and Knowles had all the right bumph. All the documents. And it was pretty plush.’

  ‘Plush?’

  ‘Mostyn called me to a meeting in the Dorchester. They briefed us there and took us off to Scotland from Northolt. In that bloody helicopter.’

  ‘Where in Scotland?’

  ‘The place where we met you.’

  ‘Achtimacrachty House?’

  ‘Is that how you pronounce it?’

  I started to work out schedules. ‘They took you up there to brief us?’

  ‘We were there three days before you arrived.’

  So Boysie and Mostyn had been there all the time. ‘You ever been to Achtimacrachty House before?’

  Boysie looked glum. ‘No. It’s all new. In my day they used the GPO Executive Training Centre in Hampshire. Lovely spot that. This Achtimafootsoff House is all new. Times change.’

  ‘And the girl? Hester?’

  ‘She’s a doll.’

  ‘Where does she fit in?’

  ‘She was there, in Scotland. But you know that.’

  I thought about Hester’s attitude to Mostyn when
he was calling himself Control. She had pretended not to know Boysie. ‘Knowles and Clyde knew her?’

  ‘Well of course. They were on very matey terms.’

  ‘What did it feel like?’

  ‘I didn’t touch her...Oh, the place? Clyde and Knowles? Hester?’

  I nodded.

  Boysie took up a thinking position. Rodinesque. ‘Well it was all pretty smooth. Efficient. Slick is the word that springs most readily to the mind.’

  I tried to get a logical pattern of thought going in my mind.

  ‘Hey.’ Boysie looked like old Archimedes must have looked when he found out about the displacement of water. ‘We’ve all been conned, haven’t we?’

  ‘That’s what I reckon. But I can’t figure who or why.’

  ‘Knowles, Clyde, Hester and Slattery.’

  ‘Slattery. I’d all but forgotten about Slattery. He was one of the keys. When did you meet up with Slattery?’

  ‘After we got to Moscow. I wanted out, of course, because I’m known here, as they say in the trade. I mean when you’ve been in the field you get known. But they said as it was only for the one night...’

  ‘How did they get you in?’

  ‘That was a shade strange. Bloody frightening as well. Had me bowels playing chase-me-round-the-houses. In the old days one didn’t come here, but in the field we used the normal routes and a good cover. They gave us covers but we came in the back door.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Private jet. Flying as low as a snake. Pilot chatting up someone in Russian.’

  ‘You came into Moscow?’

  ‘No. Grotty little disused airfield about thirty miles out. Slattery met us. We were supposed to be taking Styles out that way then everything went kaput.’

  I paused for more thought. ‘Did you go to the Embassy with Slattery?’

  ‘Never went near the Embassy.’

  My mind triggered straight back to Moscow. Boysie and Mostyn arriving behind the hotel as we were dragging Styles into the bushes. ‘But Mostyn said you were in the Embassy.’

  ‘When? He’s a bloody liar.’

  ‘When you picked us up behind the hotel. He said you had been held up at the Embassy.’

  ‘That’s when it all started to fall to pieces.’