by John Gardner
‘Of German origin, I presume.’ Boysie unfolded the last segment of the paper napkin in which his warm toast was wrapped, took the final piece and continued to practise the sin of gluttony.
‘For Pete’s sake move, that guy’s toxic.’
‘What makes him such a big wheel?’
‘Hurry. He’s a good rocket man but he’s also very conscious of security. His background you know …’
‘No.’
‘He worked at the Mittelwerke plant at Niedersachswerfen and the Russians got him. He was in on the first Russian-rocket, with Grottrup, Wolff, Albring and all that lot …’
‘The steppe deal.’ Boysie frivolously.
‘CIA finally got him out but he’s always been a bit …’
‘Careful?’
‘Please, Boysie, let’s get … Hell, he’s coming over.’
Boysie could feel the man standing behind him, Birdlip was looking up, an imitation smile moulded on to his lips.
‘Doctor von Humperdinck. Hi,’ said Birdlip.
‘Commander Birdlip. I am well thank you. And your friend?’
‘He’s well,’ said Birdlip almost falling over himself in the rush.
‘He looks well.’ You could carve up the accent with a blunt razor blade. ‘Introduce us, Commander.’ He pronounced Commander with a K.
‘Sure. Sorry. Doctor Ellerman von Humperdinck. Mr. Brian Oakes.’
‘Ah so. And what do you do, Mr. Oakes? I like meeting new faces.’
Boysie was half standing, the attitude being one of near obeisance, trying desperately to follow the general method of Constantine Stanislaysky and willing his eyes to shine like neon.
‘Not the Doctor von Humperdinck.’
‘You have heard of me?’
‘Who hasn’t heard of you Herr Doktor?’
Humperdinck’s almost genial attitude changed, the body stiffening like a child in a tantrum. The voice came out slipped: a Gestapo officer in an old movie.
‘Doctor is my title. Herr Doktor is a title that has been sullied; I do not use it. Doctor is the rank bestowed upon me by my adopted country and we Americans must stick together, Mr. Oakes, don’t you agree?’
‘Certainly. I agree. But I’m from London so I’m biased.’
‘You are not an American.’
‘London, England. Buckingham Palace, the Changing of the Guard, Pall Mall, the Treasury by moonlight. Swinging.’
‘So you are far from home. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?’ He had a sharp little laugh and it was obvious that they were all expected to share the joke of a German rocket expert using outdated American slang. Both Birdlip and Boysie chuckled gently. An atmosphere of the rack and thumbscrews was never far from von Humperdinck.
‘What am I doing here?’ Boysie spoke with the assurance of a man in a minefield. ‘Yes. What am I doing here? You’d better ask Commander Birdlip. I’m not quite sure how much I’m allowed to say.’
Birdlip was in there quick as a bird dog. ‘Mr. Oakes has been out watching the launch. He’s a rocket man as well.’
‘Good. You specialize?’
The ball thudded firmly into Boysie’s court. Luckily his recent space reading had stuck.
‘My firm specializes. We’re contracted to do some of the gyroscopic work on the projected Aeroscope Flight Simulator.’
‘Good. Very good. The LTV Simulator is excellent but we do need a more complex version. Much more complex.’
‘So we understand.’ Boysie was already treading water, hoping he would not get right out of his depth.
‘Yes.’ Von Humperdinck moved closer. Boysie tried to identify the after shave and finally plumped for Ashes of Circus. ‘Between ourselves, a single-place gondola simulator is going to be outdated very quickly once we get the PRIME vehicles really going.’
‘Yes. Yes. Of course.’
‘And that will be sooner than you may think. It has been good meeting you, Mr. Oakes.’
Birdlip breathed out hard once von Humperdinck had departed.
‘Lucky he didn’t dig too deep.’
‘Very,’ said Boysie looking puzzled. ‘Hey, what is PRIME?’
‘Precision Recovery Including Manoeuvring Entry.’ Birdlip spoke deadpan.
‘Of course.’ Boysie Oakes was lost. To him Precision Recovery Including Manoeuvring Entry suggested things obscene and delightful.
*
Boysie’s trip back to New York from Melbourne, Florida, was moderately painless with the exception that he had been booked on one of the smaller airlines, the type that employs jokey pilots. The one on Boysie’s flight did not excel in wit. ‘Okay, folks, here we go for take off. Keep your prayer wheels turning and if anything happens don’t forget to tell me. If you look out of the left hand windows you can see my house. You missed it. Whoops, I didn’t mean all of you look out of the left hand windows. Did you know I was a cab driver before I took up flying these things? And I’m still not too hot on the U-turns. Hey, guess what? I think the tail fell off. Oh, no it was just one of you overweight passengers going to the john.’
Boysie got back into Manhattan by late afternoon. Mostyn and Griffin were putting their feet up.
‘Hail the conquering hero. There’ll always be a lamp in the window for my wandering boy.’ Mostyn giving Boysie a look reserved normally for erring waiters.
‘Didn’t go for a ride in one of them rockets then?’ Griffin grinned.
‘It was interesting, informative and … er … educational. Yes, educational’s the word I would use.’ Boysie grinned back.
Mostyn looked smug. ‘While we’re on the subject of your absence, hairy lad, what were you doing in an apartment up the street on Fifth Avenue the night before last? All night?’
Boysie crumpled fractionally, then regained his composure. ‘None of your business.’ That, he considered was the way to deal with the silky Mostyn. Then puzzled lines wrenched at his brow. ‘How did you know anyway?’
‘I’ve had occasion to warn you before, old darling. I have spies everywhere.’
Boysie saw the proverbial crimson. ‘Oh, come off it, mate. You know your trouble? You’ve been over-specialized for too long. All you want is intrigue and tales of derring-do. Haven’t they told you that era is long gone, man? Old 007, Nappy Solo and Dick Hannay are out of the charts. It’s not cool to be in the cold anymore. The trend went out when The Sunday Times found out that Kim Philby was a fantasy dreamed up by the KGB.’
Mostyn held up his hand. ‘Cease.’ A small word but it had a well-honed edge the way Mostyn said it. ‘No arguments, Oaksie. We have work.’
‘Work?’
‘An assignment.’ Again the smug look.
‘He means we bin hired.’ Griffin from the safety of his chair.
‘Who by?’ Boysie was raiding the bar.
‘By whom, lad, by whom. I’ve obviously failed to complete your education.’
‘By whom?’ Boysie sloshed the brandy into his glass.
‘In general, the Universal Circle Shipping Company. In particular, Mr. Leo Warbash.’
‘He means Mr. Warbash owns the Universal Circle Shipping Company,’ explained Griffin noting the distressed look in Boysie’s eye.
‘The Universal Circle,’ murmured Boysie taking a swift swig. ‘Sounds like a group.’
‘Boysie!’ They all knew that tone of Mostyn’s. It meant nix the frivolity. Mostyn put it into words. ‘We can dispense with the humour. Mr. Warbash and his Universal Circle Shipping Company can mean a lot of nice dollars.’
‘We’re backing Britain,’ mumbled Boysie.
‘Right over the bluebirdshit-ridden cliffs of Dover,’ joined in Griffin.
‘Lots of dollars for us and the Treasury and, I understand, a free trip home by sea. No nasty frightening aeroplane rides, just the quiet thud of turbines and the warm sea breezes.’
Boysie turned, a shade vicious. ‘Hoist the mainsail, belay there, bring in your bloody jibs.’ He struck a pose intended to resemble the combined stan
ces of Captain Bligh, Robert Newton playing Long John Silver and several unidentifiable actors having a go at Captain Queeg. ‘I know that if you’ve fixed up something concerned with the sea it will be pretty bloody. Flaming Francis Chichesters we’ll be, all wearing the Universal Circle Shipping Company badge instead of the Wool Mark. I know your games.’
‘No games, Boysie.’ Mostyn held up a hand in a conciliatory gesture. ‘No games. We’ll be getting all the information. It’ll be like a cruise. Luxury, laddie. Can I never satisfy you?’
‘Rarely.’
There was a soft tap at the door. The wood rapped gently by unmistakably feminine knuckles covered with soft material.
‘That’ll be the bint,’ said Griffin ungraciously.
‘The lady,’ corrected Mostyn, crossing the room. ‘I hope you approve of our choice, Boysie. GRIMOBO’S American Rep.’ He opened the door with a flourish. ‘Come on in, darling. I think you’ve met the rest of the team. Mr. Brian Ian Oakes known commonly as Boysie …’
Chicory Triplehouse looked radiant. A black corduroy suit set off with a white blouse that was all but see-through. Boysie leaped across the room like a trained whippet, embracing her, whispering softly ‘You didn’t tell him did you?’
‘What d’ you think I am? We haven’t met since 1964. Right.’ Dead sotto.
‘Right.’ Boysie came up for air. ‘Wow, it’s good to see you. You get my vote.’
‘If I might break up old home week for a moment.’ Mostyn was trying to step between them like a censor scared for his own morals and to hell with how much the public could take.
‘Spoil sport,’ pouted Chicory.
‘Yes, well, maybe. Only we have Mr. Warbash coming up in a few minutes and we don’t want to give him any strange ideas do we?’
‘Depends on what your corrupt little mind means by strange ideas.’ Boysie turned back to Chicory. ‘What in heaven’s name made you want to work for a boss like this schnook, Chicory? He’s pure venom and hambone broth, baby.’
‘But you all work for him, sugar.’ Doing her Southern belle bit. ‘So I felt where my beau is that’s where little old me ought to be.’
‘Are you two always as nauseating as this?’ Mostyn had taken Boysie’s place at the bar.
‘We’re usually worse.’ Boysie grinned smugly. ‘Like a pop group gone religious. Anyway, what gives with Comrade Warbash? What’s the score?’
‘Wait and see little man, wait and see what I’ve fixed for us.’
Boysie turned to Griffin. ‘So you tell me.’
Griffin hunched his shoulders, raising his hands, palms upwards. ‘I know as much as you. Only the dirty grey chief here’s got the information. ‘Ent even met Warbash.’
Mostyn stepped into the middle of the room. ‘To be honest, children, I do not know a great deal myself. The whole thing has to be cleared by Washington. I understand the CIA’re involved. But, as far as I can make out, all that is required of us is that we act in a civilian capacity, hired by the Universal Circle Shipping Company, to protect their interests, during one journey on one of their ships, from the United States to Milford Haven. The four of us just sit on board and …’
‘Four of us?’ Boysie on the verge of a dream.
‘Oh yes, we’ve got to give Miss Triplehouse some idea of how we run the British end of the business.’
‘Of course,’ said smiling Boysie locking eyes with Chicory who looked equally happy with the idea.
Griffin chuckled. Mostyn clothed himself with an air of modest disapproval and the telephone rang.
It was Reception announcing the arrival of Leo Warbash.
Mr. Leo Warbash’s appearance was not unlike that of a sophisticated, intelligent, short, fat ape. A constant five o’clock shadow darkened his jowls, while his hairdresser obviously had much trouble in controlling the black fleece which sprouted in floppy swirls, from his scalp. The same hair was repeated, in a minor form, on the podgy hands, right up his stubby little fingers, making them resemble large unpleasant spiders.
‘Well, Washington’s okayed it, Colonel Mostyn.’ Warbash had the gruff voice of a self-made tycoon. The introductions were brief and to the point. A curt nod to Griffin, a flickering smile at Boysie, and an unashamedly expensive slaver towards Chicory.
‘I think it would be best if you outlined the whole project to my colleagues.’ Mostyn had the bland, fair manner of a huckster who knew the dice were loaded in his favour. ‘I’ve really told them nothing as yet.’
‘I see.’ Warbash looked puzzled. see. Okay, folks. I, er … where do I begin?’ To Mostyn.
‘At the beginning, Mr. Warbash. At the logical place.’
‘Okay.’ It was becoming apparent that Leo Warbash had a predelicton for the word “Okay”.
‘Well, as you know, my name’s Leo Warbash. Leo Q. Warbash if you want it in full …’
‘Wonder what the Q stands for …?’ whispered Boysie into Chicory’s silken ear.
‘Quality,’ mouthed back Chicory.
‘I am the President of Universal Circle Shipping.’ Warbash paused to allow the magnitude of the statement to hit them. ‘We’re not one of the giant companies but I guess we do okay. Ships in most areas, though I have to admit I felt kinda knocked out when the Government approached me on this present business.’
‘It is the business we’re interested in.’ Boysie tried to jog him on.
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Well up till about six years ago we simply operated freighters. Then I landed a sweet little contract and we branched out with three tankers. Oil tankers you understand.’
‘Oil tankers,’ repeated Griffin placidly to show he was still awake.
‘Last year I bought another. Real dandy job. Had her re-registered the Warbash Admiral …’
‘To cut the whole thing short,’ Boysie was looking furiously towards Mostyn, ‘we’re all going to Milford Haven in an oil tanker.’
‘A very modern vessel, Boysie. Like a luxury liner.’
‘Even more modern by now, I reckon.’ Warbash gave off pleased noises.
‘Go on,’ said Boysie grudgingly.
‘A certain Government department, the name of which must remain secret …’
‘I’ll bet.’ Again from Boysie.
‘This department came to me with a contract which, quite frankly, gentlemen, I couldn’t afford to refuse. Briefly I am required to move a cargo from the United States to Milford Haven, England, in the Warbash Admiral.’
‘What’s the cargo? Disc jockeys?’ Boysie did not like what he was hearing.
‘If you’ll be patient. The whole operation is under the most strict security. The Warbash Admiral had to be taken straight into the Brooklyn Navy Yard for a special refit. My crew were given a most thorough security screening. I’m glad to say that Captain Bone, Warbash Admiral’s original captain, will be in charge and most of her normal crew are on board. She sails tomorrow morning under sealed orders. But I can tell you that the cargo is to be picked up at a United States port before departure for Milford Haven.’
‘And what do you want us for?’ Boysie was downright belligerent by this time.
‘That’s just it.’ Warbash laid a light easy smile on him. ‘My board met to discuss the project a couple of days ago. They were all a little hung up on the security aspect of the job, we’d had a bit of trouble with insurance cover. Anyhow, even though the Government’s putting three CIA men on board, my people felt that they would be primarily concerned with the Government’s interest. What we wanted was some security to look after Universal Circle’s interests.’
‘So?’
‘So I made some inquiries in Washington, got to hear about GRIMOBO and how you were over here …’
‘And you offered us the job.’
‘On the button.’
‘And what’s the cargo?’
‘It’s neither harmful nor live. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘Our fee, Boysie,’ Mostyn as insidious as a plague virus, ‘Our fee in this matter
is one hundred thousand dollars.’
Boysie shut up quickly. He knew his values.
‘So, gentlemen … I should say lady and gentlemen.’ Warbash fired a salvo of leers at Chicory. ‘Tomorrow morning I take it you will present yourselves at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, I have your permits here, to go on board the Warbash Admiral for “Operation Star”.’
‘Operation Star?’ queried Griffin.
‘It’s not very imaginative but you know what governments are?’
Mostyn nodded sagely. ‘Mr. Warbash has assured me,’ he said sliding his eyes round the assembled members of GRIMOBO, daring dissent from any quarter, ‘that our accommodation will be …’
‘Superlative’s the only word. And the little lady here need have no fears for her … her … er …’
‘Honour?’ tried Boysie.
‘The little lady here’s never had any fears about that,’ said Chicory looking straight up Warbash’s nose.
‘Well, she’ll be sleeping in the owner’s cabin. Nothing but the best. My cabin’s for you.’
‘You did say you weren’t coming on the trip yourself, Mr. Warbash, didn’t you?’ Chicory kept her face straight.
‘You’ll have it all to yourself.’ Warbash was uncompromisingly humourless.
Boysie allowed himself a quiet smile.
‘I still don’t like it.’ Boysie continued to have a touch of the nagging worries.
Mostyn filled their glasses on Warbash’s departure, now he sat brooding over the pile of papers the shipping man had left for them.
‘What sort of cargo needs this kind of security if it isn’t live or dangerous?’ mused Boysie.
‘Wish you’d stop soundin’ off like a bleedin’ crossword puzzle. Isn’t a hundred thousand bucks enough?’ Griffin was slightly put out, having proposed a visit to the Latin Quarter which was vetoed immediately on grounds of having to be fit and fresh for the job in the morning. At that point Boysie had facetiously mentioned that he would rather be fresh for this job that night. Chicory had gurgled and Mostyn made a remark which suggested that Boysie’s mind never seemed to roam further than the night jollies.
‘What’s the size of this bloody ship anyway?’ asked Boysie with some petulance, ‘and no, one hundred thousand dollars isn’t enough if my skin’s going to suffer. I came into GRIMOBO on the strict understanding that we were going to do nice quiet jobs like looking through key holes and taking flash pictures of couples besporting themselves, not for skulduggery.’