by John Gardner
The pilot who was to drop Mostyn that night gave a brief summary of the problems involved. If they were going to get away undetected it meant flying in very low, to avoid radar, cutting the engines during the run over the island, dispatching Mostyn at around 600 feet, and not opening up again until they were almost down to fifty feet. The pilot and his crew had been trying it out over the sea that morning and were reasonably confident. Mostyn showed his usual indifference, yet, to his chagrin, found his hands trembling noticeably when he lit a cigarette.
There followed two hours’ conversation which covered radio procedure, what strength Mostyn could call down on the island if he felt it was safe enough not to incur the wrath of Russia, code signs, call signs and all the usual mumbo-jumbo of a military operation.
The briefing over, Mostyn retired to his quarters. At eleven, they wakened him. He dressed in battledress over arctic underwear, and a camouflage jacket. In the mess a hot meal awaited him. Then, an hour later, pockets stuffed with equipment, and hung about like a Christmas tree, Mostyn climbed aboard the waiting Albatross. Within ten minutes they were off into the wide black yonder, heading, Mostyn hoped, for an appointment with Boysie. At least, he thought as they thundered through the sky, he could play the hero with Griffin and Chicory when he got back. If he got back. Mostyn began to worry, for the first time, about the outcome of his mission.
*
The air was bitterly cold and Mostyn was surrounded by unaccustomed silence. The aircraft roar had dropped to a wild and frightening whisper as the pilot cut his engines and put the nose down towards the island. Mostyn had crouched in the doorway waiting for the dispatcher to bang him on the shoulder, the signal for him to leap out into the unknown. It came sooner than he expected, and Mostyn now found himself drifting towards an earth which he could not see. A mile or so away to his left there were lights, then the earth rushed up, unexpectedly, and he was rolling over and over.
Now, Mostyn stood in the silence, gathering in the shroud lines of his parachute, and allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. He had landed on hard, slightly rocky, tundra, far too hard for him to dig a hole in which he could bury the parachute, so he had to make do with rolling up the canopy and weighting it down with stones. Cursing the cold, he unbuttoned one of the jacket pockets, drew out the D/F pack and inserted the earphone into his right ear. Switching on, Mostyn turned up the volume and began to move quietly in a circle. There was the crackle of static from the headphone, then, softly and growing louder, the familiar tweet-twit-twit-twit, tweet-tweet-tweet. Moving carefully in a sweeping arc, Mostyn aligned himself with the point from which the loudest signal seemed to be coming, then, hand on the Smith and Wesson, he moved forward. The signal got louder and louder. Two or three times Mostyn stumbled on the uneven ground. Then, he saw the lights ahead. The signal seemed to be coming from the heart of the lights. Slowly he crept nearer. The signal was more distinct now. Ahead the outlines of a building showed harshly symmetrical against the sky. Drawing the automatic, Mostyn made a quick run towards the building, flattening himself against its wall. The tweet and twitting of the D/F grew louder and began to merge together. Stealthily Mostyn moved along the wall. The signal merged completely into an earsplitting whine. Mostyn dragged the earphone from his head. He was standing by a window. Either Boysie or his shoes were behind the heavy double-glazing. Gently, Mostyn began to tap the glass.
*
Boysie dragged back the curtains, his heart thumping like a bass drum. Outside, a face leered up at him. Boysie felt his hair streak upwards and his heart trip a beat. He peered closer. The figure outside seemed to be signalling. It was trying to tell him something. The figure was searching for something. Suddenly it found what it was after. A torch. The small beam of light lit up the intruder’s face. Mostyn stood outside Boysie’s window. It took a good half-minute for the truth to sink in. Then Boysie was fumbling with the heavy window-catches. A blast of icy air swept into the room as the window pivoted on its central retaining pins.
‘Taken your time, haven’t you?’ whispered Mostyn. ‘You’re absolutely certain I can come in?’
‘Feel free,’ said Boysie, still thinking this was a dream.
Mostyn clambered in and, together, they swung the window back in place.
‘For chrissake keep quiet,’ muttered Boysie. ‘How the hell did you get here anyway? And how the hell did you find me?’
‘Time for that later.’ Mostyn looked round. ‘How safe are we?’
‘You must have had your Joan the Wad or St Christopher medal working overtime,’ said Boysie. ‘They’ve got the building protected by dog patrols. Mad dog patrols. Bloody killer Alsatians.’
‘How safe are we here?’
‘There’s a bloody great mad killer Alsatian outside the door, that’s all. I suppose they thought it unlikely that I’d try and make a run for it. Especially after the dog got Constanza. I say?’ He looked up quite perky. ‘Don’t suppose you brought Chicory along?’
‘I did not bring Chicory along.’
‘Griffin?’
‘They are both on their way back to London with any luck. Anywhere here I can hide?’
‘There’s the closet.’ Boysie pointed to the big built-in cupboard. ‘No one goes near that as far as I know.’
‘All right, I’ll use it when the time comes.’ Mostyn had the cupboard doors open and was trying it for size. ‘Now what the hell’s been going on here?’
Boysie took a deep breath and launched into the story of his life from the seasick morning aboard the Warbash Admiral right up to the strange project on Wizard.
‘So you don’t really know what is happening?’ queried Mostyn.
‘Not really. Only what I’ve told you. They’re going to test this lifting body, but that looks like its only an aside. Two astronauts male and female, and …’
‘And you, Boysie,’ said Mostyn with a gluttonous smile, ‘are the reserve male.’
‘Oh no. I’ve done a lot of things for you in my time but I’m not going to put my arse under a bloody great rocket for you or anybody.’
‘Worry not, little Oaksie, worry not.’ It was the old sly Mostyn again. ‘Just think about it. We don’t know the full strength of what’s going on here. You’ve already told me that you don’t think there are any Russian troops on the island. I can call in a strike only when I’m certain of the facts. So, all you have to do is get yourself picked to play the juvenile lead in this drama.’
‘And let them light the blue paper under me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not bloody likely.’
‘List, list, oh, list, laddie. There is no need to let them even light the blue paper. Once you know what is going on, you will also be appraised of the launch time.’
‘So?’
‘So I can call in a strike before they get anywhere near the old five-four-three-two-one bit.’
Boysie creased his brow, making his thinking face. ‘How?’ he said finally with a smug grin, ‘how am I going to get old Yetsofar out of the race?’
Mostyn chuckled. ‘Uncle thinks of everything, old son. Everything.’ His hand came up. In it was clutched the bottle of jalap.
‘And how am I going to feed it to him?’
‘Your problem, Boysie. Your problem. You eat with them don’t you? Make your opportunity, lad. That’s real strategy for you.’
Boysie nodded sadly. He should have known better. One just did not win when Mostyn was playing.
‘Another thing,’ continued Mostyn. ‘You say you do not recognize the fellow who calls himself the Seducer?’
‘Not a clue. And they’re bringing in this bloke today. The Silversmith. Mr bloody Midas.’
‘I wonder,’ said Mostyn who, for all his sliminess, had an incredible memory for faces. When he worked for the Department they used to say that Mostyn rarely had to refer to the ID book. He carried it all in his head. ‘Wonder if it would work?’
‘You know it rotten works,’ said Boysie looking at t
he little jalap bottle.
‘Not that. Look, lad, do you think you could use this.’ Mostyn brought out the Polaroid camera like a magician revealing the chosen card.
‘I suppose so. Could hide it under me parka and …’
‘And await the right moment. You do that, son, you do that. You know how the thing works?’
‘Got one of my own back home,’ said Boysie airily. ‘Hope you’ve got a cold clip for that one. Won’t get any decent pictures in this climate if you haven’t.’
‘Everything’s here. Black and white film pack, the lot. Just try and get me some pictures of the lecherous Seducer and his pal the Silversmith and we’ll see if my brain can do the rest.’
‘And you want Yetsofar spiked. Nothing else I can do for you while I’m at it?’
‘Yes. You might find out why they need such a bloody great rocket. The Saturn V is the launch vehicle for the moon you know.’
It was nearly dawn. Boysie helped Mostyn to make himself comfortable in the closet. Once he had Mostyn stowed away with his K rations and bits and pieces, Boysie shaved and prepared himself. The Sorcerer had said he would be round to pick up Boysie at eight. He dressed as far as the coverall, then slipped the carrying strap of the camera around his neck before donning the parka.
The Sorcerer arrived promptly at eight, delighted to see Boysie up. They breakfasted together and, like the previous day, took a Landrover ride down to the launch site.
‘We should be able to start the count down around two o’clock this afternoon,’ said the Seducer, looking pleased with himself.
‘Oh yes. And what time do Sonya and Yetsofar go aboard?’
‘Oh, two hours from lift off. About noon tomorrow providing all goes well. But come, we must go through the lessons you learned yesterday.’
Humperdinck prattled on with Boysie making yes noises. Then, at eleven, the loudspeaker system clamoured into action. ‘The countdown will begin at noon. Will the Sorcerer go to the main entrance, please. Silversmith’s aircraft landed.’ The detached voice repeated the message twice.
‘Ah. I am in demand.’ The Sorcerer leaped up and down with glee. ‘The Silversmith is here.’
‘Do I come too?’ asked Boysie.
‘They haven’t asked for you. But I take you with me. As far as the entrance anyway.’
The main hangar was deserted. The technicians had spirited the space capsule away. At the main entrance, the Sorcerer motioned to Boysie with his hand. ‘You stay here. The Seducer is playing god today and I expect the Silversmith will be in the same vein. Better for you to stay where you are.’
Boysie nodded and allowed the Sorcerer to pass up the passage towards the main personnel doors. Counting to ten Boysie unzipped his parka and brought out the Polaroid camera. Flicking down the outer case he extended the bellows and lifted the viewfinder into position. Strangely he felt little fear as he crept up the passage towards the light.
Boysie halted just short of the glass doors through which he could see the Sorcerer and Seducer with Solomon and three of the goons with the white roundels on their backs.
Creeping forward, Boysie pushed the doors half open and began to get the group in focus. He sensed movement somewhere to the left. Seconds later a Landrover pulled into his view. A man descended from the Landrover and shook hands briefly with the Seducer and Sorcerer. Then, the Silversmith, short and immaculate even in a parka, turned towards the door. For a second, Boysie had the three men fully in focus. He squeezed the trigger, turned, and ran back down the passage. He was in the Sorcerer’s workshop, with the camera out of sight under his parka, long before the trio entered the hangar.
Boysie heard their footsteps echoing as they came across the cold concrete of the hangar. Strangely he felt slight trepidation at the prospect of meeting the Silversmith. Possibly because, Solomon apart, the Silversmith was the one man who might not accept him on face value.
They came into the Sorcerer’s workshop as though in a kind of formation. The Silversmith ahead, Seducer and Sorcerer on either side slightly to the rear. Solomon behind, like a tail end Charlie.
‘This him?’ The Silversmith had a voice which might have cut through steel, it was edged with authority, the kind of voice used to quell storms, or create them. He was much shorter than Boysie, yet his physical presence instantly commanded attention. The Silversmith stood directly in front of Boysie and threw back the hood of his parka displaying a fine head of silver hair, so silver that it looked almost phoney. Perhaps it was a clue to the man’s character.
‘Yes, this is him,’ said the Seducer.
‘You know who I am?’ The man addressed Boysie. ‘You’re the … the Silversmith.’
‘Ten out of bloody ten. And what does the Silversmith do?’
‘You provide the money for this operation.’
‘I do, do I?’
‘That’s what they told me.’
‘And they’re right.’ He turned to Solomon. ‘If he’s harmless all well and good. Slightest trouble or hint of trouble.’ The Silversmith drew his hand across his neck. Solomon nodded, a grizzly affirmative.
‘Money I provide, eh?’ The Silversmith was addressing Boysie again. ‘Yes, I provide money, but only a fool would put money into a venture like this without insuring himself. I put money in so that the project will make money. I don’t know who you are, or why. The Sorcerer seems to trust you. Solomon does not. But you will have noticed that. Remember it because Solomon is my man.’ He paused to let it sink in. ‘Then,’ he continued. ‘The Seducer is not quite certain about you. I have an open mind. Time will tell.’ He spoke the last words as if they formed some great and witty epigram. All they did was to serve as a full stop to the conversation. With a quick motion to Solomon, the Silversmith turned on his heel and began to march purposefully towards the exit leading to the main hangar.
As the footsteps died away the Seducer said. ‘I had better join him in launch control. You and your Apprentice go to lunch.’
The Sorcerer nodded and wagged his head at Boysie. ‘We go,’ was all he said.
‘How do you think I made out with the Silversmith?’ asked Boysie as the Landrover sped them back to the Headquarters Building.
‘He is a very astute man. He judges people by the work they do. We, as scientists, recognize you immediately as one of us. But with the Silversmith it is more difficult.’
Boysie overawed by being told he looked like a scientist, nodded sagely. ‘Think I’ll freshen up a little before lunch,’ he said when they reached the building.
‘Good. I wait for you in the dining hall.’ The Sorcerer smiled.
Back in his room, Boysie unlocked the closet to find Mostyn sitting inside, cross legged and dozing.
‘Having a spot of the old transcendentals then?’ he said cheerfully.
‘Merely meditating on the follies of this planet and its inhabitants,’ said Mostyn pompously. ‘You get the photo?’
‘Yes, but I haven’t much time.’ Boysie had unzipped his parka and taken the camera from round his neck. Mostyn grabbed the instrument tore off the first label and wrenched the photograph out. ‘Quick. I’ve got the clip,’ muttered Boysie. Mostyn handed the photograph to him, backing still intact. Boysie swiftly slipped it into the cold clip which had been nestling in an inside pocket of his coveralls all morning.
Ten seconds later, they removed the photograph and tore off the backing. It was a tolerably good print. ‘How about that then? How about that?’ Boysie preened.
‘All right, proper little Lord Snowdon. Let’s see.’
Boysie pointed out the figures. ‘That’s Humperdinck, the Sorcerer, this fellow’s the Seducer. One in the middle is the Silversmith, Solomon’s bringing up the rear.’
‘Solomon!’ said Mostyn loudly as though he had been stung. ‘You realize what you’ve done? You’ve only got the scoop photograph of the year. People have been trying to get friend Solomon’s likeness for years. Of course. Solomon. I should have remembered. Who’s this one?’
/>
‘The Seducer,’ said Boysie lamely.
‘Funny. His real name’s Schneider. Hans Wilhelm Schneider.’
‘You sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. I got him for our people. Brought him over the bloody wall that’s all. Strange that he should be in on this. He specializes in space biology. Behaviour of plants and animal life in space. Very funny. And I know this joker as well.’ Stabbing at the photograph with his forefinger.
‘Who? The Silversmith?’
‘Quite. The Silversmith. But he has a rather grand name in the City. His name’s Sir Bruce Gravestone. I only know because his picture was all over the front pages last week. Just sold out a vast shareholding. Said he was leaving to live in the Bahamas or somewhere.’
‘He may be doing just that, once they’ve made some loot out of this.’
‘Pop me back in the cupboard, Boysie, and set about your mate Yetsofar with the jalap.’ Mostyn was already settling himself on the floor. Boysie closed the door, turned on the key and put his hand into his inside pocket to clutch the tiny bottle of laxative.
Feeding the lethal mixture to Yetsofar was easier than he expected. The Sorcerer had already taken his seat at the reserved table in the dining hall when Boysie arrived. So were the intrepid space hero and heroine, Sonya and Yetsofar. The place next to Yetsofar was vacant. Better still it was on the outside, the side from which food was passed up the table. Boysie, watched and waited. The moment came when the fruit salad came. With a magnificent piece of palming Boysie grasped a dish containing one portion of fruit salad and, at the same time held the phial of jalap, uncorked in the palm of his hand. He used the oldest dodge in the business as misdirection. Bringing the dish of salad in line with his chest, he put on a puzzled expression, staring towards the door on the far side of the room. As he started to pass the dish on, Boysie still staring, let out a low ‘Who is that?’
Yetsofar, Sonya and the Sorcerer all turned and looked in the direction of Boysie’s gaze. In a flash, Boysie dropped the dish on to the table and slipped his hand over it to allow the contents of the phial to drop into the salad. By the time Yetsofar turned back to the table, the dish of fruit salad was there in front of him. He ate the lot.