The Loo Sanction

by Trevanian

  “Odd ritual, this,” the Vicar said, replacing the utensils. “The last morsels of consecrated bread and wine must be consumed by the priest. I suppose it arose out of some fear of contamination and sacrilege, should the body and blood of Christ find its way into the alimentary canal of an unbeliever.” He winked.

  “What is missionary work but the effort to introduce Christ to the uninitiated?” Jonathan commented.

  The Vicar laughed robustly. “Precisely! Precisely! You, I dare to assume, do not avail yourself of the sacrament often.”

  “No form of cannibalism appeals to me.”

  “Oh. I see. Yes.” The Vicar folded the last of his vestments carefully and set them aside. From behind, his formidable bulk seemed to fill the black flowing garment. “Shall we take a turn around the churchyard, Dr. Hemlock. It’s quite lovely in the last light. We shall not be needing you, Yank. I’m sure you can find something to amuse yourself with for a few minutes.”

  Yank made a gesture akin to a salute and left the vestry. The Vicar looked after him with paternal warmth. “There’s a very bright young man for you, Dr. Hemlock. Energetic. Zealous. We pulled him away from another project and made him your liaison with our organization because we thought you might be more comfortable working with someone who was au courant with things American.” He put his heavy arm around Jonathan’s shoulders and conducted him on a leisurely stroll down the nave of the Art Nouveau church. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Quite unique.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “God’s, actually. But if you are asking if I am the regular vicar, the answer is no. I am standing in for him for a fortnight while he is on honeymoon in Spain. But the less said of that the better.” He made a wide gesture with his arm. “When would you guess this church was built?”

  Jonathan stepped away from the encircling arm and glanced around. “About 1905.”

  The Vicar stopped short, his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows arched high. “Amazing! Within a year!” Then he laughed. “Ah, but of course! Art is your province, isn’t it.” He glanced quickly at Jonathan. “That is, it is one of your occupations.”

  “It is my only occupation,” Jonathan said with mild stress.

  The Vicar clasped his hands behind his back and studied the parquet floor. “Yes, yes. Your Mr. Dragon informed me that you had left CII in some disgust after that nasty business in the Alps.” He winked.

  Jonathan leaned against the side of a pew and folded his arms. This vicar evidently knew a great deal about him. He even knew the name of Yurasis Dragon, head of Search and Sanction Division of CII: a name known to fewer than a dozen people in the States. Obviously, the Vicar would prefer to approach whatever dirty business he had in mind through the gentle back alleys of trivial polite conversation, but Jonathan decided not to cooperate.

  “Yes,” the Vicar continued after an uncomfortable pause, “that must have been a nasty affair for you. As I recall the details, you had to kill all three of the men you were climbing with, because your SS Division had been unable to specify which one was your target.”

  Jonathan watched him steadily, but did not respond.

  “I suppose it takes a rather special kind of man to do that sort of thing,” the Vicar said, winking. “After all, a certain camaraderie must grow up amongst men making so dangerous a climb as the Eiger. Isn’t that so?”

  No answer.

  The Vicar broke the ensuing silence with artificial heartiness. “Well, well! At all events, the little project we have in mind for you will not be so grisly as that. At least, it need not be. You have that much to be grateful for, eh?”

  Nothing.

  “Yes. Well. Mr. Dragon warned me that you could be recalcitrant.” The tone of robust friendliness dropped from his voice, and he continued speaking with the mechanical crispness of a man accustomed to giving orders. “All right, then, let’s get to it. How much did Yank tell you about us?”

  “Only as much as you instructed him to. I take it that your Loo organization is a rough analogue of our Search and Sanction, and is occupied with matters of counterassassination.”

  “That is correct. However, what we have on for you is a little out of that line. What else do you know?”

  Jonathan began walking down the nave toward the vestibule. “Nothing, really. But I have made certain assumptions.”

  The Vicar followed. “May I hear them?”

  “Well, you, of course, are Mister Loo. But I haven’t decided whether this church business is simply a front.”

  “No, no. Not at all. I am first and always a man of the Church. I served as chaplain during the Hitlerian War and afterward found myself still involved in government affairs. We are, after all, a state church.” He winked.

  “I see.” Jonathan passed out through the vestibule and turned up a path that led through the churchyard, cool and iridescent in the gloaming. Yank and The Sergeant were standing at some distance, watching them as the Vicar fell into step alongside.

  “It is not uncommon, Dr. Hemlock, for C. of E. churchmen to have some hobby to occupy their minds. Particularly if their livings are of the more modest sort. Nature study claims a great number; and some of the younger men toy about with social reform and that sort of thing. Circumstance and personal inclination directed me along other paths.”

  “Killing, to be specific.”

  The Vicar’s response was measured and cool. “I have certain organizational talents that I have placed at the service of my country, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yes, that’s what I meant.”

  “And, tell me, what else have you assumed?”

  “That this young lady—Maggie Coyne, if that is her real name—”

  “As it happens, it is.”

  “. . . that this Miss Coyne is one of your operatives. That she set me up in that little affair of the man in my bathroom.”

  “My, my. You are perceptive. What brought you to this conclusion?”

  Jonathan sat on a headstone. “In retrospect, the thing was too neat, too circumstantial. I seldom use the Baker Street penthouse. But your men knew I would be there that particular night. And it was Miss Coyne who proposed the restaurant a half block away.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “And along with a rack of trumped-up circumstantial evidence linking me with the poor bastard, there must be some hard evidence—probably photographic. Right?”

  “I blush at our being so transparent.”

  Jonathan rose and they continued their stroll.

  “How did you get the photographs?”

  “The young woman took them.”

  “When? With what?”

  “The cigarette—”

  “The cigarette lighter!” Jonathan shook his head at his stupidity. A gold cigarette lighter in the possession of a girl who didn’t know where her next meal was coming from. A camera, of course. And she had fumbled with it, unable to light her cigarette, as she stood there at the bathroom door.

  He snatched a twig from a shrub, stripped the leaves with an angry gesture, and crushed them in his hand. “And the gun, of course, would be found in my apartment.”

  “Very well hidden. It would be found only after an extensive search. But it would be found.” The Vicar winked.

  Jonathan walked on slowly, rolling the leaf pulp between his palms. “I’m curious, Padre . . .”

  “The sign of a healthy intellect.”

  “After hitting that man in my john, your men left. They didn’t try to put the hand on me then, presumably because they didn’t yet have the photographs.”

  “Just so.”

  “Why did they come back later?”

  “To pick up the cigarette lighter and develop the film. Miss Coyne was supposed to leave it behind.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  “No, she did not. And that threw my chaps into some confusion.”

  “Why do you suppose she broke the plan?”

  “Ah.” The Vicar lifted his hands and let them fall in a gesture of
helplessness. “Who can probe the human heart with only the brutish tools of logic, eh, Dr. Hemlock? She was shocked perhaps by the sight of that poor fellow in your bathroom? It is even possible that some affection for you misdirected her loyalties.”

  “In that case, why didn’t she destroy the films?”

  “Ah, there you go. Asking for sequential logic in the workings of emotion. Man is nothing if not labyrinthine. And when I say ‘man’ I include, of course, woman. For in this context, as in the romantic one, man embraces woman. I shall never understand why Americans doubt the Briton’s sense of humor.”

  Jonathan could. “So your men were running around London looking for both Miss Coyne and me.”

  “You gave us a few difficult hours. But all that is behind us now. But come now! Let’s not look on the gloomy side. Provided you lend your skills to our little project, the police will be allowed to remain in that state of blissful ignorance so characteristic of them.” The Vicar stopped beside a fresh grave that did not yet have a headstone. “That’s poor Parnell-Greene,” he said, sighing deeply, “unfortunate fellow.”

  “Who’s Parnell-Greene?”

  “Our most recent casualty. You’ll learn more about him later.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “All of them here,” he said, his voice resonant and wavering, “they’re all ours. All Loo people.”

  Jonathan glanced at the inscriptions on nearby stones, just legible in the fading light. Passed into the greater life. Went to sleep. Returned home. Found everlasting glory.

  “Didn’t any of them die?” he asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “The names and dates on the stones are false, of course. But they’re all our brave lads.” He sighed stentoriously. “Good youngsters, every one.”

  “No shit?”

  The Vicar stared at him with reproof, then he laughed. “Ah, yes! Mr. Dragon warned me of your tendency to revert to the social atavism of your boyhood. It used to pain him, or so he said.”

  “You seem to be on good terms with Dragon.”

  “We correspond regularly, share information and personnel, that sort of thing. Does that surprise you? We also have arrangements with our Russian and French counterparts. After all, every game must be played by certain rules. But I must admit that Mr. Dragon was not of much help in the matter now before us, occupied as he is with dire events on his own doorstep. No doubt you have heard about this Watergate business?”

  “Oddly enough, it was mentioned just today at the Embassy. It seems to me to be a lot of fuss over a trivial and incompetent bit of spy-spy.”

  “One would think so, but it can’t be all that trivial if CII has been brought in on it. The affair evidently requires fairly heavy hushing up, and Mr. Dragon is involved in that side of it. I shouldn’t be surprised if the statistics on death by accident showed an unaccountable rise over the next month or so. But I take it from your distant expression that you are not overly concerned with this election.”

  “It’s difficult to get excited when the choice is between a fool and a villain.”

  “Personally, I prefer villains. They are more predictable.” The Vicar winked vigorously.

  “So it was Dragon who put you onto me?”

  “Yes. We knew, of course, that you were in the country, but we had been informed that you had retired from our line of work, so we did not interfere with your visit. At that time we had no intention of using you. There is nothing more dangerous than an unwilling and uncooperative active. But. This business came along and . . .” The Vicar blew out his broad cheeks and shrugged fatalistically. “. . . we had no other option, really.”

  “But why me? Why not one of your own people?”

  “You will learn that in due course. Lovely evening, isn’t it? That precious moment when day and night are in delicate balance.”

  Jonathan knew he was hooked. If he refused to cooperate, Loo would certainly hang him for the murder of that poor bastard on the toilet, even though it would make his services unavailable. Like CII, Loo realized that threats and blackmail were effective only if the mark was sure that the threat would be carried out at all cost.

  “All right,” Jonathan said, sitting on a grave marker, “let’s talk about it.”

  “Not just now. I’m awaiting some last odd bits of information from London. Once I have them, I shall be able to put you totally into the picture. Shall I see you at the rectory tomorrow? Say, midmorning?”

  The Vicar made a simple gesture with his fingertips and Yank, who had been keeping them under close surveillance, straining his eyes in the gloom, came trotting over. Literally trotting.

  As he ascended the narrow stairs to the second floor of the inn, Jonathan stepped aside to allow Maggie to pass on her way down. She paused and looked at him with troubled eyes. “I suppose it would sound a little foolish to say I’m sorry?”

  “Foolish certainly. And inadequate.”

  She brushed back a wisp of amber hair and forced herself to maintain eye contact with him. “I’ll run the risk, then, of being foolish.”

  “Come on,” The Sergeant growled from behind, “I don’t have all night to stand about!”

  Jonathan turned to him and smiled his gentle combat smile. He beckoned him closer and spoke softly into the bland moon face with its shaved head and crisp military moustache. “You know something? I am becoming very annoyed with everything that’s happening here. And I have this conviction that my annoyance is eventually going to purge itself on you. And when it does . . .” Jonathan grinned and nodded. “. . . and when it does . . .” He patted The Sergeant’s cheek. Then he turned away and went up to his room.

  The Sergeant, not sure what had just happened, scratched the patted cheek angrily and mumbled after the retreating figure, “Anytime, yank. Anytime!”

  Yank had come to fetch him down to supper in the low-ceilinged, pseudo-Tudor dining room, a recent addition featuring stucco with capricious finger-swirl patterns and pressed plastic wooden beams placed in positions that could not possibly bear weight. There were fewer than a dozen diners served by a Portuguese waiter in an ill-fitting tuxedo who went about his task with great style and flourish that interfered with his efficiency.

  Jonathan and Yank occupied a corner table, while The Sergeant sat alone three tables away and occupied himself, when he was not pushing great forkloads of food into his mouth, by glowering at Jonathan with a menacing intensity that was almost comic. Henry, the driver, sat in close conversation with the bird from the reception desk, who often giggled and pressed her knee against his. The rest of the guests were young men stamped from Henry’s mold: longish hair, beefy faces, dark suits with flared jackets, and belled trousers.

  “I see that Miss Coyne hasn’t come down to supper,” Jonathan said.

  “No,” Yank said. “She’s eating in her room. Not feeling too well.”

  “A girl of delicate sensitivities.”

  “I reckon so.”

  It was a classically English meal: meat boiled until it was stringy, waterlogged potatoes, and the ubiquitous peas and carrots, tasteless and mushy. Directly the edge of his hunger was dulled, Jonathan pushed his plate away.

  Although he had been eating with great appetite, Yank imitated Jonathan’s gesture. “This English chow’s a crime, isn’t it?” he said. “Give me hamburgers and French fries any old time.”

  “Who are all these young men?” Jonathan asked.

  “Guards, mostly,” Yank said. “Shall I order some Java?”

  “Please. All these guards for me? I’m flattered.”

  “No, they don’t work here. They work . . .” He was visibly uncomfortable. “. . . up the road.”

  “At the church?”

  Yank shook his head. “No-o. We have another establishment. Back in the fields.”

  “What kind of establishment?”

  “Ah! I think I caught the waiter’s eye.” Yank held his coffee cup in the air and pointed to it. The Portuguese waiter was at f
irst confused, then with a dawn of understanding, he held up a cup from an empty table and pointed to it, raising his eyebrows high in question. Yank nodded and mouthed the word “C-o-f-f-e-e,” with exaggerated lip movement.

  When the tea arrived, Jonathan’s curiosity made him ask, “This other establishment you mentioned. What goes on there?”

  Yank’s discomfort returned. “Oh. It’s nothing. Say!” He changed the subject without subtlety. “I really envy you, you know.”

  “Oh? Always had a secret desire to be kidnapped?”

  “No, not that. I guess I envy every American. Can’t understand why you came to live among us limeys. If I ever get to the old forty-eight, you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll hang in there. And I’m going to do it someday. I’m going to the States and get a ranch in Nebraska or somewhere and settle down.”

  “That’s just wonderful, Yank.”

  “It’s not just a dream either. I’m going to do it. As soon as I get the loot together.”

  Back in his room Jonathan lay in the dark and stared up toward the ceiling. His deep anger at being used, boxed in, manifested itself as pressure behind his eyes that built up and began to throb. He was rubbing his temples to relieve the pressure when he heard the sound of a key turning in his lock. He opened his eyes and, without moving his head, watched the bird from the reception desk enter and approach his bed.

  “You asleep?”

  “No.”

  She sat on the edge of his bed and put her hand on him. “Feel like having a go?”

  He smiled to himself and examined her face in the gloom. She was pretty enough in the plastic way of English girls of her class and age. “I had the impression that you had something going with the young man who drove me here.”

  “Who, Henry? Well, I do, of course. We’re thinking about getting married one of these days. But that’s my private life, and this is my work. The blokes who come here are always tensed up, and I help them to relax. It’s all part of the service, you might say.”