Understrike

by John Gardner

  “It’s like being a perishing ventriloquist without knowing it.”

  “Oh, then they taught me to walk like you—all your mannerisms. I ate your favourite food, I must thank you for that, by the way. Never knew what food was until I started this training.” He looked, to Boysie, like a puppy begging for compliments. “Well, you can see the result: I became you!” Solev spread his hands expansively like a conjuror ending a smart trick. Boysie realised that both the look and the gesture were typical of himself.

  “I believe you did.” A slim plan was germinating in Boysie’s mind. It was mad, but it might just work. He must not panic now.

  “Clever buggers, aren’t they?” said Boysie.

  “Oh, they’re clever enough. Never underestimate them, Boysie. We must never do that.” Solev was still sweating.

  “I wonder,” said Boysie, “if they really have turned you into another me. Completely. There are so many similarities. You were forced into all this. So was I.”

  “Forced? You were?”

  “Against my better judgement—as they say. Really, Vladimir, tell me honestly. Do you like the job, or is it a right drag?”

  Solev looked like a trapped animal; refusing to meet Boysie’s eyes squarely. “I enjoyed the training.” Apprehensive. “I enjoyed the challenge of becoming you. I can honestly say I enjoyed that.” Recovering a little of his unsteady poise.

  “But the special training. What about the special training? Getting ready for this operation. Going out on a limb. On your own. Do you find all this excites you? Or ...?”

  “I’m sorry about you ...” He was evading the issue—clumsily. “Now really, I must ask you…”

  “Please!” Boysie was pushing his advantage. “This is very important to me. Your heart? Is your heart really in this? Or are you like me?”

  “What d’you mean: like you?”

  Boysie prepared to play his small trump. He had never told this to a living soul. “I was pressganged into the whole bloody issue. Just like you.” His voice was rough in the back of his throat. “I did it mainly for the money. Because I was broke. Because I’ve always fancied a bit of luxury. They gave me the Pygmalion bit as well. Instructors? I know the lot. Ye gods, it’s all very well these newspaper people and the writers scribbling away about operatives being ordinary blokes in dirty coats working in scruffy offices—that’s a load of old dishwater for a start. Vladimir, our Department has got more tradition than the Guards and the Royal Marines put together. If that means anything to you. Talk about snobbery. When I got into the game —at the training school—there was one chap there wouldn’t speak to me for a fortnight when he found out I bought my razor blades at Woolworths. They only take the real cut glass under normal circumstances. Won’t touch anyone unless he’s got the right background. I didn’t even know what a public school looked like so they had to lay on a whole course for me—build a nice genteel façade.” He grinned at the memory. “I must say they gave me the best; they even got Ken Tynan in the flesh, mate—to come and talk to me about Drama. Nice bloke Ken, didn’t understand half of what he was on about, but he’s a nice bloke... . I had just about the most exclusive short course in the Arts and table manners ...” he broke off and leaned forward, fingertips touching Solev’s left wrist. “You said just now that we all secretly wanted to be heroes. I suppose that’s true, but we all know what we really are, and I’m not brave. If you want to know, I’m a flipping coward. I didn’t even do most of the things they credit me with. Inside I’m just a churning cold-sweat flavoured blancmange. I know psychiatrists who’d pay good money to have a go at me.” He was really away now. “Honestly, Vladimir, I think you are like me: scared bloody stiff. And if you are, I can tell you, now’s the time to kick it—get the hell out of it. I should have got out when I had the chance: gone and been a road sweeper or something—security officer in a supermarket. I’d have been a wow in a supermarket, catching kids knocking off the cereal packets for the plastic gifts inside. That’s just about my mark; cereal minder.”

  “But you . .” Solev’s mouth was open. Hanging.

  “Oh, it’s all right when you’re not on a job. When you’re on stand-down, then it’s great: the car and the flat, plenty of money, noshing it up, and the birds, the dolly, dolly birds, But most of the time—on your own—it’s pure palpitating agony. The anxiety: I’m not kidding, Vladimir...”

  Solev’s hands were shaking. A low groan of recognition came struggling from strangled vocal chords. “I want to be sick,” moaned Solev.

  “How the hell do you think I feel? All the time I want to be sick.”

  “But I couldn’t get out of it. Even if I wanted to.”

  “And you do want to.” A statement.

  “With our lot, if you don’t do as they say, it’s the salt mines, or worse...”

  “Schtucksvillesky.”

  “I feel dreadful, Boysie. And what’s it going to be like when they’ve ... When you’ve gone?” His look was one Boysie knew well enough—despair. “I’m lucky to have got this far. Once I’m really on my own, I’ll fold up. I’ll just fold up. But what else could I do?”

  “I know.” Boysie felt his breathing ease a fraction. “You’d probably get through this one all right. But then there’ll be another; and another. It’s like blackmail, and the end is going to be the same. When I think about it I could die.” He realised, his stomach dropping about six inches, that the words were colourfully appropriate.

  “What can I do?” Solev looked ghastly.

  “What do you want most in the world?”

  Silence. Then: “Before all this happened, in Russia, I thought I was happy—just doing my work. I’d never married but that didn’t worry me. Always enough in the samovar. The borsch had plenty of sausage in it. Now, it’s no good. I know I can’t do this kind of work. I feel like a parachutist all the time —and I hate heights. During the training I learned a lot about England. I’ve become an Englishman. There were television films and things. I was taught to think like an Englishman.” He made a peculiar noise, half-snort, half-laugh. “The questions I wanted to ask. They had nothing to do with being you. I wanted to hear if the Beatles were still top of the hit parade, and how Ena Sharples was getting on in Coronation Street, and that nice doctor, what’s his name? Kildare . .”

  “He’s American, and you can probably see whose death-bed he’s attending by just switching that thing on.” Boysie nodded towards the television.

  “Really, Vladimir, in our kind of society you just don’t watch Coronation Street or Doctor Kildare. You don’t admit it anyway. It’s all Panorama and Monitor, Richard Dimbleby and those plays that don’t have proper endings...”

  “What about David Frost?”

  “The satirical bloke?”

  “I think he’s got guts. To say the kind of thing he says about your government and the royal family, he must have guts.”

  “They haven’t really taught you much about our way of life, have they? I mean, they should know that, the Royals aren’t ‘in’ any more; and the government is never ‘in’, let’s face it.”

  “The people don’t like the royal family?”

  “Well, they don’t dislike them. But ... How can I put it? The gossip columnists love them ... but, well, all those corgis, and playing hockey on a horse. Actually I met the Duke once. He was jolly nice to me.”

  “But if the people don’t like them, why don’t they revolt?”

  “They’re revolting enough already.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind. Look, Vladimir. What are we going to do about all this? You’d like to get to England?”

  “How could I? We’d never ...”

  “You don’t want to go on with this operation?”

  “No, of course I don’t.”

  “Then help me. We’ll get away together.” Boysie reflected that he sounded like a melodramatic hero propositioning the lady of the manor. “Once we’re in San Diego I’ll see you all right. Have you on
a plane in no time. You could be safe in London in a couple of days with no more anxieties. Think of it, mate, London—Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly, the Law Courts ... The Tower!” he added tentatively.

  Solev swallowed. “Couldn’t I go by boat? I loathe flying. I’m always ill and feel awful for days afterwards. I haven’t really got over the trip from Moscow yet.”

  The opposition, thought Boysie, did not know how well they had chosen their man. Boysie and Solev did not just have twin bodies, they had twin neuroses.

  “We’ll worry about the details when we get there. The thing is, are you coming?”

  “It’ll mean killing ... I don’t like the idea.”

  “‘Gainst my principles too,” said Boysie. “But for me it’s either kill or be killed. Come to that, it’s the same for you as well. Are you with me?”

  The moment of indecision seemed infinite. Then Solev nodded. “If I stay with the job I’ll end up dead or in Siberia. That’s for sure. At least I’ll have a chance if I come with you. Anyway, I can’t just stand by and let them shoot you. It’d be like killing myself. I’ve been living your life for months now. What a strange situation.”

  Ludicrous, thought Boysie, sliding off the bed and starting towards the window. Solev reacted by bringing his gun to the ready.

  “For gawd’s sake, stop waving that thing about,” said Boysie. “You any good with it, by the way?”

  “Passable,” said Vladimir, looking sheepish.

  Outside, the Mustang stood, lonely, in the patio. To the right the water of the swimming pool gleamed green. There was no sign of life.

  “They’ve gone to a restaurant up the road—one Cirio knows,” said Solev.

  “He said there were guards.”

  “Yes: two nasty bits of work.”

  “I’ve met them.”

  “One’s round the back. They put the other in the room over there.”

  Solev, standing back from the blind, pointed to the end of the window on the left arm of the building. Boysie was sifting the courses of action.

  “How much time have we?”

  “Fifteen minutes. Give or take five.”

  “All right, call that one out of his hidey hole. Tell him you’ve had some trouble with me—or something. If we can put the guards out of action before the three wise monkeys come back we’ll stand a chance. And give me that gun; you’re going to do someone a mischief.” Solev had been fiddling with the Makarov like a learner gunfighter. He handed over the weapon without a murmur. Boysie felt a pleasant surge of power. Obviously, he was going to be the leader. “OK,” he said. “Get him over here,” flattening himself against the wall, behind the door, as he had seen it done in B movies.

  Solev opened the door, and, raising an arm, called towards the thug’s hiding place.

  “Hey, you there. Give me a hand will you. He’s being a bit difficult.” Then, quietly out of the corner of his mouth, “He’s coming Boysie. Careful, he’s got a gun.”

  Boysie could hear the man’s feet closing with the door, then his voice as he came near.

  “What’s he up ta, the bastard? I’ll fix him. Nearly broke my arm.’

  “He’s out cold. Just want to help shift him.” Solev was a diabolical actor, thought Boysie. That last line had been delivered without a trace of realism. Still the hood was no Bernard Levin so it did not matter much.

  “Lead me to him,” said the gorilla as he came through the door.

  “A pleasure,” said Boysie, stepping behind him and bringing the pistol butt sharply down on the base of the skull. It was the man with the scar. He stopped; one foot continued to move forward and he collapsed in a gentle flowing movement. Solev came in and closed the door. Boysie took the man’s gun—a heavy Stechkin automatic. He made a mental note to report the fact that opposition men in the USA were armed from behind the Iron Curtain. Now with a full complement of weapons, Boysie returned the Marakov to Solev.

  “And do be careful with it, Valdimir.”

  Together, they lugged the guts into the bathroom, stripped the bed, tore the sheets into neat bandages and trussed up the unconscious hood.

  A similar procedure worked, just as smoothly, with the second guard, who came to Solev’s call like a gun-dog answering his master’s whistle. They dumped him, carefully parcelled with bits of sheet, in the shower next to his buddy.

  “Couldn’t we just call the police?” asked Solev, not anxious to tangle with the trio who would be returning at any minute. “Best not, if we can help it. Don’t want American officialdom creeping In. If we can get hold of the car keys and make it to San Diego, I’ll get straight on to our man there. He’ll put us right. If we do it the other way, they might keep us languishing in jail for weeks. You never can tell.”

  “What do we do when they ...?” Solev froze to the sound of the Packard turning into the patio.

  “Oh Christ!” said Boysie, guts atremble. “I was just going to ask if you had any ideas.”

  Boysie should have seen the signs of panic on Solev’s face. But the breaking point came unexpectedly. “Shoot it out with them,” Solev screeched, a nervous treble.

  “Wait, you great nit!”

  Boysie was too late. Solev, with his mistimed brashness, had rocketed towards the window, snatched at the venetian blind and fired two rounds before Boysie could stop him. Both shots went wide of Henniger and Cirio who had been in the act of helping the now replete Gorilka from the rear door of the car. Cirio stood indecisive. Henniger moved for cover behind the vehicle as Gorilka, cursing, threw himself back into the car. Thrust into action, Boysie raised the Stechkin and fired three careful shots.

  Cirio twisted violently and seemed to be dragged sideways by an invisible hand, his heels rutting into the earth before he hit the ground and lay still. Boysie’s left ear sang as Solev fired beside him, the bullet splintering the rear window of the car.

  “For crying out loud. Keep that thing away from my earhole, you twerp. And keep down,” he yelled, alarmed at the hint of hysteria in his own voice.

  Something crashed into the door. Henniger was shooting from behind the Packard. Gorilka—Boysie could just see—was trying to crawl out of the far-side door. At that moment, the old motel proprietor came limping, at speed, round the corner of the hacienda. He shouted and Henniger, unnerved, swivelled and loosed off two shots. The old man caught them squarely in the chest, spun against one of the cloister pillars and dropped in an untidy heap.

  Boysie fired again, and heard the slug ricochet off the car’s bonnet. Gorilka was shouting something—presumably calling for the guards.

  “Gunfight in the OK Corral,” mused Boysie, feeling surprisingly at ease. The pitched battle seemed completely unreal: blurred. It certainly was not happening to him. Then, just as quickly, he realised that it was very definitely happening to him. Little sewermen began to tie his intestines into running bowlines.

  Solev’s next shot finished it. The bullet must have gone clean into the petrol tank: a spark igniting the fuel. With a wild whump the Packard became an explosive ball of flame. They saw Henniger raised from the ground, his dying hands thrown up to shield his face. Gorilka stumbled backwards to land, sprawling and splashing, in the swimming pool.

  Boysie, partly recovered, had the door open. “You get the keys ... on Cirio ... Hurry…I’ll bring the girl.” He ran unsteadily down the cloister to the room which had been a bridal chamber for Chicory and himself. Vaguely, he took in the scurrying figure of Solev making for Cirio’s prone body. The whole firefight must have lasted for less than three minutes. The road remained deserted. Boysie reached the door.

  “Chicory ...? You all right?”

  “Boysie... What’s happened?”

  The door was still locked and it took Boysie a second to realise that he couldn’t open it with his shoulder.

  “Stand clear of the door. Stand by the window.”

  “OK.” Hearing her shout from inside, to his right, he put a bullet through the l
ock. She came to him, pale with fear.

  “Quickly. The Mustang.”

  “Boysie ... One minute.” Only a woman would bother about possessions at a time like this. Chicory disappeared into the room, and returned dragging both the suitcases. Solev was already in the car clutching the key by the time they reached him. As he hustled them in, Boysie noticed the red paintwork was blistered and crumbling from the heat still being generated by the Packard burning four paces away. The engine roared, drowning the screams of Gorilka, still flailing in the pool. With Boysie, trembling now, at the wheel, the red sports car screeched out towards Highway 66, heading for Albuquerque.

  Solev was jammed between the cases in the rear; Chicory beside Boysie. Frightened as she was, the girl executed a series of double-takes between Vladimir and Boysie.

  “Most wonderful,” said Chicory Triplehouse, oblivious to the fact that she was quoting one of the Immortal Bard’s funnier lines.

  Boysie felt the delayed shock wrenching his vitals.

  Vladimir Solev, nauseated by the task of robbing Cirio’s body for the keys, shook horribly and uncontrollably against Chicory’s case.

  *

  “Fella’s makin’ a cock-up of it. Nothin’ cloak and dagger about this operation. Got no right to get mixed up in skulduggery. What the hell’s happened to his sense of values.”

  The Chief was in a high old paddy. Since the arrival of USS One’s original cablegram, they had met twice to discuss Boysie’s position regarding the Playboy trials. Now in the early evening, Mostyn had been forced to trace the Chief to his club. The Old Man had been savouring a large whisky and idly turning the pages of the Security Gazette while waiting for the urgent telephone call which summoned him, two nights a week, to a villa in Clapham (old habits die hard), when the steward had told him of the Second-in-Command’s presence. In the privacy of the Visitor’s Room, Mostyn showed him the latest signal, date-timed for noon on that day. It read: