Understrike

by John Gardner

  CONTACT WITH ‘L’ AND FEMALE ESCORT LOST BETWEEN SANTA ROSA NEW MEXICO AND ALBUQUERQUE STOP ABDUCTION FEARED STOP NO TRACE STOP AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS STOP

  “Damn sex maniac, probably gone off with the bint. Havin’ it off in some cheap hotel. Wastin’ the Department’s time and money. Keelhaul the bastard when he gets back.”

  “If I may remind you, sir,” Mostyn was grave. “Boysie was sent on this assignment at your personal request, and there does seem to be something up.”

  “I’ll bet there’s somethin’ up.”

  “Seriously, sir, I do think we should take some action.”

  “Action! What the hell can we do? Yanks won’t thank you for signallin’ them; tellin’ ‘em to stop their trials because one of our blokes has gone missin’. It’s quite obvious to me. Either some of Oakes’ past has caught up with ‘im—and that’s a risk we’ve always had to take—or the fella’s gone sexually spare and AWOL. Probably turn up in time for the trials with bloody great bags under his eyes and a spot of the tremblin’ kneecaps. You’ll see.”

  “I still don’t like it, sir.”

  The Chief turned down the corners of his mouth, placed the tips of his fingers together just below his lower lip, as though in prayer. He remained in this contemplative attitude for about thirty seconds, then he leaned forward prodding Mostyn in the chest with the bony index finger of his right hand.

  “All right, Number Two. All right. You don’t bloody like it. Well I’ll tell you what we bloody do about it. You just go home, pack your special light-bloody-weight airtravel suticase, book yourself a trip on a 707 to San Di-bleedin’-ago, via San bloody Francisco, and get bloody weavin’. If you don’t like it, then you can bloody go out there and keep a bloodshot eye on things your bloody-self. And that’s a direct bleedin’ order.”

  Mostyn, who had much work to do in his office, and innumerable private plans—including some unspeakable deviations involving a well-known dancer and the girl in the cash desk of a Chinese restaurant he had just discovered in Hampstead—gave an agonised internal cry. Aloud, he grunted “Boysie Oakes.” He made the name sound impressively obscene.

  *

  They took turns to drive the racy little Mustang along the Interstate Highway—stopping only for petrol, coffee and hamburgers (Boysie’s stomach now right out of control), Coca-Cola and the natural needs. Some of the fear was sweated from them along the burning roads. Chicory was told the basic facts surrounding the fracas at the Rio Grande, and, for the thirteenth time, Vladimir assured Boysie that he had no idea how the opposition planned to disrupt Monday’s Playboy-Trepholite firing trials.

  In Phoenix, Arizona, they saw the headlines—TRIPLE SLAYING AT NEW MEXICO MOTEL.

  “They don’t mention Gorilka, or the couple we popped into the shower,” said Boysie, reading the story.

  That could only mean one thing. Gorilka and his brace of gunmen were still at large. An extra needle of worry performed a painful series of cross-stitches in the corner of Boysie’s conscience.

  They reached San Diego at four-thirty on the Saturday afternoon, pulled up in the forecourt of a double-decked Sleepy Bear motel sporting a ‘Vacancies’ sign, and trotted wearily into the reception office. Way back on the other side of the Arizona State Line they had decided that, once in San Diego, it would be best to check into a motel before Boysie went solo to present the facts, and the news about Solev, to Commander Braddock-Fairchild—Priscilla’s sea-dog dad.

  Boysie and Chicory registered in their own names; Solev with a notable flourish, signed himself Bernard Oakes—the only way they could surmount the startling double trouble. The impassive manager looked them up and down and slammed three keys on to the counter:

  “Be thirty bucks in advance. Rooms are on the second floor.” His eyes hovered over Chicory who took a deep breath. “29, 30, 31.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Said Chicory, much on her dignity. “Room numbers 29, 30 and 31,” said the Manager without a smile.

  “Oh. For a moment I thought you were being insulting,” said Chicory with a charming wiggle. “Come gentlemen.”

  5 – B + P + T= C

  WHEN the moon comes up over San Diego, people smile and say: “M G M is on location tonight.” The atmosphere is tropical, luxurious, expensive; cushioned on warm air, zephyr-rocked palms and fine dry sand. To the uncommitted observer, it has the lush, unreal look of a movie set geared for glorious Technicolor. Gazing out of the study window of the Braddock-Fairchild apartment, high in the Cabrillo Building, Boysie Oakes thought that at any minute a huge, freckled Doris Day face would be superimposed on the Vistavision panorama.

  The contrast between the view and the study interior was depressing. Commander Braddock-Fairchild, RN, was a man of habit. The room might have been the captain’s cabin aboard one of Her Majesty’s men-o-war. There was no colour here—not even in the bookcase, with its dull regimental leather bindings, covering half of one wall. The eye took in only the functional quality of the furnishings—heavy oak desk, solid leather armchair, wooden pipe-rack. The pictures—black and white photographs; some well-faded—told the familiar story of a naval officer: Braddock-Fairchild at Dartmouth, as a Midship-man, a Sub-Lieutenant, and so up the ladder. There were ships galore, shipmates aplenty: the only relief lying in a small framed photograph of the pleasurable Priscilla, standing at an exact angle on the Commander’s desk.

  Boysie had telephoned North Island Naval Base as soon as the trio got to their rooms. The Commander had been somewhat short, ordering Boysie to (his exact words) “Wait upon me in my apartment at six” the heavy brow clouding darkly when Boysie arrived a good ten minutes late—after cautioning both Vladimir and Chicory to stay in their rooms, on the motel’s upper deck, until his return.

  Braddock-Fairchild listened silently—apart from loud sucking on a reeding pipe—and with total concentration, while Boysie told his story. There was a full minute’s pause after he stopped speaking.

  “Been expecting you for the last two days.” There was no doubt that here was an officer and a gentleman—one of each. “Crossed me mind something might’ve gone wrong. Knew about your spot of bother in New York, of course. Had the local police up here asking questions of me daughter. Someone taking her name in vain, eh?”

  “I rather gathered that, sir.”

  “Hurumph. Met her on the ship coming over, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Is she well?”

  “Probably see for yerself on your way out. Having a bath when you arrived. Can’t understand these flibberty-gibbets. Suppose she’s all right. Never eats anything; thin as a rake; goes around half naked. Wouldn’t have done in my day. Still, her business. Whole country seems to have gone down since the war—tone of the place. Change and decay. Change and de-day. Discipline, Oakes. That’s what they need. Discipline.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, you’ve got the Russian fellow at the motel with you? And the girl. She’ll have to go back to New York, of course. I’ll see that the Russian’s taken care of. Your job’s to be present at the trials on Monday. Personally, can’t see how anything can go wrong. Americans look a slap-happy lot, but their security’s first class. Couldn’t get near that submarine if you were invisible—unless you were on the screened list or a crew member. Still, I’ll have a word with their security boys. They’ll check the net, seal up any chinks. Nothing more for you to worry about there, Oakes. Stay in the motel tonight. Have a car for you first thing in the morning—say 08.00 hours—bring you down to the wardroom at North Island. You’ll be staying there, with the other observers, till the trials have finished. Briefin’ begins 10.30—take most of the day. Playboy’s scheduled to sail 09.00 on Monday. Any questions?”

  “Will you be coming for the ride, sir?”

  “If you mean, will I be sailing on Playboy, yes. I’m observing for the Royal Navy. Nothing else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Now, I want your room numbers at the motel. Just to make sure we
collect the right people at the right times. Russian’s in . .?”

  “29. I’m room 30, and Miss Triplehouse is in 31.”

  “Right.” Braddock-Fairchild made a note on the pad at his elbow. “Get something to eat, then back to the motel. Keep in your rooms. See you in the morning; have to get on to the Base security boys now. Look’s as if a good night’s sleep wouldn’t do you any harm. Find your own way out? Give me daughter a shout. Glad to see you.”

  Perplexed at the curt dismissal, Boysie went blinking through the door into the hallway of the apartment. Commander Braddock-Fairchild, RN, sat looking at the scribbled notes on the pad in front of him. He reached forward and picked up the telephone. The Commander’s face betrayed none of the concern which niggled deep in the core of his well-ordered brain.

  Boysie did not have to shout for Priscilla. She was leaning with her back against the wall facing the Commander’s door; a slender goddess; jet hair hanging smooth to her shoulders; the firm body splendidly arranged under a cloud of white chiffon. From the room behind her the radio was playing something cool and swinging—it sounded like Brubeck’s Blue Rondo a la Turk. In her right hand, Priscilla grasped a queen-sized frosted daquiri; her left stretched towards Boysie, offering him an equally large Courvoisier.

  “Darling Boysie.” The lips had that full, moist look. “I simply shrieked with joy when Daddy told me you were coming.”

  “Hallo,” said Boysie.

  She moved closer. “Kiss me and have a drink.”

  Boysie leaned forward and they touched lips. Hormones began doing the bossa nova.

  “That’s my boy.” Priscilla handed over the drink. “How about taking a starving girl out to dinner?”

  “Adore to but I’ve got no loose cash about me,” said Boysie sipping his Courvoisier and giving her a look which the Lord Chamberlain and the Hayes Office would have ripped out without a second thought.

  “I’ve got enough for both of us.” Priscilla rubbed her back against the wall in a lazy arching movement.

  “That’s my girl.” Boysie took the rest of his drink in one, and they closed like a pair of wrestlers.

  San Diego’s plushiest caravanserai, the El Cortez Hotel, sports a glass elevator which, to be different, ascends the high white building on the outside—pushed skywards on a single, shining steel shaft. As the ground dropped away, Boysie, never at his best where heights were concerned, swallowed hard and allowed his mouth to set in a sickly smile (praying that nothing would go wrong).

  “Got stuck up here for fifteen minutes the other morning,” said the wretchedly cheerful blonde attendant in reply to Priscilla’s question about safety. After what seemed like a small piece of eternity, they stepped into the “Skyroom”—soft carpets, acres of glass, piped music and a platoon of padding waiters. Priscilla insisted that they begin the evening by toasting this fortuitous reunion in champagne: a decision which led to the only disturbance in an otherwise memorably voluptuous night. A waiter, fumbling the Dom Perignon ‘53, allowed the cork to make a premature escape—the resultant report cracking sharply on the eardrums of the dozen or so couples at that moment gorging themselves on the “Skyroom’s” four starred provender. Boysie, whose nerves had just reached a state of comfortable complacency, wheeled from the table, dropping on one knee in the classic John Wayne-behind-a-boulder position—the big Stechkin in his right hand pointing unerringly at the wine waiter’s portly stomach. A woman screamed. A retired Army major disappeared under the table, and a well-known Hollywood designer fainted away. Boysie went crimson and tried to hide the gun behind his back as he got to his feet making vague flapping gestures with his free hand. Priscilla giggled, spluttering into a dainty handkerchief.

  “We do not encourage gunplay in this establishment, sir,” said the head waiter pompously.

  “Only a little joke. Toy pistol really.” Boysie continued to flap his hand like a penguin.

  Order was eventually restored. They were not asked to leave—Priscilla was known—but it was noticeable that departing diners made a careful detour to avoid passing the table where Boysie and Priscilla dined luxuriously on Oysters Kirkpatrick, Calf’s Sweetbreads sauted in Bordelaise with Longbranch potatoes, and Strawberries Romanoff.

  From the “Skyroom” they drove, in Priscilla’s silver-grey Lancia 2800, out to the Bali Hai at the tip of man-made Shelter Island which projects from the north side of San Diego Bay. There, sitting on the stone terrace watching the moon spear its long phosphorescent reflection across the bay, and listening to the seductive schmaltz of Arthur Lyman, they drank what appeared to be footbaths of Missionary’s Downfall—a pernicious blend of fresh lime, pineapple juice, fassionala and Martinique rhum negrite. An hour later, the Lancia sped them up to Point Loma where they discovered that, in spite of the more obvious spacial difficulties, it is quite possible in that make of automobile. It was almost one in the morning when Priscilla returned Boysie to the Sleepy Bear motel.

  “And where do you think you’ve been?” Chicory’s voice was audibly unpleasant. Boysie had been in the act of putting his key into the lock of room number 30, when her door swung open. Boysie smiled stupidly.

  “What cheer, Chick dear, I say, you look rather lovable in that get-up.” Chicory’s desirable flesh was covered only by a thin blue toga-style nightdress.

  “The hell with my get-up, you louse. We’ve been waiting for you all night. Vladimir and I dined on ... Guess what? ... Stinkin’ hamburgers, coffee, and half-a-bottle of Bourbon. I happened to have the Bourbon; Vladimir got the other stuff down at the Coffee Shop.” Even Boysie, surrounded by the warm glow of Missionary’s Downfall and post sexual self-confidence, could see that she was not exactly pleased to see him. He opened his mouth, but she was away again:

  “And what’s more, I’ve been waiting for you. I was in a state for you, Boysie. Then you turn up with ... with ...”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Hang on a minute. Chicory, and I’ll come in to you ...”

  “Like hell you will. Vladimir’s been trying to make me all night. Well, if I can’t sleep, I’ll go in to him. I never want to see you again, let alone sleep with you. You ... you can go back to that ... that anaconda who was twined all round you in the travelling brothel you arrived in. I saw you, Oakes... from my window I saw you ... You’re a two-timing lousy rat.” And with that, Chicory Triplehouse slammed her door in his face.

  Boysie’s mind flipped. Pride would never allow him—even at this late hour, half stoned and eminently satisfied—to lose Chicory to Vladimir Solev. At a finger-snap he was into his room and across to the telephone. He asked for number 29. There was a lengthy pause before Vladimir’s sleepy voice answered.

  “Vladimir,” said Boysie in a long-drawn coaxing tone.

  “Who ... Whosat?”

  “Boysie. Look, Vladimir old chap, sorry to wake you up and all that, but I want to take a little safety precaution ...”

  “Whatsamatter?” Vladimir’s nerves were showing.

  “Haven’t got time to explain now, but there’s nothing for you to worry about ...”

  “You sure?” Very uncertain.

  “Absolutely. Just want to play it safe. No panic, but I think it would be a good idea if we changed rooms.”

  “Why?”

  “There isn’t time to explain. Honestly. You’ve just got to trust me.”

  “All right, if you say so, Boysie. Change rooms. Now?”

  “This minute.”

  “OK. Let me find some clothes.”

  “No time for that. Come as you are. Don’t turn on any lights. I’ll meet you at the door go straight into your room. You come straight to mine, lock the door and get into bed. Don’t talk and don’t make any noise. OK?”

  “OK. Oh, Boysie?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve remembered one thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Gorilka told me the name of the operation—the code name for the operation.”

  “Well.”

  “It’s Unders
trike—Operation Understrike”’

  “Understrike, Schmunderstrike. That’s a valuable bit of information, isn’t it?” said Boysie sarcastically. “How do you think that’s going to help?”

  “Well, I just thought...”

  “All right. Thanks, Vladimir. Now get cracking, there’s a good lad.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Boysie smiled the smile of an irresponsible practical joker—the Missionary’s Downfall still keeping him at bubbling point. Life was just a glorious game and the alarms and excursions of normality merely myths. In this warped, alcoholically-induced state he was even pleased to see that Vladimir’s face wore the marks of fear, as the Russian tip-toed between the rooms modestly clutching a towel round his middle. Boysie stifled the desire to break into hysterical cackling mirth. The exchange was finally concluded, and within minutes of reaching Vladimir’s room, Boysie had his clothes off and was in bed—naked and unashamed. Fifteen minutes later there was a soft, steady tapping at the door.

  The night’s events had told heavily on Boysie’s stamina, and the noise jerked him back from the first stage of sleep. He blinked, shook his head, and remembered the little jape. Getting out of bed, he plodded across to the door.

  “Who’s there” His brain cloudy, he concentrated hard in an attempt to will his flagging senses into a more acute state of readiness.

  “Me, Chicory. Let me in.”

  Boysie opened the door and Chicory nipped over the threshold—still dressed only in the blue bit of nothing.

  “What do you want?” closing the door and sliding the chain into place.

  “That’s a stupid question after what happened earlier. I said I’d think about it. Well, here I am.” She spread out her arms in the acknowledged stance of surrender: palms about eighteen inches from the thighs.

  “You mean?” Boysie could see her quite clearly in the half-light. She nodded. He was close to her now, one hand around her waist, the other moving up to cup a nylon-shielded breast.