Madrigal

by John Gardner

  ‘Major Oakes?’ The voice of authority.

  ‘Yes.’ Boysie swung back out of his black period with a pinch of pride. They had just upped his technical military rank, and for the past week. he had been trying it on for size.

  ‘Duty Officer. Number Two just called down. He wants to see you in Number One’s office as soon as possible.’

  A brace of jellyfish squeezed themselves into Boysie’s main arteries. ‘What’s it all about?’ Constricted. Concern zigzagging between the words.

  ‘Dunno, mate.’ The Duty Officer unflurried. ‘But they’re both up there with foul tempers. I think Number One’s gone spare. Keeps muttering something about rabbits.’ Boysie closed his eyes and wished he had paid more attention to Scripture lessons.

  *

  ‘Damn Bolshy swine’ve got Rabbit.’ The Chief blurted out this somewhat dramatic statement before Mostyn was half-way into the familiar plush office at the top of British Special Security Headquarters near Whitehall. Mostyn quietly closed the door behind him. Being a man of some ambition and ruthlessness, he thought about chains of command quite literally in terms of chains. The most highly polished, super-brilliant link was, of course, himself, while those around him had a tendency to dullness. Tarnish even. The boozy old ex-admiral who was Chief of Special Security had become in Mostyn’s mind both a figurehead and a rusty uncertain hook on which the chain hung. When Mostyn was most able to delude himself, he sought comfort in the fact that if anything gave way it could be blamed on that rusty hook. Yet in dark-bright moments of truth Mostyn knew intuitively that the Chief was banking on his Second-in-Command being the weak link. The Chief had even taken opportunities to make little file marks in Mostyn’s mettle.

  At this moment Mostyn was feeling far from his best, having been called from the warmth of a fallen Bunny girl, with strange fetishes, earlier that drizzling evening. ‘Rabbit?’ he queried, doing his best to keep the snap from his voice; then, making alarming contact, ‘Good grief, Chief !’

  ‘Ye-es,’ snarled the Chief, intent on broaching a new bottle of Chivas Regal. ‘Good old Rabbit Warren. They’ve got ’im.’

  ‘Chopped?’ Mostyn’s irritation turned to uncertainty. ‘Don’t talk like a bloody cabin boy, man. Got ’im in the bag. Wouldn’t chop a bloke like Warren in Moscow.’

  ‘We’ve chopped their blokes here.’

  ‘Different matter entirely.’ The Chivas Regal was open.

  ‘How’d it happen, Chief?’ Mostyn careful, greasy as the little curls on his head.

  ‘’Otel Ukraine. Meetin’ with Chateaubriand—bloody silly code name for that little shit. Ought to change that one, lad. Understand it was something quite important. Supposed to be bringin’ the stuff back in the Diplomatic Bag tomorrow.’

  Mostyn sat down, mouth open with rage and eyes narrowed to nasty little slits. ‘Why wasn’t I told, sir? My area. My operative.’

  The Chief turned, bottle in one hand and glass in the other. ‘Got news for you, little Mostyn. We could both be up the fornicatin’ creek. Information concernin’ Warren’s detention came through odd bloody channels.’ He passed the brimming glass of whisky across the desk.

  Mostyn took it with some gratitude. ‘Odd?’

  The Chief nodded sagely. ‘Information came direct to me in confidence from the Foreign Secretary.’ The Chief grinned nastily.

  If he crossed arms under his chin he would look like the Jolly Roger, thought Mostyn. The whole atmosphere was edgy with conflict. Warren, one of the most experienced field operatives, often doubled with the diplomatic couriers behind the Curtain. That the news should come direct from the Foreign Secretary verged on catastrophe. The Foreign Office, Home Office, and Paymaster General, not to mention the Treasury, had long sought to combine Special Security with one of the other existing Intelligence branches. The slightest chink in the Department’s armour could lead to drastic reorganisation—plus the loss of jobs for the Chief and his Second-in-Command. For years the whole of Special Security had been balanced precariously on the dodo line.

  ‘Thinkin’ of your nasty neck, Mostyn?’

  ‘To be frank, Chief, yes.’

  The old boy nodded. ‘So am I, lad.’ There was sincerity in every word. ‘Happily,’ he continued, ‘there are certain things on our side.’ He -took a gulp of whisky, which would have done for most experienced drinkers, got up, and crossed to the tape-recorder table, which stood, like an altar, beneath a mediocre reproduction of Annigoni’s portrait of Her Majesty. ‘FS was in a bit of a panic when he got in touch. Y’see, he had the news straight from his opposite number in Moscow. Scrambled line of course. Had the monitor tape sent up here. Interestin’ listenin’, Mostyn. FS wants our help and I’ve promised to destroy the tapes.’

  The Chief took another major swallow and touched the side of his nose with a bony forefinger. ‘We play this on tipitoes, little Mostyn. Listen, mark, and inwardly digest right through your watery bowels.’ The gnarled finger swooped on to the playback key and a wave of static filled the room. ‘We must think ourselves bloody lucky. Listenin’ to history, Number Two, history.’

  Voice began to permeate the static, then a series of clicks and a whir.

  ‘Foreign Secretary, sir?’ The stewed-prunes voice of a ministerial switchboard operator. ‘Personal call from Moscow on the red phone, sir.’

  ‘Ah’m on th’ bloody red phone.’ The unmistakable North Country accent which endeared that eminent politician to so many of his disciples.

  ‘Switching you now, sir.’

  ‘Hello.’ Another voice now. A dark accent beamed into the Foreign Secretary’s bedroom from way below the iron shutters which ring East from West. ‘Hello. Is that you, Basil, my friend?’

  ‘Aye. Who th’ ’ell’s that?’

  ‘Illyich.’ Expansive. ‘From Moscow. You remember our last meeting—in New York for the UN?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Aye. Illyich. Nice to hear from yer. ’Ow are ye, lad? What canna do for thee?’

  ‘You remember New York, Basil? Vhat a night! Vhat vere their names? Two cute cookies, eh, comrade?’

  Mostyn looked at the ceiling with grave devotion. The Chief wore a satisfied smirk.

  ‘What canna do for thee, Illyich?’ The bluffness gone in defence of dignity.

  ‘Well, little brother, it may be that I can do something for you. One of your Embassy couriers has got himself into trouble. Always happening, isn’t it?’

  ‘Now luke ’ere, Illyich, If you’ve been pullin’ them damn camera tricks again, by Gow, I’ll—’

  ‘Basil.’ Soothing. Keep it friendly. ‘Nobody knows about this. Not even the Ambassador. Certainly not the press. Not yet anyway. He is a boy called Warren. Timothy Warren. He works in your Department of Special Security under the amusing code name “Rabbit.” Quite good that, Basil, no? Rabbit Warren?’

  ‘Never ’eard of ’im. Don’t know what yer on about.’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s sordid—only your underlings deal with things like this. But old Boris Khavichev has had an eye on Warren for some time—a fatherly eye, you understand.’

  ‘Aye. Coom on, out wi’ it.’

  ‘Tonight Boris pulled him in, and truly, Basil, we can go the whole bundle on this. Make it look very bad for you.’

  ‘What d’ye want?’

  ‘That’s better, Basil. No publicity. A straight swap within a week. You have the choice of place, though I would suggest the Wall now that the heat is off there. We release no information about Warren or the switch—either before or at any time after the event. You get him back in exchange for a young woman called Iris MacIntosh who is at present languishing in the Intelligence Detention Area of Holloway Prison under the severity of a life sentence.’

  Mostyn shot forward as if scorpion-stung in the rectum. He was making motions like a landed fish. ‘Iris bloody MacIntosh,’ he seemed to be saying.

  ‘Ah’ll luke into it.’ The politician’s voice was still coming flat from the tape. ‘Ah promise nothin’, Illyic
h, but ah’ll ’ave an answer in twelve hours.’

  ‘I can expect no more than that, Basil. No more, no less. It has been good talking with you. Be well. Be happy. And, by the way, Miss MacIntosh’s prison number is 26589300. She occupies the cell next to Helen Kroger.’

  The Chief stopped the recorder, and Mostyn began to splutter. ‘Iris bloody MacIntosh. Of all the It’s not on, Chief. It’s not on.’

  ‘On the contrary, little Mostyn.’ The Chief wound the tape off the machine, removed the spool, dropped it in a container, and tapped it with his right hand. ‘Life insurance, old boy. Bloody man from the Prudential couldn’t have called at a better time.’

  ‘I presume you’re not going to destroy that tape.’

  ‘You’re jokin’, Number Two. Just a couple of sentences on it, but while the present lot are in power we have the Foreign Office buttoned up. Now let’s get down to cases. Sinister plottin’ and all that cock.’ The Chief refilled his glass and seated himself behind the desk.

  ‘We can’t let Iris MacIntosh out of the country, Chief.’ Mostyn telling him as opposed to warning. ‘Quite out of the question.’

  ‘Stow it, you lubber.’ The skinny hand moved towards the IN tray and fastened on a bulky red file. Mostyn could read the tags. ‘Took the liberty of gettin’ the MacIntosh file sent up.’ The Chief’s voice held a hint of hidden treasure. ‘I see those psychologists at Sheep Dip have had no luck in de-indoctrinatin’ her. One of your big bloomers, eh, Mostyn? Real purler. Secretary to the Second-in-Command of Special Security working for Redland. Girl must have a gold mine of information still tucked away, and she’s highly resistant if even Sheep Dip can’t wash it away.’

  ‘We cannot let her go.’ Finality.

  ‘Seem to remember that she was highly involved with your boy L.’

  ‘Yes, Chief.’ Mostyn’s voice had the cutting edge of a Wilkinson’s sword blade. ‘Boysie was involved. Heavily, sexually, and insecurely.’

  ‘Together you chose a purler. Nearly went arse over elbow. Nearly did for your scheme.’

  ‘What scheme?’

  ‘Mostyn.’ Reproach. ‘Your wheeze for liquidatin’ security risks.’

  ‘Look, Chief—’ Mostyn gave up before starting. The involved, undemocratic and highly unofficial method by which Special Security cleared its books of suspects had first sprung from a germ deep in the Chief’s ocean-washed mind. Mostyn had put his scheme into operation, chosen Boysie as the executioner, trained him, and pressed the button when necessary. Since then, the Chief had just not wanted to know. The ball was always left firmly embedded in Mostyn’s court. If there were any questions, investigations, or raps to be taken, Mostyn, as the Chief’s Number Two, would be at the blunt end.

  ‘Been thinkin’,’ said the Chief. ‘Time to clear the decks for action. Get the skeletons out of our cupboards. We want Warren, can’t let MacIntosh go.’ He looked hard into Mostyn’s face, eyes playing at being gimlets. ‘Also get the feelin’ these days you’re not too happy with your boy L.’

  Mostyn was silent, trying to work it out. This was a change of tune from the Chief. Mostyn always approached changes of key, pitch, or tune with the greatest delicacy and a certain amount of mistrust. He began slowly. ‘To be honest, Chief, I use him as little as possible. Boysie tends to be accident prone.’

  ‘Thought as much. The Coronet business, Understrike, then the goddam lot in Switzerland, Amber Nine. Nearly buggered the lot of us.’ He put his hands together in an attitude of prayer. ‘How would it be, Number Two, if I arranged the deal? Wednesday today, say on Monday evenin’? We swap at Checkpoint Charlie. All above-board except that we’ve sent L, Boysie, into—how do those curious novelists put it—into the cold?’

  Mostyn’s face showed no reaction for five seconds. Then a smile began to trade up his cheeks. ‘Bloody marvellous, Chief. Marvellous. We get Warren. They get Iris MacIntosh. But Boysie’s waiting there with his little pop-gun. He chops Iris, and they’ll never let him out alive.’

  ‘Pre-bleedin’-cisely, gets rid of all our garbage. Start with a clean slate.’

  ‘Well, I have been using somebody else for quite a time.’

  ‘Oh, I know all about that. ’Nother problem altogether. Get rid of this one first. And if by any chance he does come back, then the bleeder deserves to stay with the Department. Desk job, of course, where he can’t get into any trouble.’

  Mostyn gestured towards the telephone.

  ‘Be my guest,’ said the Chief, unusually jaunty.

  Mostyn picked up the instrument. ‘Duty Officer? Number Two. Get Major Oakes up to Number One’s office as soon as you can, will you? There’s a good chap....’

  *

  Boysie almost kicked his way through the anonymous swing-doors which were the entrance to Special Security’s Headquarters. For once in his life Boysie was boiling for a fight. He had always known the end would come, but never had he envisaged its precipitation through a stray bit of consorting with one of Mostyn’s slag relatives. Elizabeth’s words still burned in his ears. ‘Isn’t it time you bloody grew up?’ All right, he was thinking, they can stuff it. He had lived the schizophrenic life pretending to be their hired hatchet for long enough.

  ‘Come in, Boysie, nice to see you.’ Mostyn, all glowing and obese with charm, opened the door and withdrew the wind from Boysie’s frantic sails.

  ‘Come in, Major Oakes.’ The Chief hearty from behind his desk. ‘Good of you to turn out.’

  The door shut quietly behind him. ‘Now look here—’ Boysie began loudly.

  ‘A chair,’ said Mostyn.

  ‘Most interestin’ assignment for you.’ The Chief beamed.

  ‘Oh no.’ Boysie, firm but seated and by this time with a glass in his hand.

  ‘Big bonus,’ smeared Mostyn. ‘Very big.’

  ‘And a chance to see the world,’ said the Chief.

  ‘I am not doing another operation.’ Boysie felt his voice did not carry conviction. ‘I resign.’

  By mid-morning he was being processed through a cover story. A new name: Bertram Ian Oldcorn. A new occupation: sales manager for Bone Demolition (Hatch End) Limited, combining business with pleasure on a sales-sightseeing tour. Background and normal preoperational screening followed fast, and between each of the usual twenty phases Boysie worked out his reserves of nervous energy desperately trying to contact Griffin. Charlie Griffin was Boysie’s escape chute. While Boysie was willing to fight for his life (even to kill in extremis), he had never managed to summon up the required stomach to execute in cold blood. Boysie was the hangman incapable of pulling the bolt, the O/C firing party unable to deliver the coup de grâce. Hence Griffin, quiet, laconic, an ex-undertaker, an expert in the death-game; the man whom Boysie had, over the years with the Department, subcontracted whenever called upon to dispense cold-blooded murder. But as Wednesday night approached, Boysie became more frantic and Griffin still remained unavailable. No answer from his telephone, no reply to the three telegrams. At this point Boysie, true to form began to build up a mental block. It would be all right on the night, he thought with a nervous laugh. The mind stopped at the point where he would be called upon to squint down the telescopic sight and put Iris MacIntosh’s head slap between the cross-wires.

  On Thursday morning he sent a last telegram:

  CONTACT ME BERTIE OLDCORN SOONEST HOTEL BRISTOL KEMPINSKI BERLIN IN PERSON

  He signed it with his humiliation initials B.O. and rang Elizabeth, who could not talk because there were a dozen people in the office. Frustrated and with the preliminary twinges of despair leading him to resignation, Boysie picked up his carefully packed, battered tan Revelation and headed for the door. The telephone rang while his hand was still on the knob. Despair changed to active abhorrence as Mostyn’s voice slid, oily, through the earpiece.

  ‘Just calling to wish you luck, Oaksie.’

  ‘Get stuffed.’

  ‘Oakes.’ The grease wiped away. ‘This is important. Now you listen. Your contact in Ber
lin will be Warbler. Got it? Warbler.’

  ‘Warbler,’ repeated Boysie without enthusiasm.

  ‘He’s good, so watch it. He’ll contact as we arranged.’ Then loudly, as though to an animal, ‘Now move, boy. Kill.’

  *

  Warbler turned off the Strasse des 17 Juni and took the VW up a straight, broad road flanked by flat grass rectangles. Ahead stood the crumbling grey pile of partly restored masonry, once the imposing, powerful Reichstag, Germany’s House of Commons. The sky was darkening, but Boysie could just make out the inscription Dem Deutschen Volke above the tired colonnade. There was a sad loneliness, a feeling of lost greatness in the air. Warbler pulled over to the right and stopped the car.

  ‘Are we near the Wall?’ Boysie ventured.

  ‘Your first time here?’ Warbler switching to serious mood, eyes now dull, dead behind the thick glasses. Inscrutable.

  Boysie nodded.

  ‘It is the first thing you all ask,’ said Warbler, relaxing again. ‘Yes, we are quite near the Wall. Part of it is over there, behind the trees. There, you can just see the top of the Brandenburg Tor. That’s in the East. In Commie country.’ His English precise, worked out over schoolbooks and polished on the international market. Even the slang was meticulously accurate.

  Over the trees Boysie could see the ironic Goddess of Peace sitting, through all weathers, on top of the Brandenburg Gate. Above her the Red Flag whipped out against a sky that had become menacing. Boysie shivered.

  ‘It is going to rain,’ said Warbler. ‘Tomorrow you will see the Wall. And on Monday evening you will cross it.’ He burrowed in his gabardine pockets and brought out a large envelope from which all crispness had been erased. ‘You like Brecht?’ he asked, looking straight at Boysie.

  There was no point in playing for time. ‘Never tried any,’ said Boysie with his open, homely grin.

  Warbler guffawed. ‘Good. Good. Bertolt Brecht, the playwright.’

  ‘Still haven’t tried any.’

  ‘You are going to see one of his masterworks on Monday.’

  ‘That’ll be jolly.’