Madrigal

by John Gardner

  ‘No,’ said Boysie, feeling that line of conversation was at least temporarily closed.

  ‘Please, I did not catch your name.’ Her voice lifted and fell in the fascinating classical way of the Far East, though the pitch was basically lower than that of the few Chinese Boysie had previously met.

  ‘Oak—Oldcorn.’ He got it right after a stumble. ‘My friends call me Boysie.’

  Warbler momentarily came out of his rapt conversation to shoot a warning stiletto in Boysie’s direction. Rosy laughed. For Boysie, delicate glass bells tinkled from a pagoda lit by a crescent moon. There were also a couple of willows, weeping copiously, in there somewhere. Boysie’s knowledge of the Far East stemmed mainly from chinoiserie.

  ‘It is a strange name, Boysie. How you come by it?’

  ‘Don’t know really. Started when I was a kid. A child. Never thought about it much. What about yours Rose Puberty?’

  Again she laughed. Boysie’s mind did a quick reprint of the pagoda scene.

  ‘That not my real name. Only name for stripper.’

  ‘But you’re not a stripper. You’re a dresser.’

  ‘All right, my real name is Mu-lan Tchen. Mu-lan is girl in ver’ old Chinese poem. She went to war instead of father.’

  ‘You don’t look very warlike to me.’ Boysie beginning to nudge in.

  ‘You be surprised, Boysie. Often ver’ bad temper.’ She sipped the anonymous drink served by the hovering waiter, never taking her eyes from Boysie’s face.

  ‘And where were you born?’ Boysie keeping the conversation in play.

  ‘China.’ The almond eyes wide.

  If you ask a silly question, thought Boysie.

  ‘Whereabouts in China?’

  ‘North China.’ She pronounced it ‘Shina.’ You know Chinese silk? That is where I come from. Shantung.’

  ‘Where the silk comes from?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when were you last in Shantung?’

  ‘Oh my.’ Rosy slid her pupils to their apogee. ‘Many, many years ago when I was still tiny baby.’

  ‘You went to Hong Kong?’

  ‘Taiwan—oh, sorry, I use Chinese name. I mean Formosa.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Yes, with family. It was ver’ good in Formosa. Ver’ happy there.’

  ‘Then how did you end up like this? In a club.’

  ‘Oh, you know how it is. I spend happy years with family in Formosa, then father die, and I want travel, want be big movie star but have no talent.’

  ‘You’ve got a lot of talent. Anyway, you don’t have- to have talent to be a movie star, just—’

  ‘Big breasts or talent. I have neither. Only talent to read palms and nerve to walk naked and dress in front of men.’

  ‘You read palms?’ Boysie a little afraid of himself. Like most people with neurotic tendencies, he feared the unknown, rigidly disbelieved in palmistry and astrology, yet always felt a distinct magnetic pull towards it.

  Rosy nodded, smiling.

  In spite of himself Boysie extended his right hand. Rosy reached forward and took his left hand, then pulled both of them towards her. ‘In Chinese palm-reading you need both hands. This hand, the right hand, tells of your life before birth. This tells me about you now.’

  Her fingers soft on the back of his hand. Might be resting them in a nest of petals, thought Boysie. ‘I’m going to marry a rich Chinese heiress and have fifteen children,’ he said.

  Rosy did not reply; she sat still, gazing into his hands. ‘You are ver’ soft-hearted, kind, romantic, sometimes too soft-hearted.’ Her voice had gone as flat as last night’s saki. She let go of his hands.

  A colony of ants got to work in Boysie’s intestines. Once he had seen a bit of stage business where a palmist took one look at the sucker’s palm, then folded it up and returned it to him, making little negative sucking noises. ‘Give,’ he said throatily. Instant twitch.

  ‘I do’ know. There is something. Boysie, I see great danger for you.’

  The ants developed wings. Persistent little devils.

  She took his hands again, this time in her palms. ‘One other thing. I am not bad girl, Boysie. I promise I am not bad girl. Not take money for making love with men like those.’ She nodded towards the bar where the whores still lounged, bored with custom. There was a tremor in Rosy’s voice as if she were short of breath. ‘Bu’ in your hand I see we are good for each other. I see that we correspond with much between us.’

  Under different circumstances Boysie would have been flippant, even cynical. It was a brand-new approach, and she was a creamy dish. But the palm-reading had edged under his skin, the reality of the situation brilliant before him. Griffin had not yet turned up. He would probably never turn up. The thing which Boysie had tried to submerge came popping up through the loose layers of psychological self-bluff. He was being forced into doing this one himself—the most dangerous one of all. Yet Boysie still could not face the truth; as always when he was on the run from facts, his physical self came into play. It was back to the womb, the need and desire to be close to a woman, any woman. Preferably this woman with the midnight hair and deep, drowning, slant eyes.

  ‘You ready?’ he said.

  The girl nodded solemnly.

  ‘What do I call you, Rosy or Mu-lan?’

  ‘I like you call me Mu-lan best.’

  As they rose, Warbler and Merry Fern looked up from their conversation. ‘We’re just going,’ said Boysie, avoiding Warbler’s eyes.

  ‘Ach, but my friend we have the papers to see about yet. We cannot play all night.’ Warbler sounded horribly confident about his authority. ‘I do not think your managing director would like that.’ Firm as a threat. Checkmate to Warbler.

  Boysie turned aside and muttered to the Chinese girl, ‘It’s no good. Tomorrow or Monday?’

  She nodded briskly. ‘I give you telephone number and address. I write them down. Please, tomorrow or Monday, Boysie.’

  Outside, in the Volkswagen, Warbler said, ‘I’m sorry, but what can I do? Definite orders from Number Two. He gave me the orders personally.’

  ‘Shaft Number Two,’ spat Boysie, pocketing the piece of paper on which Mu-lan had written her address and telephone number.

  By four in the morning Boysie had not slept. A small volcano of dog ends mounted steadily in the grotesque glass ashtray by his bed. In the end he was forced to look at the papers provided by Warbler. Apart from the photographs, drawings, and tickets there was the final envelope. ‘Just a few more details from Headquarters,’ Warbler had said. The envelope contained two sheets of flimsy. Both were marked ‘Classified. Destroy after assimilating.’ The first was a terse instruction from Mostyn.

  This operation is of the highest importance. You will carry it through to the end without thought of outcome or consequence to yourself. N2SS

  The second sheet proved to be a stapled clip of notes, circulated to all departments by K1, the Supervising Ktentologist for the Ministry of Defence, dealing solely with the science of killing. Boysie was sickened by what he read. At one point he looked up and caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror across the room. That sickened him even more. The signs of harass were beginning to show. Kl’s notes were prefaced by a single line that read:

  For guidance should your Department be called upon and/or authorised to carry out a mission of this nature.

  Twin snakes of anxiety wriggled even faster through Boysie’s nervous system. The heading served only as a reminder that the post of Liquidator to British Special Security was entirely an unofficial appointment. There was no ‘out’ but one—feet first in lead, mahogany, or cement.

  With disgust Boysie slowly tore both pieces of flimsy into small pieces, carefully placed them in the ashtray, and started a miniature bonfire. Somehow, the charred ashes which remained stank of death, provoking a definite increase in Boysie’s heartbeat. Picking up the remaining documents, he went over the plan a couple of times, lay back, lit another cigarette, and al
lowed the timing and sequence to run smoothly through his mind. He slipped out of bed and unlocked his only other piece of important luggage—the gimmicked, slim-line Samsonite briefcase—inserted the documents, locked the box, and pressed hard on the left-hand lock. Anyone attempting to open the steel-reinforced case would immediately trigger an interior flush element, so destroying all contents. It worked well, as Boysie knew to his cost, having once, on a routine pick-up in Rome, tried to unlock the case (containing a set of priceless blueprints) without unsetting the mechanism. It was difficult to erase from his memory the look on Mostyn’s face when he reported back with an envelope full of embers.

  *

  He woke at ten the next morning in a hot unpleasant sweat, emerging from a nightmare of walls, windows, flashing lights, and weird noises. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, Boysie automatically reached for the telephone. There were no messages. Nothing from Griffin. Sunday morning. Tomorrow night was Iris night.

  Warbler arrived at noon, and they lunched at the Big Black Buffel up the road from the hotel. The service was diffident and the food vaguely American in the sense that it had little taste. The bill, which Boysie stupidly picked up, was exorbitant.

  After lunch Warbler took him on a tour of the Wall. The German pointed to a notice rivetted to it. ‘I know you do not read our language, my friend. It says, “The road is blocked because of the wall of shame.”’

  For the rest of the tour Boysie was dejected. Concrete blocks and bricks, the everlasting wire, the initials KZ for concentration camp—and Denk an Eichmann chalked large on the bricks; too often the sad little pole-and-wire memorials of death: Unknown escaper shot here by Vopos on 9th June 1965 at about 9 p.m. To the unknown escapist 4/9/62. Rolf Urban 6/6/1914 to 17/8/1961

  Later, as they drove round the streets near Tempelhof, Boysie recited each stage of the plan while Warbler questioned and cross-questioned with the verve and dash of Perry Mason. At times he became blatantly nasty. Finally they headed out to take a peek at Checkpoint Charlie. The atmosphere was haphazard on the West side, the whole vista being less colourful than it appeared on the postcards on sale at the Bristol Kempinski, though less grey than it appeared in spy movies. Dusk was moving in quickly. A tinge of panic trickled down Boysie’s spine.

  ‘That’s where you go over tomorrow,’ said Warbler without any inflection of feeling. Now we have a light meal and then I will take you for some practice with the rifle. Yes?’

  Boysie nodded, the vomit of funk rising into his throat. He clenched his teeth, made a supreme effort to quell the distress, praying hard that Griffin would turn up.

  Chapter Two: Nightingale

  I will roar you as ’twere any nightingale.

  Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  As Boysie and Warbler drove away from Checkpoint Charlie, Special Flight A5—an Aeroflot TU-104B—was lowering its landing gear about twenty miles to the south over the Eastern Zone. At just over four miles from the threshold of runway 25L at Schoenefeld—East Berlin’s main airport—the TU-104B began to descend. High above, two shadow aircraft, Mig-21s (NATO code Fish-bed-C), broke away and turned off, heading for their eastern base.

  The TU-104B has a maximum load of seventy-five passengers. Special Flight A5 carried only five people, apart from the crew and two bulky hostesses. Timothy Warren sat well forward, flanked by a brace of silent, heavy gentlemen in badly fitting raincoats. His- formerly good-looking face was aged by ten years, his eyes tired and glazed as though by a film of ice. His seated pose was rigid, as if held by an invisible clamp, giving the impression of being locked in a shell of private hell, ignoring the pair of obvious security men who had long since given up trying to make conversation.

  Towards the end of the aircraft two other men, more neatly tailored, talked in occasional bursts of quiet Russian. One was exceptionally tall: over six feet, with dangerously broad shoulders and a facial skin of rough-grained texture. He smiled rarely during the scattered dialogue and seldom kept his wide eyes in the same position—the restless look of a watcher, an observer, one constantly aware. Even in the relative solitude of the aircraft’s cabin those eyes stabbed from subject to subject like an animal searching for prey or ready for the unexpected.

  In government circles throughout the world, the tall man’s face was well known—particularly in the major security departments of the West. There could be no doubt about his identity: Boris Piotr Khavichev, Director of Soviet Counter Espionage and Subversive Activities. A big man. A wide-radius wheel in the override game.

  ‘There it is,’ said Khavichev to his companion, looking down from the starboard window as the aircraft dipped into its tight turn. ‘The West pretending to be a golden carrot as usual. Ach, look at the Kurfürstendamm. Sucker bait, as the Americans would say. Sucker bait among a pile of rubble.’

  ‘Whom are they trying to fool?’ The other grinned—a repulsive effect, for his face was terribly marked, a bizarre wrinkling of the skin and flesh overlaid with a criss-cross of scars. Bad burns badly patched up.

  Special Flight A5 touched down lightly on Runway 25L at Schoenefeld and taxied into Parking Bay 4 by the main terminal building. Two black Zils, with the slatted grey blinds down, swung across the apron and drew up close to the boarding steps pushed into position at speed.

  ‘We’re here.’ One of Warren’s guards spoke in English, unclipping his seat belt.

  Warren nodded, sullen and apprehensive. He started to get to his feet, but the other guard clasped his arm hard and pushed him down. Khavichev passed along the aircraft to the forward door, followed by his friend. The friend was small, dreadfully crippled, and took time, moving slowly with two rubber-tipped sticks, arms trembling each time they took the weight of the warped body. Neither he nor Khavichev even glanced at Timothy Warren.

  *

  Boysie and Warbler ate at a coffee shop opposite the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedachtniskirche; sandwiches, black bread, and sausage, three cups of coffee. Boysie wanted a drink, but Warbler was in his firm mood. ‘No alcohol before the practice and none at all tomorrow.’ He did not even smile. It was nearly seven-thirty by the time they returned to the car.

  ‘Now we go and see how well you can use this gun,’ said Warbler, starting the engine, which coughed like a bad case of bronchial pneumonia.

  ‘Where?’ asked Boysie, unhappy and resigned.

  ‘Not far. Ruhleben. The NATO field firing range. All is ready for you. I gather they have gone to much trouble.’

  ‘What time will we finish?’

  Warbler wheezed out a chuckle. ‘Too late for Miss Puberty.’ A fatherly pat on Boysie’s knee.

  They headed northwest, branching from the Ernst-Reuter-Platz, into the Otto-Suhr-Alee. On, out towards Ruhleben, the dark world around them outside the VW became more bleak and miserable. Boysie lost track. They passed through a small village and turned off on to a third-class road that eventually transformed itself into a rutted cart-path. The Volkswagen protested violently. Warbler had his lights full on, but even they disappeared into nothing when the big searchlight hit them. Warbler swore in German—a nasty-sounding word which Boysie did not even have to guess at in translation. The car jolted to a standstill and there were four uniformed men at the windows. Boysie slid his hand automatically under his coat and undid the safety strap on the Browning. There were some L2A3 Sterlings around—ferocious little submachine guns.

  Warbler cranked down his window and flashed a magic card. Through the glare Boysie saw one of the uniformed quartet raise his hand and click a torch signal towards the searchlight. The blind of light beams faded. One of the L2A3’s gave a sweeping motion intended to be a friendly wave forward. Boysie kept his hand on the small Baby Browning’s butt. The nervous itch continued road trials up his vertebrae.

  They bounced up the track for another hundred yards or so. In the distance there were more lights. Barbed wire. A notice in German and English: NATO Property. Danger. Keep Out. Gates. A wooden hut. Soldiers. A Land Rover containing a driver and
three males in service greatcoats. Warbler flashed the card again at the gate. Two armed guards there, one British and one American. The gates swung open, and Warbler drove through as one of the greatcoated figures detached himself from the Land Rover and approached the Volkswagen. Epaulettes flashed in the dim light. A major, British.

  ‘Dead on time if you’ll pardon the expression, old boy.’ He peered into the car, giving Boysie a look which mixed intense interest with distaste. About 60/40 in favour of distaste. ‘Just follow us. It’s all set up.’

  They parked next to the Land Rover behind a hut—dark and vaguely unsafe. To the right a watch tower rose, rickety, a wooden scaffold topped by a low flat box. It looked like a rush construction job. A broad stretch of concrete curved to the left and right, dotted on either side with tall lamp-posts, bending forward, throwing flat yellow pools of light on to the road, giving their faces the primary symptoms of jaundice. It was cold out of the car, enough for Boysie to turn up the fur collar of his short suede driving coat. They followed the three men from the Land Rover into the hut; the Land Rover’s driver was left standing by the vehicle, stamping feet and blowing on his hands after the traditional manner of frozen soldiery. Inside it was hot, and the light had a clear brilliance. The major’s companions turned out to be a young down-faced subaltern and a large American top sergeant. The sergeant carried a 98k Mauser rifle casually under his arm. The subaltern clutched a small green metal ammunition box. There were no introductions, and the top sergeant arrogantly started the action.

  ‘Which one, suh?’ he asked the major, swivelling his eyes between Warbler and Boysie. Warbler indicated Boysie with a histrionic gesture. An MC introducing the comic turn of the evening.

  ‘Okay, bud, there she is. Catch.’ The Mauser did a slow curve from the sergeant’s hands, landing broadside against Boysie’s chest. He fumbled but managed to retrieve without dropping the weapon. Anger replaced the twitch and tremble.