Madrigal

by John Gardner

  Khavichev was waiting for him, sitting on the couch. He looked even more tired and concerned.

  ‘It has all been arranged.’ He spoke as soon as Boysie entered. For the first time that morning, Boysie noticed that the General’s appearance was sloppy, creased and untidy.

  ‘A draft for twenty thousand pounds is already on its way to Account Number 4897A at Leu and Company, AG, Zurich. It is the largest private bank in Switzerland, so there will be no trouble. Details will be posted to your London address. Whatever happens to me, the other fifty thousand pounds will be deposited once you have successfully carried out the assignment.’ Khavichev spoke with complete confidence.

  Boysie found it hard to believe. His mind built up a glossy picture of the money in actual notes piled high. Khavichev pulled him back to reality. ‘You had better be armed,’ he said, offering him a pistol, butt first. A Walther P38, heavy and horribly lethal. ‘It’s loaded, safety on. And I have four full magazines for you.’

  ‘Where the hell do I carry this cannon?’ Boysie said, gingerly grasping the automatic and examining it. He noticed that it had once belonged to a member of the Third Reich. There were tiny German eagles engraved on the slide and above the trigger guard. The left side of the slide bore the legend ‘ac43.’ Nazi Forces Armament manufactured by Walther in 1943.

  ‘Stick it in your waistband.’

  Boysie pushed the gun into place. It felt uncomfortable. He slid it farther to the left, out of sight even with his jacket open. The spare clips were easily distributed: left- and right-hand hip pockets, left inside jacket pocket.

  ‘Another thing.’ Khavichev spoke with acute earnestness. ‘Your room at the Bristol Kempinski is now bugged. Group Four again. It is a standard telephone and room microphone/transmitter. While in place it will pick up all telephone conversations and tap the whole room at the same time. As soon as you get back, unscrew the phone mouthpiece and disconnect the bug. It simply lifts out, but you had better smash it to pieces. Better safe—’

  ‘—than sorry.’ Boysie looked solemn.

  ‘Well.’ Khavichev glanced at his watch again. ‘We just have time for a drink. Or would you prefer tea?’

  Boysie wanted a stiff Courvoisier but decided to play it safe. ‘Tea, I think.’

  ‘Russian tea is always good. It rejuvenates.’ Khavichev gave a grunt, the edge of a half-laugh. Then silence. An embarrassment. Things unsaid between the two men, things which could not be said. Eventually Khavichev spoke, placing a hand gently on Boysie’s knee. A single pat. ‘Strange, is it not, that we should be sitting talking like this? Enemies for so long. Me, an exalted Chief of Soviet Counter Espionage; you, Britain’s Security Liquidator.’ He stopped talking and gazed straight ahead, trying to get the right words for the thoughts. ‘At times we have nearly trapped you. Now, we meet, and I have to let you go. We talk, and I like you.’

  ‘We might have got on quite well together.’ Boysie was developing an almost sentimental feeling for the man.

  ‘That is the real trouble with the world.’ The General shifted his bulk and took a long swig at the tea. ‘People do not meet and talk enough. Or, with politicians, when they meet it is all so formal. They do not know. They do not get inside each other’s minds. It has become a game. All on the surface. Chess.’

  Another lull.

  ‘I hope—’ started Boysie. He had difficulty finding the correct words. ‘I mean—well—I hope they don’t make things too bad for you.’

  General Khavichev’s hand closed around Boysie’s upper arm, squeezing a message of thanks. Boysie winced. Khavichev’s squeezes were like overtight tourniquets.

  ‘Thank you.’ No emotion. ‘One of two things will happen. I will be publicly denounced and humiliated, expelled from the Central Committee, like Molotov, Shepilov, and Malenkov in ’57—sent to some outlandish place as a minor official. Remember, they made Molotov Ambassador to Outer Mongolia? At least you have a chance that way. Otherwise there will be arrest, Public trial. Charges of treason. Then a short time of horror. A moment of fear. After that, rest. Sleep. It is of little consequence. It has to happen one day.’ He stood up, facing Boysie. ‘Now it is time for you to go. You know what to do. It is for everyone’s benefit. In everybody’s interests. Do it well. Check to see you have everything.’

  The P38 weighed a ton in his trouser waistband; spare magazines were in place. The American passport and dollars bulged next to one of the magazines in Boysie’s left-hand pocket. The travel documents and his British passport were on the opposite side.

  ‘Everything,’ he reported after checking.

  ‘Let us hope you are not searched in the West then. On this side all is arranged. I have a man waiting in your car. He will guide you to the checkpoint and leave before you reach there. He speaks good English. You will be all right. They are expecting you, but it will be necessary to go through the routine. Both sides watch each other’s procedure. When you go into the passport and customs office they will simply ask you to wait for a few minutes before going back to the car. Come.’

  Khavichev led Boysie out of the room and along a narrow corridor. A left turn. Then another. A short flight of steps and an entrance hall. Two armed soldiers in Russian uniform came to attention as Khavichev appeared. Ahead through the big glass doors Boysie could see the Jensen standing by the curb, a figure sitting in the passenger seat.

  Khavichev put out his hand and grasped Boysie’s right forearm in the Russian manner of a handshake. ‘Do it well,’ he repeated. ‘Do it well.’

  Boysie went through the doors, down the stone steps, and climbed into the car’s driving seat. He did not look back.

  *

  At Schoenefeld Airport an Antonov An-12 was just touching down on Runway 25 Right. On board, held safe in their seat belts, sat five senior officers of the KGB and three civilians. By evening they would all be back at Sheremetyevo Airport, Moscow. By then they would have an extra passenger: General Boris Piotr Khavichev.

  *

  The trip back passed without undue incident. Back at the Bristol Kempinski, Boysie made straight for the desk clerk.

  ‘Give me a cable form, and where can I use a typewriter?’ No messing about with easy English or half German. The man behind the desk gave him a sphinx look and pushed a cable form towards him.

  ‘At the far end. They will let you use a machine there,’ he said without courtesy or arrogance. He just did not care.

  ‘I’ll take my key as well. Room 504.’

  The clerk fumbled among the pigeonholes and banged the key on to the desk. At the far end of Reception an under-manager in black pin-stripe said it was no trouble at all. Of course he could use one of the typewriters.

  ‘I just don’t want there to be any mistakes about this cable,’ said Boysie. They lifted a hinged lid and let him through to sit at one of the secretaries’ desks. With great care Boysie typed his cable:

  JAMES MOSTYN, QUEEN’S MANSIONS, PORCHESTER GARDENS, BAYSWATER, LONDON W2

  CLIENT GONE YOUR WAY STOP ROTTEN RESIGN UNLESS HELP IMMEDIATE STOP BACK HERE THROUGH CONTRACT INVOLVING RED AND YELLOW LINES IN YOUR FAVOURITE COMMODITY STOP DO NOT KNOW DONKEY FROM FOREARM STOP STOP STOP HELP.

  OLDCORN

  Once finished, Boysie silently read over the message aimed towards Mostyn at the Queen’s Mansions contact address. That ought to do something. The under-manager bowed and said he would have the cable sent off straight away. Boysie handed it over and headed for the lift.

  As he put the key into the lock Boysie looked up at the number of his room. It had not struck him before. The years slipped back and he heard a verse from the old wartime sentimental ballad tripping melodically through his rotating mind:

  We turned the key in the door,

  We didn’t dare to ask the price.

  Just for one night our paradise.

  That seventh heaven on the old fifth floor,

  In room five hundred and four.

  ‘Shit,’ said Boysie loudly as he banged the door
open.

  ‘Watcher, Mr. Oakes. Sorry if I’m a bit late. On ’oliday. Got ’ere soon as I could.’ Charlie Griffin sat in the easy chair facing the door, a lurid detective magazine open to display a poor colour drawing of a man leaning out of a window. The man had a rifle in the aiming position, squinting down a telescopic sight. In scarlet letters the caption blazed across the page: THE KILLER WHO NEVER FIRED A SHOT.

  ‘You’re all I bloody need,’ said Boysie, slamming the door in fury.

  Part Two: Grimobo

  If you like it...Funny?

  Chapter Five: Pigeon

  Though not thought to be the wisest bird;

  The pigeon sends its mate away at the first

  sign of bad weather.

  Pien Fu Yuan-ting, The Pigeon (Translated by Art Fairbank)

  ‘Now don’t be like that Mr. O. I mean I only do it for you as a favour.’ Griffin looked shocked at Boysie’s display of evil temper.

  ‘Don’t do me no favours.’ Boysie having a go at his Marlon Brando imitation for the hell of it.

  Griffin went on. ‘I mean I told yer that larst year out in Switzerland. In Locarno. Just been there ag’in. Back to loverley Locarno. Little ’oliday. Well, does yer good to get away, don’t it? ’Ave a break, eh? S’why I never gotcher messages till Monday night. Yer telegrams and that. Over ’ere as quick as I could, mind yer. First aircraft out. I’ve always played fair with you, ’aven’t I?’

  ‘Hey.’ Boysie waking to the fact that Griffin had got into his room without a key. ‘How’d you get in?’

  ‘In?’

  ‘Into my room. In ’ere—here.’

  ‘Ah.’ Griffin in mood melodramatic, finger to the side of his nose. ‘Ah, well, always been ’andy with locks, Mr. Oakes. See, when I first started, that was in the under-takin’ business, like what you might call the packagin’ side of the trade, we ’ad a stand-in pallbearer who ’appened to be a locksmith by profession. Good old Sam. Sammy Yale, ’is name was. Wonder what ever became o’ Sammy? Useter see a lot of each other—’

  ‘I bet.’ Boysie brought Griffin to a halt. There was an odd feeling about the room. Something indefinable. Then he remembered Group Four, the West Berlin cell of what was once Khavichev’s major network.

  ‘Shshshsh—for Christ’s sake, shshshsh!’ Leaping across the room like a student fakir having his first go with the carpet of hot coals. Gently, right hand still in the shshshshing position, Boysie lifted the telephone receiver and began to sing the more obscene verses of an old Scots ballad well known to the rugby football fraternity, and more debased persons, as the ‘Ball of Kirriemuir.’ Griffin watched with interest as Boysie, still singing, unscrewed the mouthpiece and carefully tipped the flat, circular electronic bugging device into the palm of his hand.

  ‘We bin—?’ started Griffin.

  Boysie made a shshshshing motion and carried the bug, with almost ceremonial care, into the bathroom. Griffin followed. Boysie placed the device on the imitation marble floor, bent low over it, and, with tongue between lips, took in a massive breath which he expelled as a thunderous raspberry. Quickly straightening up, Boysie lifted his right foot and brought the heel hard down on the eavesdropping instrument. Three times the heel was raised and crashed down, leaving a small pile of metal fragments and wires, which he gathered up and popped into the lavatory bowl. He dropped the lid, pulled the flush handle and stood to attention. ‘So perish all electronic swine,’ said Boysie.

  ‘We was bein’ bugged then?’ Griffin not amused.

  ‘Bugged and buggered,’ blustered Boysie, bouncing back into the main room to replace the telephone receiver.

  ‘You all right, Mr. Oakes?’ Griffin infuriatingly bland.

  ‘No, I’m not bloody all right.’

  ‘Come on, Mr. Oakes, please. I never done any ’arm to you. No need to turn nasty with me.’

  ‘Well.’ Boysie petulant, still almost cross-eyed from swivelling his face around in search of more clues to Group Four’s visitation. ‘Well, so would you turn bloody nasty.’

  ‘It doesn’t do to upset yerself, Mr. Oakes.’ Griffin smiled a faraway smile and shook his head. ‘Spot of bother you’ve ’ad then? Girls ag’in? Not them girls ag’in, is it?’ Jokingly remonstrating with a finger wag.

  ‘A spot? Whole bloody festering rash of trouble. And no...it’s...not...girls.’ Slowing up with a smile as Rosy Puberty, the delicious Mu-lan, rode full tilt into his thoughts. How ever could he have forgotten the little yellow lovely?

  ‘Not—er—not Mr. Mostyn then, by any chance?’ Griffin tentative.

  ‘You guessed,’ said Boysie in mock sorrow. Where had he put Mu-lan’s address and telephone number? Then, fast reaction. ‘What do you know about Mostyn anyway?’

  ‘Not exactly blind, deaf, and dumb, Mr. Oakes. All part of the service. Part of the job to keep my eyes open.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re not doing a flipping job, are you? Only for me, so you say.’

  Griffin hastily swung in the subject’s direction. ‘Talkin’ about jobs. What about this one?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one we’re on now.’

  ‘We!’ Boysie shouting. ‘You mean the one I’ve been on.’

  Griffin started, startled at Boysie, a look of respect filling his face. ‘You mean you done one? By yerself yer done one? Cor, Mr. Oakes. I knew one day...’

  Boysie preened. Why not play it to the limit? ‘Like diving really, isn’t it?’ he said smugly. ‘Once you’ve done it off the high board and all that.’

  But Griffin was cagey. ‘What’s upset yer then? This spot of trouble?’

  Boysie waved his hand in what was meant to be a dismissive motion, oblivious to the fact that his action assumed the aspect of a landed fish. ‘A mere bagatelle.’ He had read the phrase once in an old novel.

  ‘I see.’ A sterner Griffin. ‘So what went wrong? Something I gotter clear up?’

  ‘Nothing that can’t be handled.’ Boysie had started to search the wardrobe. Group Four had easily found the special compartment in the Revelation, the Baby Browning and all the spare ammunition. ‘Gone and never called me mother,’ Boysie murmured. Then, aloud and strangled, ‘Oh no,’ remembering that he had put Rosy’s address with his private papers in the slim-line Samsonite briefcase. If they had touched that.

  ‘Ah,’ said Griffin, cryptic.

  ‘What do you bloody mean—ah?’ They had tried to force the briefcase, he could tell by the feel and weight. They had tried to open it with the flash mechanism set. Slowly Boysie unlocked the case, his face drooping in agony as the little pile of ashes was revealed.

  ‘Reminds me of the old days.’ Griffin over his shoulder. ‘The crematorium. Beautiful way to finish up, in one of them loverley urns on the mantel. Always with your family.’

  Boysie wasn’t listening. How the hell could he get hold of Mu-lan now? The club? What was the name of that blasted club?

  ‘Goin’ ter tell me what went wrong or not?’ Griffin was at it again.

  ‘For Gawd’s sake, shut your flaming cake-hole, you macabre old devil!’ Boysie well away. ‘Yes. All right. In a minute I’ll tell you the whole thing.’ The club ? Sexy? No, it. was not The Sexy even though Warbler had talked about a girl called Sexy. Who was she? Sexy...Sexy...Sexy Hexy—that was it. But the club? Ritz? Yes. But Ritz something. Ritz Arsenal? No. Cardinal? No, something al, though. Cannibal? Kursal? Ritz Kursal. Boysie looked happy again. He tiptoed to the telephone and began to search for Ritz Kursal in the directory. Jotted the number down, dialled with care. No reply. Not surprising as it was only two in the afternoon. Boysie snarled an oath and turned to see Griffin waiting with an impatient look, foot-tapping.

  ‘Ha-ah,’ said Boysie with a plastic grin, gritting his teeth. ‘And where are you staying, Mr. Griffin?’

  ‘Here, Mr. Oakes. Where else?’ Expansive. ‘Thought I’d do meself proud this time. On expenses.’ A smooth chuckle. Then, ‘You goin’ to tell me now, are yer? What went wrong like?’ Ever
so sly. You devil sly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Boysie grimly, his mind tampering with the possibility of London HQ ringing through or Warbler turning up: the already planned night-game with Mu-lan spoilt for a second time. ‘Yes. I’ll tell you. But I think we’ll talk in your room, Mr. Griffin. Over a little luncheon perhaps.’

  ‘On expenses,’ said Griffin, expressionless.

  ‘Of course. On expenses,’ said Boysie, leading Griffin to the door.

  *

  ‘You seem, Mr. Oakes, to have landed yerself—if you don’t mind me sayin’ so—on what could be termed the ’orns of a dilemma.’ Pronouncing the word ‘die-leema.’

  Boysie nodded, biting his lower lip. For the first time since re-entering the West, he began squaring up to the problems—the cable to Mostyn had merely been reaction. Now he regretted having sent it. Griffin talked on.

  ‘And what do yer intend to do about it, sir? That’s the real question, ain’t it?’

  Boysie continued to bite his lip and nod in frantic agreement. They sat in Griffin’s suite (520), down the hall from Boysie’s room, over the remains of what was meant to be a light lunch. Smoked salmon, cold ham and salad, with some fruit, cream, coffee, and a couple of bottles of the Piesporter Goldtropfchen he had enjoyed so much during dinner with Warbler—Geerusalem, only three days ago. When the meal arrived it turned out to be a banquet over which Boysie poured out the bulk of his troubles to Griffin.

  ‘Yer own bloomin’ side lands yer in schtuck. Then the other bloomin’ side puts yer right in the sh—in the mire.’

  ‘And I have to be on board Kamikazi Airlines Flight whatever it is in the morning,’ replied Boysie. ‘Wish to God I’d never sent that bleedin’ cable. Better to just walk in on them. Mission completed and all that.’

  ‘You gonna do that? Goin’ back to London?’

  ‘Seems the only sensible thing.’