Madrigal

by John Gardner

‘St. Patrick did that in Ireland, Chief, and it’s a bit more complicated, I’m afraid.’ Mostyn briefly went over the story of Boysie’s arrival at the pub. The Chinese clothes. The injuries. ‘They’ve got him in Machynlleth Hospital.’

  ‘Machynlleth? Bloody wog-sounding name. Get ’im out, Mostyn. No time for standin’ on ceremony. Out. And out of the service.’

  ‘Chief, it’s tricky. Police took him in and he rambled on about working for us—’

  ‘Deny it. Wrestler’s rectums, man, it’s all in the book, isn’t it? Fella’s alone in the field. No help from us. There’s an end to it.’

  ‘They’ve called in the Special Branch.’ Mostyn fought to sound calm.

  The Chief blew like a burst boiler. ‘Finished, Mostyn. That damn man was never any good. Advised against him in the first place, didn’t I?’

  ‘No, you bloody did not.’ Mostyn’s fangs bared. A showdown imminent. ‘It was all your idea and you know it. And I’m not carrying the can for anybody. Not even you, Chief.’

  The Chief gave his famous beetle-browed frown, but Mostyn went on. ‘He is delirious and saying he was in a Chinese Interrogation Centre and that they fed him hallucinatory drugs.’

  ‘Well, there’s a get-out for you. Oakes off his chump.’

  ‘Chief’—Mostyn in his patient voice—‘let’s not fool ourselves. You know as well as I do that the SB’ve known about Boysie’s affiliation with us for a long time. They must even know what his job was. Practically everyone else seems to. MI5 and 6 now operate on entirely new systems, and we’re right behind the times. We pretend, Chief. Live in the past. Good God, we even use amateurs and our professionals all put on big acts. Cover doesn’t mean a thing any more, even the top men hide behind attitudes, class consciousness, or the brand of cigarettes they smoke. It’s a farce. We’re out of date, and if something really big comes up, we either make a complete cock-up of it or scrape through by the non-existent skin of our teeth. The boys wander around Europe, fooling nobody, and as for the pay system, we squander money on people like Boysie or poor old Jimmy De Nob who used to be with M Section while the lads down the road in the Limited Destruction category are reduced to fiddling expenses. It’s ludicrous.’

  The Chief reached for the drinks cupboard, face a delicate purple. He removed the usual Chivas Regal bottle, thought twice about it, then returned the whisky to the cupboard. In a low voice he said, ‘Get him back to London. Debrief him. Enforce the Official Secrets Act for life and wave him bye-bye. I’ll try and put a word in at the Home Office. Been on the brink of amalgamating us for years. Excuses now. Do me best to keep the show goin’. Just get crackin’, eh?’

  Mostyn nodded and left, in a hurry to get to his telephone.

  The pulling of strings was one of Mostyn’s specialities. The following day Boysie was brought back to London and seclusion in a select clinic near Montague Square.

  A Roedean-bred nurse looked down her nose when Mostyn arrived and openly grimaced when he asked for Boysie’s room number.

  ‘I’m afraid you have to get permission to see him,’ she drawled. ‘There are policemen there.’ Nostrils twitching as though the cops were contaminating her as well as the clinic.

  ‘No need to worry about them, old darling.’ Mostyn vocally caressing a silk nightdress. He flashed his Security Card.

  ‘Oh,’ said the nurse, betraying the fact that she read spy novels and never missed screen skulduggery. ‘Very good, sir. Second floor. Room 200. I’ll have to ring and let them know you’re on your way up.’

  ‘You do that, darling. I love being on my way up.’

  The girl blushed as Mostyn headed for the lift.

  There were two Special Branch men on duty. Mostyn did not know the one outside the door. Inside the room—white, with all the accoutrements of private clinics—Superintendent Glaisher sat by the bed. Boysie was dozing, and Glaisher toyed with The Times crossword.

  ‘Wotcher Glaish.’ Mostyn making light of the affair. Glaisher was not as bad as some of them (departmental jealousy can be a terrible thing). ‘What news on the Rialto?’

  ‘Eh?’ The bald, ox-shouldered policeman eased himself out of the chair. ‘The Rialto? Which one? Coventry Street? Pepys Road? Or St. James’s Road?’

  ‘Glaish, you amaze me.’ Mostyn had forgotten the Super was a movie addict. ‘Not cinemas. Shakespeare, you a Times crossword man and kosher with it.’

  ‘Kosher?’ Perturbed. ‘How?—’

  ‘The Special Branch hasn’t got all the secrets. Glaishenheimer, isn’t it? Before you did the deed with the deed poll?’

  Glaisher shrugged. ‘A man should live. If only to satisfy his curiosity. What Rialto?’

  ‘Quotation, laddy. Billy the Kid from Stratford. Shylock, one of the mighty clan. Merchant of Venice—and don’t say “it shouldn’t happen to a Doge.” It’s an old gag.’

  Glaisher shrugged again, hands spread wide. ‘So I don’t know my Shakespeare.’

  ‘Yet you do The Times crossword.’

  ‘Never finish it. Two clues I got today only.’ He studied the paper. ‘How about an anagram on something connected with espionage, Colonel Mostyn?’

  ‘Pys,’ said Mostyn, straight-faced. ‘How’s the boy doing?’ He nodded towards Boysie.

  ‘He sleeps well. Considering his job.’

  ‘Shame on you. I’ve read the first report. What’s your verdict?’

  ‘Everyone here thinks he’s a nut-case. Talks about being abducted to China, torture for no reason. He’s been in a punch-up—nasty scratches, tooth missing, severe bruising. One of the doctors thinks he’s been experimenting with junk. We’re doing a routine check of the area. Regional Crime Squad’s helping.’

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  ‘Alone? Little secrets?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course. An exception. For you I’ll do it.’

  Glaisher left, and Mostyn bent his lips to Boysie’s ear. ‘Boysie boy.’ The mating call of a dove. ‘It’s Uncle. Nuncey Mostyn.’

  Boysie opened his eyes. He had been awake all the time. ‘Wondered when you’d get here.’

  ‘Thought I’d wait until you felt a little brighter. They’ll be letting you out in a few days. Had a nasty time. By the way, one of our men brought your car back from Berlin. It’s in the usual place. New keys.’ He quietly placed the small bunch of keys on the bedside table, then repeated, ‘Yes. Had a nasty time.’

  ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘Care to talk about it?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe it. Haven’t told all to the jacks naturally, but you’re not going to believe it.’

  ‘Try me, old son. Try me.’

  Boysie leaned back on the pillows. ‘To begin at the beginning. There was darkness, then a man called James George Mostyn—’

  ‘Cut it. This is an official debriefing.’ Mostyn had his briefcase open and a cassette tape recorder ready to run.

  Boysie talked.

  *

  An hour later Mostyn left the clinic in a troubled haze. Dummy ammunition. Warbler. Gazpacho. Khavichev. Tickets to Albania. Mexican mushrooms. China. Warren. Torture. Pumas. Wales. A man called Madrigal on his way to Hong Kong. ‘Gone right round,’ he said to the Chief later, after they had listened to the tape recording. ‘Put him to sleep. Only humane thing to do.’

  ‘Under the present circumstances we’ll have to put him out to grass, I’m afraid.’ The Chief had been sober for two days, a record. Reputations hung by threads, and most of the bluster had gone. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘they found Warbler and Gazpacho. The real ones.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘On a bombed-out site near the Spandau Citadel. Severe cases of laryngitis.’

  ‘Laryngitis?’

  The Chief passed an index finger across his throat. ‘Fatal infection caused by a service utility knife.’ He placed both hands, palms flat, on the desk, head bent. ‘The Special Branch is doing an all-out check, Old Mostyn. Home and Foreign Offices in a tizz. Boysie�
�s story’s mad, but the barometer’s fallin’ fast. Some aspects puzzlin’. Think we should do somethin’ to show willin’.’ The Chief looked a beaten man. ‘This Madrigal. Check the files and cuttings. Oakes says he’s gone to Hong Kong and that Warren said he was the man—the Source, he said—used the word “Strikes.” How’re we fixed in Hong Kong?’

  ‘Only that alcoholic journalist with a flair for guess work.’

  ‘Then someone’d better go out. You wouldn’t care—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t think you would. Can you provide?’

  ‘We’re a bit thin on the ground. Could get that amateur bloke, what’s his name?—Evol—J Branch use him. Or there’s the Glare girl.’

  ‘Don’t really think so. What about your gun-dog Martin?’

  Martin had risen from being a leg-man to the dubious position of Operations Controller to Mostyn. He had been highly involved with Boysie in the Coronet and Amber Nine business. A bit thick, Martin was at least zealous.

  Mostyn’s face crept into a smile. The thought of Martin in Hong Kong looking for someone called Madrigal appealed to his sense of humour. Within three hours Martin, brimming with trepidation, was on his way to Hong Kong, and Mostyn had six operatives combing all possible areas for a man with a stammer called Madrigal. At six-thirty that evening, Special Security’s Cipher Department received a cable from Lisbon. After decoding, it read:

  GOT OUT WITH REQUIRED INFORMATION WILL BE HELD UP FOR ONE WEEK BUT TIME LAG NO WORRY WAIT ME RABBIT

  ‘That settles it.’ The Chief was at the Chivas Regal bottle again.

  ‘I recall Martin?’ asked Mostyn.

  ‘Leave it for a while. The coding’s right so it looks as though Oakes has either bungled or been conned. If Rabbit is really out, we might be in the clear. Just get rid of Oakes, that’s all I ask. For the sake of NATO, the Common Market, Her Majesty’s Inspector of Taxes, and the Chelsea Pensioners—get rid of him. Pension him off. Please.’ The Chief’s final word was a plea from the heart.

  Boysie was discharged from the clinic on the following Wednesday. Neither the Special Branch nor the Department had offered him any further information regarding his recent experience. They took him back to the flat off Chesham Place in a police car. Elizabeth had visited the clinic regularly and tonight she was coming back to the flat. The scars were healing, and life began to look more bearable. He had been in the flat for only a few minutes when the telephone rang.

  It was Mostyn, hearty and surprisingly pleasant. ‘Home again, home again, jiggedy-jig, old son.’

  ‘Yep. Great feeling, sir. You want me to come into the office today?’

  ‘No-oo.’ Mostyn undecided. ‘Tell you what. Why not have a spot of lunch together? The old choppers up to a curry yet?’

  ‘I should think so.’ Boysie apprehensive about the friendly attitude. Too artificial for Mostyn.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Let’s make it Veeraswamy’s. Say, one o’clock?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good. See you there.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Oh, and Boysie?’ Mostyn with a studied afterthought.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ll be coming down by car, won’t you?’

  ‘Suppose so.’ Warily. ‘Why?’

  ‘Then I needn’t bother, Oaksey. I’ll dice with death back to the treadmill with you. Be good, and don’t forget to lock up, will you?’

  Boysie left the flat just after twelve-thirty—casual grey suit and a raincoat—clouds had been threatening all morning. His mind was made up. He needed some kind of ‘out’ from the Danger Man game. A job in Central Files, Records, anything. Mean a cut in salary, of course, but he would have a go. The worst Mostyn could do was refuse. Couldn’t really fire him. No one in the Department was fired. Or were they? Have to ask.

  Mostyn was early, sitting at one of the circular tables in the foyer, sipping a pink gin, served by an elegant Indian lady. Small talk—a straight gin for Boysie—then into that extraordinary world of London’s most famous Indian restaurant, reeking with memories of the old days of British rule, spiced air, the discreet eroticism of the sitar and sarod as background music, and those ambiguous symbols VR everywhere—which could well mean Veeraswamy’s or Victoria Regina. No one ever asked. They both chose the same food—Chicken Vindaloo with Persian pulao rice, chapatis, lychees, and coffee. The chat over the meal was as minute as a pinhead. Halfway through the lychees (which had a cooling effect on Boysie’s cavity, enflamed again by the Vindaloo), Boysie tried to turn the words into something more substantial.

  ‘Er—any news about Madrigal?’

  ‘Hey-nonny-no. What were the nurses like at that clinic, laddy?’

  ‘There was a blonde night sister who always—’ Boysie started. ‘I asked you—’

  ‘And I said hey-nonny-no.’ Mostyn’s face like a piece of the Mount Rushmore Memorial.

  Coffee followed, and Boysie remembered his thoughts about people getting chucked out of the Department and his plan to be moved.

  ‘Often wondered, sir, anyone ever get fired from the Department?’

  Mostyn paused before answering. ‘Fired?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nervous titter. ‘You know, fired. Get the sack. Out on the neck, the book, the old tin-tack.’

  ‘Dismissed?’

  ‘Yes.’ Uncomfortable.

  ‘Glad you asked that, old son. Normally one is pensioned off, sent to prison—for a breach in the regulations of the Official Secrets Act, of course—or DD.’

  ‘DD,’ repeated Boysie, bewildered.

  ‘Feet first. Discharged Dead. In your case we’re making an exception.’

  ‘In my case?’

  ‘In your case we’re simply letting you go. I believe that’s the polite term in the City.’

  ‘But I wasn’t going to ask about me. I just wanted a change—Records, Files...’ He slowed down as Mostyn began shaking his head in a positive manner. ‘Anything...’ A weak nervous grin as he came to a stop.

  ‘You’re under the Official Secrets Act for life, Boysie old son, but it’s the handshake, I’m afraid.’

  Stunned. ‘The handshake? You mean after all I’ve done? The risks? The bloody golden handshake and that’s all?’

  ‘Not golden, Boysie. Copper maybe, but definitely not golden.’ Mostyn tossed a sealed envelope across the table. ‘Five hundred quid in new notes.’

  ‘Five...?’ Disbelief mingled with anger. ‘You dirty, scheming, cheating, blood-sucking, snide bastard!’

  ‘Orders, chum.’ Unruffled. ‘Sorry. It’s been a bore. Admit I’ve been a bastard to you at times, but we’ve got on. Basically. Directly from the top. God’s orders.’

  Boysie picked up the envelope. Mostyn’s hand whipped out, grasping his wrist. ‘First of all the keys, please. Keys to the car and flat.’

  ‘But my gear?’

  ‘Our gear. You ought to have read the small print when we signed you on.’ He began to quote from memory: ‘At any time the Department can dismiss the above-named Brian Ian Oakes without notice or disclosure of reason. Accommodation provided by the Department, complete with all contents at time of dismissal, shall become the property of the Department together with the motor vehicle provided for the use of the above-named—need I go on?’

  Stymied, snookered, checkmate. ‘You mean I’m just left with what I stand up in?’ A deflated Boysie. Incredulous.

  ‘Naked we came into the world and all that sort of thing. And the five hundred of course. In the circs we’ve been very generous. Contractually no obligation to pay you a red cent, let alone a pile of green, blue, or brown backs.’ Even the supercilious Mostyn felt a tweak of worry. Boysie’s dear ice-blue eyes were fixed on him to the point of incredible hatred. Those eyes were the first thing Mostyn had ever noticed about the man—long years ago when the big, handsome tank sergeant gunned down two Nazi agents in Paris, saving the Colonel’s life. (How was he to know the whole thing had been accidental? A safety catch in the ‘off
’ position, a stumble, and two incredible shots that had shaken Boysie for years afterwards.) The chips of ice were held so steadily on Mostyn that British Special Security’s Second-in-Command had to look away. ‘The keys, please, Boysie.’

  Boysie stood up. Mostyn was suddenly conscious of the man’s height. With a double clang the two sets of keys hit the table; the ones to the flat rebounded and ended up on Mostyn’s plate. Boysie snatched up the envelope and tore it open. People were beginning to stare, and two of the waiters hovered at the ready. Carefully Boysie counted out the money. Loudly. Everyone in the vicinity was interested. ‘Four-sixty… four-seventy...eighty...ninety...five hundred. Only just right. And I’m worth five hundred pounds to you. Finished. A closed book. Okay, so I’m floccipaucinihilipilificatious—’

  ‘What?’ Mostyn aghast, yet near laughter at the strange abuse.

  ‘You heard. Look it up for yourself. I sat up all night once learning how to pronounce the bloody thing because it sounded like a high-class bit of obscenity. It means that you’ve rendered me worthless, so watch yourself, big daddy.’ Boysie grabbed his coat and slammed out, almost upsetting an appetising Bhuna Gosht about to be served to a swinging young lady sporting a red fox Mary Quant coat.

  In the street, Veeraswamy’s magnificently regal doorman grinned with his traditional salute. ‘Taxi, sir?’

  ‘Please.’ Boysie was dried up with shock. The taxi arrived, and he automatically asked for the Savoy. Halfway up the Strand the future financial outlook reared ugly. ‘Make it the Strand Palace, will you? Got some business there first,’ he shouted through the cabbie’s partition.

  The girl at Reception knew her stuff. Yes, they did have a single with bath, how long would he want it for? Uncertainly Boysie said a few days. She booked him in for a week and asked about luggage.

  ‘Got to go back to the station and pick it up,’ Boysie lied. The girl looked suspicious and withdrew the card by which Boysie could obtain his key from the hall porter. ‘We can hold the room until six, Mr. Oakes. If you collect your baggage you will be able to move in.’

  Boysie knew the score. ‘Sure. Back within an hour.’ He headed for the nearest telephone booth, took out notebook and pen, and dialled his bank. The manager was out but the chief clerk had Boysie’s file to hand. Shattered, Boysie left the booth. For years he had lived off a magnificent salary with almost unlimited expenses. Always in credit, he spent freely, never bothering about the day when rain might fall. Now it was a hailstorm. His credit account showed only two hundred pounds.