by John Gardner
‘Good. Then to business. I daren’t go to MI5, Special branch, or whoever roons these bloody things nowadays. Got too much at stake.’ He took a deep breath and bent his head, looking at the carpet. For a moment there was hesitation, then he jumped. ‘Now we coom to confidential stoof. You all know m’ largest company is Mamian Electronics—big plant near Bolton. First ah’m goin’ to’ break th’ official Secrets Act and tell thee what we’re doin’ there. Test your knowledge first.’ He looked at Mostyn, Boysie, and Griffin in turn. ‘’Ave you ever ’eard of CORGI? If so, wha’ is it?’
Mostyn was in quickly. ‘CORGI is Britain’s first really large intercontinental ballistic missile project. The programme’s been escalated over six years. It is Ultimate Classified, mainly because the taxpayers would go bald as coots if they knew public money was going on such a weapon. CORGI is designed to have an orbital range, propelled by liquid fuel, and with a warhead estimated to be in excess of twenty megatons. The deal is arranged through the NATO force, though strategically it’s designed to give Britain a correctly Evaluated striking power should we have to go it alone. I mean, in the event of a split between ourselves and the United States and—or NATO.’
‘Thee knows thee stuff, lad. Anything else?’
‘CORGI is scheduled into service in Britain next year. Fully operational with the NATO strike forces by 1968. In order to protect the operation, from a security angle, its building is completely decentralised. Small and large firms provide components. Security-screened company directors of major organisations, Defence Staff, and final Assembly Plant Chiefs are the only people who know about it—except senior Military and Civil Security officers. Mr. Oakes here already knows because he had sight of the original directives when we worked together with Special Security. Enough for you, sir?’
‘Aye. You’re either a bloody clever enemy or the real thing. Ah’ll plump for thee bein’ real.’ He clapped his hands together, as if punctuating his sentence with a full stop. ‘The CORGI operation is in danger of a major holdup. Even a step down. Ah know of two firms up North makin’ tiny bits and pieces tha’ ’ave almost gone out of business because of labour disputes. Mamian Electronics ’ave a big piece o’ th’ pie, Colonel Mostyn. A very large segment as y’ might say. We’re makin’ the Internal Computerised Command Guidance System. If we drop be’ind on production the ’ole programme is thrown out of gear. And we are bein’ thrown out, gentlemen. Labour problems.’
Somewhere outside the windows there was a sudden chatter of birds. Boysie was getting nasty reactions. Beads of perspiration and a rising pulse rate. It was like the former times when something of desperate import turned up at Special Security. The tense concentration and looks of concern.
Lord Mamian continued ‘Ah’ve been a trade-union man since I were a little lad, bu’ ah’ve never known anything like this. In two weeks we’ve been faced with three walk-outs—over stupid things, little problems tha’ ah can normally fix wi’ a bit of man-to-man chat. Ah get on wi’ th’ lads, don’t I, Membersby?’ Sharply to the weasel assistant.
‘Oh yes, my lord. One of the lads all right.’
‘Seem to ’ave lost tooth some-ow. Thought I knew me men. Main trouble’s one union—Amalgamated Union of Humpers and Grinders. Very important to us over the question of assembly. Most essential. An’ now they’re threatenin’ the axe. Total strike over a stupid wage claim. Ah’ve gone with them all the way. Twice ah’ve gone with them. Bu’ they raise th’ odds every time I accept their offers. It’s unnatural.’
Everyone else in the room was silent. Mamian’s very presence precluded interruption at that point.
He continued. ‘There’s no doubt tha’ ah’ve go’ serious agitation on me ’ands. Outside interference. That’s something ah know’s been suspected by the authorities in smaller cases. Bu’ if I take ma problem to National Authorities they’re goin’ to’ cut me out. We’ll be classified as Insecure an’ zip goes a million. Two, three million. Ah’ll ’ave nigh on a thousand lads out o’ work, and ah’ll personally go bust.’
‘Tricky,’ said Mostyn, trying to cover his feelings about big businessmen scared of running foul of Government Security. These were men he despised.
‘Aye.’ Mamian nodded. ‘Tricky till yesterday when ah got the tip-off. We know who the agitator is. Thank Gow soom men’ve got consciences. Most men follow their leaders like sheep. One man didn’t. Lad I were a’ school wi’. ’Olds a senior position in th’ union. No names—’
‘No pack drill,’ from Boysie, who was withered by a death-ray look from Lord Mamian.
‘Aye. No pack drill. Any road, ’e came t’ me last night, frightened, scared ou’ of ’is wits ’e were. Strong union member as ah’ve said, bu’ ’e was scared. Seems the local union executive leader—one o’ my lads—’as been doin’ the stirrin’. Could ’ave knocked me down—’
‘Wiv a fevver.’ Griffin’s turn to get the eye treatment.
‘Wi’ a fevver,’ repeated Mamian. ‘This bloke spilt the beans. Ordered the union members to agitate. Put as much pressure on as possible. Even put forward the theory tha’ they’re involved in a project for mass destruction and tha’ it’s wrong. Ah know this man, Mostyn. ’E’s always been far to’ th’ left but never anything like this. Overnight the man’s turned into a Communist agitator. If ah chop ’im the ’ole lot’ll be out in flash. If ah keep ’im on ah’m done for.’
‘Can you put the finger on him for us?’ Mostyn iceberg cold and twice as dangerous.
Lord Mamian placed a heavy dossier in front of GRIMOBO’s Director. Mostyn opened it. Typewritten sheets. Details of a career. Even a page giving a complete rundown on the man’s physical attributes. A photograph filled the centre of the page. Boysie had a side view, but he could see it plainly. A shudder. Something in the back of his mind. The face, even at this angle, was of a man he recognised. Someone he had seen somewhere. Where?
‘Excuse me, Colonel Could I see that photograph?’
Mostyn looked up, annoyed. ‘Why?’
‘I think I may have something. Have to look and think though.’
Without grace, Mostyn withdrew the sheet and passed it to Boysie. The face was definitely familiar. He glanced at the name at the top of the form. Albert Elia Sowerton. That had no meaning. But the face. He sensed everyone in the room looking at him. Waiting. Mostyn’s foot tapping irritably. Then Boysie cut through the barrier. Albert Elia Sowerton was the man at The Hong Kong. The man Madrigal had hypnotised. His brow creased, mind fighting for the real connection. He turned to Lord Mamian.
‘Er—Your Grace—I mean, Your Lordship—oh heck. I might have something here. I wonder if I could talk to Colonel Mostyn privately?’
‘Don’t see why. What’s ya name again?’
‘Oakes, sir.’
‘Well, Oakes. Ah’ve been frank wi’ all you lot. Don’t see why you shouldn’t be frank wi’ me. In fron’ o’ me.’
Boysie struggled for words. ‘This is slightly different. Sir, I’d rather make sure with the Colonel. Might be making a fool of myself.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time, laddie,’ jabbed Mostyn.
Mamian was quick at sizing up situations. ‘Membersby, we’ll wait in th’ outer office.’ To Griffin, ‘You stayin’ ?’
Griffin raised his eyebrows questioningly at Boysie. ‘Better raise some tea or something for Lord Mamian and his—his—’
‘Assistant,’ slimed Membersby.
Reluctantly, Mamian, Membersby, and Griffin left. Mostyn’s fist hammered the desk as the door closed. ‘What the devil are you playing at, Boysie? What’s this about this twit’s photograph?’
Boysie talked. He talked for some twenty minutes, giving a complete description of what had occurred after Mostyn had paid him off from the Department. In particular, he went through Madrigal’s moves at The Hong Kong. ‘The thing that bugs me is that Madrigal whispered into this fellow Sowerton’s ear while he was under hypnosis. I felt there was something wrong then. Look, Mostyn, I
know Madrigal. He is dangerous and highly implicated with the Jen Chia. Rabbit Warren had something to tell us about it. Khavichev knew there was some sort of plot.’
Mostyn looked serious.‘Could be. Chap had it in a novel once. Damn good yarn. Got a fellow to assassinate under hypnosis. Hang it all, the Chinese use it. Ever read Dr. Sargant’s Battle for the Mind? Hypnosis is a medical technique now. Medical and security technique.’ He sat for a moment, a waxwork among the politicians at Madame Tussaud’s. Then, ‘Get Lord Mamian back in here. I’ll tell him we’re dealing with it, and we’ll be in touch. Five or six days should see us through.’
Boysie opened the door. Mamian and Co. were obviously impatient. ‘Would you care to step in here a moment, gentlemen?’ Boysie madly formal.
As Griffin passed into the room he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Yer’d better ge’ ou’ there, Mr. Oakes. Someone to see yer.’
Mostyn looked up. ‘Boysie. We’ll need extra help. Remember Martin?’
Boysie remembered Martin all right. Martin, Mostyn’s blue-eyed boy, the watch dog with a built-in warning twinge in his right kneecap, which seemed to operate whenever trouble loomed. Mostyn still talked. ‘I gather he’s what the theatrical profession call “resting” at the moment. Miss Kooker has his number. Get him over here. Like a dose of—’
‘Thoughts?’
‘Faster. Jet up ’is—’
Boysie nodded and went into the outer office. Honey Mambo stood by one of the windows. Hot flush. She turned towards him.
‘Hello, Boysie.’ Devastating.
‘Hi—er—hi.’ Boysie with raised hand, embarrassed and eyes aswivel. ‘I’m—I’m sorry about—’
‘Running out on me?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Don’t be, darling.’
She was coming near. The whiff of Imprévu. Constriction in Boysie’s breathing. He sensed Kate Kooker watching with the fascination of a snake about to strike.
‘I just wanted to thank you, Boysie. Best thing you could have done. I’d been making a mess of things. Please ring me some time.’ A small black-gloved hand held out a card.
Boysie took it gingerly. He could feel the ancient vibrations passing between them.
‘Just, thank you, Boysie darling.’ A pair of arms reached up around his neck, pulling him towards her. Lips meeting. Tender. Violent. A wide mouth, small tongue darting with the speed of a sewing-machine needle.
The kiss ended as rapidly as it had begun, and Honey Mambo walked, slowly and with the steady carriage of seduction, towards the door.
‘Crikey,’ said Miss Kooker, ‘they warned me about you.’
Boysie stood with his hand to his mouth, desperate for satisfaction. It seemed endless. Then he took out his handkerchief, wiping it across red-smeared lips, and turned to the telephonist.
‘The Director says you have the number of a man called Martin. Get him on the line. Run him to earth. Make sure he’s here an hour ago.’
‘Yes, Mr. Oakes. Certainly, Mr. Oakes.’
*
Lord Mamian and his lackey left, looking moderately happy, half an hour later. Within the hour Martin arrived. He spent five minutes along with Mostyn—financial arrangements, Griffin and Boysie decided. Then they were all back in there. Mostyn went through the details from the beginning. Repeating everything Lord Mamian had told them, filling in what Boysie had added, and completing the picture with a rough sketch of what he read into the situation.
‘I want this place, The Hong Kong, checked out from top to bottom. I want to know who Madrigal has used as hypnotic subjects over the last few weeks, where people live, a recording of this mind-reading act of his, the works.’ His attention turned to Griffin and Martin. ‘Obviously Boysie can’t case the place. If Madrigal spots him the balloon rises. It’s up to you two lads. I’ll issue the equipment, and I want you in Manchester tonight. Drive up. Take the Bentley. And remember, we’ve got to have results fast. Two or three days. Three at the most.’ Martin and Griffin left within the hour.
For the following three days suspense invaded the Dolphin Square headquarters. On the evening of the third day Boysie was waiting for Elizabeth in his flat when the phone rang.
‘It’s on, Boysie’—Mostyn sounding jubilant ‘the duet’s back and it’s definitely on. Over here now.’
‘But I—’
‘Now.’
Martin and Griffin were sitting in Mostyn’s office when Boysie arrived. Mostyn looked repulsively complacent. ‘Come in, old Boysie. The best chair for operative Oakes, gentlemen. Cigar?’
Boysie refused. ‘What is all this?’
Boysie had known Mostyn long enough to read the signs.
‘Couple of first-class men here, old Boysie boy. You’ve hit on it. No doubt at all. Briefly, The Hong Kong circularised a vast number of northern factories, public utilities, and even unions themselves when it opened a few months ago. Trade-union members get special cards and special rates. It’s a gift.’ He wrinkled his nose, as though reacting to a bad smell. ‘People of that class cannot resist mixing with their betters at a lower figure. The joint has a regular run of trade-union people going through it every week. Martin, carry on.’
Martin looked surprised. ‘Well, sir, what I told you. I saw Madrigal work twice. On both occasions he used men whom we later identified as highly placed members of trade-union organisations. Also, through surreptitious means, we back-checked on the kind of person Madrigal uses for such experiments.’ Martin was being Gothicly arch. ‘Actually they all conform. Nine out of ten are connected with industry, the railways, docks, public offices—’
‘All right, you’ve made your point.’ Mostyn waiting to get on with it. ‘How was the knee by the way?’
‘Like a jolly old Mexican jumping bean, sir. No doubt there’s something up.’
‘Griffin.’ Mostyn looked at Charlie.
‘Yeah?’ Griffin had been far away.
‘Your side. Tell little Boysie your side.’
‘Ah. Yers. Well. First, Madrigal himself is seein.’ a lot o’ this bird you was knockin’ orf in Berlin. The Chinese bird.’
‘Mu-lan?’ Boysie swamped by sudden depression.
‘Yeah. Also, The ’Ong Kong itself is owned by a couple o’ fellas ’oo keep in the background.’ He paused to pick up a brace of photographs from Mostyn’s desk. ‘Not well enough in the background to stop the old Minox though. Minox is a spy’s best friend, eh?’
Boysie took the photographs. The depression turned to hatred and a violence he had rarely felt before.
‘Recognise them?’ From Mostyn.
‘Warbler and Gazpacho. Chinese names of General Kuan Hsi Shi and Shi T’ung K’u, the Tormentor. When do we go?’
Mostyn looked at Boysie. In the past there were moments when he had been uncertain of the bungling, sometimes idiotic man. The chips of blue ice that were Boysie’s eyes now flamed with white heat. Even clowns can be terrifying, he thought, before speaking. ‘By rights we should hand over all this stuff to the Political and Military Intelligence Department. There’s no doubt in my mind that Madrigal’s involved in a psychological operation geared to disrupt industry and the normal running of the country. Don’t really know enough about it, but I should imagine it’s got something to do with post-hypnotic suggestion. Both men whom Martin saw being used as subjects went to Madrigal’s apartment on the afternoon or early evening following their being publicly hypnotised—’
‘Go’ a nice place, Madrigal,’ Griffin interrupted. ‘Sixth-floor apartment in an old building in Ducie Street.’
‘When do we go?’ said Boysie.
It was amazing to Mostyn to see the grin of pleasure on Boysie’s face. ‘I’m not sure.’ Long silence. ‘Hang it, okay. Let’s show them what the old SS can really do. Finish off what Rabbit Warren started. Just three of us, I’m afraid. Martin will have to mind the store.’
‘Oh, thank you very much, sir.’ Martin seemed happy about that, even though he was rubbing his right kneeca
p like a professional masseur.
‘In the meantime’ Mostyn scratching his nose with the right index finger ‘there’s one extracurricular experience for you, Boysie.’
Boysie knew trouble was coming. He had got over the hump of anxiety. He was ready. Now the butterflies returned, accompanied by moths, battering at the wall of his stomach. ‘What?’ he said suspiciously.
Mostyn, top dog as always, split his mouth into the grimace of evil. ‘You’re going to be hypnotised. Hypnotised, old lad.’
Chapter Ten: Fox
But the little red fox murmured,
‘O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world’s bane.’
Yeats, ‘The Happy Townland’
It was nearly ten o’clock the following morning when a taxi dropped Boysie and Mostyn at the intersection of Queen Anne and Wimpole Streets.
‘This way.’ Mostyn pointed up Wimpole Street with his umbrella. Today was City gent day for him, bowler, pin stripe, and neatly furled brolly. Boysie had slung on some grey tweed Jaeger gear, not a wise move, for now he felt out of place, sauntering with the strutting Mostyn past the parked Rolls-Royces and Bentleys. He had got over the initial anger of realising he was to be sucker bait for Madrigal. Hypnosis frightened him. Having someone else completely control your actions, maybe even your thoughts, brought a creepy sensation.
‘Can’t really explain it all to you myself,’ Mostyn had said. ‘Don’t know enough about hypnosis. But this chap Fox is the best man in the country.’
They crossed New Cavendish Street, and Mostyn again pointed with his umbrella. The houses looked all the same—brass plaques, doctors, dentists, specialists in every organ of the human body. London’s wealthy hypochondriac belt. An elderly lady, dressed by Harrods, was being helped down the steps of one house and into a waiting taxi. The world was full of overpriced garments, old people warding off the inevitable, a few debs sadly hearing the worst, and all paying for the best.
Together, Mostyn and Boysie mounted the steps. The brass plaque bore three names: Rainbow, Heston, and Bright. Mostyn pressed the bell push with a neatly leather-covered forefinger and pushed open the door. A starched lady was already on her way to meet them, clip-clopping high-heeled across the marble floor of a hall austere but for the bust of some eminent medic plaster-still on a bookcase heavy with leather and unpronounceable titles embossed in gold.