by John Gardner
'Go and get the girl, then. We haven't much time.'
*
Coral came into the room, bright-eyed and somewhat dishevelled.
'He is a dish, isn't he, Sherry?'
'He looks a very frightened dish to me, my dear. But I'm afraid the ball is over. We must get him out of here - allow him to escape. There is no time to explain, but this means, Coral, my precious little parasite, that you will have to escape with him: help him.'
'In other words, Sherry darling, you've made a balls of it.'
'As you so charmingly put it, my dear, we have slightly overplayed our hand.'
'Well, I've tried everything I know. Best performance since my Juliet in Rep. Honestly, you should have heard me, Sherry - the Pony Club wasn't in it. By the way, he says he has nothing to tell you. Sorry, but really I did my best.'
'I'm sure you did - very beautifully too. The truth is, he has no information to give us.' He switched his eyes to Gregory: 'I want you to take the ignition key and put it in the car. Then find out if Yacob has returned - he must be briefed about the .... er ... the impending "escape".'
When Gregory had left, Sheriek turned to the girl:
'I am sorry, Coral, my dear, but, for us, this must be the finish. Things are becoming, shall we say, warmish. I'm sorry.'
'The party's over? Oh well, there'll be other times and other places, Sherry. I'm sorry too, but ... Well, that's show business.'
She took a cigarette from the heavy silver box on the table. Sheriek moved close and lit it for her. She saw that he was sweating; there were moist patches under his eyes and across his brow. But he meant nothing to her any more. It was over. In any case, he had only been a means to an end: a kickprovider. There were plenty more of those around. In her short life, Coral had bumped from many pillars and into a multitude of posts. To her, there was always something waiting just over the horizon. The future was ever rosy.
'You may keep the car, of course - you'll have to help him get away in it. It would be best, I think, if you got across the frontier as soon as possible. It would be safer.'
'Can I collect my things?'
'You have ten minutes to pack a case. Leave it in the hall and I will personally put it in the boot for you. Now, my dear Coral, before you go ...'
He crossed to the tolerable El Greco reproduction which hung above a genuine, ornate Desmalter jewel cabinet. The picture swung outwards from the wall, disclosing a circular safe.
'Just a small token of my appreciation, Coral,' said Sheriek.
For the second time in an hour, Coral unzipped her pants. But now it was to distribute the thick wad of mixed currency smoothly along the apricot tops of her nylon stockings.
Poor Coral: what a pity, thought Sheriek, eyeing the neat, flexible, half-clothed figure.
Between dwelling, happily, on his recent experience with Coral, Boysie had been passing the time by counting the bricks on the wall facing the bed.
Gregory followed the girl into the cellar - the ever-present Browning in his right hand, a cheap bottle of Cote de Provence and two glasses clasped dexterously in his left. 'What's this? Prisoner's last request?' said Boysie.
Coral made a shushing motion with her lips and Boysie leaned against the wall, silent until Gregory left the room.
'What gives?'
'I think there's some kind of panic on.' She poured the wine.
Boysie had a strange feeling that something was not quite as it should be. He took the glass from the girl's scarlet-tipped fingers, and sipped. The roughness of the drink made him cough and burned his stomach: he realised that, apart from picking at a small piece of cold chicken on the aircraft, he had not eaten since breakfast - and he had lost that at about 1500 feet over London. Yet something was out of place. He couldn't put his finger on it, but Gregory's departure from the cellar had not been normal.
'What happened?'
'Well, they took me upstairs. .. I've seen the other man by the way ...'
'What's he like?'
'Fat. A bit of a smoothie. He asked me where I had met you, and how, and if I knew who you were. Then the telephone rang, and they took me into another room. After a bit, old Fatso came in and seemed to be all of a doo-dah. Said something about a conference. Seemed to be in a tremendous hurry: they couldn't get me back down here quick enough.'
'Wait a minute!' Boysie had caught on.
Suddenly, he realised why Gregory's exit had seemed odd. He had not heard the locks pushed home on the other side of the door.
'What's up with you?'
'Hold your breath, cross your fingers and get out your prayer wheel. I think CamelFace has made a bloomer.'
He went over and began to push his fingers into the crack between the door and its frame. The door swung towards them. 'Open Sesame!' breathed Boysie.
'The absolute, purblind, blithering idiot!' said Coral, still well in character. 'What are we waiting for?'
'It could be some kind of a trap.'
What a nervous bastard you are, she thought. Aloud, she said:
'Not it. I told you; they were in the hell of a panic.' She took a step towards the open door: 'Well, come on, Boysie: I'm getting out of here.'
'All right.' His throat felt parched in spite of the wine. The fear was returning:
'Keep close behind me.'
It was like standing on the high board at the school swimming pool. He took a deep breath, then, almost holding his nose, walked through the doorway and between the curtains.
Two strip-lights burned in the next room, revealing it to be a complete do-it-yourself torturers' workshop. Apart from the rack and pulley, a small electric furnace stood on a concrete plinth against the wall to their left. Beside the furnace, neatly arranged on a trestle table, lay a collection of interrogation tools: four cattle-branding irons, half a dozen sets of forceps, a box of bamboo spills, another of assorted pins and needles, three or four leather straps, a coil of rope, chains, and medical tray, set out with rubber gloves, tube and funnel. Boysie recalled how the medieval clergy had successfully exorcised unwilling devils by treating those possessed with a scalding holy water enema.
The mirror spots were set around a swivel chair at the far end of the mahogany table, behind which a short line of identically leather-backed books stood rigid on a low shelf. Leaning across the table, Boysie could read the titles: the complete works of the Marquis de Sade rubbed bindings with a translation of the Ta T'sing Lu Li - the code of the Manchu Dynasty which contained some honourable helpful hints on the problem of pain - and a couple of histories of the Inquisition.
The right end of the room was dominated by a dentist's chair and drill. Boysie's heart plummeted. Behind the chair, shut and solid, was a mammoth steel door.
'Try it,' prodded Coral.
The door was unlocked, giving way to a flight of stone steps leading up to an archway, curtained in claret velvet. Slowly they negotiated the stairway: edging up each step, hands flat against the rough plaster wall. At the top, Boysie squinted through the curtain.
The hall was empty. A crouching brass cat held the front door ajar, and, from the awkward angle of the archway, he could just see the Continental, caught in a slash of light from the porch, its long opulent nose pointing to the right, away from the villa.
'The car's outside,' he whispered. 'If they've left the key ...'
It would take them about thirty seconds, he reckoned, to get from the archway to the vehicle. He turned his head, concentrating on hearing any sound which might expose the presence of an ambush out of his line of vision. The house seemed still. Waiting.
'It's a straight run to the door.' He had leant back and put his mouth close to Coral's ear. 'There's a porch and some steps, I think - can't see it all. Make it as quickly and quietly as you can. OK?'
She nodded. Boysie turned his head and kissed her gently on the mouth: more to allay his own apprehension than to give her courage.
'Right? Go!'
They crossed the hall, Coral coming almost
level with him as they reached the porch: their feet sounding hollow on the smooth tiles. Three broad steps led down to the drive: putting his foot on the bottom one, a bottle of brandy clutched loosely in his big right hand, was Yacob.
Returning from his errand, and still umprimed by Sheriek, Yacob let out a yell of alarm and raised the bottle.
At the Espionage School, Boysie had gained an Alpha Plus for both close combat and jujutsa: but never had he been called upon to put either of the arts into practice. Indeed, he had the direst doubts about their effectiveness outside the gymnasium - especially in his own hands and against a genuine assault. Frightened though he was, the past training set up an immediate body reflex. The action was completely automatic: all Boysie knew was the heart-flutter and stomach-leap as he came face to face with the huge Yacob.
He half-turned to the left and threw up his arm to parry the falling bottle. His right leg shot out and hooked behind Yacob's rising left knee. With a quick turn to the right, Boysie heaved back his leg and pushed forward with the whole weight of his body. Yacob opened his mouth as he felt his legs slide from under him. His arms flailed in an attempt to save himself, and he crashed, flat and heavy, down the steps, his head hitting the dry gravel with a juddering crunch.
Coral had reached the car and was tugging at the passenger door. She could see the key in the dashboard, but why wouldn't the door open? Sheriek had told her to make for the passenger door. She screamed at Boysie: 'The key's there, but I can't open the door.' Sheriek had said it had to be realistic, but the brush with Yacob had thrown her.
Boysie was down the steps and racing round to the driver's side. He pulled: the door shot open: half-in, half-out of the seat, he turned on the ignition, pressed the accelerator and stretched out to release Coral's door. The engine gave the steady growl of a successful start.
'Now!' said Sheriek quietly: standing next to Gregory in the doorway: 'Keep back, Yacob.'
The Browning banged twice - two seconds between each shot. Gregory had plenty of time to aim.
The first bullet caught Coral in the chest. She spun back against the car and then seemed to roll forward, staggering across the bonnet. The second bullet hit her in the neck. Boysie, frozen, one hand on the steering, the other on the doorhandle, saw the strange look of shock cross her face as she slithered down the front of the car, leaving a thick crimson smear on the white paintwork. He was holding his breath and could feel the back of his neck bristle like the hair on a dog at bay.
'Now to the left, Gregory - and, for God's sake, miss him,' said Sheriek.
The instinct of self-preservation was in Boysie. They were firing at him: he could hear the shots over the throb of the motor. He slammed the car into gear, released the brake and clutch in one movement and took off, zigzagging down the narrow drive. For a long time he had lived close to violence and sudden death, but here there was personal involvement. He had hardly known the girl and yet he had known her in the most complete sense. The warm, vital body he had held close only a short time ago, was now simply a useless lump of flesh, bones and organs - only the clothes on the cooling limbs still held any commercial value.
He wiped the film of vomit from his lips with the back of his hand, and flashed the lights full on. The drive ran, slightly downhill, to a pair of ornamental iron gates, mercifully open. He stamped his foot on the brakes, then slewed the Continental out on to the road. Half a mile on, he saw the sign Beaulieu-sur-Mer. At least he was going in the right direction. A minute twister of mosquitoes, rising in the warm night air, hit the windshield, splattering themselves like great thunder-raindrops. Boysie's cold blue eyes concentrated on the winding road. Once more he had met with death, and this time his whole body and mind revolted against it. The old neuroses churned inside him all the way - through Monte Carlo and along the coast to Cap Martin.
As the road turned the headland, he could see Menton, slightly below and in front of him - a necklet of lights twinkling round the bay: the high white church floodlit, perched among a rising pack of houses in the old quarter.
Just before he reached the town, Boysie swung the car into a side road and sat shivering and silent. It took him nearly ten minutes to regain control of his fractured nerves. All the time his mind banged out the same message: 'Iris mustn't see me like this: she mustn't know. Iris mustn't see me like this: she mustn't know ...' And between each line, he saw the vivid, rapid, moving picture of Coral bumping down the side of the Continental: a corpse spread on the russet gravel.
At last he got out of the car and walked slowly towards the centre of the town. His legs were still shaking as he got to the Avenue Verdun.
*
Sheriek was sliding his hands up the stiffening thighs, removing the spread of bank-notes from behind the smooth, tightly-braced stocking-tops. His eyes were moist. Sheriek was an amateur.
*
At exactly 10.30 Boysie walked quickly through the foyer of the Hotel Miramont and took the lift up to the third floor.
5 - Cote D'Azur
Saturday-Sunday June 8th-9th 1963
IRIS
'And about time too. I've been doing my nut ...!' Iris opened the door - unsmiling, nose-high and eyebrows raised in the supercilious hauteur of a model-girl. Boysie pushed past her, closing the door and leaning back heavily on the frame:
'Lock it. Quick!'
'Oh God, Boysie, what's happened?' The cosmeticised mask, a disguise for her anxiety, crumbled when she saw his face: hair ruffled, a thin grime where sweat had dried, caked on his forehead and round his eyes; a long, livid graze - the work of Yacob's granite knuckles - running from right cheekbone to jaw.
'Boysie! Love! What the hell's happened?' Her arms were around him: her lips pressing his cheek. He clung to her for a moment: breathless and not a little flattered. 'I've been terrified, Boysie! I didn't know what to do. I even rang the hospital and asked them ...'
Over her shoulder, he could see that she had been sitting in the armchair: a glass, still part-full, stood on the table:
'Lock the door. And get me a drink ... Please sweetie.'
'OK. Sit down ... Come on, sit down: you look terrible;' the distressed voice underlining her concern for him. She obeyed, turning the metal-tagged hotel key; and crossed to the trolley, landscaped with bottles, by the bathroom door:
'I rang down for something to drink, and they sent the lot ... and some Gauloises ...'
'The ones I got went for a burton, I'm afraid ...' Boysie was beginning to enjoy her solicitude.
'What are you going to have? Scotch?'
'A big, big Scotch. Dictator-size ... Two fingers ...' He held up his right hand, the middle and third fingers folded behind his thumb, index and little fingers stretched to their maximum spread of about five inches. She slopped the liquor into a tumbler, added two ice-cubes and brought it to him.
He took a noisy gulp, spluttering as the ice banged against his upper lip, diverting some of the whisky: dribbling it from the corner of his mouth and down the chin. A thin stream of fire sank into his intestines, exploding like a minute Napalm bomb.
'Ah ... Oi, Oi, Oi... That's better.' He was managing to put a curb on his wild breathing and the heart-bump had settled; then a small fresh wave of nausea bubbled into his throat, making him swallow hard.
Iris squeezed on to the chair, lighting a cigarette for him, and running the tips of her soothing fingers behind his neck. 'Ouch!' said Boysie, as she touched his lump.
'Sorry ... Grief! What a bump, it's enormous. Shouldn't you see a doctor or something?' She was frowning, deep creases of concern etching up between symmetrical eyebrows: 'Can't you tell me what's happened, darling? Or is it the job - the Department?'
'In a minute, sweetie. Just let me get it sorted out. I've been coshed, doped, beaten up, threatened with torture and shot at - I feel like bloody Rip Kirby.'
'And you're bloody Boysie Oakes,' said Iris, gazing at the ridge of dried gore marking the area where the cosh had broken the skin behind his right ear.
'Bloody Boysie Oakes,' he mused. 'Honestly, I don't know ... I don't know what to do about this lot.' He had made several instinctive, and conflicting decisions on his way from the car to the hotel. In the long run, his only course of action was to get hold of Mostyn; and that, he reflected, was almost as dangerous as being at the unlikely mercy of big Yacob and the triggerhappy Gregory. But, there was nothing for it: he would have to take the risk:
'Look, I'll keep your name out of it, sweetie, but I really think I should ring Mostyn, I...'
'You can't.' She was nervous, like a timid wife trying to tell her muscular spousespanking mate that the housekeeping has all gone by Tuesday night.
'What do you mean, I can't?' Boysie had pushed forward and was sitting on the edge of the chair. From the look on her face, he detected an impending catastrophe.
'He rang ... Just after you left, he rang here. He was on to us, Boysie. He knew I was with you, but anyway ...'
'Oh my sainted, sacred aunt.' Boysie groaned and thumped his brow. 'That's bloody torn it that has ... That's the blasted end ...' The vision rose, luminous in his mind: the Court Martial; the Truth; all the deceits hustling into the open. They'd throw him to the lions! But Iris was still talking quickly, as though anxious to get through:
'...No, Boysie, hang on a minute, it's not too bad ... I think it's going to be all right ... I mean he's not going to take it up to the Chief or anything like that. The point is ... well, there's a job for you ... You're ... You're OPERATIONAL.'
'Oh, no!'
'Oh, yes. He said to tell you: "Pressure". Does that mean anything? I hadn't heard it before.'