The Liquidator

by John Gardner

  *

  In London the milk bottles were rattling and the road-cleaners were out; dawn was shaking the city by the shoulder and Wordsworth was again being proved accurate about Westminster Bridge. An irritated Mostyn, unshaven and barely awake, stumped into the Operations' Room.

  'Sorry to get you out so early, Number Two,' said the bland Operations' Officer. 'But you did ask for immediate notification on "L''.'

  'What's happened to the moron?'

  'We've just decoded a message from Blueboy ...'

  'You fellows and the bloody codebook. I never can remember these people - Blueboy?'

  'Our man on the Cote D'Azur.'

  'Of course, the pensioned RAF chaplain, yes, I know. What's he say?'

  'Apparently "L'' had a brush with the opposition last night. He thinks Sheriek was mixed up in it ...'

  'That stupid fool. I thought they'd got rid of him years ago - the man's like something out of the Comic Cuts.'

  "'L'' was missing from about 4.45 until 10.30. Came back looking as though he'd escaped from the jaws of death. Blueboy also says there seems to be an opposition flap on. Lots of activity.'

  'Does he now? OK, put an extra watch on "L'' and we'll see what materialises. Thank you for letting me know - nothing concrete, but... well, I've got a feeling about this one.'

  They were interrupted by a cipher clerk: 'Think you ought to look at this, sir.' He spoke to the Operations' Officer. Out of interest, Mostyn followed them to the map. 'Redland Airforce, Super Security Order,' said the clerk, putting his finger on the Perspex cover. 'They're prohibiting all of their military flights along this corridor - passing from the coast through Archangel - as from 0900 our time Tuesday. They've also alerted their Number Six Fighter Group - the Arctic Coast boys: on special standby as from Monday night.'

  'That's interesting,'said Mostyn. 'Keep me informed, will you.' Something was up, he could smell it. Things would break soon - unpleasant things, and very soon.

  7 - Cote D'Azur

  Sunday June 9th 1963

  QUADRANT

  The mistral - that dry northerly wind which whips down the Rhone valley to collide with the hot Mediterranean air in the Gulf of Lyons - can be one of life's hardships on the Cote D'Azur. It blows for days on end; flaying the nerves, shifting bathers from the beaches, overturning tables, ruining soigné hairstyles, sprinkling sand and dust into the eyes, bowling hats along the broad streets and rippling the bright awnings outside the promenade bars. With it comes a testy, razor-blade edginess which makes even a patient man snap and scratch at his most intimate friends.

  The mistral began to blow along the coast just after dawn. Its current shook the palms and lifted the girls' skirts as they hurried to early Mass at the church of St Michel. The cafe owners looked out, shrugged their shoulders, and turned down the corners of their mouths. The sea started to churn, sending great breakers clawing, with a sputter of soapsud foam, against the rocks - splattering the promenade, drowning the Sunday churchbells. Tourists emerged resigning themselves to a day off the beaches. The sun was hot and rising, the wind unpleasant. Boysie Oakes dreamed of faded blondes lashing at a pile of old rags with riding crops, while Mostyn, clad only in a green jock­strap, puffed at a black cheroot and watched from a blue deck-chair. Boysie always dreamed in technicolour.

  'Wake up, lazy!' said Mostyn. 'Wake up!' Only it wasn't Mostyn.

  'Boysie! Wake up!' said Iris.

  He stretched and opened one eye. She was standing at the foot of the bed, dizzying in petal-white brassiere and panties which frilled out in a ruffle of nylon. Iris was about to dip her head into a bright, patterned shirt-dress.

  'Don't put it on, sweetie, you'll spoil the picture,' said Boysie, comfortable and indolent. 'Come over here.'

  'You're a lazy bastard. Anyway, we haven't time, darling: it's gone ten-thirty already. Damn, now see what you've made me do. Trying to wake you up, I haven't put my slip on.'

  She dropped the dress on to the bed and slithered into the tailored slip, zipping it up the side in a way which made Boysie squirm with pleasure:

  'You'd be a wow in a strip show.'

  'Mm!' Iris pouted a cat-licking-the-cream look: 'Tell you something, love: I think I'm a bit kinky that way. I'm always getting urges to take off my clothes in public. I've been standing here stark naked for ten minutes trying to wake you.'

  'Good for you. It's the full narcissus thing, you know. Hasn't got anything to do with the other. Once talked to a stripper - she was nineteen, came from Bootle and thought she had the most beautiful body since Venus. Wasn't interested in sex. Just wanted to display herself. Even offered to pose next to some statues in the British Museum: but they turned her down. Pity really; she'd have filled the place. Ouoogrrough!' He yawned. 'Did you say something about breakfast?'

  Iris was pouring the coffee: 'You have a bad night, love?'

  'Honey, I had a fabulous night. Only I didn't sleep too well.'

  'Coffee?'

  He nodded. Iris brought the cup, put it on the bedside table and perched herself on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs, displaying a pair of eminently strokable knees. She put a hand on Boysie's forehead and rumpled his hair:

  'Why the insomnia? Worried? About the operation?'

  'I suppose so. We're not all great big hulking machines, you know.'

  'Sure. I know. But you've done lots before. Or is it always like this?'

  'In our trade, sweetie, you never get used to it.' He put his hand lightly on her leg, above the knee, underneath her dress:

  'Do you know what I specialise in, Iris? Do you know what I do for the Department?' 'You're a courier, aren't you? A Grade One Courier?'

  Boysie thought how desirable she looked when she frowned. She was showing concern for him. Perhaps that's what he needed: someone to be concerned about him: not just a bird to get into bed with; on whom to test his agility and capacity; to provide him with kicks: but a girl who would worry about him.

  'Yes, I'm a kind of courier,' he said.

  'It's a rather special kind, though: isn't it?'

  'Ah!' Yes, he thought, it's rather special: so bloody special that I can't even do it. It's got special sets of psychiatric disorders, all built-in and ticking like mad. He sat up, kissed her on the nose, and rapidly turned his attention to the coffee.

  Boysie was still lying back in bed when Iris left for Nice by taxi at eleven-fifteen. He rang down to the restaurant and ordered lunch for three, to be sent up at one o'clock. Then he prepared to pass the time by steeping himself in a warm bath. As he got out of bed, his foot caught in Iris's lime nightdress - dropped to the floor during the straining perspiration of the early hours. Boysie wondered if there would ever be another chance. The niggling neuroses again began to teem inside him. As he turned on the bath taps, he noticed that his hands were shaking.

  *

  The hands of the electric clock in the airport lounge stood steady at noon. Iris, waiting with a long, iced Pernod, dropped the copy of vogue into her lap, unhitched the dark-framed glasses from her ears and looked towards the entrance.

  The man stood there for a moment, his eyes following a precise pattern as he scanned the whole lounge, examining every face. He saw her and came quickly across, weaving through the waiting passengers. Iris tilted her chin, looking up with an expression of restrained amusement, her eyebrows arched questioningly. He leaned towards her:

  'Coronet,' said the man.

  'And ermine to you.' Iris smiled. 'Nice to see you again. Come on ... Quadrant.' They both laughed, as though embroiled in some childish plot.

  'I've hired a car. Thought it would make things easier,' said Quadrant.

  'Clever you.' Iris took his arm, and, like two old friends, they walked, in step, chatting from the lounge.

  *

  Sheriek was bored: lonely in the villa now the others had gone. After they had cleared up the mess on the previous evening, he had sent Yacob and Gregory off to Sospel. It was better than keeping them cooped up in t
he villa. They were out of the way up there: high in the mountains, in the ancient little town perched like a nest among the rocks. They had friends in Sospel: they would be able to drink; perhaps there would be women. They would be safe until he needed them again. Sheriek wished he had a woman in the villa now. He had nearly rung Cannes that morning but decided against it in case the Co-ordinator arrived.

  He didn't hear the car. The first he knew of the visitors was the sudden tin-tinkle of the old bell echoing through the silent house. They were standing in the porch when he came through to the hall, mopping his brow with a spotless handkerchief:

  'Yes? Can I help you?'

  'Baudelaire?'

  'Oh ... Yes ... Yes!' Sheriek was surprised. He stood looking at the pair, impassive, framed in the doorway. 'You are Chekhov?'

  'I am Chekhov,' said the Co-ordinator.

  'We'd like to talk to you,' said the other.

  'Of course. Come in. Come in. I've been expecting you.' He ushered them into the hall: rather like a madame in a brothel, thought the Co-ordinator.

  'We have much to discuss. You have not done well, Baudelaire. You have been a great disappointment to us ...' Acid in the Co-ordinator's voice.

  'I can explain all that. It's really the idiots who were working for me ...'

  'We'll hear about it in a moment,' the Co­ordinator cut in.

  As they passed into the florid dining-room, the Co-ordinator's companion casually slid his right hand into his jacket pocket. The fingers closed round a small automatic pistol.

  'You'd like a drink, I'm sure,' oiled Sheriek.

  'We would love a drink,' smiled the Co­ordinator.

  'First, we would love a drink,' said the other one.

  *

  Quadrant had big ears. They stood out like little plastic scoops stuck to the sides of his head. The ears fascinated Boysie; they gave the man an unearthly look; a Martian look: if you pushed them forward, and stuck them down, they would act as blinkers, he thought.

  Boysie had not really taken to Quadrant. The courier had that superior attitude which Boysie often detected in the breed. The manner was a bit 'young Guards'; plum-purée voices; high-powered cars; daring pints supped dangerously after hours - no end of a lark, what? - and pink, 'daddy­says', debs, who would probably surprise you by passing on a virulent dose of the clap. The roots of this last thought came from a recent conversation with a doctor, who had told Boysie that venereal disease was more prevalent in Chelsea than anywhere else in London.

  Quadrant, Boysie decided, was a chinless wonder of the first water. Moreover, he had been sloppy with his food; slobbered over the chicken and tomato consomme; picked disgustingly at the filet de boeuf a 1'amiral; turned his nose up at the creme a 1'orange, and was now cutting great hunks off the roquefort, stuffing them into his mouth like a guzzling child with a bag of jelly-babies. A right schmuck, thought Boysie. I wonder what stone Mostyn found this one under?

  'Prefer a simple meal at lunchtime meself,' said Quadrant through a cheese-speckled spray.

  Boysie thought it was time to deal with this burke. Pushing back his chair, he selected a panatella without offering them to Quadrant - lit it, and blew a thin column of smoke across the table into the courier's face:

  'You've got some stuff for me, I believe?' said Boysie. Quadrant's behaviour had temporarily exorcised all fear. 'I'd like to get down to work if you don't mind. Anyway, you'll have to be getting back soon, won't you?'

  'No hurry, chum. Not at the moment, anyway.' Quadrant seemed to be constructed of alligator skin. 'All in good time. It's going to take us the best part of the afternoon, anyway.' He smiled, almost benignly: first at Iris, who had been silent since the consomme; then at Boysie:

  'If I were you, "L'' - isn't it silly not being able to use our proper names? If I were you, I'd get this table cleared. I've got lots of pretty maps and photos for you to look at.'

  Damn the man, thought Boysie. He got up and went over to the service bell. Before he could press it, Quadrant was off again:

  'Wait a minute, though. We've got a job for the little lady first.' He turned his beam on to Iris again, ears flapping out charm signals:

  'We can call you by your name, can't we, Iris, old thing? Well you aren't allowed to stay in here while I'm briefing the boy friend - he'll put you in the picture later on. You mustn't be told all, you know. In the meantime ...' He practically sang the last three words, pausing, as if about to make a statement of great importance. 'In the meantime... you can be of enormous help.'

  'Just say the word.' Iris was at about the same position on her tether as Boysie.

  'Your return flight is booked for Tuesday, isn't it?'

  They agreed.

  'Surprise. You're going back tomorrow. On the afternoon flight: BE.l05: half-past three. So, if Iris trips along to Cooks - straight up the road here, to the right; then turn left, it's on the right-hand side, you can't miss it - they will make the necessary alterations. It's all laid on, just tell them what you want. Will you do that for me? Good girl.'

  Boysie and Iris looked at each other - Boysie hoping that they were having identical thoughts: that at least they had tonight together.

  When Iris - clutching the passports and tickets - had left for Cooks, Boysie rang for room service, sat down with his back to Quadrant and waited in irritated silence. Quadrant, unperturbed by the obvious snub, sauntered on to the balcony, planted his buttocks on the guard-rail, and looked up at the mountains, now wreathed in grey cloud-caps. The wind, coming in from the shore, agitated his thin sandy hair, which he kept smoothing back with a fin-like hand.

  When the waiters had cleared the luncheon debris, Quadrant returned to the room, picked up his briefcase, which had been lying on the bed throughout the meal, and pulled a chair up to the table. Boysie followed suit. The two men faced each other as though the chips were down and this was the start of a cut-throat game. Quadrant unlocked the case, took out a thin, cream envelope and tossed it to Boysie. Boysie picked it up as though it was impregnated with some rare deadly virus. Type-written across the front in red, were the words: 'Target L26. Top Secret. Destroy.' He glanced up: Quadrant was watching him like a psychiatrist evaluating a patient's reaction to some trick test. Boysie slit open the envelope, withdrew the photograph and looked at it. A few hundred volts seemed to shoot through him. Boysie visibly recoiled:

  'Christ...But it's...'

  The photograph stared back at him unblinking, good-natured: the internationally famous face: lean, sharp, and very, very important.

  'That's it, "L''. That's your boy.'

  'But it's the Duke of ...'

  'Quite.'

  'Prin ...,

  'Precisely.'

  Boysie stood up:

  'What's the game, Quadrant? Who's trying to be funny?'

  Quadrant interlaced his fingers, pushed back with his heels, and rocked the chair on to its rear legs. For about five seconds, he looked gravely at Boysie's perplexed face. Then, he threw back his head and exploded in a rumble of turbulent laughter:

  'Oh dear ... your face ... Number Two said to watch your face ...'

  'Look, mate!' Boysie's temper was on the verge of collapse. 'If you don't shut up and give me the lowdown, you're going to get a swift punch up the Bradshaw!'

  'Calm down, "L"... Oh dear ... It's only that Number Two said he'd give a month's pay to see your face when I showed you the target. .. Oh, dearie me, sport ...'

  Boysie was still not amused:

  'I am not going to bump any royalty,' he said in a tone of an offended dowager.

  'Nor are you, sport. It's all right: I'll explain.' Quadrant's mirth was abating.

  'I should bloody-well think so. The Duke! Come on, let's have the real one.'

  Quadrant began to splutter again:

  'But you've got him, sport. He is your target- No! Wait a minute. Sit down.' Boysie had moved menacingly towards him. Quadrant spoke rapidly:

  'He's in on this. The Duke's in on it. It's not a pukka ope
ration: it's a security exercise.'

  'Oh Gawd, not one of those,' moaned Boysie, thinking of the wasted time and effort.

  'We're all going to have a game of spies and assassins. It'll be great fun really.'

  'I'm glad you think so.' The whole of his short connubial weekend well nigh ruined for the sake of a perishing security exercise. Then the brighter side of the picture appeared, floodlit, coloured and accompanied by a fanfare from the Royal College of Music. No kill. He was safe. Griffin wouldn't be needed. Reprieve.

  'Sit down,' said Quadrant, 'and I'll put you in the picture.' Boysie lit another panatella and sat.

  'For some time,' began Quadrant, 'RAF Security have been on to us to run a check on their boys at Gayborough. Know it?'

  'Warwickshire, isn't it? Somewhere in the Midlands.'

  'That's it. V-bombers and a bit of secret stuff. Not much, but enough to warrant maximum security effort.' He wrinkled his nose. 'Do you have to smoke those foul things? Don't know how the girlie stands 'em.'

  'You leave the girlie to me.'

  'OK, sport. Just trying to be helpful. You know - even his best friend wouldn't, and all that rot.'

  'Get on with it.'

  Quadrant shrugged. 'All right. To be brief; the Duke is paying a call there on Tuesday incidentally, that's TS as well: no press, no release, no information, silent as a tomb. Number Two thinks it'd be an ideal time to test their reactions and have fun at the RAF's expense. He's arranged for a red warning to be put out on the visit. So they'll know something's up.' He smiled blandly. 'But they won't know that the Duke is going to be assassinated right on their own front door. Think of it, sport. Isn't it a wheeze? Typical of Number Two - give 'em a real touch of the screaming diarrhoea.'

  'Bloody strip cartoon. Very droll,'said Boysie, still rankled at the thought of being put in jeopardy because Mostyn wanted to play cops and robbers with the RAF.

  'Don't be such a square. We're going to bring a ray of sunshine into a lot of dull little service lives. The Duke's mad about the idea. Thinks it's no end of a lark - Outward Bound and all that.'