The Liquidator

by John Gardner

  'Yes?' said the Co-ordinator.

  'Just wanted to let you know that he fell for the whole thing.'

  'Good. I didn't anticipate any trouble.'

  'He imagines it's all been planned by his own people. Just as we said.'

  'He'll be sorry.'

  'Surprise for the Duke too.' There was a pause.

  'He has also been shown the remains of our other friend.'

  'That should give him something to think about.'

  'A salutary lesson.'

  'I shall see you tomorrow then, as arranged.'

  'Very good. As arranged.' The Co-ordinator replaced the receiver and smiled. The operation, planned so carefully over the past twelve months, was coming to its climax.

  *

  That night, in the bridal suite of the Hotel Miramont, Boysie and Iris made love four times - a satisfactory conclusion to their obstacle-strewn weekend. On Monday morning they swam, from the small spit of sand which borders Garavan harbour in Menton's old quarter. They lunched, quietly, at the hotel, packed and prepared to take Flight BE.l05 from Nice to London.

  8 - England

  Monday June 10th 1963

  CORONET

  The old throbbing fears about flying returned while Boysie and Iris were having their morning swim. Dread loomed even larger over lunch, and by the time Boysie was ready to leave for the airport, he had reached his usual state of pure chicken­hearted funk. Now it was even worse for he had no excuse to travel separately from Iris. So Boysie resorted to the oldest courage­booster known to man: eau de vie - neat brandy taken in exorbitant quantities.

  After lunch he drank seven in a row, and purchased a half-bottle which appeared from his hip pocket as soon as they were settled in the taxi.

  'You're knocking it back a bit, aren't you?' said Iris.

  'Just a little drinkie, sweetie. Keep the spirits up. Drown the sorrows - leavin' this Gallic paradise. Have one.'

  'No thank you. Go easy, though, Boysie, don't get sloshed.' She looked at him, realising that the warning was already too late. The half-bottle had diminished to a quarter. 'You know they can refuse to let you get on to an aeroplane if you're sloshed ...'

  'Whiz Oh!'

  '...Happened to a cousin of mine in Madrid.'

  'Ole!'

  'And don't forget you've got a job of work to do. We're in enough trouble already. Mostyn'll be furious if you're tight when we get to London.'

  'Bugger Mostyn.'

  'Oh, Boysie, you're hopeless!'

  Boysie began to chuckle to himself. The chuckle turned into a full-bellied laugh.

  'All right then, what is it? You're obviously dying to tell me.'

  'Jusht thought of somethin' very funny 'bout Moshtyn ...'

  'Well?'

  'Moshtyn'sh ...' Another breaker of breathless chuckling. '...Moshtynsashit.' Boysie heaved with laughter until they got to Monaco, where he sat up and took another drink.

  It was just after they had unfastened their seatbelts that Boysie had to make a dash to the shiny little lavatory at the tail end of the aircraft. His course was not particularly true, but, to the eternal relief of passengers in the aisle seats, he made it with half a second to spare. Fifteen minutes later he returned to his seat, still unsteady, having jettisoned all the brandy and his lunch. The lavatory's next occupant rang for the stewardess who threw several optical daggers in Boysie's direction as she marched tailwards firmly clutching a spraycan of air-freshener.

  'Went a bit 'culiar. Musht'v been the lunch,' smiled Boysie, his eyes cross-focused on a point five inches to Iris's right.

  But Iris stubbornly refused to speak; so, there being nothing else to do, Boysie went to sleep.

  Dazed, with a tongue that seemed to have acquired a small mink jacket, and a headache which would have been a problem to a whole bottle of aspirin, Boysie weaved his way through the passport and customs formalities: Iris clinging to his arm and aiming him in the general direction of the 'Arrivals' foyer. Through a kind of thick ectoplasm, he spotted Quadrant, who led them out to the opulent Lagonda Rapide.

  'You don't look so hot, sport,' said Quadrant as they drove off.

  'Feel dreadful.'

  'He got sloshed before we left.'

  'Harry stinkers, eh? Naughty. Better sleep it off: got to be fit for the job. This is Peter, by the way.' He indicated the driver.

  'Hi,' said Peter - a bull-like gentleman, whose broad back was surmounted by a dome of curved, wrinkled skin.

  'Ho,' murmured Boysie, resting his head on the claret leather seat back, and drifting into sleep again.

  'I hope he's all right,' said Iris. 'He's not the drinking kind.'

  'We'll fix him up in Oxford.' Quadrant shifted in his seat, preparing to enjoy the ride.

  'Yes. We'll give 'im one o' me specials in Oxford,' said Peter.

  *

  Martin - once more on duty as stake-out man at London Airport - winced at the tweak of rheumatic pain behind his right kneecap. He watched, puzzled, as the Lagonda pulled away from the 'Arrivals' exit. Turning his head, Martin nodded at the military-looking young man in the Zephyr parked strategically behind the blue BEA bus. The man lifted his arm in acknowledgment: the Zephyr drew out, overtook a taxi and settled comfortably on the Lagonda's tail.

  The pain in Martin's knee had started earlier that afternoon; and, from long experience, he knew it to be a sign of trouble: his own built-in warning system, infallible as a finely adjusted computer. Martin was a plodder: a steady man, temperamentally unsuited to the extreme tensions of work in the field, but ideal for this kind of job. He liked nothing better than loitering with intent to observe - blessed, as he was, with an exceptional memory for faces, and an extraordinarily accurate nose (or knee) for trouble.

  Martin had been a frustrated provincial newspaperman, his talents unrecognised, when the Organisation discovered him - nearly three years before. A smooth appeal ­ in the Mostyn manner - had been made to his sense of duty, and, within a few months, Martin was lost to the world - absorbed into that sea of Special Security men who spend their waking lives mingling with crowds on railway stations, or at air- and sea-ports: the public eyes; the Government-paid tipsters; Britain's secret police.

  The knee started to twitch just after four o'clock. He was making his routine two hourly telephone report to Headquarters, when the operator cut in to announce that Number Two wanted words with him - urgently.

  'Fly?' said Mostyn.

  'Speaking.' Martin hoped that he wasn't going to get the 'buttons' gag again.

  'Were you on duty on Saturday?'

  'Yep.'

  'Make the personal report to me? About "L'' leaving the country?'

  'That was me. Yes.'

  'Good old Fly. Home is the hunter - watch out for him, will you?'

  'It'll be a pleasure.'

  'Not sure yet, but we think there's something fishy - positively cod-like. Reeks of skulduggery, but nothing definite to work on.'

  The pain slid, like a white-hot needle, through Martin's knee. Instantly, as always, his senses reacted. The people moving in the foyer, outside the glass cubicle, were more sharply defined. He was increasingly aware of himself: of muscles and nerves and his place in the scheme of things.

  'We hear,' Mostyn continued, 'that "L'' and his young woman have changed their flight time. They're on the 105 from Nice. Be with you at 18.20. Watch, use your common and report to me - direct!'

  'Right. His car's here, anyway. Left it in the park on Saturday. Noticed it when I came on duty this morning.'

  'Fair enough. He'll probably drive straight back to town, but it might be safer to put a tail on him: see him off the premises and check which way he's heading. Anyone with you?'

  'One of the juniors from the Training Centre. We'll set it up. I'll call you as soon as he gets under way.'

  'Bully for you, Fly. Don't suppose there's anything in it, but it all makes good practice.'

  Flight 105 touched down on the dot of 18.20. Martin, standing well-hi
dden behind a giggle of schoolgirls back from educational roving in Greece, watched Boysie and Iris come out of the Customs' Hall. 'L' looked tired and a bit bemused, thought Martin. Lucky beggar, he'd look tired himself after a couple of days in the South of France with Iris.

  Then Boysie's expression changed. Peering across the foyer, he gave a barely perceptible nod and started off towards the exit. Martin looked in the direction of the nod. The man was leaning against a cigarette machine: thirtyish; sandy haired, with large, protruding ears. The man moved quickly behind Boysie and Iris, shepherding them out of the building. Within seconds they were in the Lagonda and away. It was more by luck than good planning that Duncan - Martin's trainee assistant, an ex­ infantry captain - was able to get after them in the Zephyr.

  Martin, concerned about this unexpected development, rapidly crossed into the entrance hall, bumped into a tall Texan buying himself a heap of life insurance from an automatic vendor, and catapulted into the only available telephone box - beating an Irish Roman Catholic priest by the length of a rosary, and causing the clerk to add the sin of uncharitable thoughts to his next confession list.

  'Mostyn.' The voice crackled in his ear.

  Martin shifted his position, placing himself so that Duncan could see him the moment he returned from chasing the Lagonda.

  'Fly. He's arrived.'

  'Welcome home, "L''.Well?'

  'As you say: fishy. Met by a slim man, about thirty-four; sandy hair; prominent ears; looks a bit effeminate. All drove away in a black Lagonda Rapide, licence XLK 9704. My boy's after them; be back any minute. Four altogether with the driver – a man, didn't get a look at him.'

  'Recognise the bloke?'

  'The one who met them?'

  'Yes.'

  'I've seen him somewhere. Picture in Records, I think. Rang a bell: I know the face but ...'

  'How did it feel?' Mostyn was a great one for intuition.

  'Furtive. Unnatural. Not good.' He spotted Duncan coming across the foyer, his eyes searching the telephone boxes. Martin waved and opened the door:

  'One minute, sir, here's my boy.' There was a quick, whispered conversation; then he turned back to the phone:

  'They've gone left on the A4 - heading out of London.'

  'Right. When's your relief due?' 'Half-an-hour.:'

  'Leave your lad in charge and get over here at a rate of knots. If "L's" friend isn't in the files, you'll have to do an Identikit. I want confirmed identification within the hour.'

  'Right.'

  Mostyn replaced the receiver and leaned back. To the tune of West Side Story's 'Maria' he began to sing softly:

  'Big-Ears, he's just met a man with Big­Ears ...'

  Mostyn dialled Operations' Control:

  'There's a possible flap concerning one of our operatives: code letter "L''. Top secret. Nothing certain but I'll not leave the building until we've cleared it. I have two orders for you: Priority.'

  'Shoot. I've got the tape running.' The Operations' Control Officer's voice was freezingly efficient.

  'Primary. Black Lagonda Rapide, licence XLK 9740. Left London Airport five to ten minutes ago, heading west on the A4. I want a trace and general call. This car is not – repeat not - to be openly followed or intercepted. I want a distant cover with ten­minute reports as soon as contact is made. The occupants must not be alerted.'

  'How many in the car?'

  'Four. Three men and a girl.'

  'We'll try and get a four-car interchangeable tail on them.' - A technique perfected by the Department whereby four cars continually shadowed a suspect vehicle: changing position every few miles; anticipating their quarry; covering every possible route ahead; never raising suspicion.

  'Secondary. To Files and Records. I want a files' expert and an Identikit man standing by in Room Four. All Redland operatives ­ age-bracket, thirties: distinguishing marks: sandy hair, prominent ears.'

  'Wilco.'

  Mostyn's palms were damp. The first flea bites of concern, that had appeared on Saturday, were now spreading into a nettle­rash of anxiety.

  *

  At Slough, the Lagonda turned off the A4, cutting through to the A40. Boysie was still sleeping it off, while Iris dozed, the fingers of her right hand resting on Boysie's sleeve in an almost protective gesture.

  'I think we're all right,' said Quadrant. 'Forget about the round-the-houses route. We'll go direct and dawdle after we leave Oxford.'

  'You're the boss,' said Peter.

  Quadrant glanced into the back seat: 'I wish I was,' he muttered.

  *

  'That's him,' said Martin.

  'You won't need me then,' said the Identikit man who had a date.

  'You're sure?' From Mostyn. 'As eggs.'

  'Good show.'

  They were seated round a bare table under the shadowless glare of a naked light bulb hanging low from the ceiling. The Identikit man nodded and quietly left the room. The filing expert was looking at the photograph.

  'Well?' said Mostyn.

  'You're absolutely certain about this?' said the expert.

  'That's the man. No doubt at all.'

  'Come on then. Give.' Mostyn sounded over-anxious.

  The expert, a tall, aquiline Scot, bent from his chair and selected a thick, buff card folder from the stack piled at his feet:

  'Nasty,' he said. 'Very nasty. We're in trouble, Colonel Mostyn. Real name Constantine Alexei Skabichev. A braw laddie. Parents supposed to be White Russian immigrants: arrived here 1916. Naturalised 1925. The old man made a packet out of scrap: nothing but the best for wee Connie. Born 1926, May 10th. Educated Eton and Wadham: probably conditioned from the day of his birth. We didn't cotton on to them until 1956 when Connie went to Switzerland on holiday and was spotted by one of our people in Russia - hundred to one shot. Somehow the parents got out of the country before we could net them; and, as far as we know, this is Connie's first return visit since '56 - suppose he got in through Ireland.'

  'What's his speciality act?' asked Mostyn.

  'He's reckoned as one of the brightest all­round boys of the KGB. Ruthless; a fixer; natural trouble-maker. Assisted in three defections. Spends a lot of time in East Berlin. Incidentally, he was present at the Greville Wynn trial last month. We know Vassall met him in Moscow. Let's see? Oh yes ... they tried to palm him off as interpreter to one of the cultural missions recently - last year sometime; but we kicked up and the FO got them to withdraw the lad. To be quite honest with you, sir, it must be something pretty big bringing him here.' He picked up the photograph:

  'Surprised he's never tried plastic surgery on those ears.'

  The telephone burped. Mostyn took it:

  'Mostyn.'

  'The Lagonda's turned on to the A40: heading towards Oxford.'

  'Thank you. Keep me posted.' He replaced the receiver. 'They're heading for Oxford.'

  'Are we going to pick them up?'

  'No, leave it a while. We've got tabs on them for the time being. Let's see what develops, I'd like to know what they're doing with "L''.'

  Back in his own office, Mostyn poured himself a large whisky and began to make a logical appraisal of the situation. Boysie had always been a liability, but under no circumstances could one imagine 'L' as a target for defection overtures - for machine guns, bombs, falls from high buildings, yes: but not defection: that could be ruled out altogether.

  On Saturday, Boysie had left, suddenly, for Nice, with Iris. He was breaking regulations, but there was nothing sinister about that. He had, himself, dwelt with great pleasure on thoughts of a weekend with Iris. Then, on Saturday evening, Boysie had disappeared, in Menton, for a matter of nearly six hours.

  Blueboy had reported an unidentified male visitor on Sunday. That could have been Skabichev (he made a mental note to do something about Blueboy: the fellow hadn't even sent a description). Tonight 'L' had returned to England, a day earlier than intended, and was now on the way to Oxford, with Skabichev.

  The opposition were taking r
isks, which inevitably meant that something big was in the air. As far as he could see, there were three possibilities. Boysie had either been drugged, hypnotised or conned into performing some kind of duty for the other side. If one followed the argument to its ultimate length, there was only one answer. Boysie was back to kill - it was his only talent. Somehow, a kill had been fixed by the opposition. But with what object? And who was the target?

  *

  They arrived in Oxford at nine o'clock and dined at the Mitre, among sombre clerics and retiring gentlewomen in not so reduced circumstances. Boysie was beginning to feel his old self again. From the Mitre they wandered over to the Randolph and sat sipping occasional gins in the Star Bar until ten thirty. At ten forty-five they were on the road again, driving very slowly.

  *

  At midnight, Mostyn's telephone rang for the tenth time.

  'They've just passed through Stratford­on-Avon.' Mostyn looked at the Security diary and frowned:

  'Thank you. I'm coming down.'

  A special map had been set up on a tilted drawing board in a corner of the Operations' Control Room - a series of flags tracing the Lagonda from London to the borders of Warwickshire. Mostyn stood looking at it: trying to make up his mind. They were in the Midlands now. His instinct told him exactly who the target was. His common sense said it was impossible. At last he decided. They would have to be brought in: now, before it was too late. He was about to speak, when the Operations' Officer came over:

  'They've lost contact.'

  'Damn!' said Mostyn. 'Where?'

  'Somewhere on the Warwick road, the other side of Stratford. Just disappeared into the night.'

  Now he would have to rely solely on his instinct. If he was wrong ...

  'If they make contact again, let me know at once. Get on to Records. I want everything we've got on RAF Gayborough.'

  *

  At quarter-past midnight, the Lagonda turned into a side road and drove on to the grass verge. Peter switched off the lights.

  'Sackfuls of time, kiddies,' said Quadrant. 'Have a bit of shut-eye here, then we'll get the lad kitted out.'

  'Not tired now,' said Boysie.

  'You will be by eleven o'clock tomorrow, sport. Take it while you can.'