Red Christmas

by Reginald Hill

  ‘My friends!’ he cried. ‘Soon we will eat and be of good cheer. But let us first bow our heads and give thanks for our presence, and that of our friends and loved ones, at this board, remembering especially those we should like to have here but who are distant, or perhaps lost altogether.’

  The words weren’t in his script, nor would have been in Wardle’s. But they came naturally, and he saw no need to keep them in.

  All heads were bowed in silence. Outside a few final flakes fell, then the snow also was still. For a moment it was as if the earth itself had paused on its axis.

  ‘Let the festivities commence!’ cried Boswell. His eyes met Arabella’s as he looked up. She held his gaze with that disconcerting power she had, but he thought he read sympathy and approval there.

  Then there was a noise like a small bomb exploding, followed by a shriek. One of the serving maids had dropped a tureen of soup which had burst on the hard floor.

  Startled, everyone turned and looked, ready to forgive and forget her clumsiness at this season of the year. But the maid was not concerned with the consequences of her accident. Nor was the accident itself the cause of her scream.

  Boswell turned to follow the direction of all eyes. Behind him, holding a Sterling sub-machine gun in his hand about a foot from Boswell’s head, was Thomas Traherne. And in each corner of the room, similarly equipped and looking as much at home with the weapons as with a guitar or saxophone, were his four fellow-musicians.

  With sickening force there came back to Boswell’s mind the realisation that all the help he could hope to muster was one floor above, fixed there by his own firm order not to move without his instruction.

  12

  There’s rummer things than women in this world though, mind you.

  THE BAGMAN

  ‘Please, everybody. Be quiet. We want no trouble,’ said Traherne with quiet sincerity. His voice had changed. The casual ‘flip’ tone and expressions of the pop world had disappeared. Even the face which looked out at them from under the proscenium arch of long brown hair seemed older. A man in his thirties, not a youth in his early twenties.

  ‘Sit down please. Please.’ The voice pleaded, but not from weakness. Just from a genuine reluctance to use the hideous strength at its disposal.

  There was a rustling and scraping of chairs as the diners subsided in their places. Boswell looked down the table. Reactions were as might have been expected. No one looked happy, but to the trained eye there was a clearly marked difference between the expressions of the delegates and those of the genuine holidaymakers. The latter looked as much puzzled as anything, still ready to believe that some as yet uninterpretable Dickensian prank was being played. But the delegates looked resigned, blank, or, in the case of Swinburne, whose gaze Boswell avoided, volcanically furious.

  ‘Carry on your dinner. Will you bring the others, Split?’

  The youth called Split moved out of the dining room.

  ‘Mr. Boswell. Please come.’

  Boswell stood up and followed Traherne from the table into a recess formed by one of the bay windows. A hubbub of noise broke out at the table. Traherne swung round.

  ‘No talking! There must be no talking, or my men will shoot.’

  The threat seemed to work, but suddenly Burton, the little Yorkshireman, was on his feet.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Is this some kind of joke? I’ll want a bloody good explanation if it is. Come on, Mabel. Let’s get upstairs and pack. The sooner I get out of this bloody place, the better I’ll be pleased.’

  His face red with anger, he pushed back his chair. His wife half rose, her expression uncertain. One of the T.H.M. moved his gun to cover them and raised an interrogative eyebrow at Traherne. Boswell stepped forward.

  ‘Please sit down, Mr. Burton,’ he said urgently. ‘Mrs. Burton, make your husband sit down. It isn’t a joke. There’s no time to explain now, but, believe me, these men aren’t joking!’

  Burton stood uncertain, but finally yielded to the physical efforts of his wife, who dragged him back to his seat by main force. A diversion followed. The door opened and the youth, Split, ushered in a procession of kitchen staff, bearing with them the roast geese, and accompanying dishes of the main course. It was a fine sight, a touch of Old England.

  ‘Now everybody eat! Enjoy yourselves. Only no talking! No moving!’

  Places were found for the kitchen and serving staff. The irrepressible Burton suddenly broke out again.

  ‘Well, bugger it! I’m going to enjoy my dinner!’

  Pushing aside his soup-plate, he pulled a goose towards him and began carving at the leg. Many of the others began to follow suit and soon the scene achieved something like normality.

  ‘Nice bit of egalitarianism, said Boswell nodding towards the kitchen staff who were tucking in with a special will.

  ‘It takes a gun in this country,’ said Traherne. ‘Talking of guns, let me have yours.’

  Without protest, Boswell produced his Walther and handed it over.

  ‘Now listen carefully to what I have to say. There are thirty people here. Some we know are professionals and as such they are by definition prepared to take their chances. But these others are innocents on holiday. Their lives are your responsibility. Unless Mr. Sawyer and the seven men with him are down here, unarmed, in ten minutes, my men will start shooting.’

  Boswell wondered if he meant it. He did not seem the kind of man who would very willingly kill. But then until five minutes ago he had seemed nothing more than the leader of a pop group.

  ‘I suppose you brought the guns in with your instruments?’ he said irrelevantly.

  ‘Of course. You have been very poorly organised here, Mr. Boswell.’

  It was a professional judgement, an impersonal reproof. But just, very just. Boswell nodded.

  ‘And you too, Mr. Traherne. I am surprised there is need for this.’

  He glanced round the room. He was genuinely surprised. T.T. and T.T.H.M. must have been a tremendous cover. A spy-cell on the move! Perfect for picking up or dropping information. He shuddered at the thought of how many important parties and receptions their immaculate credentials had got them into. He himself had studied their file. There had been several brief continental tours. Christ! They must have been better than the GPO.

  And now it was all blown. And for what? He thought he saw a shadow pass over Traherne’s face.

  ‘We do what we must. Now if you please I’ll take you to a phone. Just tell your men to come down. Spell it out to them, Mr. Boswell. Leave no room for subtleties or heroics.’

  Boswell shrugged resignedly and glanced across to where Swinburne, his face composed now in a mask of studied indifference, sat picking at the food on his plate. There was no help there. There was no help anywhere unless … He glanced out of the window. The snow had definitely stopped. Someone would surely be en route to check that all was well.

  Traherne seemed to read his thoughts.

  ‘Now, Mr. Boswell. Or shall we shoot someone as an earnest of our faith?’

  ‘What a nicely spoken- spy you are,’ mocked Boswell. But he walked across the room, Traherne close behind, and went to the telephone concealed behind a large vase in the hallway. Everyone except Burton stopped eating to watch him go.

  ‘Hello, Johnson?’ he said. ‘Boswell here. Listen carefully. We’ve got trouble. Yes, down here. More than we can handle without a lot of people getting hurt. Here’s what you do. Leave your guns up there, come out together with Sawyer and bring him down here.’

  He now listened for a while. Traherne’s gun barrel rose till it fitted snugly under his chin.

  ‘No,’ he said with difficulty. ‘Nothing, try nothing. You understand? Just bring Sawyer down here.’

  Gently he replaced the receiver.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Traherne. ‘Now, back inside. Split!’

  The youth called Split came to meet them and after a few whispered instructions from Traherne, went out. They heard
him climbing the stairs. Boswell found himself guided back to his place. He sat down studiously avoiding catching anyone’s eyes though he felt every gaze boring into him, some accusingly, some (he hoped) sympathetically. But not many. Even the genuine guests seemed to have made up their minds that their search for someone to blame for current events ended with him.

  There was a noise outside, approaching footsteps. Then with a flamboyantly theatrical gesture, Sawyer stepped into the room.

  But his entry was spoilt almost immediately. Behind him there was a sudden flurry of movement accompanied almost instantly by a shot. A cry of pain and anger. Running feet. Two of the other Martlets leapt to the doorway. Split’s voice. ‘He’s making for the front!’

  Unthinkingly Boswell stood up from his seat and moved into the window recess. From the bay he had a clear view of the front door.

  Even as he looked, it burst open and Dave, the coach-guard, hurled himself out. In his hand was a small automatic. Whether it was his own idea or a plan conceived by all of them, Boswell did not know. Probably the former, it was so insane, so risky to everyone. A concealed gun, a break near the door. Then a ten-mile journey through deep snow to the village.

  For what? It was mad, mad! But it was action and Boswell found himself willing the ruddy-faced man on as he headed for the shelter of the barn and the trees beyond.

  He might have made it if it hadn’t been for the snow. It deepened where it banked up against the white-swathed tractor. It was like watching a bather running into the sea. Suddenly the feet could not be raised above the surface of the snow; resistance doubled, trebled, as impetus was lost. Even then he might have made it before pursuit reached the door. But Boswell felt himself shouldered roughly aside. Sawyer peered through the window, wrested Traherne’s machine gun from his hand, crashed the barrel through the glass panes and fired instantly. One long burst.

  Professionally Boswell noted the perfection of his aim. There was no wasteful, telltale powdering of snow as he found his range. Only an almost imperceptible jerking of cloth in an area of about nine inches between Dave’s shoulder blades. Down he went without even a spasm of agony. The snow was so deep and soft that it almost swallowed him up.

  Seconds later one of Traherne’s men came out of the house. He paused while he took in what had happened, then approached the body with unnecessary caution. Sawyer turned away without waiting for the signal confirming Dave was dead. Only Boswell still watched.

  This was now his operation. This was his death.

  ‘OK, everybody! Make with the Yuletide glee!’ Sawyer shouted, looking with shining eyes and his wide toothy smile at the diners, all of whom had risen in horror at the burst of firing. Slowly they sat down, but no one started eating again.

  Into the room, hands on their heads, came the six survivors of Boswell’s little band, menaced by a Martlet’s sub-machine gun. Behind him came Split, his gun in his right arm, blood soaking through his sleeve just below his left elbow. Traherne went straight across to him, tore apart his sleeve and began giving first-aid with a bottle of Scotch and a table-napkin to what appeared to be a mere flesh wound. Boswell liked that. A leader should take care of his men.

  He resisted the urge to look again out of the window at that dark break in the snow where his own man lay.

  Sawyer was clearly enjoying himself. He had torn a leg off a goose and was walking slowly round the table, chewing away with every expression of enjoyment. But Boswell noticed the perfect balance of the gun which lay apparently casually in the crook of his arm.

  ‘This is one helluva rotten party,’ said Sawyer. ‘Hey, Boz, old boy, what ya gonna do to liven things up? These people will be wanting their money back if you don’t start swinging. Won’t they, honey?’

  He leered down at Arabella, who met his gaze dispassionately. But clearly she lacked the power to disconcert Sawyer as she did Boswell.

  ‘Well, Miss Allen. Arabella Allen, bless my soul. Arable Arabella. Man, I’d dearly love to plough that furrow. Eh, Boz, old chap?’

  ‘Tarantyev!’ hissed Traherne in protest. Round the table, several ears pricked with interest. Boswell started inwardly.

  Tarantyev. The name he had been trying to recall earlier. The Soviet mad-boy whose brand of espionage involved assault, murder, arson—Boswell had always accepted the stories with considerable mental reservation, but now he began to wonder.

  ‘Naughty, naughty,’ reproved Sawyer. ‘You know you shouldn’t tell these good people who I am.’

  ‘A slip,’ said Traherne. ‘But we have no time for this fooling.’

  A slip. Boswell wondered. Traherne didn’t seem the kind of man who would slip very easily. He sensed tension between these men. Again he tried to work out what motives could possibly exist for blowing such superb cover as T.T. and T.T.H.M Now Traherne in his turn was making sure they knew who they were dealing with. Tit-for-tat? Not that Saw- yer/Tarantyev seemed very bothered.

  He was grinning amiably at Traherne. Then he turned to one of the others and spoke to him rapidly in a low voice. The man, the pale-faced drummer, nodded and went out. The odds were instantly improved. Traherne was still dressing Split’s wound, which left only three men, armed and ready. But the nature of their weapons and, still more, the presence of so many women round the table made a break still too dangerous to consider.

  Sawyer smiled sardonically at him, as though reading his thoughts, then crossed over to the window, opened it and shouted something to the drummer who had appeared out of the front door into the snow. The man waved in acknowledgment, then headed towards the barn in which the group’s Bedford van was parked. Surely he wasn’t going to start it! wondered Boswell. It would hardly be possible to get it out of the barn, let alone make an escape in it!

  Sawyer was prowling round the table again. Traherne, his work on Split’s arm finished, watched him blank-faced.

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen,’ said Sawyer. ‘Many of you may be wondering just what the hell’s going on here. Well, while we’re waiting, I’m going to tell you. You have been deceived; yes, sir; you have been cheated. Let me introduce a few of your fellow-guests. Their official titles would mean very little to you, but if I tell you they are their countries’ top spy-masters that’ll make the picture clearer. Left to right then. Algernon Swinburne, British Security; Jules Leclerc, S.D.E.C.E., take a bow, Julie; Carlo Brucciani, of the Italian Uffizio; Willem Winterman of the Netherlands, sounds and smells like a cigar; Udo Himmelstor, of the Deutsche BND; where else? You’ve gotta give it to the Almighty; when it come to Germany, he did it all by type-casting. Eh, Udo, boy? Give us Stille Nacht again, you lousy crypto-Nazi you.’

  It was said without much heat. In fact the whole speech lacked any real edge of anti-Western fanaticism. It appeared to Boswell to be merely a time-spinner. But if it lacked heat itself, it certainly generated it. Frau Himmelstor rose majestically to her feet and began to speak in German. Boswell was a fluent linguist and felt slightly shocked at some of the general reflections being offered on Sawyer’s character and background. But it was a moving demonstration of loyalty to her husband. It was clear why the Valkyrie myth had such a hold on the Germanic imagination.

  Sawyer obviously understood German also. He listened in silence for a few moments, then came round the table, snarling back in her own language in terms even more colloquially obscene. When he reached her he thrust her roughly back into her seat, still talking.

  Then it happened. Herr Bear, inflamed by this attack, verbal and physical, on his wife, jumped to his feet, protesting noisily. Sawyer turned. Absurdly the German was attempting to draw the sword which went with the dress uniform. He got it halfway from his scabbard, then it stuck.

  Sawyer threw back his head and laughed. Himmelstor, purple with fury, spat in his face and flung himself at him like a maddened buffalo. The sheer force of the attack took Sawyer by surprise and he was forced back on to the table. But with the instinctive reactions of the highly trained fighter his knee came up hard into Himmelstor�
��s groin. And again. The German screamed, high and long. Sawyer forced his bulk back from him. For a second Boswell thought Sawyer was going to shoot him. Then he thrust the barrel of his gun savagely into the German’s face, twice, three times, audibly smashing teeth and nose with the blows. Frau Cow screamed now. Sawyer brought the butt of the gun round in a final vicious blow which opened up the side of the German’s face and the man’s great bulk, flaccid now, nerveless, subsided to the floor, only a faint gurgling from the throat and a pink bubble, which kept on bursting and re-forming on his lips, showing he was alive.

  Her face twisted with hatred, Frau Cow now flung herself at Sawyer’s back and he turned to deal with her. Boswell was certain he would just as readily be just as violent with the woman, but other things began to happen.

  Everyone’s attention, including the armed men’s, was on the fight. Except for Arabella’s.

  In one fluid movement she rose and hurled a bowlful of still steaming soup in the nearest Martlet’s face. He staggered back screaming. If this had been the signal for a general assault on their captors, the gunmen would have been overpowered in a few seconds. But Boswell saw in a single glance there was no chance of this.

  His own men were still standing by the wall, very closely covered. Those of the guests who might have done something had first to disentangle themselves from their womenfolk. And Boswell himself was at the wrong side of the table for attack.

  But the right side, he realised instantly, for retreat. He rolled backwards out of his chair towards the window conveniently left open by Sawyer. There was no chance, he realised, as without pause, he launched himself at the sill. Traherne had seized Split’s gun and brought it to bear. Any doubts he might have had about the man’s reluctance to shoot the innocent certainly did not extend to himself.

  Then between his eyes and the menacing barrel rose an apparition. Arabella, her gown ballooning like a parachute, came bounding over the table to join him. A moment of agony followed, lasting only the split second it took for his impetus to carry him through the window, but seeming aeons longer. But the gun was silent. And his body, instantly rising from the ground, was crushed breathless and shaken back into the snow as Arabella landed on top of him.