by John Gardner
‘Switzerland?’ said Boysie with what looked like splendid mental agility. He had, in fact taken in the squat winged arrow symbol of Swissair on the tickets.
‘Right on the noddle, Boysie. You’re a bright lad. Locarno, on Lake Maggiore in the Canton of Tessin—Ticino if you’re a local and speak Italian. Know it?’
‘Only from the posters.’
‘Das Tessin die Sonnenstube der Schweiz,’ Mostyn’s accent was beyond reproach.
‘Yes, it would be,’ said Boysie, trying to look knowledgeable.
‘Always stays at the Palmira. Classy. Sociéte Gastronomique and all that. Left this evening, due back in ten days.’ Mostyn’s smile was that of a bookmaker when all the outsiders have come up. ‘It would be better for all concerned if he did not return.’
‘Come to happy yodelling Switzerland and end up with an alpenstock in the mush.’
‘That’s what I like about you, Boysie. Your finesse. You’re never frightened to show the characteristics of your vile peasant forbears.’ He flicked through the file. ‘No time to give you a cover. You’re booked in at the Palmira in your own name. Just a jolly get away person. Tried to make it easy and fiddle you on to a Zürich flight but no can do. Best we can manage is London–Basle. You go on by train. Itinerary.’ He passed over the typewritten schedule, sliding a silken finger down the column of times and reference numbers as he talked. ‘Swissair flight SR 115 tomorrow at 08.40. Prop aircraft I’m afraid, so you don’t get in until 11.00. Leave Basle by train at 12.41—the BEA—Swissair Terminal’s right next to the railway station. Get into Locarno around 17.30—one change, at Bellinzona. Then you’re on your own. Better stay on a couple of days after the accident. If you need it we can always provide you with a recall telegram—sister ill or something. If you need it. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Boysie without much enthusiasm. His mind pushed forward. He had to get hold of Griffin tonight.
‘There’s no need for me to tell you that we don’t want any fuss with the locals. Just remember it’s Switzerland. Useful neutral ground for everyone.’
‘Can I go now.’
Mostyn sighed. ‘Old son,’ he said with immense patience, ‘this is your first for two years. Your cover was shattered then. Remember?’
Boysie remembered: There was an unpleasant salty taste coming into his mouth with the normal saliva.
‘It would be better for your peace of mind if you spent a little time familiarising yourself with the known opposition along the ground that you’re going to cover. If you see any of them, or if you are given any reason to think that you’ve been detected, move like an overdose of cascara.’
‘Rate of knots,’ said Boysie, knowing that the faintest whiff of the opposition would probably send him scurrying to ground like a rabbit at the business end of a twelve bore.
‘Everything’s here,’ Mostyn slid the oblong, slim air and rail tickets towards Boysie. ‘Economy and 2nd class I’m afraid but the hotel’s good. And you can have as long as you like to study this.’ He indicated the other yellow folder. ‘Names, photographs, the lot. Right up to date. Get as much into your head as possible. My friend will stay with you until you’re finished. He takes it back to Records. Then the usual drill. There’s a store-keeper on duty in the Armoury and the night clerk will be at Accounts—usual overseas subsistence, I’ve made it out for a fortnight. The docket is with the tickets.’
Boysie felt the flick coming back in the left side of his mouth. It would look odd if he did not spend at least an hour looking at the file. Then he would have to go to HQ and draw his armaments and cash. From the beginning Mostyn had been worried about Boysie being armed, and only allowed him an official weapon when operational. Elizabeth was waiting at the flat. Lord knew where Griffin was. One thing was certain, William Penton was in Locarno and as good as dead. But who the hell was going to kill him?
‘Your contact system will be standard. Not going to have you messing about with ciphers. Telephone or cable using a sub-text and try not to make it too obvious, old boy. Please. You can be Roger and I’ll be Uncle as usual. During office hours try me through the Bayswater house. You know the number don’t you?’ Patronising.
‘58367.’
‘Good. Use the pay telephone or phone from bars. Not the hotel.’
‘I know the drill.’
‘Good luck, laddie. They tell me that the Lago Maggiore is at its best in the spring.’ Mostyn was at the door.
‘Go and have a funny gallop.’ But the Second-in-Command had gone.
Boysie lit a cigarette and opened the folder.
‘Would you mind very much walking out here and shifting that four-wheeled sex-symbol of yours, chum.’ Mostyn was back, suppressing fury. ‘I would like to drive by car to HQ.’
‘Do you mean the Jag? Oh dear. Someone blocked your exit?’ said Boysie, all innocence.
Five minutes later, Boysie returned to the Swiss file Mostyn’s friend sitting placidly in a corner of the room trying to be unobtrusive. The file was deftly thorough: three pages of neat précis giving a rundown on relations between the Department and the Swiss Authorities, and reminders of the country’s value as a posting house and pay-off station. The remainder of the file contained all known details of opposition forces based in Switzerland. Boysie riffled through the pages, pausing for an occasional look at photographs.
‘A right bunch of horror comics this lot,’ he said aloud.
‘You spoke, sir?’ said striped pants.
‘I did,’ said Boysie with friendly smoothness. ‘It is something I find myself doing.’ He began reading—more to pass the time than to provide himself with information.
Thirty-eight minutes tracked their way round the slim gold Certina on Boysie’s left wrist before the telephone made a sound akin to that of a ‘Whoopee Cushion’. Striped pants did a cat-spring to the table.
‘‘Allo!’ He said into the mouthpiece. His disguised voice, thought Boysie. The voice returned to normal for the next sentences. ‘Yes, sir, he’s still here.’ Then to Boysie, ‘Number Two on the line for you, sir.’
Boysie took the phone. ‘L,’ he said, sounding very competent.
‘How goes it, Boysie?’
‘I’m just about finished.’
‘Good. Nip up to my office would you—when you’ve finished with Arms. I’ll wait for you.’
‘Nothing wrong?’ Boysie’s gut was beginning to flutter.
‘Just one little point we’ve got to clear up before you leave.’
‘It won’t take long will it?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. Hop over here, there’s a good chap.’
The line went dead and another piece was added to the anxious jigsaw which crumbled and reformed through Boysie’s nervous system. Whenever Mostyn did the unexpected, Boysie began imagining the game was up.
The rain had stopped and the Mini had gone leaving the E-type a lonely white success story by the edge of the kerb.
‘You could perhaps give me a lift back to HQ.’ The faceless one clutched the yellow folder.
‘Awfully sorry. No room. Car’s stuffed full of gear,’ lied Boysie with no regrets.
The assistant was put out. ‘Oh.’ He might just as well have said, ‘Oh well, if that’s your attitude.’
‘Sorry. I’d better be going.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll get the tube.’
‘That’s it. Be there in no time.’
Boysie routed himself to HQ via Park Lane, Grosvenor Place and Victoria. The telephone call took him only a couple of minutes. Liz obviously did not want to chat. Griffin had phoned and would be there. Griffin would do it, he was sure of that. Griffin would have to do it, even if it meant more money than the old days. It should have been a relief to know that he could at least get hold of Griffin: that he would see him tonight. But as fast as one tic of concern vanished another took its place.
‘See you later, darling,’ he said to Elizabeth. Elizabeth did not answer. ‘Bye-bye, Boysie.’ Was all she said. ‘Oh, hel
l,’ moaned Boysie, feeling suddenly tired. ‘If it’s not one bleedin’ thing it’s another. I never should have joined.’ He turned into Whitehall. ‘Never should have bloody joined.’
CHAPTER THREE
PINK AU PAIR
SNAKE-HIPS was on duty in Reception when Mostyn got back to HQ. Snake-hips was an ash-blonde with a fantastic walk. Men swore they could actually hear the sigh of her thighs brushing each other as she passed by. The rotary cycle of her trunk would have made an experienced belly-dancer turn green.
‘Chief’s in, sir. Would like to see you immediately.’ She looked up from the copy of Marie Clare which she had been giving a perfunctory casing under the gold-shaded desk lamp.
‘Been waiting long?’ Mostyn liked to know these things.
‘Only just come in, sir. Seemed a little out of sorts.’
Blast, thought Mostyn. He nodded and stepped into the lift.
The Chief was in full evening dress—with decorations. His desk was clear, except for the eternal bottle of Chivas Regal, two glasses (one full), a Palma Supreme burning away in the heavy brass ashtray, and a thick pink file which lay ominously abaft the whisky bottle.
‘Have a drink,’ ordered the Chief, already pouring as Mostyn entered the room. ‘And sit down.’
Mostyn sat and said nothing.
‘Don’t usually discuss your special operations, Number Two. Your blasted business. Ought to alert you on this one though. Might be able to help. Perishin’ SB got me out of the Israeli Embassy.’
‘Special Branch?’
‘Right in the middle of dinner. Best Schalete I’ve ever tasted. One bleedin’ mouthful that’s all I got—after a wonderful steak.’
‘Kosher, of course.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Number Two. Anyway, SB’s showin’ the pallid hand of friendship. Marvellous. No co-operation from them year in and year out except when they want something done. Said to the PM only last week—at the workin’ dinner—I’d be puttin’ in a complaint. Told ‘im straight. Seen this before?’ He pushed the pink file across the desk. Pink was the colour for ‘Pending. Classified’. The tag bore two words, ‘Au pair’. Mostyn pulled it towards him and opened it.
‘It’s one of ours isn’t it? Can’t say I’ve seen it before.’
‘No. Nor would, you. I’ve been sittin’ on it. Keepin’ a watching brief as you might say. Har-har.’
Christ, thought Mostyn, I hope he doesn’t do that sort of thing too often. When figureheads start actually working things can get snarled silly.
‘You got this Penton business sown up?’ the Chief’s question was unexpected. Mostyn felt less easy than he had done all day. The pause was a shade too long.
‘Sorry to ask.’ Said the Chief with a shimmer of sarcasm. ‘Your bloke on to him? On to Penton?’
‘It’s being taken care of.’ Mostyn was careful. The Chief rarely talked openly about the policy of ‘Kill’ assignments, even though the whole idea had first germinated inside that whisky and grog-soaked, sea-fevered old mind.
‘The word is that Penton’s gone to Switzerland,’ said the Chief.
‘Yes.’
‘Lo-bloody-carno.’
‘Yes, sir.’ This was getting serious. The Chief obviously had more of a finger on the pulse than Mostyn gave him credit for.
‘Fred-bloody-Kuno,’ said the Chief thinking it was no end of a joke. ‘Your man goin’ there, Number Two?’ Again there was a pause. The Old Boy was in a needling humour which Mostyn resented. If anyone was supposed to needle people it was Mostyn and he did not take kindly to the same treatment. The Chief spoke again.
‘It’s all right. I’ve got to know. To do with this.’ He indicated the pink file.
‘Our regular man is indisposed I’m afraid.’
‘Indisposed?’
‘A heavy head cold.’
The Chief gurgled. ‘Thumpin’ virgins’ knickers’ man, what’s the Department coming to? Off duty with a heavy cold. Castrated eyeballs! ‘
‘He really is most unwell. ‘L’s’ taken over.’
‘Oh has he?’ The words were uttered (the only word for it) with what writers for women’s magazines call scorn. Mostyn felt the ugly clammy hand of disaster fumbling around the back of his neck. It was starting, he thought. The ridiculous nervous grind which overtook him when Boysie was in the field.
‘You’ve always shown great confidence in ‘L’, sir.’
‘Yes.’ The Chief switched tactics. ‘I see we’ve only got one Rover in Switzerland. Where’s he?’
‘Schaffhausen, on a rather delicate financial deal.’
‘A pay-off. Say what you mean, Number Two.’
‘A pay-off. Anyway, he’s more of an intellectual than a ...’
‘Heavy. Yes. You may need someone else to look round Lo-bloody-carno though. Someone other than ‘L’. Don’t know. Still, you’d better pass all this on to ‘L’. Don’t want him goin’ in blind. Have another drink and listen.’ The glasses were re-filled and the Chief talked. As he talked, Mostyn fell deeper and deeper into a state of misery. He was sending Boysie into an area crawling with unpleasant possibilities.
*
Departmental policy dictated that operatives being armed for the field should be issued with weapons originating from the country to which they were being deployed. Boysie’s prize for this trip was the snug Neuhausen SP47/8. It took him only a few minutes to be initiated. Boysie knew the Browning HP35 pretty well, and when you are familiar with the HP35 you cannot go far wrong with the SP47/8.
Boysie was carrying the weapon, patent holster, box of cartridges and spare magazine as he crossed the empty outer office which led to Mostyn’s inner sanctum. His nerves were a little calmer. Logic told him the Armoury would not have issued a weapon if anything affected his future—or past—with the Department.
‘Enter, old Boysie.’ Mostyn all chummy again. The smile on the face of the tiger. Warning signals bleeping through Boysie’s system.
‘Drink?’
‘No thanks.’ Boysie playing it cagey. Mostyn took a deep breath and opened his mouth as though to speak, then stopped. Boysie sat down and Mostyn went through the mouth-opening routine again. This time words came out.
‘Boysie, old lad.’ He was using the crème fouettee voice. ‘There seems to be a bit of opposition activity in the target area. Sure you won’t have a drink?’ Boysie shook his head. He knew the 2 I/C’s little game. Mostyn continued. ‘Nothing to do with the ‘kill’ you understand, but the Chief is most anxious that you should be told. Just so that you can keep your eyes and ears open, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Boysie, unconvinced. A pink folder marked ‘Au pair’ lay on the desk between them. Put you in the picture then.’
‘Vistavision, colour with stereo.’ Boysie was getting daring. Mostyn looked at him as though trying to make up his mind whether to use branding irons or the bastinado. Eventually he compromised and smiled.
‘You know what a flap the Home Office gets into over missing aliens?’ He paused long enough for Boysie to nod. ‘There’s a constant link with Interpol and the Special Branch, but did you know that every year roughly 100 au pair girls go missing over here? Usually turn up again, admitted. Bit frightened. Some of them taken suddenly pregnant.’ Mostyn was leaning back doing his headmaster act. Boysie began to worry again. There had been that nice Norwegian girl. What was her name? Hedda something. Gabler? No, that was old Ibsen. Anyway he hadn’t seen her for a year. ‘It seems,’ said Mostyn, all pear drops, ‘that we are interested in fifteen au pair girls who’ve gone AWOL from the London area over the past two years. Mostly German, two Swedish, one Swiss. Don’t ask me why, but the SB thinks we ought to show an interest—they don’t give much away you know.’
‘Fifteen au pair girls? Could have formed an international rugger team?’
‘Let’s not be flippant, son. None of them have subversive or police records. No friendship links. No link at all, except in the manner of their disappearance. All
got decent backgrounds, all come to work in respectable homes here. Pattern’s the same for the lot. Girl stays about six months. Perfect treasure until one morning the lady of the house wakes up and her little foreign helper has gone. No explanations. Nothing. Madam gets in touch with the agency—all agencies clean as detergents in case you were thinking of asking.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Agencies get in touch with the girl’s parents and, hooray, all is well. They’ve had a cable from their darling daughter saying she is unhappy and on her way home. Even give the flight number or train time. But jeune fille is not on the plane, or train. And that’s the last that’s heard.’
‘They take their stuff?’
‘Clothes? Yes, all the gear goes with them. Interpol’s had a trace on the whole caboodle—last one hopped it about six weeks ago—but, so far, nothing. That is until ten days ago. An un-confirmed identification in Bellinzona—near where you’re off to.’ Mostyn leant across the desk and looked hard into Boysie’s eyes in the approved manner of one in authority. ‘The identification was made positive yesterday afternoon. The girl was pulled out of the lake. Drowned. It’s definite. She’s one of the fifteen. Karen Schport. Mother’s a widow, remarried a RAF Wing Commander ten years ago. Stationed in West Berlin.’
The Second-in-Command flipped the file open. Each girl had a page to herself—the standard record form with a 24-inch by 14 inch photograph in the top right-hand corner. Any one of them could have made the girlie glossies. They were numbered one to fourteen. The fifteenth had been detached from the file. Mostyn tossed it on to the desk. It spun on the polished surface and ended in front of Boysie, sideways on. Boysie picked it up. Karen Schport. Age 23 years. Height 5 feet 6 inches. Weight 119 lbs. The eyes looked up at him from the photograph. Passport-type eyes which told you nothing. A teletype report was stapled to the form. The body had been recovered from the landing stage at Brissago on Lake Maggiore. Death by drowning not more than twenty-four hours previously. The report was horribly thorough. After the medical description—which jiggled Boysie’s stomach—came the personal effects. Light blue all wool day dress with Lancetti label. Check cotton bra and pants (no maker’s label. Pending enquiry). No stockings. No shoes. One silver wrist chain with attached silver medallion (diameter 2.8 centimetres). Design: winged horse with neck and head of eagle on both faces. Boysie looked up from the file.
