by John Gardner
‘It would have to be our boy,’ said Mostyn sounding like a man eager to resign before the fraud squad got their hands on the company accounts. ‘It would have to be him. On neutral territory well. And you know how he can blot copy books.’
‘Your copy book,’ said the Chief. Then, being realistic for once. ‘And ultimately mine. However much I lie, ultimately mine.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘I know you will, old chap. I know.’ An arm on Mostyn’s shoulder. ‘Shouldn’t bother to come back if you don’t ...’
Mostyn sighed.
‘Go and get organised then, little Mostyn. Commercial to Zürich. We’ve got clearance after that for a helicopter down to Monte Ceneri—the Maggiore airfield. Can’t take Jets. Should be in Locarno by midday.’
‘Get Martin to meet me.’ Mostyn’s eyes narrowed. Nasty, short-lashed slits. ‘And if Oakesie’s made a balls. If he’s got us involved in anything ...’ There was no need to go on.
CHAPTER TEN
SCARLET SUNRISE: LAKE MAGGIORE
Now they were trying to suffocate him. Were there no lengths to which these women would go? Boysie threshed around and came soaring back to consciousness, grabbing at the hand pressed hard against his mouth.
‘Shut up, Oakes. Quiet.’
He opened his eyes and looked up at Lynne Wheater whose palm was forced against his teeth. She was becoming a proper little dictatoress. Boysie stopped struggling. Lynne removed her hand putting a finger to her lips.
‘How the ...?’ Boysie screwed the sleep out of his eyes and looked past Lynne. The cell door was open—part of a female leg just visible, lying twisted on the passage floor. Boysie turned. Petronella was still floating through dreams peopled with girls like herself. Lynne held Boysie’s Sauer & Sohn, not pointing it at anything in particular.
‘How did you ...?’
‘Thirel is not omnipotent.’ Low. Almost a whisper, a wafer of smile crossing her mouth. ‘We infiltrated Ingrid eighteen months ago. Undetected, but she needed help. That’s why we’ve been trying to get girls in.’
‘Who’re you with?’
‘I was going to ask you the same question.’ The Sauer & Sohn came up, an inch from Boysie’s nose.
‘Special Security.’ No pointing in hedging.
Lynne wrinkled her brow. ‘I’ve never worked with any of your people.’
‘And you?’
‘Assault One.’
‘Oh yes.’ He had never heard of Assault One, but in this business it did not mean a thing.
‘Ingrid has shown me the way. We can be with the others in half-an-hour.’
‘The others.’ Boysie nodded. Lost. Anything to be out of Klara’s reach. Keeping the blanket round him for the sake of decency, he stretched out for his shirt. Lynne handed it over.
‘Did you get my message through? Through to Wheater? To the Wimbledon number?’
‘Your control?’ Casual. Very pro.
‘Mm-hu.’
‘I sent it through my control.’
‘Good. Good.’
Boysie was climbing out of the bed trying not to let Lynne see his underwear. He knew how girls felt getting out of sports cars.
Petronella rolled over.
‘You were taking a risk weren’t you?’ he said. ‘Getting me to phone Wheater. You didn’t know me. What if I’d been the opposition?’
‘The risk was calculated. It worked didn’t it?’ She motioned the gun towards Petronella. ‘What about her?’
‘What about her?’
‘Isn’t she with you?’
‘Not really.’
‘She said she was with you. When we were locked in here—before you turned up, and all that Spike Smith ...’
‘Jones.’
‘... Jones business. She said she was with you.’
‘She was. When they got me. Stumbled into it. The Schport girl’s step-sister.’
‘Better take her along, you think?’
‘Of course,’ Boysie, pulling on his trousers. ‘You’re not what I thought.’
‘No?’
‘No. All mousey and downtrodden at the hotel. When Klara and her two hoods were after you. Or should it be snoods? Female hoods?’
‘We are taught to act. Assault One has some good actresses.’
They woke Petronella—grumbling at first, then speedy and excited at the thought of freedom. Before leaving the cell Boysie took charge of the pistol—loaded, magazine full, safety-catch off.
‘We go straight along the Seniors’ corridor and through the door at the very end. It leads to the bathrooms. There are steps from there up to the island,’ whispered Lynne.
Outside the cell door a ginger-headed Senior sprawled across the passage, her neck twisted to one side, lips pulled back in a set, and very unfunny, grin. They had to step over the body.
Boysie swallowed and gave a disgusted look. Petronella went light grey.
‘Ingrid?’ asked Boysie with a nod towards the corpse. Lynne signified an affirmative. ‘She’s very good with necks.’
Boysie raised his eyebrows.
Ingrid herself was standing outside the door of the room she shared with Angela.
‘They’re all asleep, but don’t make too much noise.’ The touch of Italian in her accent seemed more pronounced. ‘Good luck.’
They padded down to the door at the end of the passage. Inside it was dark and there seemed to be no windows. Slowly, feeling out with his hands, Boysie moved forward. He was just reaching back, to comfort himself that Lynne was still behind him, when something clammy touched his cheek. He leaped to one side, the pistol up and ready. Another something twined stickily around his neck. A picture of Hector flashed briefly across his mind. If Klara could keep Hector what other monsters might she have hidden away, guarding escape routes?
‘Lights. For god’s sake, lights.’ He tried not to shout.
A click from the doorway. The premature flicker of the strip lights, then the full blaze. Lynne stood by the switch; Petronella by the door. Boysie was immediately below a clothes line from which two brassieres, one suspender belt, four pairs of nylons and a couple of unidentifiable female garments drip-dried harmlessly. The suspender belt (black, with attractive blue bows) was curled round Boysie’s neck. He stepped to one side, unwinding and trying on a grin.
They were in a large stone wash-house. Three Hoover Keymatics against the far wall. Doors leading into bath cubicles to right and left. Above the washing machines was a large mirror. Boysie pulled himself up squaring his shoulders as his reflection came into view—a hand automatically to his hair. He looked terrible. A quick profile. Still ghastly.
‘Come on. Over there. The door,’ Lynne, pointing to the left of the washing machines.
Three strides and Boysie reached the door, jerking it open and leaping inside, pistol ready to spout in true commando fashion. Unluckily, a flight of steps led straight down to the door, and the act of leaping caused Boysie’s feet to connect hard with the second step. He bounced forward, then slithered down in a crestfallen, spreadeagled lump.
‘Come on, Oakes. Quickly.’ A hand on his shoulder helping him up.
Boysie motioned Petronella up the steps in front of him, taking the middle position for himself. It was a long climb. A reasonably broad stairway at first, gradually narrowing and changing into a tight stone spiral—dimly lit by blue guiding lamps, a rope running through large iron eyes on the right. It was like going up the old church tower when Boysie was a kid—a treat for the choirboys on Easter Sunday, with a view across the village to the edge of the world over the curving green downs once you reached the top. It took ten minutes before Petronella whispered.
‘We’re coming to a trapdoor.’
‘Coming to a trapdoor.’ Boysie passed it down to Lynne.
‘Well open the wretched thing. Open it.’
‘Open it.’
‘I’ll try.’
Petronella, precariously balanced on a narrow step, reached upwards. Her h
emline rose. Boysie’s face was level with her heels. He lifted his head to see how she was getting on, but the view was obscured.
‘What a waste,’ he thought, eyes playing round that which obscured his line of vision. There was the creak of hinges, followed by a bump. Petronella began to move again.
The trapdoor came up through the floor of a round summerhouse, large enough to contain a dozen people with ease—a musty smell, curved wooden seats, little leaded windows through which first light was beginning to crawl. The flagged floor hurt like ice on Boysie’s bare feet.
‘Damn,’ Lynne, waspish and agitated. ‘It’s later than I thought. Sun will be up soon.’ She walked to the door—newly painted, at variance with the dilapidated, crumbling look of the interior—taking a key from her skirt pocket. Ingrid had been thorough. The key turned easily.
‘We should be on the south side of the island. Behind the villa.’
‘What villa? Not Il Portone?’ Boysie’s bearings all to blazes.
An exasperated noise from Lynne. ‘We’re on the larger of the two islands. The villa where they have the equipment for the Amber Nine things.’
‘Ah.’ Knowingly. ‘I was going to ask you. What’s it all about?’
‘Amber Nine? I hoped you’d be able to tell me. Ingrid has nothing on it. But it’s big. You have no ideas?’
‘Couldn’t tell an Amber Nine from a haycart.’
‘Don’t you think we ought ...?’ Petronella gently intruding.
‘She’s right. Plenty, of time to talk about Amber Nine later. The path to the left should take us straight down to the boat-house. You first, Oakes.’
‘The name’s Boysie.’
‘Go on.’
It was damp underfoot; a sweet early morning smell coming fresh to the nostrils. Shrubs and foliage on each side of the narrow gravel track obscured any view, but in the half-light Boysie made out the hard angles of a large house rising on their left. Twenty yards down the path—twisting in gentle curves: a lovers’ walk—they could hear the faint lap of water. Two cypress trees on the right. A stone ornament. A short column on which rested the head and shoulders of a severe-looking lady with a pleasing bust, tastefully done in stone. A mimosa bush, then out into an open space, the lake in front of them—a small stone jetty with steps leading into the water. Tied to a ring in the steps, rocking gently, was a clean, trim little speedboat. A Sweet-16 in powder blue. Lynne pushed past Boysie, down the steps, jumping into the boat with an experienced professionalism which could only have been bred at Cowes. Boysie thought what a remarkable young woman she was—looking, in the simple skirt and ankle socks, like a slightly soiled college girl. Yet, underneath there was a flint of purpose. Lynne helped Petronella into the stern seat and positioned herself behind the wheel. Boysie clambered in beside her. The craft rolled doubtfully and then settled.
‘Where we going then?’ Boysie like a day tripper, twined an arm round Lynne’s shoulders, transferring the pistol to his left hand.
‘Hope she starts first time,’ Lynne’s hands checking the controls. ‘The group should be set now. On the other side of the lake. The place is between San Nazzaro and Gerra. We’ll have to swing round the island, straight across, then cut back. I don’t think they’ll risk shooting at this time of day. Not so close to the shore.’
It was getting lighter every minute. Boysie could make out the mainland facing them over the short stretch of water—detail emerging like some trick of film: the campanile, huddle of houses and the line of cypresses that was Brissago: Il Portone, standing apart, sleeping. He could clearly see the terrace where he had stood with Klara on the previous evening.
‘Cast off that rope and keep everything crossed,’ Lynne’s right forefinger on the button starter. The rope fell away. Lynne pressed. The starter made a noise like a coy goosed girl. Twice the engine coughed and died. Lynne tried again. This time the full roar. Boysie felt the push of power in the small of his back as the boat leaped forward, Lynne tight on the wheel in a quarter turn as they slid round in an arc of spray.
‘I can hardly hold her. God she’s nippy.’ Yelling above the frenzied roar of the engine and the hiss of water exploding against the bows, Lynne was pushing down on the throttle: opening to maximum revs. Boysie glanced behind him. They were skating across the water leaving a long plume of foam churning in their wake. To the right the sun just coloured the tops of the mountains. On. Bucketing slightly, hitting a swell. The whole mountain range to the east lit from behind by a wide crimson light. It could have been some city, flashed and flushed out by a nuclear horror. Scarlet now bounced off the thin overhang of cloud, then back on to the lake—a huge bowl of blood in a black jagged container—the spray from the bows picking up the colours: tiny flying shreds of indigo, yellow, orange, and the ever-present scarlet.
Now the sun was edging up. Long spears of light climbing the mountains ahead of them. Brissago and the twin islands, behind, caught in a blotch of shadow. The scarlet of sunrise washed away by softer colours—the blue-green of the lake, shades of olive dotted with cream and pink buildings, sprinkled like confetti thrown against the lower slopes. Olive turning to grey, and, finally, into the white of snow hanging on to the tips.
‘Yhaa-hoo!’ shouted Boysie, clinging on, his arm round Lynne’s shoulders, face drenched with spray. This he enjoyed. No sense of fear or impending disaster. Lynne was shouting again.
‘I’ll head right up the lake, then we’ll slow down, turn and go past headquarters—in case they’ve got the glasses on us from the island. Don’t want them to pinpoint.’
Boysie nodded enthusiastically. Lynne whipped the revs higher, the bows moved up a fraction and the far lakeside—four or five kilometres away—drew closer.
Ten minutes later they were cruising gently, about twenty yards from the coast—the Isole di Brissago now only a pair of small lumps far away over the sheen of the lake. The engine note dropped to a steady hum.
‘Gerra coming up.’ Lynne relaxed at the wheel. ‘Look happy.’
‘Fun-loving and filthy rich,’ Boysie chortling. The relief to be free of Klara and her brood was enormous.
‘Whoww,’ breathed Petronella.
One or two locals were already about, near the landing pier. A bell clanged out—a magnet for the early mass. Boysie waved—for verisimilitude—as they slid past the village. The coast was rocky, little pebble beaches and sprouts of large stone; trees coming down to within a few paces of the water’s edge; the occasional holiday villa, shutters still closed. Up and behind, early drivers sped along the scenic road which runs from Bellinzona right up the lakeside, across the Italian frontier on to Calende and the autostrada which zips into Milan from the north.
‘We’re coming to it now,’ Lynne excited. ‘Just round this headland.’ The familiar stony beach dotted with shrubs, one low willow trailing in the water, and a villa—built high up, a large boathouse jutting out below the main terrace. It was a strangely unsymmetrical place, a conglomeration of windows, different sizes, shoved into the walls on five levels. An odd variation of colours as well, faded pink and new-licked-green—the bleached red roof repaired, in one place with blue tiles. It looked like some strange creation erected by an eccentric family. As they drew abreast of the building, a pair of French windows opened on to the terrace. They seemed to have opened by themselves, and at first Boysie thought it was a child coming out to look at them. Then his stomach transformed into frozen sago pudding. He felt hungry, sick, tired and world weary all at once. White corpuscles were playing Danse Macabre with his nerves.
‘The Chief’s arrived then,’ said Lynne brightly. ‘Just in time for the fun. I wonder if he’s got any news of Khavichev. You knew Khavichev was ill?’
Boysie had no idea that Khavichev was ill. He did know that Khavichev was Director of Redland’s Counterespionage and Subversive Activities. He also knew the man on the terrace—now leaning over the stone balustrade, shading his eyes with one good hand (the other arm was clasped tight to his chest, in
a sling). He was dark and very small. Lynne’s chief was the dwarf Kadjawaji. He seemed to have a nasty limp as well.
‘Looks as though he’s been in an accident,’ from Lynne.
Boysie’s reflexes had gone to pieces. He could not breathe properly and there was the thump of fear above his eyes. He looked down. It took thirty seconds to register that he was still holding the pistol.
‘Did you know Khavichev was ...?’ Lynne started to repeat. Then. ‘You ill? You look ill, Oakes.’
‘Be all right,’ grunted Boysie through his teeth, thinking he was going to be very ill. This was the full topsy-turvey land bit. The big nightmare and the screaming habdabs. Right in the wrong boat. They were almost past the villa. No sign that Kadjawaji had recognised him. The breathing eased a little.
‘Go on.’ Muttered. Still finding difficulty in talking. If he spoke he would be sick. He knew it.
‘Not far if you’re feeling a bit sick. I know where we can pull in and walk back. There’s a track through the bushes to the boat-house door.’
Act now. He had to act now. This minute. But his muscles were not obeying the frantic signals sent out from his brain. The only muscle working was the involuntary twitch on the left of his mouth. The agony of decision. The revolting pause before the leap into space. Like standing on the top board at the school swimming pool (‘Garn, Boysie.’ ‘‘Ee’s bloody afraid to go.’ ‘Remember what I promised, Boysie’—the Girls’ Grammar Junior Netball Captain). His trip tightened around Lynne’s shoulder and the left arm slowly came up, the pistol almost touching her neck. There was a tiny mole, he noticed, below the ear. ‘Turn away from the shore and head back to the island.’ This was not his voice. His words, but not his normal speech. He felt Lynne’s body react with a fraction of fear. Beware of the moment of relaxation. (That’s when they try something silly. The bald instructor had told him, in Hampshire. When they relax they’re going to have a go.)
‘Don’t do anything, Petronella. For Christ’s sake don’t do anything. Your sister was on the wrong bloody side.’ Over his shoulder, hoping Petronella had not got her loyalties mixed.
