Amber Nine

by John Gardner

  As if in answer to a prayer the key turned and Angela ushered Petronella into the cell.

  ‘Thought you’d like some company, Mr Oakes.’ She was out again quickly, the door shut and the key turned. Petronella leaned against the wall smiling at him.

  ‘Hey,’ said Boysie swivelling into a sitting position—all his sexual self-appraisal crumbling into lechery. Petronella was wearing a washed out denim skirt with low pleats, and a silk shirt which looked as though it had come from a Dior Boutique for Men. Her hair was brushed back from the forehead clear away from the deep hazel eyes glittering with the look of one well rested. The skirt was too small—as much as two inches short and hugging the hips fetchingly.

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘I was just thinking ...’ His voice trailed off, remembering that he had shared this very bed with Petronella on the night before. A far from memorable episode.

  ‘So was I, Boysie. That’s why I asked Angela to bring me down—she lent me the gear by the way.’

  Boysie went on goggling.

  ‘I’ve an apology to make.’

  ‘Huh-huh.’

  ‘I lied to you last night.’

  ‘Woman thy name is frailty,’ he misquoted.

  ‘I know. Things are not always what they seem. Some girls wear fake engagement rings—wedding rings even. I pull the Lesbian stunt.’

  ‘Full of deceit.’

  ‘Chock full.’ A slight rise of the colour. Stage one of a blush.

  ‘I can’t unless I have some real feelings, and last night you made it quite obvious that you didn’t ...’

  ‘Ah.’ Then, hurriedly. ‘Well, you see, last night I ...’

  ‘No need to explain.’ The woman scorned. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I was sorry. Sorry I lied.’

  ‘Well, that was yesterday.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a new day. Or is it?’

  ‘Day.’

  ‘Good. Let’s make a new start. The brave new world. Walking hand in hand towards the horizon and a fresh beginning. Fade out to a splurge of music and we all jam the exits trying to get out before they play the National Anthem.’

  ‘Rectify things?’

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘You bronzed monster you.’ Pleased. Petronella’s hand came out of her skirt pocket. She was holding a small square of sticking plaster. ‘Angela again,’ she said, fixing the plaster over the door’s peep hole.

  ‘That girl thinks of everything.’

  Petronella turned and unzipped the skirt. ‘That’s a relief, it was cutting me in two.’ There was no restraint.

  ‘Rending you in twain,’ said Boysie giving his eyes a six-course banquet. The shirt came off in one. The Mary Quants were gone—their places taken by cheeky little nylon bra and pants: frilled, warm orange.

  ‘I say. Tangerine whatsits. Angela’s!’

  ‘She was glad to get rid of them. They’re not regulation here and Klara’s about to have a pantie purge.’ She was advancing toward the bed, arms doubled behind her, dealing with the brassiere. It fell away. Boysie’s head whizzed as he pulled her on to the bed beside him. An arm streaked up his spine to the short hairs on the back of his neck. Mouths met in a skirmish which developed into a pitched battle of lips, teeth and tongues. Fingers traced up his thighs, caught his hand and tried to lift it to the deep valley between her breasts, but Boysie disengaged, running his nails gently across the lower part of her chest, over the well of her navel, and down the quivering stomach. Cupping his fingers he closed around the thin nylon and began to draw gently downwards. Petronella moaned—not anguish or pain but the throaty call of the female in need. A shifting. Movement. The hard unmistakable thrill. Another rocking moan. Movement.

  Bingo. It was like an enquiry agent’s flashlight exploding in a seedy hotel bedroom. The key clanked suddenly and the door swung open.

  ‘BoySIE!’ said Mostyn, the last syllable reaching a shattering roar. Behind him stood Martin and two of the girls.

  Desire deflated. ‘You would,’ said Boysie through teeth grinding more than clenching. ‘You bloody would. You send me out on your do or bloody die assignments ... You ... You got me mixed up in all kinds of subversive goings on, then bloody walk in on me just as I’m going to score. You Sh ...’

  ‘OAKES!’

  Boysie knew the tone. There was no arguing with it. Mostyn like that? You listen.

  Mostyn at least had the courtesy to turn his back while Petronella dressed. He did, however, talk—at speed and not in Boysie’s favour.

  ‘Only you, Oakes. Nobody but you, Oakes, could possibly reach such revolting depths of lunacy. You unmitigated bloody purblind idiot. As a member of the department you’d make a good assistant assistant to a pox doctor’s clerk. Not only do you get yourself put down by our own people ...’

  ‘How the hell was I to know they were our own people.’

  ‘Initiative, old Oakes. Your half-witted quarter-formed, stinking rotten initiative.’

  ‘Look, it’s their fault. They jumped me. How was I to know.’

  ‘I’ve heard all about that. Klara Thirel’s been running this establishment in our favour for eight years, and in twenty-four hours you ram everything up the spout.’

  ‘I’m asking you. How was I to know?’

  ‘You should have made deductions.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me. In the briefing you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘Well nothing. You should have worked it out for yourself. You’re the one in the field.’

  ‘Rot the rotting rotten field.’

  ‘I’ve cleared you with Doctor Thirel anyway. She’s interrogating the girl—Ingrid. I think we’d better go up.’

  ‘Look, sir. What’s it all about? Please?’

  Mostyn tapped his foot in agitation. ‘That girl got her knickers on yet?’

  ‘Yes. And my skirt and shirt. Gentlemen should always knock before ...’ Petronella looked as though steam was about to come out of her ears. Mostyn signalled to the two Seniors.

  ‘Take her up to the villa and wait there. Don’t let her out of your sight.’

  Boysie tried to smile at the departing Petronella, but she did not even glance in his direction. She left with head down, the twin spots of fury and humiliation burning bright on her cheeks. Mostyn came into the room, banging the door in Martin’s face.

  ‘Women, Oakes, are your bloody downfall. With women you’re a psychopath. You never learn. There have been times, old Oaksie, that you have put the Department—nay, the world ...’ He liked the ring of that. ‘Nay, the world—in danger because of women.’ His voice had modulated to the sharpness of a cut-throat razor just touching the windpipe. ‘Remember Miss Iris bloody MacIntosh? Coral White strike a cord? Or Priscilla Whatsername ...?’

  ‘Braddock-Fairchild.’

  ‘Yes. And that American one, Lettuce Triplearse.’

  ‘Chicory Triplehouse,’ said Boysie, venomous.

  ‘And hundreds more. I’ve no doubt at all. Hundreds more. I warned you about this before we took you on.’

  ‘Conned me into it.’

  ‘I came out here all the way from London, to get you out of the jam you’ve got yourself into and what do I find?’

  ‘We’ve became very close friends. We’ve been through a great deal together, Petronella and I, me, I.’

  ‘I’ll say, old Boysie. It looked like it. Now I’ve really got something on you, laddie. I wish I’d had my polaroid with me.’

  ‘Colonel? Please tell me what’s happening.’ The storm had blown out. Mostyn filled his lungs and licked his thin little lips. ‘Briefly. Ten years ago Klara Thirel made a third-party approach to Security. It was the off season—most of the top brass on holiday. The man who finally saw her thought she was a nut and passed the buck to the Chief of Training Command—on the old-boy basis of course. He met her and saw the potential. Checked. Double-checked. Sent someone over here as a prospectiv
e parent to give the school the once-over, then put a couple of our girls in for a year. Everything came up roses. Financially marvellous. Klara Thirel, believe it or not, can train agents for fifty per cent of what it costs us. He made a deal. Natch.’ Mostyn paused to extract a pig-skin cigarette case from the inside of his jacket. Boysie refused the proffered Passing Cloud. Mostyn lit, drew heavily and continued.

  ‘Gets girls from all over. Screening system’s better than ours. Some just our type. She selects them, weeds ‘em out and trains ‘em. The school’s genuine enough, and the whole set-up allows specialised training without disrupting the normal curriculum.’ He stabbed a forefinger down at the floor—a series of jabbing movements, like an orator accentuating a point of argument. ‘For eight years Training Command’ve been filling female vacancies in all Departments with girls from Il Portone. That means about twelve first-class operatives a year. It’s cheaper, and Training Command hasn’t told a living soul.’

  ‘They wouldn’t, would they? I mean Klara’s dad wasn’t exactly pro-British. And they’re operating in a neutral country. Sticky.’

  ‘As a baby’s top lip. Very high risk-ratio. I mean, Old Boysie, we’ve been taking a chance on you—and your successor; the old “kill assignments”. But they’re only domestic next to this. Training Command are inviting global difficulties. World opinion wouldn’t take kindly. Could be an embarrassment.’

  ‘Who’s going to be the next Chief of Training Command?’ Fiendish relish.

  ‘Precisely.’ Mostyn sniggered—a jackal peeping from its lair. Mostyn had long lusted after a Department of his own.

  ‘And the au pair thing? Kadjawaji?’

  ‘Part of the embarrassment. The opposition’s known about the school for a long while. They’ve been putting their own girls in with monotonous regularity, as you know. Mostly the au pair lot, who seem to have been recruited on the continent, dispersed in England for brief training before being sent here. A bit amateur and it hasn’t paid off. The only successful infiltration is the wretched Ingrid girl, and I suspect she’s semi-professional. Never works, old boy. Never use amateurs.’

  ‘I never get the chance. What’s the object anyway?’

  ‘Harrassing operation, I presume. Disruption of the school leading to us breaking our contract with Dr Thirel. Maybe bigger. Public European scandal perhaps—and we can’t afford that.’

  ‘And Kadjawaji? ‘

  Mostyn opened the door. Martin stood outside looking placid.

  ‘What the hell are you doing there?’

  ‘W-Waiting for you, sir.’

  ‘Oh.’ He turned to Boysie again. ‘Kadjawaji? That’s what we’re hoping to find out from the Ingrid person. Doctor Thirel said you mentioned Assault One.’

  ‘They’re on the other side of the lake. Kadjawaji very much in charge’

  ‘Pinched a hovercraft, I hear.’

  ‘The only thing to do.’

  ‘Good lad. Assault One is a subversive security group. Sort of counter-espionage commando. Opposition’s already used them in the satellite countries. And Cuba—in the early days.’

  ‘Tough?’

  ‘Very. Both sexes. Sympathetic mercenaries mostly. Malcontents, failed belligerent CND people from all nations. Military trained as well as security. They can do most things—from jumping out of aeroplanes to organising unrest.’

  ‘And here?’

  ‘Straightforward violence I should imagine. Damage beyond repair made to look like an accident. Stop our flow of female operatives for a while.’

  ‘Pow. Goodbye, Klara.’

  ‘Farewell II Portone. Nothing we could do about it. Except reorganise our women’s training programme. And the facilities of course. Now if I was in charge, old Boysie, I think I would ...’ He stopped in mid dream. ‘Let’s see what the intriguing Ingrid’s got to say for herself.’

  ‘Before we go, sir.’ Boysie like an anxious schoolboy soliciting a favourite master. ‘What about Amber Nine?’

  Mostyn turned and looked at him with pity. ‘That, my dear old Boysie, is our largest headache.’

  ‘Largest.’

  ‘Biggest. No aspirin will aid us. Four, five, six degrees under. Just cool nerves, dry powder and bowels open. Time enough.’ He turned to Martin who had been trying to look inconspicuous. ‘Just keep old Boysie in the picture will you? Your newspaper cutting.’

  Martin began searching his person, finally finding a crumpled sheet of newspaper which he handed over.

  ‘Might interest you. Net closing in and all that,’ said Mostyn. It was the front page of the Evening Standard. Late final edition. Yesterday’s date.

  ‘Down there,’ Martin pointed to a heading at the bottom of columns three and four. Boysie read:

  DOUBLE ARREST IN WIMBLEDON

  Official Secrets Charges

  Officers of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch swooped on a quiet Wimbledon villa this afternoon and made two arrests.

  Robert Wilson Wheater—described as a retired colonel—and Maude Bernice Wheater, both of ‘Dunroamin’, Ash Close, Wimbledon, were charged under the Official Secrets Act and later taken to London.

  A police spokesman said it was not in the public interest to elaborate on the charges at this time.

  The arrests were made just before two o’clock this afternoon when three cars pulled into select Ash Close. Detectives walked up the flagged path, through the trim little garden, bright with coloured stone gnomes, and knocked at the duck-egg blue door.

  Tonight, the house was still being searched. Officers have already taken away several large boxes and packages.

  A neighbour said: ‘It is all very distressing. Two local councillors live in the Close. Colonel and Mrs Wheater have been here for five years and seemed perfectly respectable. Nothing like it has happened before. Now, I suppose, some of the residents will move. The tone has been lowered.’

  ‘Come on, Boysie, get your skates on.’ Mostyn was already striding up the passage. Wheater was Assault One’s London control if it’s any interest. And you wanted me to ring him. They’re grilling him now.’

  ‘Lynne’s father?’

  ‘Don’t be naïve, childe Boysie. Shouldn’t think he ever met the girl. Come on, let’s see if Ingrid’s squealing.’

  She was. Loudly. Boysie heard her as they crossed the big gymnasium. A scream, followed by a shivering sob, coming from behind the doors leading into the fencing room, and eventually, to Klara’s study. Mostyn pushed open the doors and Boysie recoiled at the bizarre sight. In the centre of the smaller gym stood an old-fashioned vaulting horse—a long leather sausage with four stubby wooden legs. Ingrid was spreadeagled and bent over the horse, her wrists and ankles shackled to the legs on either side. She was naked, her buttocks scarlet with two angry welts slicing across them, livid and raw. She sobbed horribly. Klara stood beside the horse, the riding crop in her right hand. The door to the study was open. Beside it, Angela and three of the Seniors lined the wall, rigidly at attention.

  ‘Ready to tell us about your friends yet, Ingrid dear?’ purred Klara.

  The yellow fall of hair, on the far side of the horse, shook violently. Klara stepped back. The riding crop whistled viciously through the air and struck across the naked backside with a burning force. Ingrid screamed again.

  Boysie muttered angrily, starting forward. Mostyn put out a hand and caught his arm. The Second-in-Command was quietly shaking his head, restraining Boysie.

  ‘Ah,’ said Klara. ‘Come in, gentlemen. I’m afraid our young woman has lost her tongue for the moment.’ Ingrid’s sobs had turned to a long shuddering moan. Klara joined the men at the door—as spry as ever, smiling and completely unperturbed.

  ‘Boysie.’ She put a hand out. ‘How can I ever apologise? I’m so glad it’s all been sorted out.’

  Boysie stared at her, his face flabby, as though drunk, the facial nerves refusing to act. Klara turned to Mostyn, her smile still set in the charm position.

  ‘As you see, Colonel, I don’t be
lieve in the subtle ways of extracting information. We want this quickly and I have no time for the finer points of interrogation—pep drugs and depressants, the techniques of brain washing, sodium pentathol. For this, pain is the most effective drug.’ She swished the riding crop, making the air sing. Even the girls by the door winced. Ingrid screamed again.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Mostyn with the concern of a professional. ‘You’re getting a conditioned reflex.’

  ‘She has had three strokes only. She might be stubborn, but she’ll crack. I’ve never failed yet.’ She flexed the arm again. ‘Ready to chat, Ingrid?’ Again the head shaking. ‘Very well. Back to the treatment. Unless anyone has a better idea.’ She looked questioningly towards Mostyn.

  ‘Permission, Principal.’ Angela took a step forward.

  ‘Yes.’

  Angela came over, bent slightly and whispered. Klara was serious for a moment, then her face split into a pleased smile.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Very good indeed. Go ahead, Prepare her.’

  Angela returned to the other girls, spoke to them briefly and went into Klara’s office. The girls moved quickly—like a demonstration team from one of the Women’s Services. One of the big fibre mats was pulled aside. In the floorboards beneath, Boysie could see four metal bolt holes set at equal distances, like the corners of a square. While one girl screwed large iron eyes into the holes, the other two began to unshackle Ingrid from the horse. By this time, Angela had returned with three cushions. Together, the girls lifted Ingrid from the horse—only a mild struggle from their captive—and placed her on her back between the metal eyes. Angela slipped a cushion under the scarred buttocks and the shackles were snapped around the eyes. Now, Ingrid was once more spreadeagled—this time, undignified, on her back in the middle of the floor, the remaining cushions pushed behind her head, as though to hold it up so that she could look down at her own body.

  It was a very beautiful body, still twisted with pain and shaking with the uncontrolled whimpering which seemed to saturate every nerve. Long firm legs, tanned golden from the sun, turning to contrasting white at the extreme points of the thighs—the tan taken up again just below the navel and stopping around the small raised circlets of breast. Boysie had never really looked at her face. Normally it must have been handsome more than pretty. Now, drained white with fear and pain, blotched with puffy red around the streaming eyes, it was the face of a child struck by some terrible private grief. Boysie wanted to scream with her. His palms ran with sweat—the whole process of cruelty repellent to him. Angela had made a second trip into Klara’s study, this time returning with a small box, instantly recognisable to Boysie whose bones seemed to transmogrify into blancmange (Caréme’s recipe). He remembered Ingrid on the previous evening in Klara’s study, pressed against the wall in terror.