by John Gardner
‘What are they up to?’ whispered Mostyn.
‘Cows,’ muttered Boysie. ‘Sadistic bloody Friesians.’
Klara stood over Ingrid, slowly opening the box.
‘Ingrid. We want to hear about your friends in Assault One. We want to know their plans. How? When? Where?’
‘Stuff it,’ sniffed Ingrid with spirit.
‘As you like. Perhaps you will talk for a little friend of yours.’
The girl’s body stiffened. Klara dropped to one knee and placed something on the floor near Ingrid’s foot. Then again, this time between the hillocks of her bare breasts. Ingrid was trying to move, swaying from side to side, tearing and pulling—the chains on her manacles rattling. Boysie knew the feeling, the first onslaught of real fear. He recognised the look in her eyes—wide, constantly moving, afraid of the blow but wanting to know when it would strike.
‘All right,’ called Klara.
Angela’s voice—’OK’— from the study. Then a scampering like a kitten.
‘Naaaaaow.’ Hysterical, from Ingrid, threshing about in profound mental agony.
‘He won’t hurt you, Ingrid. Not if you lie still.’
Boysie felt Mostyn move back towards the door as Hector came pattering in from the study. The spider looked even more revolting than when Boysie had last seen him—its great legs at full stretch, moving unerringly towards Ingrid’s foot.
‘Good boy,’ said Klara, coaxing. ‘Grasshoppers. That’s it. One there and one higher up.’ She did a little dance step towards the three men (Martin well to the rear looking unquestionably seedy).
‘Wasn’t Angela clever to remember? Ingrid has a phobia about spiders. Terrified.’
‘Arachniphobia already,’ said Mostyn with a brutal purse of the lips.
Boysie could not move—rooted by the aura of ultimate hysteria which surrounded the girl, and the tingling creep of his own loathing.
The beast had gobbled the grasshopper by Ingrid’s foot. Now an exploratory leg move round the girl’s ankle. The two hairy feelers edged on to her calf. With a jump, Hector was up on her thigh, the legs bent, lifting the oval furry body high, swaying obscenely. Ingrid gave a massive shiver and then went rigid, shock temporarily locking every nerve and muscle. From her lips came a low wordless blubber, rising.
Slowly the spider’s head moved from side to side, as if trying to scent the grasshopper still balanced between the girl’s breasts. Hector moved higher, the crawling legs stroking for a hold on the smooth flesh inside Ingrid’s thigh. High. Higher, and up until the whole black repulsive creature was silhouetted creeping against the unsunned skin of the girl’s belly. Boysie’s flesh crinkled with a million spiders. He could feel the chilling tickle of Hector’s legs, the tight suction as they took hold, and the weight on his own body. It began to climb between Ingrid’s breasts—a leg moving up the curve brushing a nipple.
‘No.’ Ingrid’s voice breaking on the borderline of panic. ‘No I’ll tell you. Please. PLEase. PLEASE.’ A scream flaking the air, needling into the eardrums. ‘I’ll tell you.’ Each word screeched into inaudibility. ‘Get him away. Get him off. Away. I’ll tell you ... Everything. Anything. Away.’
Boysie could not stay to see or hear more. He turned and stumbled out into the large gymnasium. Hanging on to the wall bars. Count. Must count to get rid of the fear. Count ... Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen ... Breathing heavily. A hand touched his arm. Mostyn behind him.
‘Feeling queasy, old Boysie boy?’
‘Get knotted.’
‘Oh, Boysie.’ Cooing. ‘Mustn’t lose our sense of proportion. She frightened it away. Miss Muffet frightened the spider away with all that screaming.’
‘What a sense of proportion? It’s fun for you, isn’t it? A good story to tell the chaps. You sadistic bastard.’
‘Watch it, Boysie.’
‘A bloody good yarn. Watching a girl getting her arse beaten to shreds then pegged down naked while a blasted great spider crawls all over her.’
‘It’s war, Boysie. That’s our kind of show business.’
‘War?’
‘Never been colder, sport.’
‘You talk about the red menace, the yellow peril, the sky-bloody-blue-pink terror; the big ogre knocking on the gates of freedom. Well, what the hell d’you think this is, you sordid old creeper? The little nightmare going on in there? Democracy? Christ you’d be the first to howl wouldn’t you? First in the queue to moan about brutal atrocities? Come to think of it you did didn’t you? You gave flaming evidence.’ He remembered a conversation, only a few weeks ago. Mostyn talking with com-passion about Belsen and Buchenwald.
‘At Nuremburg. Yes.’
‘Against her daddy’s mates. And you allow her to carry on like that. What are you? A psychiatrist or something? Giving her psychotheraphy? The woman’s a ... a ...’
‘Sado-masochist?’
‘Sado-whatever you say. Well that’s it. I’ve finished. Bloody done. You. The Department. The whole bleeding issue. You can take it and stuff it up your union jacksies.’ Terminus. Boysie had been boiling up for this all through the long winter. But Mostyn was experienced in dealing with his protégé’s paddies.
‘Don’t get sentimental with me, Oakes.’ Loud. Poisonous. Uncompromising.
Boysie’s rage, hatred of the whole security system, his job, his gullibility, his private terror, had all blown out, leaving him a panting rag against the wall bars of the gymnasium. Mostyn was opening his mouth for another spate. Boysie had the foolish premonition that Mostyn was going to turn into a PTI shouting, ‘Top of the wall bars—Go ! Back again not quick enough.’
Mostyn’s hesitation was only momentary. The voice sliced, cut and hacked into Boysie. ‘Be your age, lad. There’s no such thing as a goodie or a baddie any more. Haven’t you learned that yet? Just people. Only people. People in opposition to one another. And very soon it’ll only be survivors.’ A pause. Snap of the fingers, the rat-eyes never leaving Boysie’s face. Mostyno the Great Hypnotist. ‘It’s big, Boysie. So bloody big that most of the world doesn’t realise what’s happening. So complicated that you can’t tell the difference between good or bad. Not any more — it simply depends on which side of the camera you happen to be standing at a given moment. And when Man’s at stake what the hell does it matter if a girl’s bottom gets sore? Or if an itsy-bitsy spider climbs up her spout? So don’t get sentimental with me, matey. The dusk of history, Boysie, that’s where we’re standing, in the dusk of history, and it’s no place for consciences.’
Klara was coming through the doors, Angela and Martin trailing behind her like a couple of gun dogs. She began to speak as they crossed the gymnasium, half-way to Mostyn and Boysie.
‘Tonight.’ Surprisingly there was no sense of urgency. ‘Tonight they’re coming in. To coincide with the firework display.’
‘Fireworks?’ queried Mostyn.
‘Yes, sir.’ Martin playing teacher’s pet. ‘To launch the season. They do it every year, now and in August. Big firework display on the lake in front of Locarno.’
Klara was still talking. ‘About quarter to midnight. The plan is to make a landing on the large island, through the island villa, force everyone out of the tunnels back into Il Portone and blow the underground complex—maybe even put time-fused fire-bombs in Portone itself. I think she’s telling the truth. She was to guide them in.’
‘What you suspected.’ Boysie to Mostyn. ‘Irreparable damage. Complete disruption of training.’
Mostyn took no notice of the obvious comment. ‘How many of them?’
‘She’s not sure. About twenty she thinks. But I’m not particularly worried, Colonel.’ Klara looked smug. ‘When they constructed the finer points of this place they built-in certain protective devices. They’ve been kept in working order, and even the talented Ingrid could know nothing about them. If Assault One attack from the lake they will regret it.’
‘May have changed their minds, of course.’ Mostyn turning into an a
stute tactician. ‘Boysie’s pinched their hovercraft for a start. They must know we’re alerted. On the other hand they don’t necessarily know we’ve got Ingrid.’ He sucked his teeth noisily. ‘Trouble is it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Just before midnight.’
‘Amber Nine?’ Klara’s eyebrows arched upwards.
‘Scheduled for midnight isn’t it?’
Klara nodded. ‘It’s a nasty coincidence. We must be thankful that Ingrid wasn’t in on that. At least Assault One’s action is independent of Amber Nine.’
The cry came from somewhere at the back of Angela’s throat. It had the effect of a Gorgon’s look—a rigid tension as Klara and the three men turned towards her. She had one hand to her mouth, incisors clamping down on the fleshy base of her thumb. The tweeny who had just shattered madam’s treasured Spode.
‘I told her, I didn’t realise. She knew what it was ...’
Instant spring from Klara, a hand clawing up, twisting the blonde hair and dragging the head back. ‘Fool. What ...?’
‘I didn’t know. She was my friend. She was so interested, and after Professor Skidmore explained …’
The deep freeze from Mostyn. ‘Is she trying to say that Ingrid knew the extent of Amber Nine?’
‘She is my head girl. I have reason to trust her.’ Klara on the borderline of defending the tall girl. ‘I thought it would be good experience. She was due to come to you, Special Security, next month. Skidmore gave permission for her to see the apparatus, there was even talk of her assisting with the recovery.’ She heaved painfully on the hair. ‘What did you tell Ingrid?’
‘What Professor Skidmore said. What he told me. About the Chronic Illness. How they were going to get it down.’
Klara made a disgusted noise and twisted her hand, in a short arc, and with some force. The girl fell sideways, bumping heavily on the floor, sliding a foot or so.
‘Get down to your quarters. Speak to no one. Wait for me there. You’re an imbecile. Finished.’ She stepped out towards the door.
Mostyn beckoned Boysie and Martin with a sharp, annoyed, flap of the hand. ‘How much did she know?’
‘Enough. The essential details.’ Klara over her shoulder, breaking through the doors like a gunfighter bursting into the Golden Nugget Saloon.
The three Seniors had just finished dressing Ingrid, propping her against the horse like a shop window dummy. Klara’s voice all fury and viciousness.
‘Down with her again. Get the grasshoppers. My whip—the bull-whip. She hasn’t told us everything. There’s more to come, Little Miss Muffet, isn’t there?’
Ingrid was past caring. ‘What? What is it? Anything. I’ll tell you anything, just leave me alone.’
Klara was close to her, hands around her wrists, twisting so that they shook. Twisting like a school bully. ‘This morning Angela gave you some information. She gave you details about Amber Nine.’
‘Yes. Yes, she did. You didn’t ask me before. Let go. Please.’ It was playground stuff.
‘Have you transmitted any of that information?’
‘I passed it on. Yes.’ Ingrid panting, shivering.
‘To whom.’ Mostyn close to her now. Boysie felt definitely underprivileged. He still had no inkling of Amber Nine’s scope.
‘They gave me a telephone number to ring in case of emergencies.’
‘Across the lake. The group headquarters?’
‘No. Locarno.’
‘Come on then. The number.’
‘Locarno—that’s code 093-093 24.46.70.’
‘Damn.’ Mostyn fumbling for the right decision. ‘Can’t use the police. Martin?’
‘Sir?’ Very military, pushing forward behind Boysie.
‘How’s your Italian?’
‘Tarla Inglese? I’m afraid.’
‘Oh my god. From the whole Department I have to get lumbered with you and Boysie. Do your best. Get into Locarno and check that number. Try to eliminate the contact. Any trouble beat it—first train to Zurich and England. Right?’
‘Do what I can, sir.’
‘You armed?’
Martin patted his jacket affirmatively.
‘One of the girls had better go with him, Colonel.’ Klara anxious to redress the harm done by Angela. ‘Heather is fully trained. Heather?’
‘Yes, Principal.’
Heather was jet-haired, with revitalised statistics.
‘Better put some clothes on, hadn’t she?’ Mostyn eyeing the leather short-shorts.
‘I don’t really mind the informality,’ said Martin cheerfully.
‘All right,’ Mostyn capitulated. ‘Now for Professor Skidmore.’
Hector was scratching away in his nest. The noise made Boysie doubly uneasy. If it had not been for Hector he would have felt reasonably at peace with the world in Klara’s study. The velvet drapes gave the impression of curtained windows, and the room now assumed an atmosphere of safety. What was more, Boysie enjoyed watching Klara and Mostyn beat their breasts. Klara made a short telephone call the moment the door was closed. (‘Professor Skidmore? I’m sorry to bother you, but I have two gentlemen here from Special Security. I think you’d better see them. Shall we come up, or will you come down to my study? You will. Good.’) Sitting at her desk, Klara fell to cursing her own incompetence—for having appointed a head girl like Angela, whose notion of Security seemed only to mean ‘a safe income and strong elastic’; and for letting Ingrid wriggle through her net of security.
Mostyn also looked worried—slumped in thought, in the chair to which Boysie had been strapped during his last dramatic visit to the study. Mostyn seemed to be ticking off imaginary lists on his fingers. Finally:
‘Let’s go over what we’ve got already. Assault One are mount-ing a destructive operation against the school. Around midnight as far as we know. You say you can handle this?’
‘Easily.’
‘How much help?’
‘Very little. Perhaps Cyril and Frederick—they’re not one hundred per cent fit, thanks to Boysie, but we’ll manage. Maybe a few of the girls down near the water. There are various mechanical controls on the top floor of the island villa. The whole place, you probably know, was designed as a bolthole. First for the man I called Uncle Benno, then for the pair of them—Uncle Benno and my beloved father. The builders did a good protection job. They were inclined to be nervous about their safety.’
‘The hovercraft?’
‘Frederick’s moved it to the shore side of the island. I thought Professor Skidmore would want to use it for the recovery. We did have a speedboat.’ She looked accusingly at Boysie who was still feeling very much out of the conversation.
‘All right,’ said Mostyn. ‘I’ll leave the defence to you. Now what about Amber Nine?’
‘What about Amber Nine?’ Boysie thought it was time to squawk. ‘Look I’m implicated. Will somebody tell me? What is flipping Amber Nine?’
Both Mostyn and Klara turned frozen faces towards him. Essence of wither. When Mostyn spoke, his voice was saturated with exaggerated weariness, a trick that infuriated Boysie. ‘Do I have to?’ He fingered his tie. A sigh. ‘I suppose so. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’
‘If you’re going to take that attitude ...’
‘In our organisation there is a small, but apparently deadly department called Strategic Intelligence. They’ve been left pretty much to themselves, but—according to our Chief, whose judgment I trust—they’ve acquitted themselves with distinction.’ This was the old pompous Mostyn, stopping to squint down the elegant crease in his trouser leg. Talking slowly, explaining to a small child. ‘Strategic Intelligence has, as its nucleus, a team of scientists. Their Chief is Professor Skidmore. Well, Boysie, you know scientists. No head for routine. Within his cranium old Skidmore probably holds more secrets than any one man in Security. But he’s inclined to be a bit hazy about procedure. Anyway, that’s another part of the tale. Old Uncle Skidmore has come across some basic development in cold war ploys and ...’
>
The knock at the door was heavy and demanding.
‘I think it will be better for the Professor to explain things himself,’ said Klara, adding a loud ‘Come in.’
He was an elderly colossus. A six-footer who, at nearly seventy, had only the mildest hint of a stoop. His hair, once fire-red, now splashed with grey, gave the appearance of being badly dyed and left to grow back into its natural state. The gingery hopsack suit looked as though it had been put together by a couple of lads trained in the mailbag room at the Scrubs. The hands were large, clumsy and red like some old washerwoman’s. He wore thick heavy-lensed glasses with tortoise-shell frames, clamped on to a beakish nose which made him look as though he was wearing some joke disguise for a child’s Christmas stocking.
‘Good afternoon, Doctor. These the gentlemen?’ A voice rich, and savouring of a port laid down well in a good year. For all his clownish appearance the man commanded immediate respect—a natural leader, decisive, and with obvious intellect. Boysie and Mostyn were both on their feet.
‘Professor Skidmore.’ Klara, deferential. ‘May I introduce Colonel Mostyn and Mr Oakes.’
The old chap nodded affably.
‘We’re from Special Security,’ said Mostyn in his no-beating-about-the-bush voice.
‘I see. May I have your crendentials?’
Mostyn brought out his passport. Boysie remembered his was still back at the hotel and made noises at Mostyn meant to communicate that fact.
