Amber Nine

by John Gardner

  Boysie could not think of anything suitably cutting. He swallowed the obvious obscenity and turned on the spot, swinging it forward so that its shaft of light converged with the beam from the fixed lamp in the hovercraft’s nose. The Chronic Illness was there—about twenty yards ahead. Different from the mock-up which floated so peacefully in the swimming pool, safe among the cellars of the island villa. Boysie did not expect the vehicle to be painted white. He had practised on a silver replica. Somehow, the glowing white bullet, bobbing with one wing low in the water, not the attitude of its facsimile, did not look right. The whiteness and peculiar angle put him off. The watch again.

  Seven minutes gone. Twenty-three left in which to do the job and get the hell out of the vicinity. Mostyn brought the hovercraft close in on the starboard side, eased back on the throttles and allowed the machine to settle quietly on the water. The missile was only a few feet away and below. Boysie swung the spot on it. He could see the inspection plate as he leaned out over the side of the cockpit.

  ‘Keep the glim on me won’t you.’ As if to a conspiratorial burglar.

  ‘Don’t worry, laddie. For once in your life you’ll be in the spotlight. Off you go. Keep in touch.’

  Boysie climbed on to the edge of the cockpit, ready for his leap. As it happened, the descent was somewhat ignoble. He launched out, but the dreaded flippers were up to their old tricks—the tip of his right fin catching in the top rung of the fixed ladder which ran down the side of the craft. Boysie’s body fell forward and, with an inelegant yelp, he entered the water head first—narrowly missing the missile’s swinging wing. Disregarding the sardonic laugh from the cockpit above, Boysie struck out for the white shape.

  ‘It’s no more difficult than in the bath. It’s no more difficult than in the bloody bath.’ He muttered, going through the business of heaving himself up the short wing. It was more difficult, the balance was not the same. The wing seemed filmy with oil. Twice he tried to get into position, slipping each time—the whole missile rolling in a vicious banking movement so that he had to duck to avoid getting a heavy swipe from the wing as it fell and lifted and then fell back into the water again. Third time lucky. As his left arm grasped the top of the fuselage his watch came into vision. Nineteen minutes to go. Screws off the inspection plate. Slower than working on the mock-up. The screws tighter. Six. Seven. The eighth was a bastard. Now the screws on the inner plate. Easy. Mostyn was keeping the light steady. The interior was more complex than he expected. More bits and pieces than in the swimming pool. Twelve terminals in sequence. Trauma. A block in the mind. The beginning of the sequence? Which came first, red terminal or blue? He knew the rest. Damned if he was going to ask Mostyn. Try the red. Russian roulette with terminals. Red? Correct. No bang. All terminals out. Bit of trouble with the black. First canister—the size of a Golden Syrup tin. Out easily. No problems. Fifteen minutes.

  ‘Let’s have the rope.’ His voice loud in the silence, unbroken except for the splash of water. He grabbed the webbing harness, buckled it round the canister and gave a gentle tug on the rope. The canister lifted away from him. Now the forward tin.

  Boysie had just begun to unscrew when he heard a sharp scraping noise. He stopped, a chill sweeping through the sweat under the rubber. The noise again, from the other side of the missile. Then, a faint metallic dragging sound. Pulling himself up, he tried to peer over the fuselage. Ice charged through his carotid arteries, while his scalp seemed to have been dusted with itching powder. As Boysie’s eyes came up over the fuselage so another shape rose from the far side of the missile. A head, rubber-hooded, like his own, but the face obscured by a Nemrod mask.

  Apart from the natural symptoms of shock, Boysie’s first instinct was one of intense fury. Someone else was trying to get into his missile from the other side.

  ‘What the bloody ...?’

  ‘I shouldn’t bother, Mr Oakes. Just giving you a hand. We felt it might be important to salvage the canisters. We don’t want the wrong people to get them.’ He knew the voice. Somewhere recently. The thing from the lake spoke again. ‘If you’re thinking of being silly I should take a look at your friend.’

  Boysie twisted his head, moving to get out of the glare from the spot. Mostyn leaned over the side of the hovercraft cockpit. He hunched his shoulders, lifting his palms upwards in a ‘that’s life’ gesture. Behind him stood a large young man wearing a polo-neck sweater. The young man had an Avtomat Kalashnikov rifle stuck in Mostyn’s ear. Above them, sitting like Humpty Dumpty on the cockpit canopy, was Kadjawaji.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this, Boysie Oakes. Since the train.’

  Boysie was tempted to the ‘Har-har so we meet again’ bit.

  ‘Get on, Boysie Oakes. I don’t mind you being here for the bang.’ The thin, hideous voice ended in a cackle. ‘But we’d rather like to leave before then.’

  It was all too much. Boysie looked from the frogman to Kadjawaji, to Mostyn and back to Kadjawaji.

  ‘Still got your air pistol?’ Was all his brain could signal to the vocal chords.

  ‘It’s right here and I can use it if you like. Our friend will finish the work. I apologise for being so old fashioned—using an air pistol of such power.’ There was a ‘pfutt’ from Kadjawaji’s right hand (the sling had disappeared) and something clanged into the wing an inch or so from Boysie’s leg. Kadjawaji cackled again—the squeal of an animal in pain. ‘Old, but effective. They make the darts specially for me. Nice engineering with a unique draining device for the curare. Get on with it, Oakes.’ The miniman drummed his legs on the side of the cockpit.

  ‘I should do as he says.’ The voice from the other side of the fuselage. Boysie turned. The merman lifted his mask. It was St Peter—the concierge from the Palmira.

  Boysie wanted to scream. It was so unfair. He had never asked for this. You just could not trust anybody in this game.

  ‘Please, Mr Oakes.’ St Peter could have been speaking to him from behind the reception desk. ‘I will deal with the canister on this side. We haven’t much time left I’m sure.’

  There was nothing Boysie could do. He had to play for time. They never gave him time to think. A few weeks in the Bahamas with sand trickling through his toes; palm trees and time to do nothing but think. His mind did its usual grasshopper stunt—leaping from stupid idea to stupid idea. The process ended nowhere. Half-heartedly Boysie settled down to unscrewing the second canister.

  ‘I bet you had a good laugh at me then.’ Dismally, he called to St Peter.

  ‘On the contrary. Truly I’m sorry about this. I did everything I could to stop it. Send a message back to my control. Obviously he did not get it in time. They would have stopped the flight or something. The trouble is we are never kept fully in the picture. If I’d only known who Miss Wheater really was ...’

  Boysie had the canister out and was strapping it into the webbing. He pulled on the rope and Mostyn heave-hoed it into the cockpit.

  ‘I have the other one.’ St Peter leaned over the missile, the last canister in his outstretched hand. Boysie noticed there were six minutes to go. He took the canister.

  ‘I’m sorry about your Member of Parliament,’ said St Peter quietly. ‘That was on orders from my control. Penton was getting nervous and difficult. There was going to be trouble. I’m sure you would have done the same if ordered.’

  ‘You did him?’

  ‘I helped him. Yes.’

  ‘Over his balcony you helped him?’

  ‘Unhappily, yes.’

  ‘Well for god’s sake don’t tell my boss. He thinks I did it.’ He had the canister now. The webbing dangled from the cockpit. Boysie felt utterly defeated. He had rather taken to St Peter.

  ‘Brothers under our skin,’ he muttered foolishly, and buckled the canister into place. This time his eyes followed it on its journey upwards. Mostyn leaned forward, lifted the canister, then, in one movement, swung round. Kadjawaji screamed as the tin hit his arm (it must have still been painful)—the ai
r pistol clattering down the side of the hovercraft. Mostyn followed through, still turning, bringing the guard’s AK rifle muzzle over his right shoulder, nudging it away with his chin as he began to spit. His right arm continued to sweep upwards and the rifle stopped firing—the guard falling backwards, jaw cracking under the perfect right hook. All this in one flowing movement. At the same time, Mostyn was yelling, ‘Come on. Come on, Boysie.’ His left hand under the unconscious guard’s knees, tipping him out of the cockpit.

  Boysie slid off the wing. The whole of the Chronic Illness pitched with him, almost turning turtle. St Peter gave a surprised cry (like a sea lion’s bark, Boysie thought afterwards) as he lost hold and slipped back into the lake. Boysie saw his wing swing up again, and heard its partner on the far side, hit something, on its downward sweep, with a harsh crack. He did not wait to find out what it was—flailing out, making for the hovercraft. Hands on the bottom rung of the ladder, then pulling up, shaking and prising the fins from his feet. Over the side of the cockpit now. Mostyn back at the controls. Motors from idling to power. Above them Kadjawaji still clung to the canopy.

  ‘Pistol on the floor, Boysie.’

  Boysie already had Mostyn’s automatic in his hand, thumb flicking it from safe to fire, turning to deal with Kadjawaji—there was no sentiment, no fear and no worry about killing the dwarf. But Kadjawaji had not spent four years in a circus for nothing. The little man was standing, balanced on top of the cockpit—running back along the spine of the hovercraft. Boysie pulled himself up as the dwarf turned to face him.

  ‘Go on,’ screamed the dwarf through the motor’s roar, inviting the bullet. Boysie lifted the pistol—the notch of the backsight in line with the foresight blade, both held steady on the little black face. It was no good. A sitting duck. He could not. Not at a sitting duck. Boysie tried again and thought he read terror in the button white eyes as Kadjawaji backed away. Mostyn was turning the craft, setting course for the islands. Kadjawaji had retreated as far as the airscrew pedestal, hanging on with one baby hand. Boysie filled his lungs and hauled himself on to the top of the canopy. As his knees made contact with the smooth plexiglass surface he saw Kadjawaji move again.

  ‘Stop. For Chrissake ...’ The warning died at the same moment as the dwarf. Instinct to withdraw from danger was so great that his mind had not taken in the larger peril of the spinning airscrew. The blade tips just reached down to Kadjawaji’s head. The dwarf spun off the side of the craft in a disgusting flurry of blood and tissue. Boysie retched. There was nothing else.

  He slid back into the cockpit. Two of the canisters lay in the well of his bucket seat—the other rolled around the floor. Tenderly, he placed the three tins together in front of the seat into which he dropped. Turning, he looked back. Somewhere in the blackness a small mushroom of flame was dying on the lake’s surface. The stop watch showed exactly thirty minutes since it had been set.

  Some four minutes later he spoke. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Mostyn, frozen and keeping distance between master and slave as only the British upper crust can. ‘Thank you. Combined effort. Sorry they jumped me. Must have followed us out. Didn’t hear a thing until that goon stuck a rifle in ...’

  ‘Your earhole.’

  ‘My ear.’

  As they rounded the western end of the island Mostyn said. ‘You know what I fancy, old Oakes? You know what I really fancy?’

  ‘No. What do you fancy?’ An old time music hall act.

  ‘A slice off that Klara Thirel.’ Wicked leer.

  ‘You would. You bloody would. You’d make a peach of a pair.’

  EMERALD EPILOGUE: BRIS SAGO.

  LOCARNO. ‘ LONDON

  BEING congratulated by Skidmore—Boysie considered—was like engaging in playful combat with a bear. The old man hugged, slapped backs and pumped hands with aggressive vigour, while Fortescue danced round the canisters muttering, ‘That’ll learn ‘em. Damned Mods and Rockers.’

  Klara was talking intimate Italian to some police inspector in Locarno. One of her girls, she said, thought two motor boats had collided at speed off the island. Everyone looked pleased, and Boysie decided that it was better not to enquire into the fate of the three skiers who had actually got on to the beach. As like as not Klara would have them chained up—pets in the cellarage.

  A Senior escorted him to Il Portone—to the room prepared for him. He washed, depressed and uneasy, then made his way back, down the lift shaft for the last time, up the tunnel, across the gymnasium to Klara’s study. High jinks were in progress, with the whisky flowing. Boysie had a couple of doubles and then made his excuses.

  ‘See you in the morning, old Boysie,’ said Mostyn not taking his eyes off Klara.

  ‘Goodnight, Boysie,’ said Klara, not taking her eyes off Mostyn.

  Fortescue, collapsed in a chair, waved a skinny hand. ‘Rods and Mockers.’

  *

  They left Il Portone at ten the next day—driven by Angela in Klara’s Victor.

  ‘How did you get on with Klara?’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Mostyn, sharply.

  Mostyn waited in the car outside the Palmira while Boysie went in to collect his luggage and pay the bill. He walked across the gilded foyer, head down, not looking at anybody. Suddenly he had an aversion to locking eyes with people.

  ‘Good mornink, Mr Oakes.’

  Boysie’s head jerked up. St Peter stood smiling behind the reception desk, a large piece of sticking plaster decorating his brow.

  ‘I didn’t ... I ... bu-bu-butohh-bu?’

  ‘No, sir. I was supposed to have the week-end off. But they are short-staffed. What can you do? I had hoped to go Scuba diving.’

  ‘I didn’t know there were any Scuba in the lake.’ Boysie, dead, and buried, pan. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘A slight headache.’ Then, quietly, ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Someone has to win.’

  ‘True.’ St Peter’s lips parted in a great big dentifrice grin. ‘And, after all, it is only half-time. Wait until the game is over.’

  Boysie decided that he would not mention St Peter to Mostyn. That was his own secret. His bit of private information. Besides, they were on neutral ground.

  As Angela drove them towards the railway station, Boysie caught a glimpse of Griffin, sitting perkily at one of the tables outside the Muralo—deep in chat with a middle-aged blonde.

  ‘Funny,’ said Mostyn.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing really. Just thought I saw old Charlie Griffin outside that hotel back there.’

  ‘Griffin?’

  ‘You wouldn’t remember him. I pointed him out to you—years ago. Funny though. Had an idea he was ill. ‘Flu or something.’

  Boysie thought his bowels were going to strangle his lungs.

  He got back to the flat off Chesham Place—weak and shaky after the flight from Zürich—at eight minutes past nine. On the mat lay three bills and a postcard. The postcard bore Elizabeth’s round scrawl.

  I’m not. Hooray. Please, please call me as soon as you get back. Sandy’s found a super Italian restaurant in Chancery Lane. Love. E.

  Boysie rang. Elizabeth would be round in half an hour. He put the kettle on and began to run a bath. The doorbell pinged just as he was taking off his shirt. Petronella stood in the hall—beauty-cared, coiffured, and clad in an expensive emerald model.

  ‘Ah,’ said Boysie.

  ‘Hallo, darling. I came on the off-chance that you were back.’ A pout. ‘Hoped we could finish what we started yesterday.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Boysie again. This, he thought, had nothing on Kadjawaji or Amber Nine, or even Hector. Two birds converging. Collision courses.

  ‘Hurry up, Boysie,’ called Petronella from the bedroom.

  PURPLE POSTSCRIPT: LONDON

  ‘YOU’RE a sloth, Boysie lad. A sloth.’

  Mostyn had come in quietly, knocking Boysie’s feet off the desk, causing him to jump and drop the copy of The Times which he was q
uickly reconnoitring during Mostyn’s absence.

  It had been a hard, nervy six weeks since their return from Switzerland. Rumour, tension, threats of Royal Commissions and the continual coming and going of smooth young men in overcoats with velvet collars.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘It’s a horrible morning and what the hell’s this?’ Mostyn picking up a large card from the top of his mail, stacked tidily on the desk. ‘Lord, has that come round again?’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘Department’s Fancy Dress Dinner.’

  ‘Oh yes. That. I’ve had one. Going, sir?’

  ‘I shall go,’ said Mostyn with precision, ‘as a fancy dress ball. A purple fancy dress ball.’ He dropped the card back on to his desk. ‘And what do you find so interesting in The Times newspaper, my Boysie boy?’

  ‘Just looking through the Court Circular, and Births and Deaths, sir. Oh I did notice that Professor Skidmore’s been appointed to a Chair at one of the Californian universities. He left the organisation?’

  ‘Hadn’t you heard?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Strategic Intelligence has been disbanded.’

  ‘What? After Amber Nine? After that?’

  ‘Especially after that. You know what was in those bloody canisters?’

  ‘Germs?’

  ‘Deadly. NaCl. CaCo3 and a preparation of Bi.’

  ‘That bad? I mean. Grief. What are they?’

  ‘In plain language. Salt, chalk and bismuth.’

  ‘You mean ...?’

  Mostyn nodded. ‘Ingrid’s word got through. They played little jokies on us. And their own people, come to that. They just don’t care.’

  ‘But ...’ Boysie thought of the slaughter.

  ‘It’s all in the game, Boysie. Something for nothing. Life for laughs. Death for a handful of salt, a piece of chalk and a powder to soothe your guts.’