by John Gardner
Inside were three identical trays, well-fitting and stacked on top of each other, each tray about two inches deep. On top of each tray lay a carefully folded linen-backed paper. Boysie lifted the first tray out, took the paper and unfolded it.
Spread out it became a chart, roughly four feet by six, divided into squares, the land masses neatly painted in and marked: Belle Isle, The Cardinals, Quiberon.
Boysie looked at the tray: the immaculately carved model ships, each lying in its own pen. This was the chart and models, for the battle of Quiberon Bay, when Sir Edward Hawke chased the French, commanded by Admiral Conflans, under the great cliffs and among the rock-strewn seas of Quiberon in a heavy north-westerly gale.
Boysie took up one of the models, the Royal George, Hawke’s flagship, from which he sent the signal Form as you chase. The detail remained superb and the paintwork looked almost new. Lieutenant Robert Oakes had spent hundreds of painstaking hours over these models. The ill-fated Soleil Royal, Conflans’ ship which ran upon the Rouelle Shoal and was finally burned by the French; the seventy-four gun Thence, hit by a squall with her lee ports open ready to fire. She filled with water and sank at once: only twenty-two survivors from a company of six hundred men including Conflans’ best officer, Kersaint de Coetnempren. Superbe, into which Hawke’s ship poured two salvos. She sank immediately. Torbay, Dorsetshirp, Resolution and Warspite.
Boysie handled each model with care. It must have been three years since he had opened the box, for this was his only link with the dead man who had been his father. Even at this distance, the memory was incredibly sharp. The afternoons when the battle had been fought again and again, the man drawing a picture in words for the small boy: the gale creaming in the shrouds; the crash of gunfire rolling against the equal crash of waves; the strain-creak of the timbers.
The second tray was the Battle of the Nile: Nelson’s Vanguard, Hood’s zealous and Foley’s Goliath. Conquerant and Spartiate.
At the bottom of the box lay the most difficult of the battle games. Jutland, with its huge chart sweeping from the Skaggerrak to Scapa Flow, and the mass of ships, not so beautiful, yet sill created with delicate precision: Iron Duke, Lion (Beatty’s flagship), the doomed Invincible, Princess Royal, Queen Mary, Tiger; Lutzow, Dellinger, Seydlitz, Moltke.
Boysie stared at the chart. There was Jutland and Horn Reef, Heligoland and, he sucked in a strangled mouthful of air, Wilhelmshaven. He and his father had played many hours on this chart and with these ships; and on the chart was his father’s final resting place.
He reached out and put his hand over the name gently patting the paper. So they cut your throat, Pop. They’ve tried to cut out my balls but I’ll screw the bastards yet.
The same hell as before erupted in the office once the advertisement appeared in the evening papers. The telephones never stopped ringing, and the girls worked hard and happy. Aida, Boysie was pleased to note, seemed to treat him with a new respect, calling him ‘sir’ on every possible occasion.
“What gives with this ‘sir’ bit?” he asked her on the second morning.
“I have to show respect, don’t I? After all I respect what you’ve got.” She giggled.
Ada was pushing, constantly reminding him of his promise. In fact the whole business was becoming difficult. Each night he had to take a bookings list round to Snowflake Brightwater who, while adorable, was beginning to be a little demanding.
On the third day the name Peter Suffix appeared on the bookings list.
On the fourth, Boysie began to take the vitamin tablets recommended by his friendly chemist.
On the fifth, Mostyn showed up with the Chief in tow.
“Just thought I should take a look at the premises. Used to be a load of damn good, high class knocking shops in this area. Bloody fine people, the whores of Knightsbridge. But that must be before your time, eh young Oakes? All skinny-titted bits of bone with nothing to get hold of these days, like the three you’ve got out there.” He indicated the outer office. “Wouldn’t mind an hour or so with the fuzzy-wuzzy though, I must say.”
Boysie winced and looked angry.
“If we have some whisky in perhaps the Admiral will …?” Mostyn hurled a look at Boysie. The look was made up from a Sioux war arrow and a harpoon.
“No Chivas Regal, I’m afraid.” Boysie smiled with vicious pleasure.
“Anything for me, my dear chap. Anything at all. Long as it’s whisky. Become purely medicinal these days, you understand.”
“I understand.” Boysie uncorked the cheapest whisky they possessed.
With strained patience Mostyn and Boysie listened to the Chief’s reminiscences: mostly of whisky and whores. It must have been fun at the time, but it was abominably boring to hear second-hand.
“Brain’s gone rotten on him,” commented Mostyn after they had poured the Chief into a taxi and waved him on his way. “Got another little job for you. Tell you in the office.”
Once inside, Mostyn made himself comfortable in Boysie’s chair behind the desk.
“It appears that it makes the charter people happier if one of our representatives toddles down to the airport and has a looksee round the aircraft from time to time,” he said, like batter being poured onto a virgin’s belly.
“Guess who’s going to be the representative?” Boysie knew there were no prizes for that one.
“Well, what with you knowing all about aeroplanes and me having to trudge all the way off to black Africa.” Mostyn’s teeth were too clean to be true.
“Do I get special telephone numbers to call, and a small oblong of plastic ID?”
“All the fun of the fair.” Mostyn tossed an ID card across the table: it simply showed that Brian Ian Oakes was the representative of Air Apparent Limited, and that he had authority to inspect aircraft chartered to Air Apparent by Excelsior Airlines. There were also permits to the apron and loading bays at Gatwick and Heathrow.
“I would imagine that the thirteenth would be as good a time as any. Evening before the flight’s due out.” Mostyn flashed an insincere smile on and off, quick as a blink. “Dull, ordinary sort of job, isn’t it, old Boysie? Compared with the days when I used to send you out on more exciting tasks. You ever miss it?”
“You’ve never given me time to miss it. Do you ever listen to what I tell you? Since I’ve been a jolly rogered pirate they’ve knocked the guts out of me.”
“I trust it is the girls who are jolly rogered,” was all Mostyn replied.
That evening Boysie carried the news to Snowflake Brightwater.
“I can all but promise that the halt, the maim, and the aphonic will have much to say about your impending visit to the aerial gateways, my darling.” Snowflake Brightwater leaned forward and kissed him tenderly on the chin. Boysie patted her knee, somewhat paternally as it had been a tiring day. First the Chief keeping an alcoholic eye on his investment; then Mostyn and his smarm; after which Ada had contrived to spend a lot of time in the office, during which she roused him fearfully.
“Our three bent and strange brothers,” continued Snowflake Brightwater, “are most concerned about one name on your passenger list. A Mr Peter Suffix. They’ve been on to me about him all of a twitter.”
“What do they want?” Boysie closed his eyes.
“A description. Better still, a photograph.”
“No can do.”
“Yes you can.”
“How?”
“I will be around with my super sleuth miniature camera when you are seeing the voyagers off into the wide blue yonder.”
He felt her hand on his knee. He kept his eyes closed and wished for sleep. Her hand rose and she began to tug gently at his zip.
“Boysie, darling, I am in need of attention. I require you to be lusty,” said Miss Snowflake Brightwater.
*
Peter Suffix and his friend sat at a window table at Gennaros. Outside, the unpleasant Soho parade continued; the watcher, the watched, the young men in search of they knew not what, older
shuffling men in raincoats that flapped around their legs; the garish near-beer spielers, the blue-pix pimps, and the gloves, dress, stockings, bra, G-string lay it all bare but do not touch, smoke-ridden clubs. The naked and the dead.
“I hope you’re right,” said Suffix digging his spoon into a large strawberry. He sliced it neatly in half, scooped up a little cream and sugar, then conveyed it to his mouth. “I sincerely hope so.”
“I think there would have been trouble before this if Oakes and the Brightwater girl were engaged in a counter operation. It’s purely an alliance for fornication. I’ve taken a lot of trouble on your behalf, Suffix. I stand to lose more than you. It was a foolish move to send your people in. Leave the security to me, dear boy. Had a lot to do with security and Intelligence in my time. Even had a file on you in front of me more’n once. So just concentrate on fighting the war you’ve fixed up for yourself.”
Another strawberry found its way to Suffix’s lips. “When it’s over my name will be public. I just want it close and safe until then. Instinct still tells me I should have sent another lot in and got rid of them both.”
“For heaven’s sake, man. They are both being protected, but how can anybody know what it’s all about? Eat your bloody strawberries and stop being so belligerent. Everybody’s watching everybody else. But nobody has the truth.”
“I have news.” Snowflake Brightwater had taken to wearing a micro-kilt and no tights in the evenings. She maintained it was quicker. It was certainly, more provocative. Boysie entered the flat, eyebrows raised to question her statement.
“Have our loquacious trio decided to make a disc? Top of the Pops: Pesterlicker and the Tongues of Fire.” He followed her into the living room and took the large brandy she had ready for him.
“Sit down and a tale I shall unfold.”
He sat.
Snowflake Brightwater sank to the floor in a delicate movement which ended in the lotus position. She looked up at Boysie and treated him to a smile which would have made the Invitation Waltz seem like the bum’s rush. “We are to perform an assignment together.”
“Who says?” A wary edge to Boysie’s question.
“Mr Frobisher.”
“Frobisher can go leap into the nearest sewer. I do what is asked of me and that’s all.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do anything extra. You’re going to Gatwick to inspect the aircraft on the thirteenth, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Suspicious.
“So am I.”
“Are you now? Frobisher say so?”
“Yes, my gentle sweeting.”
“And did he provide documentation? You can’t get in on mine.”
“I have everything. Don’t tell me you are blind to my allurements. They want me to go with you.”
“What’s the matter, don’t they trust me? They think I’m going to climb aboard and soar off to pastures new before they get their pound of flesh?”
“Don’t be so touchy. They simply feel that two heads are better than one.”
“Not if they’re on the same pair of shoulders.”
Some time later Boysie asked her what she made of the whole situation.
“I don’t know. Really I do not. I cannot make up my mind.”
“You’ve worked for Frobisher, Pesterlicker and Colefax before, baby. Has there never been anything like this?”
“Not a thing. I have slaved in offices for them, checking on irregularities and the like. I’ve even been a decoy. I know they sometimes use unpleasant persons. But this one is strange.”
“I can’t figure it. You’ve never been involved in violence before? Like the other night?”
Her face changed colour, filtering to a dirty shade of parchment. “Don’t remind me.”
“You still scared?”
“Of course.”
“With any luck it’ll all be over next month.”
“It’s this month that concerns me. Your man …What’s his name?”
“Mostyn.”
“Mostyn tells you to go and look at the aircraft on the thirteenth. Frobisher says I have to hold your hand. It’s almost as though Mostyn wants you to see something, and Frobisher needs me there as a witness. Perhaps they don’t trust you, Boysie. You may be right.”
“I shall be damned glad when the thirteenth is over and done with,” mused Boysie.
9
Mostyn had made no new provision for picking up passengers. When Boysie broached the subject he merely gave an arch smile and said that they seemed to have managed well enough last time.
“But this is different. This time we’ve got to do it in daylight.” The flight was scheduled out at noon on the fourteenth.
“Doesn’t make it different, old lad. Calls for a little more ingenuity, that’s all. Your problem. I’m sure you’ll do wonders.”
Boysie checked the booking lists and found that Suffix had elected to check in at Gatwick under his own steam.
“Your friend Frobisher’ll have to fix that one,” he told Snowflake Brightwater. “I’ve never put eyes on the man so I won’t be able to finger him for you. Anyway I shall be fighting through the seething mob at Victoria Coach Station, won’t I? If you want a snap of Suffix you’ll have to make your own arrangements.”
“Oh, what it must be to live such a purposeful and active life, Boysie, light of my heart. Running an airline must be so exacting.”
“It’s bloody hard graft.”
Nevertheless, Boysie was enjoying himself for at least part of the time. When he thought of the stranglehold Frobisher and company held over him, his joy turned into a nagging worry; for he was only half certain that it was Mostyn they were after. It was very plain that if things came to a legal crunch it was B. Oakes who would have to carry the can. There was also Mostyn: he was to Boysie what the Black Death must have been to ordinary Joes during the Middle Ages. Mostyn was the power behind Air Apparent. But what was Mostyn really at?
Yet, as far as the office was concerned, things swung. The aircraft was almost fully booked. Money rolled in: folding money, cheques and chink. The girls were happy. Tentative advances were made. Boysie held his ground.
Mostyn departed for Africa on the tenth and everyone sighed as though they had removed a pinching girdle. When Mostyn was in London you were never sure of his movements. He would not come near the office for days: then his descent upon it would be swift, soft-shoed and critical. If he paid a visit, routine went to pieces and they were all nervous for the rest of the day.
On the night of the eleventh, Boysie had a nightmare. When Boysie dreamed it was usually in technicolor. This one was technicolor, cinerama and stereo sound.
He walked along an endless beach, pebbles: the crunch of stones under his feet, a rhythm which got louder and louder until he was conscious of another person walking with him. He looked up. The man was with him but seemed a long way off. Tall, brown faced with a mess on his collar. Blood. Blood all round his collar. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Anxiety. Gunfire.
Ships off-shore. Sails bowing and flapping and the noise of gunfire. He was on the deck of some wooden fighting ship. Shot hitting the. sails. The man with whom he had been walking lay on the deck. The deck unsteady under him. Shouting. Mostyn with a cutlass bearing down on him. Run. Running across the sea, only the sea was some kind of morass which dragged at his feet and Mostyn was behind. There were others coming from in front. A man in a wheelchair and others. Noise. He turned and a huge elephant rose from the sea, side on. It was draped in some red fringed cloth. Then the cloth rolled up. An horrific roar and the side of the elephant split open to form a massive, revolting pair of jaws. Sharp teeth. Red beyond. Red, red, red, red, dead, dead, dead, red, red, dead …
*
On the night of the thirteenth, Boysie picked up Snowflake Brightwater at the Eaton Place flat just before nine.
Boysie had chosen his narrowest dark slacks and a dark green turtleneck to wear under a tight-fitting cord jacket. He did not want clothing flapping around. On his fee
t were canvas lace-up shoes with thick rubber soles. In the jacket pockets he carried a small torch, spare ammunition, a small leather case containing miniature screwdrivers, pliers and wire cutters. The Diamondback was snug in his hip pocket.
Activities in the past told him to be well prepared when Mostyn sent him on some casual expedition.
Snowflake Brightwater had also been sensible. A black pants suit and no dangling chains. The only bulges were natural.
Boysie had called Excelsior for a clearance during the afternoon. They drove out in Snowflake’s Merc.
Activity at Gatwick was steady but not at crunch level. A tired, baggy-eyed young man in uniform and a cap, which said Excelsior Airlines across the front in gold, manned the Excelsior desk. Boysie flashed his ID and the young man yawned. “Yes. They said you’d probably look in. The aircraft’s on the parkway, just off the apron, to the left of the terminal. She only got back from Cyprus this afternoon but I think they’ve finished cleaning and juicing her. Golf-Alfa, Echo, Bravo. She’s open and the steps are down. You can’t miss her.”
He did not even ask to see Snowflake Brightwater’s identification.
There was plenty of light from the arcs, on the apron and parkways; and it was chilly, a firm steady breeze blowing across the airfield. A British United BAC-III was whining along the taxiway heading for the threshold, its engine noise carried to them on the wind, hitting their ears with a howl which made them cringe.
There were three big aircraft parked together. A VC-IO, one of British United’s fleet, and two 707s, one belonging to Air India, the second in the green, white and gold livery of Excelsior …
The steps were in place at the forward door. They walked round the aircraft once for the look of it in case anyone was bothering to watch. It seemed just like any other Boeing on the ground: cumbersome out of its element, impossible to believe that this long tube, with engine-weighted wings and a fin, had the ability to carry a couple of hundred people over thousands of miles, high above the weather.
On the starboard side the forward cargo door was open with a Ramp Veyor in position. An open gash, empty in the side of the aircraft. The elephant of his dream came bright and uncomfortable into Boysie’s mind.
