by John Gardner
I went and sat on the bed. Hester played with the cameras.
‘To you the questions will be obvious.’
Styles nodded gravely. ‘Journalists and authors of your limited ability are always obvious, Upsdale. That’s why I agreed to the interview. You must have realized that.’
‘Do you ever regret coming to Moscow?’
‘Of course. I’ve never denied it. There are more comforts in the West. I could work for that which I believe and live well. I can do that here. The elements of decadence can be found in any city. I can get drunk. There are plenty of women. One can indulge any quirk.’
‘But you said you regret...’
‘Quite. Here things are not as smooth. How can I put it? There is no stereo background music. It’s purely physical and in time it will pass.’
‘Politically you have no regrets?’
He sniggered. ‘I’ve lived with this political system since I was an undergraduate. Then we all saw the fissures. Only now the people of the West are starting to see the real cracks in the so-called democratic system. The democratic world is in ferment. A double, even triple, standard of living. The breakdown of credit. The racist war. The ideals of the young not harnessed to the facts of experience, creating the hippie generation. Crime. Cosa Nostra. Drugs. Violence. Non-comprehension by governments obsessed with short term policies and not seeing the whole breakdown of the Western style of government is at stake. No, I prefer it Eastern style.’
‘Good quotable material, Mr. Styles. Can I get back to the things physical?’ It was obvious that Styles was balanced precariously on a watershed, his Utopian political thought flowing down one side, his desires as a living man trickling down the other.
He indicated the affirmative with a small precise gesture, the fingers of his right hand straightening and then relaxing again. At the same moment he saw the Seagram’s. The flick of a smile, the eyes registering greed.
‘Are there any particular things that you miss? For instance I once talked to an exile who spent a lot of time thinking about the smoked salmon sandwiches at Harrods’ Silver Grill.’
His lips pursed, trying to erase the smile.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ He nodded towards the bottle.
I hesitated, looking in the direction of his nod. ‘Yes.’
‘I miss that.’
‘You’d like some?’ I hoped not to sound too quick.
‘Very much.’ The smile again.
‘Hester?’ I asked, closing in on the bottle as a fighter locks on to an enemy missile.
‘Not for me. I’ve been dry for six months and I don’t want to start all that again.’
‘Then I’ll join you.’ I clamped the glasses between thumb and forefinger of my left hand, lifting them from the shelf above the wash basin and transferring them to the table.
‘Neat?’ I asked, uncorking the liquor.
‘How else?’
In the silence that followed I could hear Hester’s breathing. The glug as the amber liquid slopped into the glasses. He reached out and took a glass. I picked up mine and raised it.
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
The glass was at his lips as I rose. ‘Think I’ll have a spot of water with mine.’
He sipped and savoured, nodding seriously. I crossed behind him heading for the wash basin.
Styles put the glass to his lips again and tipped the contents into his mouth. He tipped and tipped and kept going backwards. Then his arm fell away, the glass rolling over the carpet and the man, eyes closed, huddled in the chair.
For a small person he was heavy. We had dumped the straps and rope in my case before dinner in order to move fast.
‘So what does happen now? When the dynamic duo downstairs get him?’ I hauled on the strap, buckling it in place, grunting and panting like a buffalo.
‘We go to ground.’
‘In Moscow?’
‘The Embassy. To Freezer.’
‘That bag of bones. There, he’ll do.’ I tightened the rope.
Hester slid the window up and the room was transformed. Siberia yet. A narrow road ran behind the hotel, from this height it looked two inches wide. On the far side, a scruffy area of grass and scrub, then the canal, some kind of factory behind which the city lights blazed. Below and along the road it was quiet.
‘Come on then.’ Hester was already tugging at the recumbent Styles. ‘Get him up on the window sill and for God’s sake hang on to the rope.’
Together we heaved him on to the sill.
‘You got the rope?’
‘Yes. Have you?’
‘Fast. Right. Gently. Let him go.’
The telephone shrilled, sounding like a whole prison alarm system, as Styles slid out of the window. I felt the rope jerk and took the weight.
‘Answer the bloody thing. I’ve got him,’ hissed Hester, her feet braced against the wall, face a darkening shade of red.
I picked up the receiver. ‘Hallo.’
‘You tourist?’ It was a heavily accented female.
‘Yes, me tourist.’
‘English or American tourist?’
‘English. Who is that?’
‘For Christ’s sake hurry up,’ whispered Hester.
‘You like really good Moscow time?’
‘I’ve got a watch.’
‘No. Good time. I show you a good time in Moscow. Like in your Capitalist cities. You be very much at home with me.’
Hester made noises like a stuck pig. ‘Rex...who the hell...hurry up...’
‘I’m having a good time.’
‘But I give best time in town. Big tits like American film stars. Nylon panties like British housewife. I even beat hell out of you if you so desire. I tell you where we meet.’
‘No thank you. I think you’re breaking the law.’
‘I’m breaking my guts.’ Hester looked seven days constipated.
I put down the phone and took some of the strain.
‘Who the devil was that?’ she asked through clenched teeth.
‘A whore. I’ve heard they operate through hotel telephones here but it hasn’t happened before. I’ve been solicited.’
‘You’d like me to hang on here while you go and make her?’
‘Don’t think so. High incidence of Mongolian black pox among the local ladies I understand. Don’t want to risk that.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, perhaps we can slowly lower our friend to his staging post.’
We inched the rope down, Hester acting as anchor man. Gently we lowered Styles.
‘Should be about it. I’ll take the strain again while you look out.’
I let go of the rope and leaned over the sill. In the street below all was silence. Nearer home, Kit Styles swayed gently in front of the window directly under mine.
‘He’s there.’ I shouted.
‘Shhhhh. Have they got him?’
‘Can’t see anyone else.’
‘There must be. They’ve got to be there by now.’
‘I can only see Styles.’
‘Let me have a look.’
Styles’s swinging form oscillated wildly and the rope snaked through my fingers.
We grabbed at the same moment. Rope burning skin; our bodies thrown together against the wall and window by the jerk of Styles’s dangling weight.
‘You hold him while I look,’ snarled Hester after a sewage-full of abuse. She leaned forward out of the window and gently called. ‘Colonel Mostyn. Yoo-hoo. Are you there? Mr. Oakes. Hallo down there.’
‘There ain’t nobody here but us gutters,’ I gasped. Styles was a small man, but on the end of a rope he took some holding.
‘I think you’re right.’ Hester turned back into the room scratching her head. ‘They were supposed to be on duty from eight-thirty onwards.’
‘Then they’ve boo-booed haven’t they? And what the hell are we going to do with the dangling man?’
Hester thought for a moment. ‘Haul him up, leave him here an
d make a dive for the Embassy.’
‘You’re joking. Deliver ourselves up to bonefaced Slattery and his mob without Styles. They’d have us in the donor ward at Groote Schuur and I’ll tell you my heart belongs to daddy.’
‘Haul him up.’ Hester wasn’t smiling.
I shrugged as she began to heave with me on the rope. Nothing happened.
We heaved again. Still nothing.
Hester left me holding on and went to have another look.
‘I think we’ve got him stuck under a window ledge three storeys down.’
‘That’s nice.’ There was a mental picture of several high-ranking Russian officers wining and dining, looking at the window and seeing the shape of a poor rope-strung Styles passing their window.
Hester was back with me on the rope. ‘Pay it out slowly,’ she whispered. ‘If we can get him right down we might be able to move him into those bushes across the road.’
I grunted and let out the rope. After about six months the weight ceased.
‘He’s down. Into your coat and try to act naturally.’
I peered down from the window. Far below, Styles lay, spreadeagled traditionally in the road. I tossed the remaining rope out and prepared to leave the hotel.
Hester took my arm as we sauntered through the foyer and out into the night.
It took about five minutes to negotiate our way round to the back of the hotel. Styles lay on the ground, face upwards snoring contentedly.
‘He doesn’t wake up until kissed by an innocent virgin or a handsome prince,’ I quipped.
‘Stow the quips and get him into that shrubbery,’ Hester quipped back.
We undid the harness and I crossed the road to stuff it under the bushes, then, together we lifted Kit Styles and began to carry him, like body snatchers, slowly over towards the black safety of the scrub and bushes. A jet passed overhead, cutting out local noise so neither of us heard the car.
The first thing we knew was the fact of strong headlights beaming in on us about three hundred yards away. They couldn’t miss us. I tried to run, keeping up with Hester’s trot, but, like all the nightmares you’ve ever had, it was impossible. I could hear the car’s motor and we were caught square in the lights now. Nearer and nearer. Then my feet got fouled up and I tripped. Hester shrieked a couple of words which changed my sex and made me very active and we ended up in an unseemly bundle of arms and legs about three feet from the grass verge.
The car made a crunching noise as it came to rest beside me. There was the sound of shutting doors and the clump of feet.
I closed my eyes, crossed my fingers and waited.
Chapter Seven — Sometimes I Think That I’m On The Right Track
Now look what a mess you’ve gotten us into.’ It was Hester doing her Oliver Hardy imitation.
I thought she was speaking to me. Opening my eyes I saw a pair of neatly polished shoes. Brown shoes.
‘Sorry about that. We were held up. In the Embassy. They’ve cocked up the whole show. Slattery’s pulled out of it and we’re on our own.’ The owner of the brown shoes, and the voice, was Control. Behind him stood Brian looking large and worried.
‘Whip the car round the corner, Boysie, and leave it.’ Brian turned and headed back for the car, then stopped at the door. ‘Hey why can’t we use...?’
‘Not that car. The tank’s almost empty and half Moscow’ll be looking for it soon. Get rid of it.’
I swallowed. My logic had been right. ‘Colonel Mostyn, I presume?’
‘Who else did you think I was, laddie? Donald Duck?’
‘Don’t provoke him,’ leered Hester, ‘he’s got a funny sense of humour.’
‘Get Styles into the bushes.’ Mostyn began to drag the prostrate form towards the grass. Hester gave a hand and I held on to a sleeve making like I was pulling.
By the time we got settled behind a moderate clump of bushes, Brian, or Boysie, was back.
‘So what went wrong?’ Hester asked again.
‘Just to get a look in,’ I felt they were leaving me out. ‘What was supposed to happen?’
‘Hester and you were to hoof it to the Embassy. Slattery was going to get you out from there. Boysie and I had the difficult job. We had to get Styles out of Moscow. Slattery was supposed to have that fixed but he cocked it up. Stupid, addlepated, lame-brained oaf made a balls.’
‘I thought you’d left the Service.’
‘We had.’ It was Boysie from behind me. ‘Press-bloody-ganged back in again. For the one job, they said. And who do we have to work with? Bloody amateurs.’
Now look.’ Hester bridled.
‘I wasn’t talking about you. I mean slinky Slattery.’
Kit Styles moaned.
‘The point is...’ said Mostyn. ‘My god what’s that?’
I had been half-conscious of the noise for a minute or two, but now it had grown to proportions that could not be ignored. A heavy thunder-like rumble.
‘The jolly wrath of god,’ muttered Boysie.
‘Keep down, they’re coming this way.’ Mostyn pushed the senseless Styles further into the bushes and we squeezed round, huddling together and peering down the road.
They came quite fast for their size. Five of them, great rumbling ungainly hulks.
‘Russian T62s,’ whispered Mostyn.
‘We didn’t think they were Chinese.’ Boysie had a surly mood on. We stayed, hunched near to each other as the tanks went by. As the fifth disappeared down the road we could just make out the sound of another tank, far behind the others. It came nearer, its rumble a little more harsh than the others and accompanied by a clanking sound.
‘Got a nail in its shoe,’ said Boysie.
‘I forgot.’ Mostyn’s tone was filled with a note of sudden revelation. ‘You know all about tanks, old Boysie, don’t you? I mean the first time we ever met you were in charge of a tank.’
‘I did a course.’
‘You were a tank commander.’
‘What did you do in the war, daddy?’ Hester smiled tigerishly at me.
‘You know bloody well. I was a commando.’
Mostyn looked sharply in my direction. ‘You were a commando and Boysie commanded a tank. Christ. God bless America.’
The approaching, and lagging tank was definitely making a nasty noise and going slower than its departed partners. It decreased its tardy speed as it reached us.
‘He’s stopping.’ Boysie voiced the obvious as the big T62 clattered to a halt three or four yards from our bush. The hatch clanged open and the tank commander hauled himself out and dropped to the road. A few seconds later he shouted and a voice replied from inside the tank.
‘They’ve got a loose track,’ whispered Mostyn. ‘He’s told the radio operator to inform the squadron commander that it’ll take ten minutes to fix and that he’ll catch up.’
The remainder of the crew were coming out of the tank. I counted four. Four Russian sardines. Four of us plus Styles. Mostyn was way ahead of me.
‘Wait until they’ve completed the repairs before we take them.’
I peered through the foliage, brittle and freezing cold. Take them? They looked like four well built American football players. I decided to opt out. I wasn’t taking anyone anywhere.
The quartet of Russians were intent on dealing with their damaged track, the conversation interspersed with the guffaws of licentious soldiery.
Mostyn was doing a running commentary. ‘They should be through in a minute. The Commander says they’ll have to push it to catch up with the others.’
Boysie was on my right and I sensed that he had a weapon of some kind.
‘No firearms unless they start,’ said Mostyn.
There was movement as Boysie put his gun away.
‘How the hell do we take them and what good’s it going to do?’ I hissed.
‘Play it by ear.’ Mostyn cryptic.
A burst of laughter from the Russians. They were straightening up, the job finished. One of them detached himself
from the group and began to amble in our direction.
He came to a halt directly in front of the bush and began to unbutton.
With surprisingly little noise, Boysie launched himself forward. The Russian, off guard, was dragged forward, pulled down by Oakes’ clutching fist. Mostyn’s arm came up and moved down sharply. There was a thud and the sound of breath being expelled quickly.
‘Alexander Alexandrevich,’ one of the others called.
‘He was going to pee in my face.’ Hester in high dudgeon.
‘Shut up and wait for the next one.’ Mostyn crouched in readiness.
Another Russian was coming towards us. You could tell he was concerned by the way he moved. Mostyn let him pass our clump of bushes before he whipped out a hand, caught the man by the ankle and heaved. This time there was a lot of noise. The falling Russian called out and there was a nasty crunching sound as he went down, Mostyn on top of him, chopping at the back of his neck.
‘Come on.’ Boysie jogged me. I could see the remaining pair running, coming at us without hesitation. Supreme effort. Muscles do your work. But before I could get my freezing limbs going Boysie and Hester had closed with the couple.
I have never been one for brawling. Even at school I preferred to watch, managing to perfect a simulated cripple’s gait when in danger of being involved in fisticuffs.
Hester was a joy. She went for her adversary low down and his screech must have been heard for three blocks. She had been taught well, and the big Ivan did an impressive impersonation of the Wright Flyer on a bad day, coming to land quite near my right foot. I remembered the sacred words of my instructor years ago at the Commando Training Unit. ‘Never hit a man when he’s down,’ he used to say. ‘Not if you can put the boot in.’
It was quite effective. The fellow only yelled once before drifting into the veils of sleep.
We rolled him into the bushes next to his companions as Boysie dragged in number four.
‘Happy now?’ I asked Mostyn.
‘Shush,’ said Boysie, breathing deeply and trembling a little from the exertion. ‘He’s formulating a plan. He always looks like that when he’s formulating.’
Mostyn straightened decisively. ‘Strip ‘em,’ he commanded.
