by John Gardner
FOUNDER MEMBER
Boysie Oakes thriller #5
John Gardner
© John Gardner 2014
John Gardner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 1969 by Frederick Muller Ltd.
This edition published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2014.
‘Ne’er will we e’er disremember,
E’en if axe our bodies do dismember,
Or our flesh is turned to ember,
This our gracious founder member.’
Simpson’s Anthology of Ancient School Songs: Translated from the original Latin by Max Flasher
Permission to quote extracts from Sea Fever and Cargoes, both by John Masefield, is gratefully acknowledged to the Society of Authors as the literary representative of the estate of John Masefield.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Extract from The Secret Generations by John Gardner
CHAPTER ONE
SOLOMON
Solomon of saloons
And philosophic diner-out.
MR. SLUDGE, ‘THE MEDIUM’: Robert Browning
Between four and five hundred of London’s big double-decked buses pass by the Bank of England every day. To the casual observer it looks like they all gather in that area between five-thirty and six in the evening.
The Bank, the Royal Exchange and the Mansion House form a triangle which all but pinpoints the centre of the City of London — that grey sector which has been called the most important commercial square mile in the world: six hundred and forty acres within the confines of which the City of London Police wear red and white striped duty armlets, and money is the password.
On a normal weekday, the late afternoon traffic is vile; almost as bad as Paris; slightly better than the war fought daily at that time in New York. In the City, pavements become clogged with gentlemen dressed sober in black, identical in bowler hats, armed with meticulously furled umbrellas. They could be robot men leaving the factory for a test run; penny-in-the-slot men. (No. Five-bob-in-the-slot men: the City must take its percentage.) Tripping secretaries dodge between the money men and the air is heavy with speculation.
Leaving the City at this time of day demands skill, practice, determination and stamina. Getting into the City at the same time calls for similar qualities, plus the patience of a lion tamer, facets of character not possessed by the young man who was attempting such an upstream journey on this pleasant March evening in 1968.
To the uninformed, he merged into the surroundings like an egg in a grading factory. Pale faced from hours spent poring over figures, thin bodied, strong eyes set deep into his head giving the impression of twin stagnant rock pools, slightly effeminate hands with long fingers. Croupiers and trusted young executives of banking firms both have the same quick shrewd look. He could have been either.
His taxi had reached the top of Queen Victoria Street, and now both driver and passenger cursed, waiting to cross into Threadneedle Street.
The young man was visibly agitated even though he sat well back in the cab as if anxious not to be seen. The long fingers drummed on a slim briefcase, balanced flat on his knees like an invalid tray: an urgent impatience punctuated by constant peeks at his wrist watch.
He was already nearly an hour late and Sir Bruce did not like to be kept waiting. The young man, whose name was Bartholomew, became increasingly nervous about his reception. Sir Bruce’s tongue had the burning quality of acid.
It was five minutes before the taxi rolled forward again, past the Bank into Threadneedle Street, drawing up opposite one of the many alleys which run, maze-like, at right angles from the rich thoroughfare. Bartholomew paid off the driver and hurried down the narrow side street.
It is in this part of the City the merchant bankers thrive and hatch their golden eggs. Innocuous doors lead to treasure caves; shop fronts, like original Phiz illustrations, hide undreamed-of fortunes. Bartholomew paused before an entrance decorated discreetly with brass plate, neatly engraved and bearing the names of a brace of banking companies. He glanced quickly to left and right, entered and began to mount the stairs.
Two floors above, six men waited, bored, around a mahogany table laid out with the precision of a statement of accounts: blotting pads, paper, minutes of the previous meeting, all the paraphernalia of a board of directors in session. One chair was empty.
The director of the board, seated at the table’s head, remained aloof, his chair turned at an angle so that his face caught a long oblong of the sunlight’s last rays.
He gave the impression, if viewed from the far end of the table, of one who is scrupulously clean in his personal habits, his movements and attitudes bearing those marks of authority which stem from the knowledge that money buys power. Age had not wearied him, neither had the years even begun to condemn. He could have been aged fifty or a late sixty, there were no guiding marks. A short man, his clothes were tailored with expensive care without being in any way florid or distinctively individualistic, while the silver mane topping an almost Roman head, could have been groomed from fine, carefully-matched silk.
Any journalist worth his salary could easily sketch in the man’s background without putting a name to him. Town house, country house, in the Surrey Mida-mogul belt, possibly a villa abroad, certainly a Rolls-Royce, three-litre Rover, probably a Mini Cooper for luck. Profession: financier.
Though there was some kind of enigma about him, here was the nearest thing to a carbon copy of the popular picture of wealth: the stinking rich tycoon, the man who played Monopoly for real.
Three of the remaining five protagonists were miniatures of their chairman. Triplets: they thought alike, dressed alike and probably ate alike. In their own worlds they possibly spoke in terms of tens of millions and meant every five hundred thousand of it.
The fourth man was out of place. Small, nervous, like a grey rodent clad in worsted. One could only judge that his world was not that of his partners. It could be in the region of art, letters, science or even, at a pinch, religion. He had that vague fanatical look behind the bright darting eyes.
The last man, sitting to the chairman’s right, was the least easy to categorize. He had the bearing of his more influential colleagues. The same smoothness and sense of authority. But something jarred. He was big, the shoulders standing out like twin promontories of rock, and a face which gave one the impression that the natural elements had bashed it hard and regularly. It was the face of a character actor long used to being cast as captain of an old clipper. A man who had served before the mast. This, coupled with a coldness about the eyes, made one feel that he was capable of carrying the ruthlessness of business into the bloody field of violence.
The chairman shifted his position from the dimming sunlight, allowing a half-inch of ash to fall on to the carpet from the smouldering cigar clamped between the first and second fingers of his right hand.
Looking briefly at his watch, he spoke. ‘I presume he actually left on the flight we arranged.’
The hard man on his right paused in the act of kindling a cigarette. ‘He did, Sir Bruce. And the aircraft left on time. I checked. Give him a chance. Not easy getting into the City at this time in the evening.’ For all his brutal looks, the man’s style and manner suggested a surface culture. Pleasant.
‘I have to be in Woking by nine,’ observed one of the affluent trio.
‘Then if he
’s much later you’ll have to phone and put her off won’t you?’ Sir Bruce’s voice had a brusque unpleasant twang. Guttural. Something between Birmingham and Berlin. ‘We are all committed to this …’
The tap on the door cut short what was going to be a speech. Bartholomew had arrived, apologies fluttering like mating butterflies on his lips. Sir Bruce’s patience had reached boiling point.
‘Took long enough for you to get here,’ he snapped.
‘The aircraft was late. Then it was very hard to …’ began Bartholomew.
‘Save the excuses. Sit down.’
Agitated and fumbling, Bartholomew obeyed, taking the lone empty chair at the foot of the table.
All six men moved their chairs to get a better view, waiting with that expectancy usually identified with a dentist’s waiting-room or the expectant fathers’ lounge.
‘Well?’ Sir Bruce Gravestone was not noted for a gentle temper, but with Bartholomew he could hardly be less couth.
The young man swallowed, thyroid cartilage bobbing like a frenzied yo-yo. ‘Their answer is … is … their answer is … no, sir.’ Too loud and hurried for comfort.
The pause which followed was fractional yet it held the tension of ultimate catastrophe.
‘Their answer is what?’ The words came from Sir Bruce like individual pistol shots. He looked as though ready to spring at the man, animal passion ready to claw at his unfortunate underling’s throat.
A further pause.
‘Their answer is no, sir.’ Bartholomew apologetic.
Sir Bruce sucked in a great lungful of air through his teeth. It made a strange whistling sound. ‘Cretin. Moronic half-wit.’ Sharp and clean as cheese wire. ‘Why in God’s name did I have to trust you?’ He was on his feet, veins standing out on his face like rivers on a map. ‘Bungling son of a bankrupt barmaid.’
‘Please.’ It was not a plea. Bartholomew seemed to have got his second wind. ‘I’ve got all the transcripts of my talks with the Minister. I’ve done my best. That’s all I can do.’ He was digging into his briefcase. ‘I don’t think anyone could have carried this one off. Not even Harold.’
‘Harold who?’ muttered one of the partnership as though lost.
Bartholomew took no notice. ‘They sent this as well.’ He lifted a long white envelope from the briefcase and passed it up the table to Sir Bruce. A crimson seal decorated the flap, round and splayed out like drying blood. ‘I think the Minister will have explained the situation far more succinctly than I could ever hope …’
‘More succinctly,’ Sir Bruce mimicked, a pudgy hand snatching at the envelope and ripping open the flap, sliding out its contents as a man whips out a worrying bill. Quickly he ran his eyes down the pair of typewritten flimsies he had removed.
‘You stand over him with a gun?’ He blasted at Bartholomew without taking his eyes off the papers.
‘What?’ Bartholomew, blank and urbane, his mouth open in a strange grin making his face momentarily assume the look of a death mask.
‘This comrade is an ass. Positively nauseating about you.’ He stared at Bartholomew, then turned to the remainder. ‘Listen, gentlemen.’ Reading in a clerical monotone. ‘“In declining your most generous and ingenious offer we must, however, pay tribute to, and congratulate you on your choice of emissary, Mr. Bartholomew”.’ Spitting the name as a man fires phlegm from the back of his throat. ‘He is a most persuasive talker and puts your case admirably and in vivid detail.’ Sir Bruce Gravestone leaned back, still scanning the document, blowing a long, straight stream of smoke along the table. Eventually he dropped the papers gently and looked slowly round the room as if memorizing each face. Silence except for the steady grumble of traffic floating in from the nearby teeming street.
Sir Bruce placed his elbows heavily on to the mahogany. ‘It seems,’ he said in a lower key, ‘that our friends, while fully appreciating the project, feel they are already committed heavily with the Lunar experiment. They say there that it is impossible at this point to release a launch vehicle for such an enterprise.’
‘There’s also the question of their relationship with the British Government and that of not antagonizing the United States.’ Bartholomew cut in, anxious to be of help.
‘To hell with antagonizing the United States. Or United Dairies for that matter.’ The baronet’s words delivered with the force and effectiveness of a .41 Magnum bullet biting balsa wood.
‘But we’re so advanced. I have given so much.’ The little animal man twisted his hands as though attempting to unscrew them.
‘No tantrums, Schneider,’ Sir Bruce calm again. The brief calm which could blow into a squall. ‘We know of your brilliance. And we know this is very much your baby.’ He paused as a chuckle went round the table. It was a chuckle of deference. The joke was not all that amusing. ‘Just sit tight, professor. All will be well. Sit tight in your paternity space suit.’ That was a better gag. The laughter more genuine.
‘Bartholomew.’ Sir Bruce looked straight down the table as the laughter subsided. ‘I wonder if you would wait outside for a moment.’
Bartholomew looked startled, regained composure, nodded and left the room without speaking.
Sir Bruce smiled. The smile of a bank manager politely refusing an overdraft. ‘Gentlemen. A word. May I first say that regarding this project the future may look murky to you. But remember I have splashed several million pounds from my own pocket into the venture. I refuse defeat. This is something that concerns not only ourselves as individuals but the cause for which we all strive.’ He settled comfortably into his speech, enjoying the sound of his own voice. ‘The idea for the project germinated, if that is the correct word, from the good Professor Schneider here.’
He indicated the grey worsted creature. There was a congratulatory murmur. Professor Schneider made self-effacing movements with his hands coupled with clucking noises from the back of the throat.
Sir Bruce continued. ‘Professor Schneider and, of course, the other gentleman of whom we have talked a great deal.’
Schneider stopped the manual business and hen impressions, looking hurt at the mention of someone else sharing his personal glory.
Sir Bruce went on talking. ‘You will remember that long before friend Bartholomew was dispatched to our friends we obtained written permission to use Wizard for research purposes, and that for an unspecified period.’ He drew himself up to his full squatness. ‘I am glad to tell you that all work there has now been completed and the date is set. Bartholomew was instructed to obtain the necessary launch vehicle together with official backing for the experiment.’ Then, using that sepulchral tone normally reserved for senior members of the government during television broadcasts. ‘To be honest, I saw that there might be problems. Those problems, as you have just heard, have materialized. But,’ a finger stabbing the air as though dispatching a dangerous low-flying insect. ‘But, you will notice that we have not been banned from using Wizard as an operational base.’ The last words delivered like a card sharp with eight aces inside his cuff. He turned to indicate the man on his right.
‘You are all aware that Solomon here is in charge of security.’
Solomon inclined his head.
‘And it is to Solomon that we must now turn. He has come up with an idea of his own. All we really need is a launch vehicle …’
‘A launch vehicle is all we need he says.’ Schneider started repeating the miming tricks with his hands. ‘A fortune it would take to build anything approaching the Voskhod.’
Sir Bruce looked at Solomon, passing the ball with his eyes.
‘Professor Schneider,’ said Solomon. ‘I presume you wouldn’t be averse to using a Saturn V?’
The Professor dropped his hands. ‘The Saturn V is admirable. Already you have been told that.’ He answered as though the whole thing was merely academic.
‘Good,’ Solomon replied as if clinching the deal.
‘Before we go any further …’ Sir Bruce interrupted, his hand on Solomon’s s
leeve, ‘I think Bartholomew knows a little too much. He’s a dedicated man but there are degrees of dedication. Some are more dedicated than others, like equality. Perhaps …?’
‘I’ll tell him to go.’ Solomon rose. ‘I won’t keep you a moment, gentlemen.’ He walked towards the door, remarkably light on his feet for such a large man. ‘All will be taken care of,’ he said, hand on the door knob. ‘Then, Professor Schneider, I will explain how your work can become a reality.’ He grinned pleasantly. A man who probably loved children and dogs.
The door closed.
‘In spite of minor defects, Solomon is wise.’ Sir Bruce crafty as a bent door-to-door salesman. ‘I don’t really think we’re going to have a great deal of trouble providing a launch vehicle.’
*
Solomon was a wise man. Wise in the most deadly sense. Twisted, cunning, contriving, sly. A manipulator with an abnormally high IQ. His talents were many and rare, his contacts global.
Solomon was not his only name, he appeared in police files throughout the world under a multitude of anonymous guises. For the record nobody had yet succeeded in taking a photograph of him. In the markets of the Middle and Far East they spoke of him in whispers. The FBI would have liked a few words with him behind closed doors. So would Scotland Yard. European cops had itchy fingers for this large, ugly, smiling man with the deceptive powers of gentleness and persuasion.
In the anteroom, Solomon briefly told Bartholomew that he would not be needed until the morning.
Bartholomew looked relieved and departed smiling. Within a minute, Solomon was talking quietly into the telephone.
Outside, Bartholomew walked back down the alley and into Threadneedle Street, turning right and heading towards the Bank. He felt relatively carefree, having done his job as ably as he knew. Now, he looked forward to the pleasures of returning to his blonde house-mouse wife, Penelope, in Dulwich. He did not see the black Morris Oxford pull up a few yards behind him and disgorge a pair of neat young men.
