Founder Member

by John Gardner

  By lunchtime on the third day, Mostyn arrived, somewhat awestruck, at ACE, Allied Command Central Europe. There the Generals, Admirals and Air Marshals, pink, puffed and purple, listened attentively to Mostyn’s evidence concerning the jolly-rogered trip on the Warbash Admiral and resultant theft of the rocket. Not unnaturally they showed special interest on hearing of Mostyn’s Search Homer lodged in Boysie’s shoes.

  By evening, NATO search and recovery aircraft were taking off for the needle-in-the-haystack survey over the thousands of miles which made up a possible area in which the relatively small Warbash Admiral might be lurking.

  A night and a day passed. Mostyn, incarcerated at ACE, began to smell defeat. Then, late on the fourth evening since the boarding of the Warbash Admiral, he was hurried to the Deputy Supreme Allied Commander Europe.

  The Deputy SACEUR was a young Brigadier, a fact which vaguely niggled Mostyn who had spluttered out, rank-wise, on reaching Colonel.

  ‘Come in and sit down, Colonel Mostyn.’

  Mostyn sat, upright, at attention, eyeing the red tabs with basic jealousy.

  ‘Smoke?’ The Brigadier stood up, pushing the cigarette box across the desk.

  Mostyn nodded acceptance. He was beginning to feel a shade uneasy. The Brigadier vaguely reminded him of his old chief at Special Security, with whom interviews usually led to danger, or, more often, disaster.

  ‘Yes.’ The Brigadier sucked his teeth as Mostyn lit a cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke ceilingwards. ‘Yes, Colonel.’ Reflectively. Then: ‘You had an interesting career in Intelligence. Envy you really. You enjoyed it?’

  ‘It was my life.’ Mostyn noncommittal.

  ‘What about this other chap? What’s ’is name …?’ The Brigadier looked down at a folder lying open on his desk, ‘Oakes? What about him?’

  ‘Well what about him, sir?’

  ‘What kind of chap? Obviously didn’t trust him a great deal. The homers in his shoes and all that skulduggery, what?’

  ‘Not that I don’t trust him …’ Mostyn started, suddenly realizing this could be a nasty catch question. ‘It’s … well, Boysie has a habit of drawing trouble like a poultice draws a boil. I simply felt happier having him bugged.’

  ‘Ha. Bugged Boysie. Good, eh? What?’

  ‘Ha-ha,’ said Mostyn waxing humorous as one always does when a senior officer makes a funny.

  ‘Yes. Decidedly fruity. How would you like to be back in the field, Colonel Mostyn?’

  ‘In what way?’ Mostyn asked slowly, as though treading barefoot through a sewer.

  ‘We’re a bit stuck to be honest.’ The Brigadier pulled at a curtain cord behind his desk. The drapes moved back to display a map: The Arctic Ocean and its environs.

  ‘An Albatross aircraft from the Norwegian base at Spitzbergen,’ his finger jabbed at the map, ‘has picked up Oakes’ homer signals.’

  Mostyn was on his feet as though rectally stung. ‘Where?’ he queried peering at the map.

  The Brigadier’s finger traced slowly across the cold paper ocean until it came to rest on a tiny spot. It might even have been a fly dropping. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Your boy is here, one of the outer islands of the Severnaya Zemlya group. Place called Ozshanya. Off the main routes. Uninhabited, but we’ve had reports of some activity there during the last eighteen months.’

  ‘Russian soil?’

  ‘Yes, but they claim to have rented it out. Private industry. A weather station and experimental area. That’s all we know.’

  ‘And that’s where Boysie is?’

  ‘That’s where at least one pair of his shoes are. Can’t rule out the possibility of him being slipped overboard, washed up here, eh?’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Tricky situation really. But we thought you would probably be the best person to do it.’

  ‘Do what?’ persisted Mostyn.

  ‘You done any parachuting lately?’ asked the Brigadier with a winsome smile.

  ‘Not lately,’ replied Mostyn, catching the drift of the situation.

  ‘Pity. Still I expect you’ll get used to it. Like swimming really. See here that you were parachute trained and did several operational drops.’ He was consulting the folder again.

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘So you said. But he is your boy, isn’t he? I mean it would be best to send you, wouldn’t it? You’d be in a better position to evaluate the situation.’

  ‘Boysie can evaluate his own position. If he’s alive then the bloody rocket is probably there with him. That’s all the evaluation you need.’

  ‘Softly, softly I’m afraid, Colonel. Delicate situation. Still technically Russian soil. But if you happened to drop from the skies, make contact, report that the rocket is there, but no Russians, then we would be able to take action.’

  Mostyn made no reply.

  ‘You leave for Spitzbergen tonight.’ The Brigadier breezy as a travel agent. ‘Once there you’ll come under the direct command of C-in-C AFNORTH.’

  ‘AFNORTH?’

  ‘Allied Forces Northern Europe. C-in-C’s one of ours. A general. He’s on his way from HQ Kolsaas to Spitz-bergen. He’ll see you well briefed and kitted out.’

  ‘And what if I refuse?’

  ‘Oh, you can’t.’ The Brigadier sounded almost offended. ‘You can’t possibly. You really should read the small print, Colonel. We’re quite at liberty to call you up in time of emergency, you and Major Oakes, both.’

  ‘In time of emergency,’ stressed Mostyn.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? Forget me head next. As far as NATO is concerned we are on Condition Red until that Saturn V is returned. I mean you can’t go pinchin’ a damn great rocket and expect to get away with it, can you?’

  An hour later, Mostyn took off for Spitzbergen.

  *

  The darkness and silence went on for a good fifteen minutes. Then the disembodied voice once more echoed round the bay.

  ‘Resume operations. Okay lights, she’s gone, nothing to worry about.’

  ‘And down we all go.’ Solomon was behind them, breathing, Boysie felt, down the back of his neck. Not that Boysie minded, his limbs being almost frozen by the long, cold wait. The arcs were unleashed again, drowning the scene with their uncompromising light.

  At the bottom of the gangway, on the concrete dockside, stood a BV 202 articulated-steering tracked vehicle. That was what it was, though Boysie did not know a BV 202 from a corporation dustcart. To him it simply looked like any other squat, metallic and ugly half-track transporter.

  The goons went to the rear section and began to load the baggage. The driver nodded to Solomon and continued to stamp — and blow his hands, breath turning into visible clouds as it hit the cold air. At last Boysie and Constanza were ushered into the rear section. Solomon joined them, sitting opposite on the hard bench seats which ran up each side of the interior. The engine, which had been idling, now roared high. Gears thudded and the vehicle moved off up the dockside.

  The rear canvas flap had been lowered, so Boysie had no view, nor could he judge either distance or direction. The ride lasted for fifteen minutes or so. At last the BV 202 came to a standstill. The canvas flap was raised and Solomon motioned them to get out. Two men stood by the tail, both dressed in light coloured parkas, hoods up against the cold. They also had rifles slung across their shoulders and, as they turned, Boysie saw that each carried a large white circle stitched to the back of their clothing.

  They had stopped in front of a long low complex, single storeyed and stretching around them in an E shape. The air felt even colder than it had done on the bay. Somewhere to the right, a dog howled.

  ‘Straight in,’ said Solomon pointing to the glass-doored entrance hall. Inside, a large woman in slacks and white roll-necked jumper waited. Constanza, who had not spoken since they left the cabin, glanced quickly up at Boysie and smiled nervously, as though looking to him for reassurance. Boysie could offer none. To him the large lady looked l
ike a wardress, skilled in massage and other less therapeutic arts. She stepped forward as they approached.

  ‘Captain Challis?’ In front of Constanza.

  Constanza nodded the affirmative.

  ‘If you would follow me, please, I’ll show you to your quarters.’ The woman had a gruff, lesbian manner.

  Constanza switched her gaze from Boysie to Solomon, the eyes pleading more than questioning.

  ‘Go with her, Constanza. There are only five women here including yourself. Three of those are for female protection, which you just might need.’

  Constanza nodded.

  ‘One of the men’ll bring your luggage,’ said the large lady, taking her by the arm.

  She looked back once, and Boysie began to sense the appalling claustrophobic atmosphere of a prison. He looked at Solomon. ‘Where’s mine?’ He asked trying to make his lips smile. Instead of a smile the left side of Boysie’s mouth twitched nervously, a sure sign that the screaming terror would soon rack his body and mind.

  ‘You don’t get one of those,’ replied Solomon. ‘You seem to be privileged at the moment. The Sorcerer’s waiting for you with the Seducer.’

  ‘What’s holding us up then? Let’s get this show on the road.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Solomon set off up the passage which led straight on to the entrance hall. The interior of the complex was a cross between a hospital and an office building. Boysie glanced through the glass panels in some of the doors which they passed, the interiors showed neat hygienic rooms, some furnished with beds, some with desks and IBM typewriters. One was filled with rows of chairs facing a blackboard and great maps, another looked like a small well-stocked library. The floors beneath their feet were waxed to a fine polish and the air seemed to be heavy with an antiseptic smell, which Boysie associated with clinics and nursing homes, but could not place.

  At last Solomon stopped beside a plain door on which he tapped. A voice told him to enter and they stepped into an office room, decorated and furnished austerely. Three leather chairs and an unpolished desk. Doctor von Humperdinck stood in front of the desk, behind which sat a small rodent-like man. He wore a crumpled worsted suit and his sparse dark hair had a tendency to drop forward in a moth eaten fringe which he constantly had to brush from his eyes.

  ‘Ah,’ Humperdinck greeted them. ‘Here is the wise Solomon and the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.’ He smiled, but the man behind the desk showed no emotion.

  ‘Thank you Solomon. You may go for the time being. Mr. Oakes will stay with us here.’

  The rodent-like man had a nasty fanatical flash in his eyes that Boysie did not like.

  ‘Sit down, Mr. Oakes,’ said Ratty.

  ‘I am sorry, you do not know each other. No.’ Humperdinck took a step towards the desk. Boysie heard the door close as Solomon left. ‘This is the Seducer. Seducer this is my Apprentice …’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Seducer, without much love in his voice. ‘I know this is Mr. Oakes. But, Mr. Oakes, I do not know much about you. I know you were on board the Warbash Admiral. But in what capacity, Mr. Oakes? What capacity?’ He had a smooth accent. Originally German, Boysie presumed, with the gutturality removed. He did not take to the Seducer.

  ‘Capacity?’ he said trying to act dumb.

  ‘Don’t play for time. Just tell me.’ This character operated like a movie Gestapo agent. Boysie was suddenly overtaken by a feeling of distinct insecurity.

  ‘Oh. You mean what capacity,’ he said, blustering. ‘Yes. Well. To be honest I was bumming a trip home. I’ve been over in the States doing some liaison work. On the new Aerospace Flight Simulator. I’d been advised of the Saturn’s shipment to the UK. I just asked for a lift. Simple as that.’ Boysie lied, feverishly hoping for the best.

  ‘Then you were not with the technical staff?’

  ‘What technical staff?’

  For a moment that seemed to pacify the Seducer. ‘Then if you were not with the technical staff, were you by any chance concerned with security?’

  ‘Not guilty,’ said Boysie, crossing his fingers to ward off the evil eye.

  ‘He is most interested in the project,’ interpolated the Sorcerer.

  ‘You told me,’ replied the Seducer. ‘You have only told him of your part of the operation?’

  ‘What else? I am only concerned with my part of the experiment, though yours is undoubtedly the more interesting.’

  The Seducer tapped his teeth with a pencil, stood up and walked round the desk as though inspecting Boysie. At last, ‘He would make an admirable back-up for my experiment.’

  ‘You need a back-up?’

  ‘Why do you think I have kept Miss Challis here? The next three days will be crucial. The slightest cold, a sore throat, some minor disorder and the test could be ruined.’ He turned to Boysie. ‘You have no sexual deviations?’

  ‘Hey, what do you mean by …?’

  ‘I mean you are not queer?’

  ‘I …’ Boysie half-rose, furious.

  ‘I think you can take the answer as being in the negative,’ said the Sorcerer. ‘Or you could ask Captain Challis.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Boysie, anger having taken over from fear. ‘You do that. You ask Constanza. What’s sex got to do with it anyway?’

  Both the Seducer and the Sorcerer laughed. ‘You may have a chance to find out. It could be most pleasant for you. It could also make you. Money and fame I mean.’

  *

  A hundred images were floating round Boysie’s mind. The words which came from both the Seducer and the Sorcerer were simply words. He could not reach behind the words and find any pattern or meaning. Space. Sexual deviations. Cold. A sore throat. Back-up. Constanza was a back-up. What the hell …?

  Boysie came out of the strange tangled conversation to hear the Seducer saying, ‘… She is being given the tablets now. They will bring her rhythm in line with that of Sonya. This is why we only have three days.’ The Seducer wheeled round on Boysie. ‘One simple question, Mr. Oakes.’

  It’d better be bloody simple, thought Boysie putting on his intelligent face, the one that made him look even more vacant, like a male model.

  ‘Tell me,’ began the Seducer, ‘what are Kelper’s Laws?’

  He might as well have asked Boysie to fly round the room or collect droppings from a rocking horse.

  ‘Kelper’s Laws?’ Boysie playing for time. Five seconds felt like five minutes.

  Then chaos broke loose. A clamour of bells, followed by a weird, low, hooting noise.

  The Seducer belched a Teutonic oath and dived for the door. High in the passageway Boysie saw a small panel now flashing with red light. A crimson arrow pointing down the passage towards the entrance hall and pulsating in time with the hooting noise. Solomon was already running. Like sheep, the Sorcerer and the Seducer followed, with Boysie puffing slightly in the rear.

  They reached the entrance hall, a shaft of freezing air bursting in as Solomon breasted the doors like a runner at the tape. By the time they reached the outside, Solomon was dashing away from, and to the left of, the building. Three spotlights were fingering, pointing to the left, probing as though trying to pin something down. Then, first one shaft of light, then the others, converged on one spot. A small, lone figure, whirled like some grotesque dancer, the arms trying to cover its eyes. Boysie stood fascinated, barely noticing that the Seducer and the Sorcerer were beside him.

  Across the freezing night they heard Solomon shouting. ‘Stop. Stand quite still. Stop, otherwise …’ The rest of the sentence was carried away by the air and a hungry yelping of dogs.

  There were two of them, huge Alsatians, bearing down on the little twisting figure still making a desperate bid for safety. Solomon was shouting again as the first dog leaped and brought the figure down. Then the other dog was in, growling and tearing as the creature screamed, loud, shrill piercing and horrible screams. Shrieks of anguish suddenly merging into one single high-pitched cry which died at its apogee.

  Solomo
n’s arm was up. Three flashes from his hand followed by three cracks as the sound of his automatic, fired into the air, reached the little group of watchers by the entrance to the complex.

  The dogs turned towards Solomon. They stood still and quivering, occasionally tossing their heads in a low growl towards the bundle which lay motionless at their feet. Another figure had now appeared in the circle of light thrown by the spots. He was calling to the dogs. They obeyed him somewhat reluctantly, moving towards him, away from the bundle.

  ‘I didn’t mean it to happen. It was so sudden. I was giving her the tablets when she pushed me to one side and ran for it. I couldn’t help it.’

  Boysie only part-recognized the voice. Turning he saw the large wardress lady, now shaken and trembling. Then, the implications struck home. ‘You bastard,’ he shouted, ‘God help you.’ And he began to run towards the tableau of Solomon, the dog-handler and the still figure on the ground. He heard the Sorcerer shout after him and the sound of feet, but he ran as though the killer dogs were at his heels.

  Solomon had turned the body over as Boysie reached him. Constanza Challis’s face was drawn up in a grim death mask, a face which bore on it the marks of both terror and bewilderment. On the left side of her neck the flesh had been ruthlessly torn, ripped away. Blood had enveloped the ground where the ruptured jugular had spouted out its fountain of dark arterial gore. Boysie turned away and was disgustingly sick into the snow. He swallowed, wiped his eyes and turned. Solomon was on his feet again. Constanza had meant little but an escape into sensuality to Boysie. A ship’s captain who had, literally, passed in the night. But his whole sense of affection revolted at this violence. Fists flailing he leapt for Solomon. There was no chance. Fear, panic and anger had combined to unbalance Boysie’s judgment. Solomon stepped to one side, lifted his hand and chopped down on to Boysie’s neck. The mantle of nauseating blackness and pain closed in.