by John Gardner
Boysie had taken a step back into the room, now he moved towards her, arms reaching forward. ‘Thank heaven. Mu-lan. Little pigeon.’
‘No, Boysie. Stop.’ She was poured into a gold and red cheongsham. Her right hand shot up her skirt, a flash of thigh above stockings, black-bowed suspenders, and a matching garter holster nestling on the inside of her right leg. Boysie stopped, looking, puzzled, into the muzzle of a .22 gold-plated Bernardelli automatic.
‘Christ. What’s that? A cigarette lighter?’ said Boysie, unsure.
‘No, Boysie, please stay away. I mean it. Ver’ sorry but should not be here. If anyone come I shoot you.’
‘Shoot me? But I thought—Mu-lan.’
‘Listen.’ Tears in her eyes.
Boysie was still fuddled. Why the tears? ‘What is it, Mu-lan? Put that thing down.’
‘Boysie, please listen.’ Hysteria behind the usual placid exterior.
‘Okay.’ Boysie quiet and relaxed. ‘What is it?’ The girl was really crying now; mascara trickled with salt tears down her cheeks.
‘All life,’ she sobbed out, ‘all life I been taught hate people like you. Hate you. From ver’ first teaching I hate. Then you love me in Berlin. I deserve die, Boysie. Me I deserve die. If they catch me I die.’
‘Hate me?’ Boysie confused. ‘You mean you’re—?’
‘I member of Jen Chia. Six, seven year now. But never have experience like loving you. That only reason I come. We not allowed privilege of love, Boysie. You un’erstand?’
‘Yes.’ Boysie quietly. Sober and waiting for his chance.
Out it came in a rush. ‘Madrigal. Tonight he hypnotised you. Ver’ clever at hypnotise. Tomorrow you remember you have appointment with him at flat Ducie Street. Ha’pas’-three in afternoon. They think you know of Jen Chia plans for slowing British economy. Making big trouble on strikes. General Kuan Hsi Shi and bad one, the American they call Shi T’ung K’u, are here. They meet Madrigal two o’clock tomorrow for final conference. You go see Madrigal ha-pas’-three. He hypnotise you again and send you to docks. He follow you. The General and Shi T’ung K’u wait. Take you on ship. China. Really take you China this time. Get much big information. Make much trouble. I come, Boysie, warn you.’
The gun was still steady in her hand though the body trembled and tears had now built into soggy pools, washing her make-up into little island patches. She took a deep breath. ‘We not allowed cry either. I traitor now. Chairman Mao once say, “We must be ruthless to our enemies, we must overpower and annihilate them.” I not ruthless because I love you. But China will overpower and annihilate.’
Mu-lan’s left hand moved on the door knob. Boysie did not try to stop her. The door closed. Her shoes made no sound on the carpeted corridor outside.
Boysie rested his hand on the telephone, then changed his mind. He had an early date with Mostyn and Griffin. Time enough to tell them then.
Chapter Nine: Python
I had an aunt in Yucatan
Who bought a Python from a man
And kept it for a pet.
She died, because she never knew
These simple little rules and few;
The Snake is living yet.
Belloc, ‘The Python’
‘Three in one, eh? Madrigal, the unpronounceable Warbler, and the equally obscure Gazpacho. The pickings, plus information on Chinese Intelligence operation in Britain.’ Mostyn paced his room at the Grand Hotel. It was like a war dance.
‘’Ypnotic spanner in the works.’ Griffin looked up from the racing page of the Daily Express. ‘’Orse runnin’ at Cheltenham today called Trilby. Reckon that’s an omen?’
They had gathered for a working breakfast in Mostyn’s suite—the table still littered with debris of bacon, eggs, coffee, toast and marmalade. Boysie had recounted the events of the previous evening, and the whole trio now realised that the pattern of the events had now changed drastically. Instead of just settling the score with Madrigal they had the whole works.
Mostyn’s war dance ended in a pose not unlike Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ but with clothes. He was slumped in the chair, left arm dangling over his knee, right elbow crooked with the fist bunched below the lips. Boysie was finishing his coffee, the eternal cigarette in his mouth. He felt apprehensive over Mostyn’s reactions—the first flush of victory now followed by this period of intensely concentrated thought. Mostyn preferred to play things by the book. He knew the book, lived with it. Look at the way he had reeled off those details about CORGI. Boysie knew exactly what was going on in his Director’s mind. Mostyn shook his head. ‘It’s not on,’ he said, almost a whisper.
Griffin put down the Express. ‘Wha’ ain’t on then?’
‘The whole thing,’ said Mostyn, ‘it’s too bloody big.’ His manner was still indecisive in spite of the words.
‘For Pete’s sake,’ said Boysie.
‘Use your noodle.’ Mostyn still undecided. ‘We’ve got three of their leaders for the asking. But this is on a national level. Christ, man, we can lay most of the recent British labour disputes smack on the Chinese doormat.’
‘All the better then.’ Griffin returned to Peter O’Sullivan, found he had exhausted that page, so flicked back to William Hickey. ‘See that Princess ’as been at it again,’ he commented.
‘This is a job for Special Branch or MI5.’ Mostyn doing it by the book again.
Love us, thought Boysie, the man’s a bloody sadistic computer. ‘The book, the book, the book,’ he said aloud. ‘Look, I want Madrigal. I want him like I’ve never wanted anyone before.’
‘Personal vengeance,’ said Mostyn, twelve denier. ‘Speaking strictly, we’re private citizens. It’s a job for the professional Intelligence and Security boys.’
‘You’re not a pro any more then,’ snapped Boysie.
That hurt. He saw Mostyn wince. You could hear the spools clicking in that computerised brain. The Director’s hands dropped to his sides in defeat. ‘Yes, I’m still a professional,’ he said, biting at the words. ‘A fact professional—’
‘Cu’ orf in yer prime.’ Griffin put down the paper.
Mostyn ignored him. ‘We can always follow Warbler and Gazpacho. If they panic, make an arrest and hand ’em over to the Jacks.’ He looked long at Boysie, then, ‘And you want Madrigal on toast. All right, you’ve done it before and he’s like a bloody animal anyway. Keep your date with him. Griffin’ll show you how to go about the rest.’ He got up and went into the bedroom.
‘Yer reely wanna do ’im, Mr. Oakes?’ Griffin steady. Boysie nodded.
‘Come over ’ere then.’ Griffin had a pencil and paper on the table. He pushed back the plates of congealing egg yolk, brushed away some of the crumbs, and started to draw. Mostyn returned with a bulky leather briefcase, tinkered with his key chain, and placed a pair of Muden Transceivers—the Japanese walkie-talkies, about the size of a twenty-five box of cigarettes—on the table.
‘You’ll need those,’ he said.
Griffin nodded over his shaky drawing. ‘Wha’ about the wire-cutters as well?’ he asked.
Mostyn inclined his head towards the briefcase. ‘You can take them in that. The other gear’s in there too. I’ll issue before we go.’
Griffin tapped his drawing with the pencil. ‘Now, Mr. Oakes,’ he began, ‘last night, when yer was all tartin’ it up at The ’Ong Kong, I took the liberty of casin’ friend Madrigal’s gaff, ’is sixth-floor apar’ment. Very nasty, a lift droppin’ down six stories. We’ve always ’ad clean accidents before, and this should be as clean as a whistle.’
‘Except the police are bound to treat it as murder. Or at least the vicious act of teenage hooliganism.’ Mostyn peeping out from behind a corner of the Guardian.
‘Shockin’ these teenagers and wha’ they gets up to,’ said Griffin. ‘Madrigal lives on the sixth floor. Nice place ’e’s go’ an’ all. Bit weird, but nice. You know. Number 64, ’bout for’y feet from the lift and the stairs. Madrigal always uses the lift. I checked that
larst night. Most of ’em do. Use the lift, I mean. Terrible, ’cause it’s such an old affair. They services it regular but it ain’t what yer might call reliable. An’ it ain’t goin’ to be reliable this afternoon when Madrigal gets in.’
‘No?’ said Boysie without emotion.
‘Definitely not. Now look ’ere, I’ve drawn it for yer. The lift’s powered by a bleedin’ great drivin’ mo’or wha’ works the cable drum. There’s a control cable goes from the mo’or t’ the lift.’
‘Yes.’ Boysie intent.
‘Take no notice o’ that. ’Cause that only controls the mo’or with the controls in the lift, the buttons like. The cable drum, now that’s a different matter.’ Boysie could see there were three lines descending down from the circle representing the cable drum.
Griffin talked on. ‘There’s three cables runnin’ from this ’ere drum to the lift. Them’s the cables wha’ takes the strain. Cu’ them, and—’
‘Capow.’ Boysie grinning.
‘No, Mr. O, rather a caplunk-boing-boing-boing. See, there’s this safety cable which operates the emergency brakes. No cable, no brakes.’
‘Oh’
‘Don’ go an’ get depressed though. Thank ’eaven it’s not a modern lift, they’re right bastards, all sorts of brakes an’ things. This baby’s only go’ the one safety cable. An’ i’ can operate quite normal without i’. So ’ere’s wha’ I suggest. You go’ an appointment wiv’ old Madders at ’arf-past-free. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘I comes wiv yer, carryin’ the briefcase wiv a pair o’ wire-cutters. Bloody great big ones we go’ an’ all. Up we goes. You gets orf at the sixth floor and goes t’ see ’is nibs ’oo reckons he’s goin’ t’ ’ypnotise yer ag’in. I keeps goin’—righ’ up t’ the top. Tenth floor. When I gets out of the lift at the tenth, I turns left an’ there’s this little fligh’ o’ metal steps, ’bout a dozen steps wiv a metal door. Control-room door, bleedin’ great notice. DANGER UNAUTHORISED PERSONS KEEP OUT. There’s a lock what’s child’s play t’ pick. Up there larst nigh’ I was for ’arf an hour. Anyway. I cuts the cable—the safety cable—leaves the door open, and spends the rest o’ the afternoon riskin’ life and limb goin’ up an’ down in the lift without a safety cable on i’. See?’
Boysie nodded.
‘Easy from then on, ain’ i’? Eventually yer’ll come out o’ Madrigal’s place t’ go to the docks—least ’e’ll think yer goin’ t’ the docks. Ah’ll be in the lift when it gets to the sixth floor. We opens and closes the door. I go down again, for the sake o’ the right noise, and yer goes beltin’ up the apples t’ the tenth and the control room. When I gets t’ the bottom, I opens and closes the lift door ag’in for—’
‘Verisimilitude,’ muttered Mostyn.
‘Wha’ ’e said. An’ then I comes up t’ the fifth floor. I walks up t’ the sixth and positions meself near Madrigal’s flat. As soon as ’is door ’andle turns I starts walkin’ t’ the stairs. I goes on down till I ’ears ’im shut the lift gate. We both go’ our walkie-talkies switched on, an’ I yells “right.” You ’ears it up in the control room and acts accordin’ly.’
‘Accordingly to what?’
‘Accordinly t’ the fact tha’ there’s a bloody great fireman’s axe on the wall o’ that there control room, and I reckon about three great mighty whacks wiv tha’ across the cables on the drum’ll do the trick. Whumpff…whumpff…whumpff…squeach…AAaaaaaagh. Crump. Bye-bye, Madrigal.’
Boysie nodded. He was not even smiling.
They went over the plan another couple of times and tested the walkie-talkies, much to Mostyn’s annoyance.
‘Well, we go’ tha’ taped then,. boss.’ Griffin rubbed his hands.
Mostyn slowly lowered his Guardian. ‘Thank heaven for little churls. What time did you say Warbler and Gazpacho were due at Madrigal’s place?’ he asked Boysie.
‘Mu-lan said about two.’
‘We’d better go on watch about then...’
‘’E’s go’ all the right lingo, ’asn’t ‘e?’ Grinning Griffin. ‘That’s all them police programmes on the tele. “On watch.” Did yer ’ear that? ’E’ll be talkin’ about keepin’ obo next.’
‘Cut it.’ Mostyn sharp. ‘There’s a lot to do before we go over to Madrigal’s. It’ll be a light luncheon, I’m afraid. Also, I don’t like it, but we’d better be safe.’ His hand was in the briefcase. He removed three revolvers—Colt Pythons—and passed one each to Griffin and Boysie, keeping one for himself. ‘Loaded,’ he said, putting an oblong box of Winchester Western 357 ammunition on the floor. ‘And take six extra rounds each. These are only to be used in emergency. Got it?’
Silently the team which made up GRIMOBO loaded their Pythons.
*
Warbler and Gazpacho stayed only a short time at Madrigal’s apartment. It was just after two-fifteen when they emerged from the building. Like a pair of Siamese twins. Across the road, Boysie sat in the driving seat of a Hertz (take it or leave it where you like) rented Vauxhall Premier. The Bentley would have been too conspicuous. Mostyn sat, surrounded by thoughts, in the front passenger seat, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.
It irritated Boysie. ‘Charge of the Light Brigade?’ he queried sarcastically.
Griffin was in the back, curled up with a German thriller, Jerry Cotton G-Man.
Both Mostyn and Boysie turned and stared at Griffin’s choice of literature. Griffin looked up and then glanced at the cover of the book. ‘Carn’t le’ me language course go t’ pot now, can I?’
A simultaneous shrug from Mostyn and Boysie. Cigarette smoke was fugging up the car. Mostyn began to wind down his window. His eyes focused on the doorway as the Siamese twins came out.
‘Action stations.’ Low. ‘Here they are.’
Boysie already had the engine running. Three pairs of eyes watched Warbler and Gazpacho walking up the pavement. A blue Austin Cambridge taxi was coming towards them. Warbler’s hand shot out in a Sieg Heil fashion. Beautifully executed. The taxi appeared to stop out of respect for the salute. I suppose there are German taxi drivers in Britain, thought Boysie. The two men climbed into the taxi, which shot past the Vauxhall, gathering speed. Boysie selected ‘Drive.’ Brake off. The car surged forward and performed an effortless one-point turn. The taxi screamed its way through the street, past Victoria Station and along Deansgate.
Boysie attached an imaginary bell to the front of his car, ringing it now and again. It did not seem to give them any priority when it came to jumping red lights. They were nearing the bottom of Deansgate when the taxi turned right.
‘Where the hell’re they going?’ Boysie shouted at Mostyn.
‘How the hell should I know? You said the Docks. Ever tried looking at a map? You can’t expect me to do it all.’
‘Quite right.’ Griffin from the rear.
‘I don’t notice you pulling any muscles.’ Mostyn angry. He consulted the street plan. ‘They’ve turned into Liverpool Road. It’s the right direction for the Docks.’
Right. Left. Then another right turn, bringing them into Regent Road. The two cars roared on.
Mostyn tapped Boysie on the shoulder. ‘Touch your forelock, old man, we’re passing a police station. There, on your left.’ Boysie switched off the imaginary bell.
Chauffeur-driven Griffin, in the back, sighed and turned the page. They were gaining on the taxi and both cars turned into Trafford Road at about the same time.
‘Dock entrance on the right. Pull over opposite the gates. We’ll watch from there,’ shouted Mostyn, winding down the window that had only been half open.
The taxi turned into the main entrance and stopped under an archway bearing the legend MANCHESTER DOCKS.
‘We at the Docks then?’ asked Griffin, looking up from his book.
Warbler and Gazpacho got out of the taxi and paid off the driver. Gazpacho seemed to be helping Warbler. A security officer sauntered over. Gazpacho spoke, shrill, loud, and with a pronounced slur. ‘Oo ’e
ck, I do ’ope we make it. We’re stewards on the MV Gardnia. We’re sho’ bloomin’ late and Fanny Haddock here isn’t too well. She can’t take her drink.’ Warbler draped an arm round Gazpacho’s shoulder and belched realistically.
‘Go on. Clear orf t’ yer ship, you bloody pair of pooves.’
‘Thanks, luvvy,’ said Gazpacho with a wilting right hand. ‘keep your back to the wall.’
The guard returned to his office, muttering, ‘Gawd ’elp the Merchant Navy.’ Gazpacho and Fanny walked to the end of the Dock Office and turned right.
‘Time to go,’ said Mostyn. ‘Wonder if they take Diners Club cards here?’
‘Eh?’ from Boysie.
‘You’ll see. Drive into the entrance.’
Boysie swung the car through the archway. Once more the security guard shuffled over. Mostyn flashed a Diners Club card under the guard’s eyes, saying, ‘Special Branch. Two men just came in. Half cut. Which way did they go?’
‘Who? Oh, that pair o’ screamers. MV Gardnia. Number 9 Dock. Turn right at the end of this building and you’re there.’
‘Thanks.’
The guard raised his hand to stop a straddle carrier that was about to cross their path. He saluted and waved them on. Mostyn turned to Boysie. ‘Don’t know what I used to do without Diners Club.’
‘A lot more, probably.’ Caustic.
They left the car by the grain elevator at the head of Number 9 Dock. Griffin stayed with it, their last line of defence.
‘Brush up your German in the meantime.’ Mostyn sly.
It fell on stony ground. ‘Raver dust up some Chinks.’ Griffin unhappy.
Mostyn and Boysie, the MOBO section of the outfit, set off in search of the Siamese Screamers, over ground criss-crossed with railway lines. A whistle sounded from behind. A DH 18, a Sentinel shunting locomotive, bearing down. Leap to the side, then a run across the lines and along the side of Shed Number 10.
‘No good sticking together. You go right. I’ll go left.’ Mostyn snappy. Boysie wished he had never given him that Strategy game for Christmas.
