The Liquidator

by John Gardner

  If he looked down the cabin he could see her hand resting on the aisle seat five rows to his right; her forefinger running rhythmically up and down the edge of the ashtray, as though she were trying to smooth out the metal. Perhaps this was the outward sign of some inward trepidation. Perhaps she was frightened as well. But he would never know. Boysie could never bring himself to ask her - even if they ever did get to Nice!

  'Good-morning, ladies and gentlemen. Captain Andrews and his crew welcome you on board this Comet of British European Airways. In a few minutes we will be taking off for Nice. We will be flying at a height of...' The stewardess' voice pattered out the mechanical greetings in English and French. Boysie blanched at the usual request for passengers to read the safety instructions, and the qualifying sentence about this being only a 'routine measure'.

  Up on the flight deck, they were completing the long pre-take-off drill as the aircraft neared the threshold - '...rudder limiter out, cabin signs on, inverters on, fuel cocks check, radio check ...' Cleared by Control, the big silver dart swept in a tight turn on to the runway, the Captain twisting the nosewheel steering to line up for the final race into the air.

  'All right, let's try this one.' Captain Andrews looked round. 'Give me full power.' The Flight Engineer leaned forward between the pilots' seats and put the flat of his hand across the throttles, holding them steady as the Captain eased the jets into their upwards roar.

  'Full power.'

  'Rolling.'

  The rpm indicators showed a steady 8,000 as they trundled out; speed building up; the nosewheel hugging the centre of the tarmac; the horizon steady; the needles on the airspeed indicators travelling in their smooth arcs and the First Officer shouting above the noise:

  'Airspeed both sides .. . one hundred knots ... V-One ... Rotate!'

  Andrews eased back on the control column yoke. The nose lifted and the ground fell away.

  'V-Two ... noise abatement climb.' The Captain put the Comet into a steep full­power climb that took them up to one thousand five hundred feet in a matter of seconds, quickly reducing the earsplitting whine that fractured the nerves of householders in the immediate vicinity of the airport.

  Boysie, still sitting rigid, retched, made a grab for the little brown bag poking from the net holder on the seat in front, and was noisily sick. The man sitting next to him looked embarrassed and turned away.

  Later, after the illuminated sign - fasten seat belts. No smoking - had flicked off, the stewardess collected the bag, exchanging it for a large Courvoisier to settle the 'queasy tummy'.

  'Something I ate last night,' lied Boysie. 'Been feeling a bit off ever since I got up.'

  His neighbour swapped a knowing look with the stewardess, and Boysie pushed the cylindrical button under the chair arm, slid the seat back into the dental reclining position, closed his eyes and tried to blot the vacuum hum of engines from his mind.

  As always at times of tension or stress, Boysie's lips began to move - showering a soundless stream of obscenities in the direction of Mostyn, the man he ever held responsible for any terror that came his way.

  Slowly, as though the inaudible invective acted as a soporific, he seemed to relax. At the end of it all there would be Iris - lovely, lithe, athletic, red-haired Iris.

  He lit a cigarette with the Windmaster, which bore his unfortunate monogrammed initials B.O, and contemplated the svelte behind of the stewardess as she bent over a passenger farther up the aisle. If Boysie had realised what confusion was about to be released by his lecherous and carefully planned Riviera jaunt, he would have been on his knees pleading to be taken home.

  *

  In a pink and white villa nestling on a terrace above the point where the Corniche Inferieure bends into Beaulieu-sur-Mer - between Nice and Monaco - a man called Sheriek was replacing the telephone receiver.

  'The London people are really excellent, my dear,' he said to the girl who was engrossed in varnishing the toe-nails of her right foot. 'He is on his way. Unfortunately, there is a woman in tow, but I don't think she will cause us much trouble - a minor detail.'

  The girl cursed mildly as a drop of Dior 135 spilled on to the hem of her eau de nil housecoat.

  Sheriek continued, his soft accent almost running the words together: 'They also tell me that our co-ordinator for this operation - someone rather important - is en route. It is up to us: we must show some enthusiasm, my dear. In fact, I think we should take steps before we are contacted, just to prove that we are on the ball - as our American friends so quaintly put it. A drink?'

  *

  At London Airport a young man in a cavalry-twill suit was dialling a Whitehall number and asking for 'Number Two.'

  *

  The Comet crossed the Channel coast, nosing along the airways towards Nice.

  2 - London

  Saturday June 8th 1963

  MOSTYN

  About five minutes after the Comet whistled out of the London area, James George Mostyn declaimed loudly, and with some venom, that Boysie Oakes was a bastard. Finding himself not wholly satisfied with this sentiment, he went on to add that Iris Macintosh was a whore.

  The telephone was ringing when Mostyn opened his office door, and he bellowed for Iris only a fraction of a second before recalling that this was her free weekend. The bell sounded ominously insistent, so, without going through his normal, precise routine by the hatstand, Mostyn crossed to the desk, swung himself into a sitting position on its corner, picked up the receiver and pushed his bowler on to the back of his head with the handle of his black-sheathed umbrella.

  'Mostyn!' he barked in a manner suggesting that the caller could not have chosen a worse time to ring.

  'Fly,' grunted a voice at the other end.

  'What?' Mostyn sounded incredulous, the meaning of the odd salutation not clicking into place until after he spoke. There were over two hundred such monosyllabic references which, as 2IC of the Department of Special Security, he was supposed to carry around in his head - no mean feat when one considered the constantly changing pattern of individual code titles. This one, however, was comparatively easy, despite the fact that, on this particular morning, Mostyn was undoubtedly a mite hung-over. The Embassy party of the previous evening had later turned into a gymnastic and not unpleasant orgy for two - the ex-wife of an unseated Conservative MP playing a considerable, and somewhat exhausting part.

  'Fly.' The voice repeated the official designation for the Department's duty stake-out man at London Airport.

  'Fly,' retaliated Mostyn at a quizzical drawl. 'Well hullo, buttons.'

  Martin, the airport man, looked out of the telephone booth into the long limbo of the main concourse in Queen's Building and sighed. Mostyn's little jokes were legend, and he had heard this one over two years ago while still at the Training Establishment.

  Mostyn settled himself more comfortably on the desk corner - a short compact man of fifty-one, with the shrewd brown eyes of a water rat. He began to swing the umbrella backwards and forwards, controlling it with the thumb and forefinger so that it just missed the chiselled toe-caps of his black town brogues.

  'And what can we do for you, old Fly?' The voice, as ever, was edged with boredom.

  Martin instinctively wondered whether his report was really worthwhile:

  'Well, it's probably nothing to worry about, but I thought you ought to know ...'

  'You can never be too conscientious, Fly.'

  '...one of your brighter boys has just left the country.'

  'And who might that be?' Mostyn knew of three agents who were due out over the weekend and his immediate reaction was that Central Control had omitted to brief Fly. Someone would have to be peed upon from several thousand feet.

  'It's "L''.'

  It was as though some hidden mechanism had sprung a loaded hypodermic needle hard into Mostyn's rump. The whole of his body stiffened; the condescending smile disappeared; the jaw sagged, and then the shoulders drooped. When he spoke, his voice had lost the soothing
quality replacing it with a coat of black frost:

  'Who?'

  "'L''.'

  'When?'

  'Now, just this moment.'

  'Where?'

  'Nice, by BEP Comet. I think ...'

  'One minute.'

  The hat and umbrella were on the floor and Mostyn was at the other side of the desk before Martin had time to finish. He had whipped the key-chain from his pocket and was about to unlock his 'Most Personal' drawer when he caught sight of the Duty Officer's memo on top of the small stack of papers which lay square in the centre of the leather-edged blotter. His eyes quickly took in the message and there were signs of some relief. '...out of the country ... until a.m. Tuesday ... Miramont Hotel ... non-operational.' Of course. He remembered Boysie was on stand down.

  'It's OK, Fly.' His voice was back to normal. 'He's on leave.'

  All the same, it had given him a jolt. Mostyn was always apprehensive when Boysie did anything unexpected. Even now a warning bell pinged away in the sixth sense area of his mind. He hadn't had time to make a complete assessment of the situation, but there was something not quite right about Boysie going off like this. Damn it, the fellow had been in the office only yesterday afternoon. He hadn't mentioned it then. Why the sudden flight?

  'There is one other small thing.'

  'Yes?' Mostyn was cautious.

  'Well, Idon't suppose this is anything either, but I recognised one of the other passengers ...'

  'Yes.' Even more dubious.

  'Er...your secretary, Iris...er...Whatsername ...'

  'Macintosh!... Iris Macintosh!' His voice rose as his normally ruddy colour changed into a volcanic shade of crimson:

  'Iris on the same flight as "L''?'

  'Yes, but they weren't together ...'

  'Ha!' ejaculated Mostyn in utter derision.

  '...In fact I saw them pass in the concourse. They just ignored one another.'

  'That proves it then.'

  'Looked as though they had never seen each other before.'

  Mostyn said a very rude word.

  It was immediately after replacing the receiver that Mostyn made the loud comments on Boysie's parentage and Iris's morals. In fact, he brayed so loudly that the plump girl with the big, badly brassiered breasts (whom the 2IC always seemed to get from the secretaries' pool when Iris was away) poked her head round the door:

  'You called, Colonel Mostyn?'

  'No, I did not bloody call,' he shrieked, 'but now that you're here you'd better go down to Personnel and get me Iris Macintosh's security file. Here.' He signed the request chit and threw it at her.

  The piece of paper floated across the room, the lumpy girl making a sort of scooping dive at it. Her breasts performed a weird series of parabolas against the rust and white spotted blouse. Ought to have 'em air-conditioned, thought Mostyn. Why do fat girls always wear clothes decorated with spots?

  After the secretary had bounced from the room, he sat down, rested his head on his hands, and concentrated on the situation. What the devil had got into them? They both knew the regulations. This wasn't just a matter of Boysie being a bit playful. The ruling was quite plain.

  *

  Civilian staff employed by The Department under the Grade 1 Schedule are forbidden (under Section B. Para. 1 of Special Security Standing Orders) to knowingly communicate, consort, attend public or private functions, or in any way meet or assemble with active serving members of The Department, other than on authorised duty and on premises known to, and prescribed by, their immediate supervising officers. Violation of this regulation is synonymous with a breach in the Official Secrets Act (See Sec. A, Para. 4, S.S.S.O.), and punishable by dismissal and up to 10 years' imprisonment for civilian employees: Court Martial in camera for serving members of The Department.

  *

  In other words, as Mostyn often observed to new members, 'Spies ain't allowed to meet the office birds after hours. Not on no account.'

  It was logical enough. Agents in or out of the field, only needed the information most likely to affect them personally. Some knew perhaps only five or six of their colleagues - out of the hundreds who worked for the organisation. On the other hand, many of the civilian personnel had a much broader - one might even say, panoramic - view of the strength, deployment, conditions and overall work of the Department. The no fraternisation rule was there to protect both morale and the internal security of the whole complex network.

  But how, in the name of Mata Hari, had this thing started? Boysie wasn't one to hang around the office. Mostyn swore again as memory landed the ball right on his own doorstep. Of course: the night of the big panic - about six months ago. There were no couriers and he had sent her, with the coded, sealed order, round to the flat off Chesham Place. Damn!

  He picked up the telephone.

  'I want a continental line. Get me ...' he paused, looking down at the memo, '...Get me the Hotel Miramont in Menton on the Cote D'Azure. Reception.' Then, as an afterthought: 'Tell them it's a ... a Mr Bellchambers making some enquiries.'

  With eyes fixed on the telephone, Mostyn proceeded to indulge in a reverie involving Boysie and several primitive instruments of torture. There was a particularly revolting variation of the water torture which, he recalled, the German SS had used - via the Spanish Inquisition. The subject was strapped down under a tap - he could see himself supervising the operation on Boysie - and a damp cloth placed on the tongue. A tiny stream of water was allowed to fall on the cloth. By the natural actions of swallowing and breathing, so induced, the cloth was drawn down into the throat - producing, so they said, an agonising feeling of suffocation. Mostyn had Boysie begging for mercy when the phone rang:

  'Yes?'

  'Your call to Menton.'

  'Thank you. 'Allo, 'allo.'

  'Hotel Miramont. Reception. Bonjour.'

  'I am trying to trace a young lady called Macintosh - a young English lady,' said Mostyn in accomplished French.

  'Certainly. One moment, monsieur.' The woman far away in the cool foyer sounded discreet, all-understanding. There was a pause: 'I am sorry, monsieur, we have no one registered in that name.'

  'Oh dear, this is worrying. Are you perhaps expecting anybody, mademoiselle? Anybody English?' Another pause.

  'Only an English couple later today, monsieur; but the name is not Maceentosh, it is, how do you say it? Ooks?'

  'Ooks?'

  '0-A-K-E-S. Ooks. Monsieur and Madame Ooks.'

  'No, mademoiselle,' said Mostyn with definite pleasure. 'No. Monsieur and Madame Ooks I do not know. Thank you, mademoiselle.'

  'You're welcome, monsieur. I am sorry we have not been of more service.'

  'Au revoir, mademoiselle.'

  'Au revoir, monsieur.'

  That settled it. By the pen of his aunt, he'd fix the hash of Monsieur and Madame Ooks when they got back to London on Tuesday. He might even have a special deputation waiting at the airport to meet them. Boysie and Iris were flagrantly breaking the one internal regulation that the Chief held sacred. Indeed, even if this was only a mild carnal prank with no harm done, he was going to be hard put to keep it quiet. For, while Mostyn was ready to raise all Hades against Boysie and Iris, he was not prepared to see either of them leave the Department altogether.

  He looked down and saw that his hands were shaking:

  'Oh Christ,' he blasphemed silently: for Boysie was Mostyn's special anxiety; his own private jumbo-sized cross; the thorn deep in his side; the one person who could turn the smooth, sure, cynical, sadistic Mostyn into a hairless jibbering nit-wit. When Boysie became involved in anything which even smacked mildly of nefarious dealing, Mostyn suffered the excruciating agonies of the damned. He lost whole nights of sleep and went cold from tip to toe at the very thought of Boysie getting mixed up in anything outside the Department. There were moments when he almost wished that his life had not been saved by the tall tank sergeant on that hot afternoon off the Boulevard Magenta. He reasoned also that some of his present anxiety was pro
bably for Iris - she knew a lot but she couldn't possibly know what Boysie really was: and you could never tell with people like Boysie.

  Yet sometimes he found it hard to believe that this lean, handsome man exulted in the power of immolation. Often, when Boysie turned up in the office after a job - grinning and cheerful - it was difficult to equate him with the very efficient, coolly professional hired killer. But that was certainly what he was. The Second-in-Command had seen it for himself and noted the pathological truth deep in those cold blue eyes on the afternoon when Boysie had so neatly dispatched the two Nazi undercover men. That was why he had run a special check on the man - Sergeant Brian Ian Oakes - after he had returned to England following the Paris incident. And that was how it had begun. Strange, though, that between 1944 and 1956, he had not even clapped eyes on Sergeant Oakes. By the time Boysie turned up again, so much had occurred that he had almost erased the Paris business from his mind.

  Mostyn leaned back in his swivel chair, placed the tips of his fingers together in an attitude of prayer and thought about those few decisive days which had led to the recruitment of 'L' - Brian Ian ('Boysie') Oakes.

  *

  Boysie's advent into the Department had been sudden and dramatic. In the spring of '56 Mostyn was appointed Second-in­Command. Almost immediately he found himself scuttling off to Berlin to sort out a delicate matter involving a double-agent who had threatened to sell information to the CIA. He returned to find that, in his absence, chaos had come again.

  In the space of one week there had been two enormous leaks from the Aircraft Research Establishment. Two days later, without any consultation with the Department, Scotland Yard's Special Branch - normally the executive arm of both MI5 and Special Security - had arrested a Royal Air Force officer and a civilian typist on charges involving the Official Secrets Act. Several cabinet ministers, a swarm of MPs and most of the national Press were now bleating about the inefficiency of security. They were after somebody's blood - notably the top brass of the Department.