The Liquidator

by John Gardner

  'Operations - Captain Blair.'

  'Number Two here, Blair. Tell me, who is our man on the Cote D'Azur?'

  3 - Cote D'Azur

  Saturday June 8th 1963

  SHERIEK

  High over the Alps, power was reduced: the inner engines of the Comet brought back to idling in preparation for the long, gentle let­down that would bring the flight to an end in front of the 'Arrivals' building of the Nice Terminal. Coming out over the sea, the Captain selected twenty degrees of flap, and the aircraft descended in a wide steady turn, to line up with the grey wave-washed runway.

  Looking down the tilted wing, one could see nearly the whole craggy coastline - Italy in the distance veiled in a scorching haze. The sheltering mountains, massive buttresses against the horizon, stretched severely up from the water, jagged patterns against the endless blue of sky: their detail crisp, and textures vivid, in the afternoon air - savage fascias of rock: boulders light against the dark green of conifer and foliage. Below them, leaning on the foot-hills and poised around the bays, sprawled the seaboard towns: built between clusters of eucalyptus, orange, lemon and palm: their buildings sharp - angles of terra-cotta, cream, pink and mud­grey - glistening in the brilliant sun.

  The sea was so clear that, as the aircraft lost height, one could pick out the inshore rocks drowned in a honeycomb of wave-shadows; dots of foam from the bathers scattered across the surface, and the thin, white, bubbling surf spreading and clearing in flat, uneven ribbons.

  The undercarriage was down: flaps at sixty degrees: rpm 6,000. The runway lay dead ahead - heat leaping up from the hard surface, giving a shimmer of perpetual motion to the low air.

  Sitting on the terrace of the airport restaurant, Sheriek and the girl sipped their Curaçao - the coup de grace to a light lunch of Quenelles de Sole and salade vert.

  Sheriek was a smooth man: a unique creation from a cosmopolitan mixing bowl. His mother had been a Eurasian harlot, in her day the favourite of a plush brothel in Cannes; his father, the result of a sharp, sweet alliance between a Russian officer and Flamenco. Such a co-mingling of races had left its mark. The dark eyes, healthy black hair and perfect teeth came from his father's side; while his mother had provided the high cheek bones, long flat nose, thick lips and olive complexion.

  For fifty years - from the age of four - Sheriek had plied many cryptic and often highly lucrative trades up and down the playground coast. Now, feeling the first real onset of age, he was often conscious of a burdening sense of failure. To satisfy, his life needed some grand coup on which he could look back with pleasure in old age.

  Sheriek had tried often and hard - perhaps too hard - to grasp at his ambition. In his time, he had spied for at least five nations - including France, who had short­sightedly paid him off with a Croix de Guerre, the ribbon of which he wore discreetly in his buttonhole: a warning to any gendarme who might be tempted to question him about some minor offence.

  In his dreams, he saw himself as a Master Agent: a Spy Supreme with the destiny of kingdoms between his fists. In reality, he knew that he was only a very small wheel in a huge mechanism which, if he slipped out of place, would crush him as mercilessly as he, himself, would swat an insect. With this revelation there also came a deeper perception of the increasing downhill speed of advancing time. Hence, the beautiful hands - immaculately manicured and heavy with gold - with which he constantly caressed his person: feeling his arms and shoulders, running a palm up his heavy thighs, or the base of a thumb across his chest: letting his fingers glide along his forehead, over his cheek and around his chin to trickle down the neck. The movements had become predictable, habitual, as though to reassure him that the flesh and bone were still there, intact and, as yet, undecayed. For the same reason, he seldom appeared in public without a girl - preferably ostentatiously sexy: proof to the world that his physical appetite remained untarnished.

  The Comet's engines dropped to a low whine as it settled safely on to the concrete: then with a giant snarl - motors reversed to slow the landing - it rolled, braking smoothly, to the end of the runway. Sheriek leaned forward and patted the girl's hand:

  'Now. I think it is time to leave, my dear. Let us go and see if he is anything like his pretty picture.'

  'Ow! Do we have to go now? I like it here.' The girl was English: a snatch of Maida Vale interlaced with West Kensington. She pouted prettily.

  'Come along.' Sheriek was stroking the hand, as though willing some of its youth to rub off on his experienced fingers. 'The sooner we go, the sooner we get this job over, and the sooner there will be lots of money for you to buy all the little things you so want. Eh?'

  The girl turned her head to look at the big metal bird moving in towards the Terminal Building. With a rattling grumble, a Super Constellation of uncertain age trundled down the runway and took off - far too steeply – with a black trail of exhaust streaming from its port inner. Adjusting her sunglasses, the girl rose from her chair - straining upwards like a lazy cat, so that the whole of her precise body pressed outwards against her clothes in one exotic ripple. There was a sharp intake of breath from Sheriek. The girl shot him a sunbeam smile: 'Come on then, Sherry love, what are we waiting for? Lead me to him.'

  As they moved through the restaurant, several forks were arrested between plates and mouths, while eyes followed the girl's buttocks, rotating like a pair of small, well­balanced grindstones set and perfectly harmonised on slender legs.

  The couple crossed the foyer, and stationed themselves behind the knot of taxi men, hotel bus drivers and friends waiting to greet the sun-seekers newly arrived from Britain. A cluster of all-in, first-time, never­had-it-so-good tourists (like glum sheep) straggled past them into the transit lounge; murmuring against oily food, mosquitoes, the heat, warm Guinness and the prices; wishing they had returned yet again to Clacton, Margate or merry Morecambe.

  Sheriek, his eyes focused on the small, metal-fenced entrance through which the Riviera pilgrims would have to come, opened his copy of Paris Match. On the right-hand centre page, he had cellotaped a photograph: Boysie smiled jauntily at him, stuck firmly over the navel and chest of a muscular young woman in sequined briefs.

  Sheriek glanced down to re-familiarise himself with the face. The passengers were beginning to dribble into the foyer now: a tall man lugging two vast cases, followed by a thin woman with a testy infant; a studious young man clutching a paper-back Kafka; a grande dame loudly goading a sweating porter who bent visibly under what seemed to be three small cabin trunks and an out­size hat-box; two girls, all confidence and desperately Marshall and Snelgrove; a man ... a man ... Sheriek's eyes narrowed:

  'That's him, my baby. That's our boy,' he hissed.

  'Mm, is that him?' said the girl, all velvet. 'He's dishy.'

  Sheriek took her arm, spun her round, and marched her quickly through the big swing doors, out into the sun and over to the black and white Lincoln Continental parked strategically with a view of the Terminal's frontage.

  'There should be a woman,' he said, turning on the ignition. 'They told me there would be a woman. We'll just make sure: then I think we can afford to race him home. And after that, my dear, it will be up to you.'

  'He really is dishy,' said the girl, opening her compact and scrutinising a pair of temptingly arranged lips. 'Really dishy.'

  Boysie stepped out of the entrance hall, breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving for his safe return to earth, lit a cigarette, and allowed his nostrils to take in a generous measure of Riviera air.

  Odd, how quickly one forgot the particular smell of places. London had a scent all of her own; and Paris: but now he couldn't recall either. Here, along the Blue Coast, it was a subtle blend of baked earth, Ambre Solaire, naked sea-coated bodies, raw spirits, strong tobacco, new bread, the rough red Cote de Provence, with a nose-wrinkle of garlic to complete the bouquet. It was a redolence exclusive to the Cote D'Azure.

  'Taxi, monsieur?' The fat, glistening driver was motioning him towards a minute R
enault.

  'Oui ...' Boysie struggled for the right words. 'Oui ... un moment ...' The man scooped the Revelation from his feet and began to strap it to the roof rack.

  'Montez, monsieur.' He paused, then added in an uncertain accent, 'Where you go?'

  'Menton.'

  'Ah, oui, monsieur, Menton. Montez, Montez.'

  'Un moment ... er ... une fille ... ma femme ... Oh, how the hell do you say "I am waiting for my wife"?'

  ']'attends ma femme.' The voice was husky in his ear.

  Iris stood behind him, one leg thrust forward, bent at the knee, so that the gentle curve of her thigh showed smooth against the black capeskin shift dress. Her military­styled raincoat, casually thrown across her shoulders, gave an impression of studied elegance: the whole line of her body erect - almost arrogant. Below a high forehead, large brown eyes - rimmed by striking feathery lashes - looked out in a penetrating stare as though she searched for some undiscovered facet in the world around her. For a couple of seconds, the look - aimed steadily at Boysie - touched insolence; then her mouth, full to the point of petulance, spread into an open grin, softening her features and revealing a warmth not apparent when her face was in sophisticated repose.

  To Boysie, she was exquisite: from the tips of her patent cut-away court shoes to the final strands of upswept hair - the colour of polished copper.

  Apart from the language difficulty, Boysie had just about regained the poise lost on the outward flight. The arrival of Iris, at this moment in his linguistic battle, should, by rights, have knocked him off balance: even humiliated him. But, so pleased was he to see her, that it took a genuine effort of will not to disclose both his heartfelt thanks for her interruption, and his urgent physical joy at being close to her once more. For a fraction, he gawped like a schoolboy, then, as though drawing on a mantle of maturity, he gave her a relaxed, highly quizzical smile: 'Jolly good. We made it then. Marvellous,' he drawled, in a manner so like Mostyn's that she could have slapped his face.

  The taxi man whipped up her case, banging it next to the Revelation on the roof. Boysie opened the door, pushed the driver's seat forward, and helped Iris into the back of the car, letting his eyes drop to take in the quick stretch of nylon-sheathed knee and thigh, visible as her skirt rode back in the awkward jostle of settling into the machine's tiny interior. Boysie prised himself in beside her, still slyly eyeing the knees. She squeezed his hand:

  'Don't look so lascivious, darling.'

  'Sorry, sweetie, but it's quite a view.'

  Iris giggled, pulling at the shiny hem of her dress in a vain attempt at mock-modesty.

  'Glad you came?' asked Boysie, nuzzling her ear.

  'I'll tell you in the morning.' She paused; then, looking straight at him, unsmiling: 'Poor Boysie, I've kept you on a string for such a long time, haven't I? Never mind, darling, I'll do my best to make it a memorable weekend.'

  Boysie reflected that he had never known Iris in such a coming-on mood. All her reticence, the half-promises, the guarded answers and the uncertainty - which had existed even up to last night - were gone; a kind of sensual confidence taking their place.

  The large driver loaded himself into the front of the car, and with much grating of gears, they pulled away from the kerb at a speed which would not have been out of place on the Nurburgring. Horn blaring, they shaved the back of a small 'Correspondence' bus and set off towards the Promenade des Anglais.

  'À Menton!' shouted the driver, as though issuing an order to his vehicle. At the same time, he turned on the radio with a flourish, as if to show his passengers that the service provided almost all mod. cons.

  'Why do I always have to pick "characters"?' asked Boysie, closing his eyes as the Renault slid within half an inch of a motor scooter.

  'You have the consolation of knowing that he is probably thinking exactly the same thing,' said Iris, patting his arm.

  The car was filled by a violent gust of music, followed by what sounded like a stream of Gallic obscenities. The announcer was doing a commercial for a sparkling cordial which rejoices in the uncommon trade name of Pschitt! By the time they came abreast of the snooty Hotel Negresco, the word had been repeated at regular intervals in the ad. man's script and Iris was spluttering into her handkerchief.

  'Ooh, en't he coarse,' she mimicked in a soppy-date voice.

  Boysie, cackling happily, leant over and kissed her ear - briefly catching a trace of the Guerlain Chant D 'Aromes which he had bought her last week in Bond Street.

  As they turned on to the littoral road which hugs the twisting coastline, rising from Nice to Menton, the big black and white Continental shot past them with a high-volume horn blast and a swirl of dust. Boysie did not even notice: he was engrossed in running the third finger of his left hand up and down the inside of Iris' forearm - the raincoat now pushed back to show the crisp white nylon blouse which she wore under the shift.

  'Did you enjoy the flight, darling?' said Iris, the throatiness conveying her increasing sexual preparedness.

  'Bit of a bore, really,' said Boysie, still hard at work on the erogenetic area on the crook of her elbow.

  The red-canopied Royal Bar - favourite post­prandial haunt of tourists - stands immediately adjacent to the aloof, brass-plated Hotel Miramont, half-way up Menton's Avenue de Verdun. Commercially its site is perfect: only a minute from the ritzy Casino and Sporting Club, and directly opposite the palm and cacti dotted Jardin Bioves.

  The Continental drew up at the farthest extremity of the Royal's maze of tables. Sheriek stopped the motor and turned to the girl:

  'Here we are, my dear. You are certain you know what to do?'

  She nodded, resigned and bored in the oppressive heat which slewed up from the road and off the tall buildings. She would rather have been going down to the rocky private plage at Beaulieu to wash away the sunsweat and mid-afternoon lassitude.

  Sheriek purred on, his hand clamped possessively just above her knee:

  'If you have had no opportunity by six o'clock, then I will come back and we will have to use my other plan. Until then, I will be waiting with the car. And be a good girl, my dear: do not ogle the men.'

  'I never ogle, Sherry darling. I can't help it if I have sexy eyes.'

  She wrenched her knee from his hand and jumped out of the car. Waving to Sheriek, she walked the few paces to the Royal and sat down at the first table. Ordering a cafe noir and a packet of Gitanes, she began the vigil.

  Twenty minutes later, she saw the Renault pull up, and watched, from behind diamante­ framed sunglasses, as Boysie and Iris were ushered through the twirling doors of the Miramont. With what those two seem to have in mind, it looks like I'm in for a long wait, she thought. Stirring her third cup of coffee, she realised that she was just a little jealous of the slim, graceful red-head who had accompanied her quarry into the hotel.

  *

  The air-conditioned freshness of the Miramont's entrance hall came as a relief after the hot, dusty drive from Nice. Feeling up to their knees in carpet, and preceded by a small page-boy (who humped the two cases with considerable determination), Boysie and Iris crossed to the reception desk. Despite careful grooming before leaving London, both were now conscious of being travel-crumpled as they moved among the lacquered, pressed and coiffured atmosphere of stealthy servants and luxury-class clientele. There was the ritual of register-signing - Boysie, with a slow smile, captivating the petite receptionist - (He never stops - talk about acrobats! thought Iris, a shade testy) – then the swift elevator ride and the pad along silent corridors.

  'Boysie, this is fab, just fab,' said Iris - spinning, with arms outstretched - in the centre of the room: taking in the pearl decor, the flowers, the fluttering ninon curtains, wide balcony and the whole sheer expensive feel of the boudoir. Her almost girlish enthusiasm was something new to Boysie:

  'I thought the bridal suite would be appropriate.'

  'Oh no! Boysie, you didn't.' Iris cannoned into the bed and ended, bouncing, on the hea
vy white satin coverlet. 'Boysie, you swine: that was why we got all those dreadful looks from the staff.'

  With the speed of a cheetah at full tilt, he was across the room and beside her on the bed.

  'Well,' he said, as though it summed up the whole situation.

  She leaned back: hair gleaming against the shiny fabric. Boysie put one hand under her neck and lowered his face to hers. She responded: then, as though suddenly remembering something, pulled away from him.

  'Give me a chance, darling. You're too eager.'

  Boysie tried again.

  'No, Boysie. Please; not yet. I feel filthy ­ even travelling by air. Let me get...adjusted. Later, I promise.'

  Boysie raised himself on one elbow and kissed her nose.

  'If that's how the biscuit breaks, sweetie.' They looked at each other. Iris frowned:

  'Why have you taken so much trouble with me, Boysie? I mean, there must be plenty of other girls ...'

  'There are plenty of other girls.' His conceit infuriated her.

  'Then why bother? All the time and energy you've spent - and money.'

  'Why does any man? The mystery of that which is denied - as they say?'

  'They also say that the greatest passion is the one that is never consummated.'

  'Nuts to that. I have a thing about you, Iris - that's all there is to it.'

  'And I have a thing about you, Boysie. Give me a cigarette.'

  He took out his case, opening it to show the symmetrical cork-coloured row of king­sized filters:

  'Oh, not one of those. They're cheats. If you're going to dice with death, you should do it properly. Away with filters! At this very moment there are probably little pickets of germs marching round your epiglottis with signboards saying "Ban the Filter" and "Unfair to Cancer".'

  She got off the bed - another slice of leg. Boysie reflexed - a hand moving out to her: then, remembering, he pulled back. Iris again began to twirl around the room in a sort of schoolgirl joydance. It puzzled Boysie; he was discovering hidden shallows in Iris.