by John Gardner
'As I was saying...' In his element, Sheriek was ready to twist the knife. 'I cannot introduce myself. However, you have met Yacob - he is the large gentleman - and Gregory, he carries the gun. I think you will find that he is almost as accurate a shot as yourself.'
'I seldom go shooting.'
'No? I wonder. Let me give you a few facts about yourself, Mr Oakes.' There was a pause. Sheriek cleared his throat. 'Your name is Brian Ian Oakes. You are known to your friends by the slightly ridiculous, and, if you will forgive me for saying so, rather effeminate, nickname - Boysie. Your occupation is hired assassin. As such, you work for the British Department of Special Security - under the code-letter "L''. You have been with them for about six, maybe seven, years. In that time, you have personally dispatched twenty-five agents, or suspected agents, occupied in espionage against the United Kingdom.'
This was far worse than the alarming nightmares in which he faced Mostyn over the hard facts of his many dissemblings. They had got him now - and not just by the nose either. This was the real end: the terminus of the perishing track.
'Now, Mr Oakes, we are both adult men.' Sheriek was getting nicely into his stride. 'We both know that you are not indispensable to your organisation. Anyone can be replaced, so there is no point in merely killing you. Before we decide what is to be done - and I must tell you quite frankly that your future does not depend on me - I am going to ask you one question.'
'I don't know where you get your information,' Boysie said with total lack of confidence. 'But I've got nothing to do with this Special Whatnot Security thing. You're talking an absolute load of old rubbish ...'
'The question,' Sheriek continued, ignoring Boysie's hopeless denial, 'is simply: why are you here?'
Boysie spoke without thinking: 'Because you brought me here, you screaming old nit.' The blow, from the back of Yacob's hand, caught him slap in the centre of the cheek. He picked himself up and groped back on to the chair. The giant's knuckles were like billiard balls.
'We will have no more of that kind of insolence, please, Mr Oakes. I will ask you once more: Why are you in France? Who is your target?'
'Honestly,' Boysie sounded like a boy facing his housemaster, 'I don't know what you're on about. I'm in France for a weekend holiday with a very ... with my wife.'
There was a silence, not so much pregnant as stillborn. Sheriek sighed - a wave of garlic wafted over the table:
'I had hoped to avoid any nastiness. You are a very foolish man, Boysie Oakes.'
Boysie's right-hand fingernails were digging hard into the back of his left hand. For a moment, he did not know where the pain was coming from. The atmosphere was fraught with horrible possibilities, and he had a pretty good idea what the next item on this harrowing programme was going to be.
'You like Miss White?' the question was unexpected.
'Well. I hardly know her. Damn it, I'd only just met the girl about five minutes before your goons jumped me ...'
'No, Yacob!' Sheriek's loud command just stopped the gorilla from repeating the backhand treatment.
'But you like her?'
'She's a nice girl. Yes.' The more revolting probabilities of this line of conversation began to filter into Boysie's pounding head: 'Now, look: keep Miss White out of it. She had nothing to do with this: nothing to do with me. Good grief ...'
Sheriek smiled amiably to himself. It had been quite a brilliant stroke of subtlety to leave Coral with this man. Now there could be a final appeal to the Britisher's sense of fair play. He looked out, from the safety of his spotlight barricade. Apart from the strangely clear blue eyes, the cringing, undeniably handsome, man on the other side of the table, didn't look at all like a monstrous killer to him. Devilishly clever, these English. Friend Oakes was undoubtedly a talented actor. Sheriek never believed in underrating his opponent:
'Now, I am going to have my dinner. We will return to this matter in roughly ...' There was a movement from behind the lights as he looked at his watch. '...In roughly one hour. Then, Mr Oakes, I will again ask you that question - What are you doing in France and whom have you been sent to kill? If you are still not prepared to answer me, we will have to try the ultimate method of persuasion. Would you be so good as to look upwards.'
Boysie obediently raised his eyes. A large metal pulley was screwed hard into the ceiling above his head.
'You have heard of the strappado yes?'
Boysie nodded. It was one of the most simple and effective tortures in the book. The hands, tied behind the back, were attached to a cord which ran through the pulley. You were then hauled upwards and allowed to fall with a jerk which dislocated the shoulder-joints.
'Yacob is most efficient with the strappado. He has a rather gay variation of his own.' Yacob moved a little - proud at the mention of his name. 'He likes to tie six-pound weights to the feet before giving the upward heave. Rather a nice touch, don't you think?'
Boysie hunched his shoulders at the thought.
'Just look behind you: to your left.'
Against the wall, he could make out a high, triangular shape.
'That is the rack, Mr Oakes: and I'm sure you know all about the rack.'
'Toast or clothes?' Again Boysie had surprised himself.
'Take him away,' said Sheriek, with genuine impatience. 'We will "resume play" - as I believe your cricket commentators say - after dinner. I cannot stand unpleasantness on an empty stomach. If you are not prepared to answer my question then, Mr Oakes ... well, we will see if the sight of Miss White on the strappado will help. Or maybe we will see how you like it. I think, Yacob, it might be an idea to bring the whips down as well. A few lashes on Miss White's shapely back could very well serve as an hors d'oeuvre to the entertainment. Meditate on these things, Mr Oakes. Meditate.'
*
oral was lying on the bed when the Terrible Twins pushed Boysie back into the cellar.
'What's happened? Have you found out anything? Oh, your poor cheek - have they hurt you? What's going to happen to us?'
The questions tripped over one another. 'Let's have a cigarette first.'
He lit the filters and sat down beside her. She put her hand into his. There was no restraint between them. Strange how danger had brought them so close, thought Boysie. He felt he had known her for years – an immediate rapport had dispensed with any conventional period of adjustment.
'It was me they were after. ..' he started.
'You know, I don't even know your name,' said Coral, snuggling closer.
'My friends call me Boysie.'
'Boysie? Boysie? Boysie?' she repeated, trying it on for size. 'I like that.' Her face relaxed and she looked serious:
'Why have they got us here, Boysie? Please tell me.'
'There isn't a great deal to tell. If you must know ... Well, the fact is. .. I sort of work for the Government - a glorified civil servant.'
'The Government! Golly, what a lark.'
'The thing is, those jokers want some information that just doesn't exist; and they're getting blasted unpleasant about it. Incidentally, there's another one besides the two cretins: some fellow with a slimy voice - sounded a bit of a queen to me: thought Boysie was an effeminate nickname.'
'I'm sorry,' she said, moving even closer. 'But, you know, I can't really take this seriously. Things like this just don't happen to people.'
'They do, and it's damn frightening.' Boysie thought he had said enough. It wouldn't do to tell her about the Bloody Tower next door: she'd find out soon enough. Burn Mostyn! Burn the Department; burn every burning thing. For a bewitched and suspended moment, he lapsed into the favourite silent pastime of railing on his boss.
'What are we going to do then?' The question had the disconsolate sound of a garden fete organiser defeated by a cloud burst.
'We can't escape from here: that's for sure. I suppose all we can do is sit tight and see what happens.'
'Oh.'
Coral, now upright on the bed, stretched out her legs: the compact body form
ing an elegant L - the attitude of a gymnast about to perform some drastic exercise. In this position, she contemplated her feet.
'Damn!' she said suddenly, licking her finger and applying it to a point low down on her left shin just below the bottom of her slacks.
'What's up?'
'Laddered my nylons. Blast.'
At a time like this, sighed Boysie. Women!
'Nylons in this weather?'
'Don't know why I put them on at all: it's too hot for stockings: 'specially under pants. But we were going somewhere smart for lunch and She ... Daddy doesn't think a girl's properly dressed without nylons. I wore them as a sort of compromise, I suppose.'
Boysie had not noticed her near-slip with Sheriek's name. He looked down at his watch. The second hand made a complete revolution round the dial.
'Tell me the story of your life, Coral.'
'Me? Phooey! It would be much more interesting to hear about you.'
'The less you know about me the better.'
She had stopped doctoring the injured nylon.
'Seriously, Coral. What about you?'
'What about me? Oh, the usual: Cheltenham Ladies; RADA; no work; got mixed up with the beats, so Daddy brought me out here - to sit in the hot sun and cool off. Lucky really, he's quite flush.'
The conversation dwindled. Then she began again:
'What are they after?'
'They're after something which doesn't exist. They think I'm here on some hushhush job ...'
'And aren't you?'
'I'm here on holiday. On a harmless blistering holiday.'
'How boring.'
It would be better, thought Boysie, if there was some way of taking their minds off the whole business. He slid his arm experimentally round her shoulder. The golden head lolled close to his cheek and he again caught the scent of lingering sunshine.
'They'll be coming back in about an hour: to question me again.' He paused, wondering how much he should tell her. 'They might bring you along as well. It could be a bit rough - for both of us.'
'Don't fuss. We'll face that when it happens.'
His hands were trembling: 'Got any ideas?'
'Such as?'
'Such as what we can do until then.' She shifted, turning to face him:
'There's a rather old-fashioned recreation for two that might suit,' she said, lying back on the bed and tugging him gently towards her.
For a girl who, outwardly, seemed so naive, Coral was most adroit. The little pink tongue leaped out from between parted lips as his mouth touched hers. Their bodies pressed together, moulding belly to belly, thigh to thigh; and almost immediately, her breathing took on the rapid nasal heaviness of passion.
'That was nice, Boysie. I liked that.'
'You're quite a girl,' said Boysie. He had nearly forgotten the terror that lay behind the door only a few feet away.
Coral slid off the bed and stood up:
'It always happens to me in the damnedest places,' she said, undoing the zip which snaked down the side of her sleek oyster silk pants.
*
The Sherkasiya - his favourite: a Circassian chicken delicacy served with a sauce of chopped nuts - had been excellent. Sheriek belched loudly. Gregory was a genius in the kitchen. He swilled out his mouth, swallowing the final half-glass of Pouilly Fuisse '56. Sheriek felt content.
The room was filled entirely with loot from the good old days - that never-to-return time when one could make a handsome living from the foolish and wealthy. He had been lucky then: always better at the sophisticated con game than this hectic cloak and dagger thing. Still, it was a living:
'Gregory,' he shouted. 'Coffee!'
The telephone began to ring as the brown gunman came into the room:
"Allo?' queried Sheriek into the antiquelooking instrument.
'Is that Baudelaire?' The sound of his passname practically brought Sheriek to attention:
'It is "Ô Mort, vieux capitaine, il est temps! levons l'ancre,"' he quoted. 'Who wants me?'
'This is Chekhov. "If only we could go back to Moscow! Sell the house, finish with our life here, and go back to Moscow,"' the caller replied. Sheriek put his hand over the mouthpiece and beamed:
'Gregory! It is the Co-ordinator. The important one.'
'Can we talk?' asked the Co-ordinator.
'We are quite free.'
'Good. Have you carried out your instructions?'
'I have, Chekhov. And more besides. You will be very pleased. We have the Subject here - locked up.'
The pause was followed by a stinging spray of words - French, English, Russian and Italian. Most of them were obscene; all were highly insulting.
'But Chekhov... What is wrong?... I thought ...' Sheriek was amazed. Finally, the abuse ended, and the Co-ordinator, calm again, spoke with chilling menace:
'What were your orders, my friend? I particularly wish to hear them from your own lips: because if anything goes wrong with this operation, I am going to hold you entirely responsible!' The last brace of words cracked like whiplashes.
'We have done wrong in apprehending this man?'
'You have probably only wrecked the whole plan. What were your instructions? What were you told?'
'We were given details of this Englishman - "L''. They said he was in the "highly dangerous" category. We were given his dossier and told that he would be arriving on the noon plane. We were to cover his arrival: identify him and check that he booked in at the Miramont in Menton. Later he was to be apprehended ...'
'But you were to await orders?'
'Yes. But later he was to be apprehended - we had the opportunity...'
'Did your orders specifically say he was to be apprehended?'
'Not in so many words ... but I took it to mean ...'
'Your orders in fact said that he would be taken care of in due course. Were you told whom you would be working under?'
'Oh, yes. You, Chekhov. They were very plain about that. We would be working under your absolute control.'
'Then can you tell me why you took it into your head to apprehend the Subject?'
Sheriek's voice quavered: 'I thought it would impress you of our integrity, Chekhov. We have many times been used as an assault group. I have just been interrogating this man ...'
'You have not hurt him? If you have hurt one hair of his head, I will personally castrate you - with a blunt razor.'
'No, of course not.' Sheriek attempted to put a laugh into his hurrying voice. 'That comes later. We have simply been trying to find out why he is here ...'
'But we know why he is here.'
'Oh.'
'He is on holiday.'
'That is what he told us ... I didn't believe him ... I thought ...'
'I am not interested in what you thought ...'
'But, please, Chekhov... I believed it would help... I thought you would be pleased ...'
'Now you listen to me,' the Co-ordinator cut into Sheriek's whine with the finality of a guillotine blade. 'For the first time in your paltry life, you have become involved in an operation of major international importance. You are out of your league, Baudelaire - that is a very apt American expression. This is one of the biggest things we have ever done. Its final implications would make your louse-ridden hair fall out - in handfuls. How many people have you in your cell?'
'My two usual men, and a girl - we have not used her before ...'
'Is she safe?'
'She knows very little: simply in it for the money. I merely employed her as the comeon ... the bait.'
'She is not experienced then?'
'It depends which way you mean ...'
'I mean operationally.'
'No, not really. No, she knows nothing.'
'In that case, I think you should drop her. Get rid of her - you understand me?'
'Yes, Chekhov. I understand.'
'And I want the Subject back in Menton within an hour. I don't care how you do it you can even arrange an escape for him: but, if you d
o, for everybody's sake, make sure it looks authentic. He has seen your face, I suppose? He'd recognise you again?'
'No. No, I have been rather cunning there ...'
'The others?'
'Yes, he has seen the others.'
'Keep them indoors until Monday night. As for you, I was going to use you simply as a local contact, but now? ... I don't know. You had better be prepared to leave at a moment's notice - and I mean that: literally, a moment's notice. My own men will be doing any strong-arm stuff. ..'
'Yes, Chekhov. I'm sorry for my foolishness...I should have waited for your orders ... But, really, I thought you would be pleased. It was a major triumph the way we lured him ... you should have seen my plan in action ... perfect ... timed to the last second ... if only Headquarters ...'
'Shut up!'
'Yes, Chekhov.' The line was silent. 'Please... may one ask how many of your cell are involved?'
'I have two men with me.'
'Thank you, Chekhov,' Sheriek fawned.
'Now, get the subject out of your house - At Speed!'
The line went dead.
*
The Co-ordinator, who went under the codename Chekhov, tapped the glass-topped occasional table with long, delicate fingers and spoke softly:
'I shall have to arrange for a nasty accident. We must not have a buffoon like Sheriek making a mess of this one. It is much too big.'
*
Sheriek sat in silence. He was in despair. For him, this was the Moment of Truth. Sadly, he admitted that he was out of his depth with these people. For him, it was only a titillating game which he played with the flamboyance of a wealthy amateur. They were unadorned professionals, and it was a professional market. Sheriek mourned for the long-lost world. Things had changed. In an age of technocrats, he was a blunderer.
'Oh that I had stuck to honest stealing!' he said to nobody in particular.
'What is wrong, Excellency?' Gregory hovered with the coffee tray.
'Nothing that we cannot put right.'
Sheriek had incredible powers of recovery, underlined with a buoyant optimism. 'Go and get Yacob and the girl. I must talk to all of you.'
'Yacob has gone down to the town, Excellency. We are nearly out of cognac, and I thought that if the Co-ordinator is coming ...'
