The Liquidator

by John Gardner

  'Save us,' said Boysie, lifting his eyes to heaven.

  Quadrant took a neat pile of papers from the case and leaned, confidentially, across the table:

  'Now here's the dope.' The atmosphere became less tense. 'You fly back with the girl-friend tomorrow afternoon. You get to London Central at 18.20. Number Two says that, in view of the fact that you are out of the country, he might possibly enlarge the exercise. Keep the airport ladies on their toes. He was just the weeniest bit acid about you and the girlie, by the way ...'

  'Do you mind?'

  'All right. Just a friendly warning. But the airport boys might be on the look out. So we'll have to move a bit sharpish – through customs like a dose of senna. I'll meet you outside - passenger exit - into the car and away.'

  He spread out a section of map. A route was marked, in red, from London airport to the dot that was Gayborough. Quadrant ran his finger along the bright line:

  'You can see we're going to take the long way round.'

  Boysie nodded: 'Bloody London to Manchester by the Isle of Wight.'

  'We'll stop for dinner in Oxford. Linger there a while and then proceed, very slowly, up here to Gayborough.'

  'How many're in this?'

  'Only you, the driver, me and the girl. She's a bit of a dead weight now, but we'll have to take her along for the ride. She can look after your case, take it back to town - put it in your flat or something. OK?'

  'OK.'

  'On the last lap,' he was still tracing the route on the map. 'We dress you up - in the back of the car: fit you out with a sniper's smock, black-face make-up, all that jazz; compass, and the rifle ...'

  'What am I using?' Boysie had long schooled himself to ask pertinent questions during a briefing.

  'An old Lee Enfield Mark III - modified, of course ... 303 with a Tasco variable power scope and camera attachment. That's very important. Number Two wants your shots recorded for the RAF people's de­briefing. You'll have one magazine with the rifle - five rounds - and two spare clips. Blank ammunition, of course, but it's got to be heard - the Duke's got to hear it.'

  'OK.' You had to take your hat off to Mostyn. When he made up his mind to rip something apart he did it with relish, and thought of everything.

  Quadrant opened another map. This time a large plan of RAF Gayborough and the surrounding area. Clipped to the top corner were a set of air-to-ground and ground-to­ground photographs.

  'At about 03.00 on Tuesday morning we drop you ... here.' He indicated a point on what appeared to be a secondary road running parallel to, and about two miles from the main road which passed along the airfield's western boundary.

  'You can see from the photographs that you're going to be in dead ground. There's a slight rise, from the main Gayborough road, which drops down to this one. We'll give you a compass bearing when you leave the car: follow that, and it should bring you up the rise to these trees, here.'

  Boysie scrutinised the map and pictures. The photographs showed that the knot of about four trees lay uphill, in a direct line with the main gate - about half-a-mile of open ground between trees and gate.

  'Plenty of cover there. Nobody's going to spot you. You'll be snug as a corpse in a coffin. View's good too: see everything: great big aeroplanes taking off and landing; airmen marching - real show of strength.'

  'I can't wait.'

  'Tell you what. You can have some great games with the telescopic sight. I had binoculars when I was up there casing the job; the married quarters - over to the right there - provide some very high-class entertainment first thing in the morning: bedroom windows. Do you know, the Groupie's wife wears baby doll pyjamas?'

  'Disgusting.'

  'True.'

  'Look, let's get on, huh? Let's hear the whole of it.'

  'About the Groupie's wife?'

  'About the exercise. About Coronet. I don't want to be at it all day.'

  'If you say so, sport.'

  Boysie couldn't remember when one man had irritated him so much. He made a mental note to speak to Mostyn about it; then remembered, with a kick of conscience, that Mostyn probably wanted a few sharp words with him - about Iris.

  Quadrant continued: 'You should be in position by 04.00; and there you stay until 11.00. We'll give you some coffee and sandwiches; there's a nice bank you can snuggle behind. But don't go to sleep.'

  'I'm not likely to. I am experienced, you know.' Boysie was putting on a fairish show of efficiency.

  'At 11.00 the Duke's car will arrive. It'll pull up here.' He stabbed at the main gate. 'He will get out to inspect the guard. As he walks from the car, you put two bullets into him - metaphorically speaking, of course. But, for heaven's sake, don't forget that you have a camera in the sight. Number Two is most anxious that the film should show an accurate aim on the Duke. So play it like for real, sport.'

  Boysie grunted.

  'The Duke's been completely briefed, and he'll be listening for the shots. He's going to stagger and fall as soon as he hears them - giving it the full business. Number Two says he made quite a crack about getting Larry Olivier or Peter Hall down to direct him.'

  'I should have thought Cheyenne was his man for this one,' said Boysie dryly. 'What happens next?'

  'You play it by ear. The object of the exercise is to test their security reaction to a ginormous emergency; but you've got nothing to worry about. Number Two'll be there to make sure they don't lose their heads. He'll stop 'em loosing off live ammunition or anything.'

  'I should hope so. Where will you be?'

  'At 11.00 on Tuesday?'

  'Uh-huh.'

  'Just going into Hatchetts for my morning livener, I should think. We skiddaddle back to town once we've dropped you. You clear on everything?'

  'Think so.'

  'Right - let's go over it once more for luck.'

  Step by step they retraced the exercise. Then, following the routine procedure, Boysie answered a series of random questions flung at him, with infuriating trickiness, by Quadrant. At last the courier was satisfied:

  'I think we've got this one in the bag, sport.'

  'You'll be wanting to get along now,' Boysie said happily. Iris was taking her time, and he didn't want Quadrant around when she returned.

  'As it happens, I do. But it's not quite as easy as that.'

  Quadrant had been wandering round the room in search of a receptacle in which they could burn the papers marked with the red 'Destroy' notation. Finally, he picked on a small metal waste-bin. He put the bin on the table and Boysie joined him to help in the destruction of the photographs and maps.

  'Better sign the old blood chitty first,' said Quadrant, taking out the familiar pink form which, cleanly and painlessly, passed the responsibility from one agent to the next whenever an operation was planned orally. At the top, Mostyn had written his precise signature, showing he was satisfied that Quadrant fully understood the instructions. Quadrant had signed - a squirl of initials. Now, he again made his mark and handed the paper and pen to Boysie.

  'Let's finish it then,' said Boysie, executing a flourish with the pen, returning the form, and taking up one of the maps. They began to tear the documents, dropping the little paper snowstorm into the container.

  'Now, what about last night's fracas?' The question was framed casually.

  A set of small, rather sharp, claws sank into Boysie's guts. Blast Iris, he thought. She had no right to mention anything to this ginger-haired wet.

  'How did you hear about that?'

  Quadrant was in the act of setting light to the miniature bonfire. 'Message from London - before I made contact this morning.Unfortunately, they say I've got to check the damn thing out.' The flame flared violently from the waste-bin. 'And I simply must get back to London tonight. Most inconsiderate of you, getting involved like this.'

  Boysie wound up his last ounce of self­ control:

  'Look, cocker,' he said, using his 'intimidating' voice: 'I didn't ask to get coshed, doped and shot at. It just bloody happen
ed.'

  'Bounced you on the old bean, did they?' Quadrant wiped his eyes: 'I say, that jolly thing's smoking a bit, isn't it?'

  A thick cloud of particularly acrid smoke was beginning to belch from the waste-bin. It rose to the ceiling, spread out, and then - drawn by the warm air - began to stream through the balcony window.

  'It's those damn maps - the paper they use,' said Quadrant, vainly trying to disperse the growing black cumulus by fanning it with his limp hand. The room was overhung with a film of grimy mist:

  'We're going to ruin this table.' Boysie attempted to pick up the bin, burning his fingers: jumping back and putting his hand to his mouth with an 'Ouch!' of pain.

  They were suddenly aware of shouts from the street below, followed by voices in the passage. The door burst open (Quadrant's hand dipping for his hip pocket). In cannoned a tubby under-manager, clutching a large, crimson fire extinguisher. Through the haze, Boysie could make out the faces of several guests gathered round the door. Cries of 'Pompier' were coming from down the hall.

  'Attention Messieurs ...' puffed the rotund official, elbowing Boysie and Quadrant out of the way and aiming the extinguisher like a bazooka. Before they could stop him, the fearless amateur fireman had let fly with the deflamer. A thin, powerful stream of soapy foam gushed from the appliance at the speed of a rocket exhaust. The bin was lifted straight off the table and out on to the balcony, clattering against the guard-rail and distributing a swarm of charred, sodden piece of paper as it went.

  By this time, the Frenchman had lost all control of the extinguisher, which jerked about in his hands like a live, filthy-tempered anaconda. The white jet was playing dangerously over the drenched ninon curtains: any minute it would start whipping round the walls. Its operator fought desperately to bring it to heel - leaning back to absorb the hefty recoil. Boysie made a grab at the under-manager in a frantic effort to redirect the fountain straight out of the balcony window. He slipped, grabbed again, fell headlong and brought both of them crashing to the floor, the extinguisher sandwiched between them. They rolled over, coming to rest against the foot of the bed. An expression of amazed incredulity crossed Boysie's face. He was experiencing a sensation which he had not felt since one humiliating morning when he had disgraced himself at the village school.

  It came as something of a relief when he looked down to find that the nozzle of the infernal dousing machine had become lodged in the waistband of his slacks - still spurting the last remnants of its vile, clinging spray. Boysie was up, tentatively shaking his legs. Standing in the now crowded doorway, looking down at him with an expression of long-suffering amusement, was Iris.

  'Having fun?' she said.

  Mutual explanations and apologies were given and received; tempers were calmed. At last, Iris took charge of a small army of chambermaids bent on erasing all trace of the damage caused by the under-manager's excessive zeal, while Boysie retired to the bathroom to dry off and change. Uninvited, and with his accustomed coolness, Quadrant followed, closing the door behind him. Boysie was engrossed in a long, and venomous spiel against authority:

  'Why does it always happen to me? Bleeding people in London: never think of things like this. Stamp "Destroy" over every damn thing regardless of the consequences. Having to burn the stuff in a hotel bedroom! I ask you? They might have known.' He fumed on: 'Do you know, I nearly choked to death once, trying to consume a photograph marked "Destroy". In Grantham. Temperance Hotel. No matches so had to eat it. Great fat blousy tart she was ... very nearly choked to death.'

  He had stripped from the saturated clothes and was rubbing himself violently with a large green bath towel.

  'I think it would be more to the point if you told me about last night,' said Quadrant.

  'Oh, you still on that blooming business? OK, what do you want to know?'

  'Everything. The lot. Tell me the whole sordid tale - words of one syllable if you don't mind.'

  Boysie went on towelling. Quadrant moved over to the lavatory pedestal, sat himself on the covered seat and slowly crossed his legs:

  'I'm sitting comfortably. You can begin.'

  As he finished drying himself, Boysie recapitulated the events of the previous evening - omitting nothing but his intimacy with Coral.

  'Charming,'said Quadrant,when the story was done. 'I think we probably know the gent who nabbed you. Between you, me and the wash basin, he's a bit of a twit.'

  'I didn't take to him awfully,' said Boysie in a reasonable imitation of Quadrant's plummy voice.

  'No? Well, I suppose we'd better go have a look see.'

  'What do you mean: "We"?'

  'I'm not a clairvoyant, sport. I can't find the place by myself. You'll have to come along and point out the castle where you were thrown into durance vile.'

  'I had to fight my way out of that flipping house.' Boysie was becoming nervous again. 'I'm certainly not going to march up there and stick my head right into the flaming lion's mouth again ...'

  'No one's asking you to stick anything anywhere ... not to my knowledge, anyway,' added Quadrant with a leer. 'You can show me where it is, and I will walk up to the door, ring the bell and say: "I'm the man from the Prudential", or whatever they call it round here. I only want a quick gander so that I can put in a report. You can sit in the car and play patience if you like.You needn't go anywhere near the nasty bad men.'

  'My orders are to stay in the hotel.'

  'Oh, I forgot,' said Quadrant, with unruffled self-satisfaction. 'Number Two says you can finish your little weekend normally - or abnormally if you're so inclined. He's lifted the house-arrest bit. Come along, sport, I've got to catch a jolly old airybuzzer later on.' He looked hard at Boysie who was still only half dressed:

  'I say, I rather go for your underwear: sportin' equipment all over your drawers. Bet that gets the girls, 'specially the archery target ...'

  'If you're really interested, I've got another pair covered with ants dressed as soldiers,' said Boysie tersely.

  'Mm!' said Quadrant. 'Dead contemporary, I bet: red officers with black privates and all that sort of rot. Do hurry, I've got a very heavy date tonight.'

  'So have I,' said Boysie from between clenched teeth.

  *

  Boysie had not finished his first cigarette when Quadrant returned from the villa. They had driven out along the coast road - squinting enviously, through the afternoon's last slant of sun, at the bathers and bikinied mermaids. These people - and those who inhabited the trim, tidy yachts snug in Monaco harbour - seemed to belong to a different world: a place of laughing normality, unconcerned with the balance of power or the secret war of peace.

  He had recognised the iron gates - still open - as soon as he saw them: set back from a bend in the road half-a-mile on the other side of Beaulieu. Quadrant backed the Dauphin into a narrow, walled lane a hundred yards farther up the road, got out and set off with a springy walk for the villa, leaving Boysie cursing to himself and contemplating the unprepossessing view. Quadrant returned:

  'You won't mind me asking,' he said, 'but have you been up to your old tricks?'

  'Waddyou mean, my old tricks?'

  'No.' Quadrant bit his lip. 'You haven't had the opportunity. I think you'd better take a walk up to the Villa Romana with me - that's what it's called: damn great letters over the door: about as tasteless as Chez Nous or Ethelstan.'

  'Must I?'

  'No need to be scared ...'

  'You're joking, of course?'

  'There's nobody there: oiseaux have flown. But there is something you should see.'

  Boysie had slipped the automatic into his trousers pocket before leaving the hotel. Now, it was comforting to hold the cool butt, close to his thigh, as they walked slowly up the sloping drive. The villa was a small, rococo affair washed in pale, uneven pink: two storeys with a wide balcony curving round the south side. The fading cream sun-blinds were down, and, though the door stood open, the place had an uninhabited air - as though the occupants had left suddenly, or b
een snatched away by some midnight catastrophe. The brass cat still held the door ajar. Boysie began to feel a slight nausea as last night's memories riffled through his mind.

  'It's down here,' said Quadrant, leading him to the curtained archway. They descended the stairs.

  'I think this is the chap responsible for your little adventure.' Quadrant pushed against the steel door, and Boysie saw the man whom he had glimpsed, standing in the porch next to Gregory, when Coral had died over the bonnet of the Continental.

  Sheriek was naked, hanging by his wrists from the strappado - arms wrenched from their sockets, broken and twisted like an ill­treated plastic doll: the palms and inside of the elbows turned outwards. In life he had been fat and sleek; now, debased by death, he seemed to have been deflated - the bladder of his stomach punctured by three ragged bullet-holes from which dried blood traced sinewy patterns down the hairy legs. 'Someone didn't like him, did they?' mused Quadrant.

  Boysie retched soundlessly, then turned and walked unsteadily up the steps. An eye for an eye, he thought. It was all very well, but his crafty weekend with Iris seemed to have cost two lives already.

  Out on the road again, Quadrant looked at his watch:

  'I should imagine that the Fat One got his because he let you escape: so you will be careful, won't you? Number Two's very keen that nothing should go wrong on Tuesday - even though it's only an exercise.'

  'Go to hell,' said Boysie with some feeling.

  'I'm afraid I've got to go to Nice,' smiled Quadrant, again peeping at his watch. 'Post haste too, old sport. Got to return this bus for one thing. 'Fraid I won't be able to take you all the way back to Menton ...'

  'I bet you and Mostyn get on like a flaming house ...'

  'Yes. Tell you what. I'll run you up to Beaulieu station. Plenty of trains from there. Be back in no time.'

  Boysie waited for nearly an hour and a half at the tiny, sun-baked station before he was able to board a train for Menton.

  *

  The Co-ordinator had been waiting for the telephone to ring: