High Jinx

by William F. Buckley

  ‘Hey there, wait one minute, Yank. This is our operation.’

  Blackford liked Colonel Mac, and had got on well with him during their days at Cromwell. But he did not wish to be misunderstood. ‘Mac,’ he said, his jaw set, ‘I caught this man. And he killed thirty-two American commandos, you will remember. Where he goes, I go, and that’s the way it’s going to be, period.’ Colonel Mac looked over for a moment at Joe Louis, who nodded silently.

  The lorry fired up. Three men in front, the prisoner and four commandos in the back, it pulled out of the garage and began to head southwards toward the road leading to Salisbury.

  At first there was no conversation. But soon Colonel Mac made an effort to ease the tension. ‘That was nice work you did, Ernie’—Blackford, at Camp Cromwell, had been ‘Ernie.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac.’

  And then the grizzled commando went on. ‘There’s something you ought to know. You might want to get out of the way, Ernie. Something I promised Joe Louis. You want to tell him, Joe?’

  ‘Yuh. I don’t mind telling you Ernie. You’re a good man. When I found out—it was only today. This afternoon. When I found out what happened. What happened to my brother Isaac Abraham, and to the other fellahs—the rest of the lads at Cromwell—I said to Mac, I said, Mac, if I find that man Henry, that man is dead. That’s it, dead. Then they showed us … Then they showed us the pictures …’ Joe Louis stopped talking. Colonel Mac took over.

  Both officers, Blackford learned, had been called into MI5 that afternoon and briefed on the entire operation. It was done in the office of General Islington, with Sir Gene there. The briefing had included showing them The Album. Neither of the briefers had known that one of the victims was the younger brother of Major Louis. When the page in The Album turn on Joe Louis’s younger brother, his inert head twisted in the noose, his tongue protruding, Joe Louis had had to leave the room. Through the wooden door they could hear his sobbing.

  ‘There isn’t going to be maybe twenty years or a life sentence and then a trade-off with a spy they’ve got over there in Moscow, not with this chappy. I promised,’ Colonel Mac said.

  Blackford’s silence was taken by Colonel Mac as indecision. Blackford sense this. He said, ambiguously:

  ‘Mac. I’ll stay with you. But do me a favour. This is very important. I must telephone my—chief. I must let him know we have the prisoner. It means a lot for him to know.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he learn that from Superintendent Roberts?’

  ‘You don’t understand the communications system in this business, Mac’—Blackford’s tone of voice implied he was telling them deeply kept secrets. ‘My superior hears only from me,’ Blackford lied. ‘If he doesn’t hear soon from me he will conclude the worst. And for very important reasons—a lot depends on this—we can’t let that happen. If I give you my word I will say nothing of your—plans, can I telephone him?’

  Colonel Mac turned his head inquiringly to Joe Louis at the wheel. He had sat ramrod-straight throughout the exchange.

  Joe Louis grunted his assent. The lorry slowed a mile down the road, next to the entrance to the year-round funfair at Basingstoke, with its half-dozen acres of booths and amusements—not heavily patronised at this time of year, though it was warm tonight. Blackford bounded out of the lorry, told the ticket lady he merely wanted to use the public telephone, and was searching his pocket for change as he walked into the booth. He found the shilling—they were already thirty miles outside London—and gave the number to the operator, his fingers tapping the telephone impatiently. He suddenly reflected that he was not absolutely certain, though he expected to be hearing the voice of Rufus in seconds, whether he would keep his word to Colonel Mac or not.

  ‘That number is engaged, sir. Try again later.’

  Blackford raised his head, waiting for a minute to pass before dialling again. He reflected on what Joe Louis had gone through that afternoon. And on what his brother had gone through a few months before. He reflected on the end of the mystery, with the discovery of the Zirca.

  It was then that the tent in the amusement park caught his attention. It was directly across from the telephone booth, a few feet away. He read the blazing sign across the top of the stand:

  MAKE OWN HEADLINES! SURPRISE THE FOLKS BACK HOME! SURPRISE THE KIDDIES! SURPRISE YOUR LUV! ONLY THREE SHILLINGS!!

  He looked under the big sign where half a dozen specimens, home-oriented headlines framed in glass, were posted. The logo was that of the Daily Express. The first headline read, ‘SALLY SAMPLE MADE DUCHESS/QUEEN GIVES HER PALACE’ Another read, ‘JOHNNY BURT SENTENCED TO HANG/ADMITS TO SLAUGHTER OF 500’ Another, ‘DICK BETROTHED TO SHIRLEY/“NEVER LIKED LIZ TAYLOR” HE SAYS.’

  Blackford closed his eyes for a moment. He opened the door to the telephone booth and stepped across the way to the tent. Five minutes later he left it, a newspaper rolled in his right hand. He walked past the telephone booth, through the arcade’s entrance, around the lorry to the left door, opened it, got in and slammed the door shut.

  ‘Did you get through?’ Colonel Mac asked as Joe Louis started the motor and began to move.

  ‘No. But I got the morning paper.’ He handed it to Colonel Mac, who unrolled and read it. He tapped the shoulder of Joe Louis, indicating that he should read it now, and reached over to handle the wheel of the lorry while he did so.

  It was nearly an hour and a half before they reached the gates of Camp Cromwell.

  The guard shone his inquiring torch on the colonel’s face, grunted, and waved him on.

  They pulled up in front of the radio shed, opened the back of the lorry, and told the commandos to bring out the prisoner.

  Bertram Oliver Heath spat when he saw Blackford Oakes. They brought him into the main room and sat him down on a chair. His torso, at Colonel Mac’s direction, was strapped to the back of the chair, leaving his arms free. The commandos were dismissed.

  Heath spoke. He had said nothing that surprised Blackford. Not after his six weeks’ reconstruction of the life and character of Bertram Oliver Heath. ‘You should know you will never get anything out of me. And I know the rules that govern the use of torture. But if you want to ignore those rules, go ahead.’

  Colonel Mac spoke now.

  ‘We didn’t think you would suddenly be cooperative, Henry. For that reason we have made other plans.’ He turned to Blackford.

  Blackford Oakes stepped forward, the newspaper in his hand. To Heath he said gruffly: ‘Take hold of this.’

  A puzzled expression crossed the face of Heath as he reached out for the newspaper.

  The headline blazed across it read: ‘COUNTERREVOLUTIONARY PLOT FOILED/INVADERS AND TRAITORS FOUND, EXECUTED.’

  At that moment a flashbulb caught the picture.

  And then the shot was fired. Through the newspaper, penetrating Heath’s forehead. As he slumped forward, a new flashbulb lit the scene once more.

  ‘Well,’ Colonel Mac said, putting down the camera as Joe Louis returned the gun to its holster, ‘now we have a complete album on Operation Tirana.’

  The men left the shed and headed for the bar. They would clean up in the morning.

  EPILOGUE

  The call to Blackford to come to the office of Anthony Trust was uncharacteristic. The summons, at James Street where Blackford was closing the file on Operation Oxford, was delivered through a junior officer, when normally Trust would have made the phone call himself. It specified a meeting that afternoon at 3:03, pursuant to the convention not to make appointments at round-numbered times. Blackford had an idea what it was all about, and wondered only at the delay. The end for Bert Heath had come on Tuesday, and it was already Thursday. Neither Rufus nor Anthony had called him when he got back to James Street. He had written out and sent to Trust, his next-in-command, a report on the events of Tuesday night.

  And they were both there, Rufus and Anthony. Anthony Trust sat behind his desk, Rufus on the small couch to the right, Blackford on the couch opposite. Trust bega
n:

  ‘Nice going on following Heath.’

  Thanks.’

  ‘Crowded day, it was.’

  ‘I gather it was crowded also in Moscow. Do we know anything about Fleetwood?’

  ‘No. He has been reported missing at sea by the Swedes. The Brits haven’t decided whether to tell them they know he got off that boat and flew to Helsinki and on to Moscow. They’ll have to decide that: it was their men keeping an eye on him. We don’t even know if the Swedes have located the boat captain. If they find him, they’ll get it from him that he was just hired to take Fleetwood up to Österskär where Fleetwood disembarked that same afternoon.’

  ‘That means Fleetwood is still in Russia, obviously.’

  ‘Yes. No way of telling whether he is in or out of grace. If he was associated only with Beria, I pity him.’

  ‘Beria dead?’

  ‘We think so, but we don’t know.’

  Rufus spoke. ‘We had an asset in Moscow, but he’s gone now, so we’re only putting two and two together. Malenkov’s speech yesterday to the Parliament didn’t sound like the speech of somebody who is afraid to go home.’

  ‘Did you tell the Brits about the designs on him?’

  ‘No, not after the message you got from Bolgin Monday that the plan was off. We interpret that as meaning that the Beria power play collapsed. But we did warn them that high security would be a good idea, as we had picked up “rumours.”’

  ‘Anything on the girl? Fleetwood’s contact? The American?’

  ‘No. We’ll cool that one for a bit—wait to hear from her parents. They’ll start asking about her, and then we can get our embassy to inquire.’

  ‘Exciting times,’ Blackford said.

  ‘Right, Black. Exciting times at Cromwell too, I gather.’

  ‘Yes,’ was all that Blackford volunteered.

  ‘Sir Gene told us yesterday they are going to hold a hearing. They want you there as a witness.’

  Blackford noticed that Rufus was looking at him with that pale blue X-ray look. He said, ‘When?’

  ‘The meeting is scheduled for next Wednesday, 10 A.M.’

  ‘Well, you’ve seen my report.’

  Anthony opened the manilla folder. ‘Yes.’ His eyes ran over it. ‘You say, quote, “After the commandos left Heath in the radio shed there was a loud rumpus, and then a shot, and evidently Heath made a move to escape, but was shot by Joe Louis.” What did you mean by “evidently?”’

  Blackford pursed his lips. For a moment he had a wild desire to smile. Here he was, cat-and-mousing about the death of an acknowledged traitor with his oldest friend, both of them allies in a very tough business. But formalities were of substantive importance. In almost every situation. And so Blackford said, ‘I had the evidence of my ears. And there was no doubt there was a shot. I was there to see Heath’s body, and there isn’t any doubt there was a bullet in his head.’

  ‘Blackford,’ Rufus interrupted, ‘tell me yes or no, one thing. Did you kill Bertram Heath?’

  ‘No, Rufus, I did not.’

  Rufus looked over at Anthony and gave a signal. Anthony responded: ‘Black, would you go out to the library, please?’

  Blackford rose, opened the door, and walked into the dark library, with the bare empty desk and reading light. Spread over it was an open copy of the morning’s Times. Blackford sat down and turned to the crossword puzzle, pulling a pencil out of his pocket.

  He had no trouble with ‘Famous physicist,’ four letters. He tried ‘R A B I.’ And for ‘Govt. agency’—why not ‘C I A?’ He loved ‘After zwei,’ writing in confidently, ‘D R E I.’ ‘Harem rooms?’ … If he could only get that lollapaloosa, twelve letters down: ‘Like Pearl White’s rescuers.’ Pearl White. Who in the hell was Pearl White? What might be said of her rescuers, whoever they were? Obviously the rescue operation had worked, if she was rescued … His pencil flew down to try it out. ‘INTHENICKOFTIME!’ Anthony was there. ‘Come on in, Black.’

  They sat down as before.

  Rufus spoke. ‘Blackford, we had as you know intended that you should stay here for the next period to help out, to work with Anthony. But something has come up elsewhere, and you will need to go to Washington for a briefing.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Blackford said.

  ‘I shall advise Sir Gene that unfortunately you will not be in London for the hearing, but that we have interrogated you, and that you had no hand in the killing of Bertram Heath.’

  ‘That you interrogated me and that I did not kill Bertram Heath.’

  ‘That you did not kill Bertram Heath, nor bore any responsibility for the accident.’

  Blackford let it rest.

  Trust got up. ‘A little tea, gentlemen?’

  ‘Oh, one thing, Rufus,’ Blackford said. ‘Though it’s a gruesome reminder of what happened to his brother, Joe Louis would like a copy of The Album. MI6 told him that was up to us, that the original is U.S. property. Can I send him one?’

  Rufus hesitated. ‘If he wants one, let him have it. He is security-cleared. Besides, there’s nothing in The Album the Soviet Union doesn’t know.’

  ‘That’s right, Rufus. Nothing in The Album right now they don’t know about. Someday,’ he was following Anthony Trust and Rufus out the door, ‘we’ll find out, maybe, how come they sent that thing in.’

  ‘Someday,’ Rufus said, ‘we will find out a lot of things. Someday, I hope, there’ll be some things we still haven’t found out.’

  During tea they watched on television Queen Caroline greeting Premier Malenkov at Windsor Castle. Queen Caroline looked radiant. So did Malenkov.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Students of trivia may be amused to learn that when I decided to write about the year 1954. I looked at a standard reference book to re-examine the mischief done by the Soviet Union that year. One index notation caught my eye. It read, ‘BERIA, AIDES EXECUTED,’ going on to give the date in December. And so I composed the narrative, heading towards the execution of that awful man. The moment came when I needed to familiarise myself with the names of Beria’s aides: only to discover that said aides were executed one year after Beria was executed. The index notation should have read, ‘BERIA AIDES EXECUTED,’ no comma. My friend Professor Hugh Kenner long ago warned me that journalism was a ‘low-definitional medium.’ Never, he warned, ‘rely for the exact communication of your thought on the correct placement of a comma.’ Well: I did, and learned my lesson … On the other hand it happened that while writing the book I came upon someone who told me he had it from (forgive me, but it is in fact in this way that much history gets written) someone who claims he was physically present when the deed was done that in fact Beria was executed as described in the novel. I checked a Khrushchev scholar (Strobe Talbott of Time magazine) who a) does not believe it is so; and b) advises me that it was Khrushchev himself who originated the fantasy. My principal regret is that this novel permits Beria to live one year longer than he actually did.

  Dorothy McCartney, the research director of National Review, was, once again, invaluable in helping me to research the book. I thank her, and as always the indispensable Frances Bronson, who supervises my books and, substantially, my professional life. Important research was done for me on the spot, in London, by Camilla Horne (Mrs. Gerald Harford). Camilla is the daughter of the distinguished British historian Alistair Horne. She is my goddaughter, and he was my roommate at preparatory school. I dedicate the book to her, and to her mother and father, affectionately.

  I was asked by Samuel Vaughan of Doubleday please not to mention yet again his extraordinary editorial ability, kindness, generosity, and care, so I won’t. Mrs. Chaucy Bennetts is responsible for the best of the copy editing, residual grammatical anomalies being my own, intransigent responsibility. Joseph Isola did the proof-reading, his twentieth for me, leaving me greatly indebted to him. And I thank them for their kindness in reading the manuscript and making suggestions: my wife Pat, my sister Priscilla, my brother Reid, my son Christopher, my f
riends Thomas Wendel, Jr., and Charles Wallen, Jr., and my friend and literary agent, Lois Wallace. As usual, my friend Sophie Wilkins gave me advice as invaluable as it was severe.

  And of course no caper relying in part on technology could get off the ground without Alfred Aya, Jr. When I conceived the idea of the Zirca, I flashed him an MCI to Portland from Switzerland asking if he would be good enough to give my concept a moment’s thought. Twenty-two hours later I had a fifteen-thousand-word MCI from him telling me how the thing might be done. I crossed out his name, substituted my own, and sent the paper to Stockholm. I expect, next time around, to become a Nobel laureate.

  And, finally, I note that two critics of my last book wrote that Blackford Oakes was not interesting enough. I can’t imagine how they came to this conclusion. I find him fascinating.

  W. F. B.

  Stamford, Connecticut

  August 28, 1985

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1986 by William F. Buckley, Jr.

  Cover design by Barbara Brown

  Cover illustration by Karl Kotas

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-1855-5

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