Sawyer clearly decided that there was no time to rid himself of this impediment. The only answer was to take it with him!
The sound of the engine changed, the tree-trunk reared itself in the air like a caber at the Highland Games and finally swung clear of the ground, causing those beneath to dive for cover as the great shillelagh came swinging at them.
If Sawyer had been able to afford a straight ascent all might have been well. But Boswell sent another hail of bullets up at the ’copter and the rear of the perspex dome frosted and starred in a most satisfactory fashion. This it was that probably stimulated Sawyer to move away as rapidly as possible. Still steadily gaining height, the helicopter headed off over the copse in which Boswell and Arabella had sought refuge a few hours earlier.
The machine itself was well clear of the trees, but the trailing trunk was not. There was a crackling of branches as it brushed the tops of the first trees. Sawyer must have been warned instantly by this of the danger. But for once his split-second reactions were not fast enough.
The trees were much taller in the middle of the grove. The trunk hit them, hard, then wedged fast.
For a second the helicopter seemed to hold absolutely still, a Christmas bauble gleaming in the pale sunlight. Then the image changed, and, like a bright new chestnut whirled destructively on the end of a young boy’s string, the shining machine curved majestically through the air and crashed out of sight in the snowy meadow on the far side of the copse.
A moment later a great gout of flame leapt fearsomely above the tree-tops and Boswell, running with all his strength, knew there was nothing to be done. But he kept on running till the heat of the fire brought him to a halt.
He stood in silence then, and the melting snow ran in dirty rivulets around his feet.
‘That was a hell of a thing, Mr. Boswell,’ said a voice. beside him.
It was Jimmy, the tramp. With the instinctive expediency of his kind, he was warming himself at the raging fire.
‘I met them, Mr. Boswell. They was on their way.’ Jimmy recognised the necessity of honesty when he saw it. ‘But I gave them your message. Do I still get my dinners?’
Frau Himmelstor was standing a little further round the ring of flames, gazing impassively into the holocaust. She moved a few steps closer, as if she were going to immolate herself on a funeral pile. She stopped, leaned forward with lips pursed and spat ferociously into the fire.
Such hatred. Boswell turned away wearily. All he could think was that twice in two days he had had to mourn the death of a friend. Once was once too much. Perhaps he was not the man for this business. He could see Arabella still standing at the parlour window.
‘Yes. You’ll still get your dinners, Jimmy,’ said Boswell.
16
Although I have long been anxious to tell you, in plain terms, what my opinion of you is, I should have let even this opportunity pass … but for the unwarrantable tone you have assumed.
MR. SAMUEL PICKWICK
‘I don’t think she’d have cared if half the Crowned Heads of Europe had been in the thing,’ said Boswell. ‘She’d come downstairs, heard Sawyer refuse to do anything about getting poor sick Udo to hospital, and that was that. Out she went and hooked up the helicopter.’
‘I’m glad she wasn’t in the desert with Rommel,’ laughed Halloway, the dapper little one-time tank-corps major who had been in charge of what he called ‘the relief column’. ‘How is poor sick Udo, by the way?’
‘Still alive. If he survives the drive, he’ll be all right.’
Himmelstor, Bloodworth and young Swinburne had been rushed straight off to hospital along the road opened by the snow-plough. Mrs. Swinburne, Frau Himmelstor and Arabella had accompanied them. Swinburne himself had felt it necessary to remain to try to salvage something out of the disrupted conference. There had been no time yet for a tête-à-tête with him, but he had given Boswell a few what he interpreted as scape-goat-herding looks as he poured his oil on the troubled delegates.
The bodies had all been cleared away and the minor wounds of people like Boswell and leclerc had been dressed by Mrs. Hislop, who had volunteered to stay behind for this purpose, showing no signs of resenting Arabella’s usurpation of her position with regard to Bloodworth.
There was still a great deal of explanation needed there, thought Boswell.
But something like normality had returned to Dingley Dell. In fact, the genuine guests, once the emotional climax of their release and reunion was over, had rapidly assimilated the day’s events as an incredible bonus of excitement on this unusual Christmas Day. They were at present in the dining room exchanging only slightly hysterical reminiscences and enjoying a cold collation organised by the long-suffering kitchen staff. A strange difference noticeable between these guests and those more closely involved with the dramatic events of the day was their clothing. The guests still wore their Dickensian outfits as to the manner born, whereas the delegates without exception had changed into modern dress.
‘So really all we did by getting here,’ said Halloway, ‘was to save old Swinburne and a couple of foreigners? I wonder, was it worth the rush?’
‘What made you come anyway?’ asked Boswell. He hadn’t yet had time to put this question. There had been much to do.
‘Simple really. We were checking up on Bennett, the guy who didn’t turn up, and Sawyer as well of course, when Wardle came on to say not to bother. Sawyer was all right. You’ searched his gear and found conclusive evidence. A bit vague, but coming from Wardle good enough. Until some masochists who spend Christmas morning splashing in the briny down at Southend turned up, rather sick, at the local cop-shop with bits of body. Identification was almost instantaneous. A very neat man, Mr. Bennett. Name tabs on everything, even expensive, hand-made shoes. So the police turn up at his flat at lunchtime. Our boy on watch there makes himself known. And bingo! we have a very odd situation. So we don’t ask, we just set out!’
‘Be welcome to Dingley Dell,’ murmured Boswell. Poor Wardle. See how the world its veterans rewards …’
‘Wardle was being watched, you know,’ said Halloway suddenly. ‘It’s always a dangerous time in a man’s career. But you had to give it to him. He was good. We never got a sniff, certainly not of any connection with Tarantyev. It would have been better for him if we had. Tarantyev was mad. His masters will be glad to see him go. He got too many kicks out of this kind of action. Even if the helicopter could have got in last night, he’d have found some excuse to start shooting. And Wardle wouldn’t have lived to spend his share of the loot.’
‘He didn’t,’ said Boswell.
Swinburne appeared and beckoned imperiously to Boswell.
‘The conference is reconvening in ten minutes. I want coffee and sandwiches available right through. Also let me know the minute my wife gets back from the hospital.’
‘Sir!’ said Boswell in an NCO’s bark.
Swinburne eyed him narrowly. -
‘It might be necessary for you to say a few words to the delegates,’ he said slowly. ‘So hold yourself in readiness. Remember, they’re experts. They have an expert interest in this business. Later, there’s your own part in all this to be discussed.’
His tone was completely neutral. Leaving himself the option of giving me a medal or sticking my head on London Bridge, thought Boswell. He wants to come out smelling clean as possible.
He made arrangements for the refreshments, then made his way to the filing room. There were one or two things he wanted to look at. None that he hadn’t seen before, but they might make a new kind of sense now.
Arabella returned alone from the hospital about twenty minutes later. She was pale and drawn. Boswell knew instinctively what had happened.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘He just went. No pain.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Only, now it’s yours for real. Enjoy it.’
She looked at Boswell as though trying to assess if this made sense. He nodde
d.
‘What he left to you, he meant? He was your uncle, the one who —died” in South Africa?’
She nodded in her turn.
‘That’s right.’
‘A CIA man?’
‘That’s right too. Your files weren’t that good, were they? He was always the adventurous one of the family. Merchant seaman for a while; then he joined the US Marines. That’s where he was recruited. He was never terribly important, just a good competent operative.’
‘When did you find out?’
‘In South Africa,’ she said. ‘We used to quarrel terribly about South African politics. It wore him down in the end, I think, keeping up the pretence for me. So he told me.’
‘And recruited you?’
She laughed.
‘I suppose so. I doubt if I was any use. When I worked for Cerberus, I sometimes heard things. It brought in some pin money, but I felt so furtive about it that it wasn’t worth it. Then Uncle Sam died.’
‘You believed that?’
‘Oh yes,’ she nodded emphatically. ‘I was desolated. He was all I really had. When I saw him here, I could have killed him! All that grief for nothing. But when I talked to him, it was all right. Things had started getting hot for him. If he just got out, everything he had would have been confiscated. So he decided to die! That way he disappeared legitimately— drowned at sea—and I inherited legally.’
‘And Mrs. Hislop? What about her?’
‘Well, he came back here, meaning to contact me. Then he had his first heart attack. He was very ill. I was making my way slowly north through Africa at the time. His colleagues fixed for him to be treated by Mrs. Hislop. Her husband had also been in the business and while she was never active herself, she knew enough about things to be discreet. He recovered. They got on very well together, he had to live somewhere, it was a good cover and she was agreeable, so he became her old Uncle Bloodworth, who, as I’m sure you checked, really existed.’
‘A universal uncle, eh?’ smiled Boswell.
‘He was mine. I loved him,’ she said simply.
‘And how did you both happen to turn up here?’
‘He fixed it, I suppose. He was put on this job because everyone expected it to be so quiet. No one regarded your conference as being very important, not at this stage anyway. So it was a nice way of keeping Sam on the payroll and at the same time letting somebody else spend Christmas at home with his family. But Sam wanted Christmas with his family too. He can be—could be—very persuasive! It was suggested to me, gently but persuasively, that if I had nothing better to do at Christmas, I might enjoy myself here. And if I kept my eyes and ears open, I might find something nice in my Christmas stocking. But it wasn’t the money, it was just feeling bored that made me agree.’
‘Well, well. So after all, you’re one of us,’ breathed Boswell.
‘Does it make any difference?’ she asked.
‘Only that I can now seduce you without qualms! But one thing first.’
‘Only one?’ she said provocatively.
He ignored her.
‘What was he doing trying to get out of the house last night?’
‘He wanted a look at the pop group’s van.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘Curiosity. Natural suspicion. He felt something was wrong. The CIA had checked your guest-list too, of course.’
‘Had they now!’
‘But of course. Very thoroughly. When I told him about Sawyer—that’s when you saw me in his room—he immediately came to the conclusion that he couldn’t be working alone. As you yourself began to suspect. And the only people in the house he hadn’t run a personal check on were the musicians. So he thought their van might be worth a look.’
‘He was dead right,’ said Boswell gloomily. ‘I wish to hell he’d shared his theories.’
‘Well, he wasn’t exactly an invited guest himself, was he!’ retorted Arabella. ‘You’d have probably put him under lock and key. In fact that’s exactly what you were aiming to do when you chased him and he had his attack.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Boswell gently.
‘No. It wasn’t your fault. He shouldn’t have been doing it. He was like Traherne, just there for a quiet bit of keyhole- peeping really. Sawyer was the one who stirred things up.’ She spoke bitterly.
They were interrupted by the Fat Boy, who was gnawing a leg of goose.
‘They want you,’ he said between chews. ‘In the conference room. Ten minutes?’
‘Right,’ said Boswell, glad to change the mood of the conversation. ‘Hell, I nearly forgot. The others. How are they?’
Himmelstor was doing well, though his face would probably need plastic surgery. And Stephen Swinburne had recovered consciousness. Both the other women had opted to spend the night at the hospital in case there was any change.
‘I had a long talk with Mrs. Swinburne,’ said Arabella. ‘Girl-to-girl stuff. And I said hello to the boy too. Interested?’
‘Give!’ said Boswell. Five minutes later, well pleased with what he’d heard, he left the room. On the landing a figure stepped out of the shadows and took his arm. It was Suzie leclerc.
‘The boy,’ she said. ‘How is he?’
Boswell eyed her narrowly.
‘Not good,’ he said finally. ‘May I talk with you?’
He was twenty minutes late at the conference.
The atmosphere in the conference room was strangely intimate. Like old soldiers who have unexpectedly found themselves under fire again, the delegates seemed to have set about recapturing the spirit of ‘old times’ and Boswell shuddered to think of the stories of undercover ‘derring-do’ which must have been exchanged.
Briefly he told Swinburne about his son and his wife.
‘Good. Good,’ he said with great relief. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, your attention please. Herr Himmelstor is well, you will be pleased to hear. And my son has recovered consciousness.’
There was a murmur of pleasure at the news.
‘Mr. Boswell,’ said leclerc casually. ‘Do you know yet how Stephen came to be injured?’
‘Yes, I think so. He had the misfortune to run into Wardle, who could not afford to be seen after arranging his own mysterious disappearance.’
‘So it was Wardle who struck him down, not Tarantyev?’
‘That is so.’
The Frenchman nodded and relaxed in his chair. Swinburne began to speak.
‘Gentlemen, Mr. Boswell is much more closely connected with the field-work surrounding this conference than I. I have already apologised for the events of today. But as you all know the aim of good security is not to achieve the impossible. Any attempt to do so would be to invite complete and abject failure. No, we must be pragmatic. For a conference like this to be organised without any leaks at all would be miraculous. Miracles are not our business.’
There was a ripple of amusement. Encouraged, he pressed on.
‘And where prevention is impossible, cure becomes all important. That’s what we have seen today, gentlemen. Cure. Though the walls were breached, the defences held and the gap has been closed. If when the turn of your country arrives to host this conference, you can offer me that assurance, I shall be satisfied.’
He sat down. The delegates nodded approvingly. Boswell groaned inwardly.
‘Mr. Boswell.’ It was Brucciani. ‘You have acted well and bravely. And I agree with what Mr. Swinburne says. But perhaps you could tell us, briefly, what you feel in practical terms could have been done to strengthen these walls which were so easily breached. I ask, not in a critical spirit, but in order to learn.’
Latin irony of a high order, thought Boswell, rising to his feet. He felt Swinburne’s cold, warning gaze on him.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘We were at a disadvantage fromthe start insomuch as the whole context of the conference was conceived by the man who betrayed us, Wardle. In fact those elements which he claimed would give maximum cover—that is, the Christmas holiday in a hotel—w
ere just those elements he needed to make his own plans work. So lesson one is, do your own planning.’
Swinburne looked displeased, but nodded agreement.
‘Lesson two follows from lesson one. If you can’t trust your own lieutenants, then you’re a fool to trust anyone. Even the people coming to the conference.’
There was an excited murmuring. Swinburne was glaring furiously at Boswell but he pressed on.
‘Don’t look offended, gentlemen. Everyone is permitted a few peccadillos. If, Signor Brucciani, you wish to bring your mistress instead of your wife, that is your affair, I suppose. Though we would have preferred it if you had brought a mistress who wasn’t also bestowing favours on a gentleman from the Polish Embassy.’
Now there was real uproar, with English abandoned for the moment. Eventually Leclerc’s precise voice pierced the din.
‘My dear Swinburne, even with Wardle dead, your underlings leave much room for improvement.’
‘That’s enough, Boswell,’ rapped Swinburne. ‘I’ll talk with you later.’
‘I’m not quite finished, sir,’ said Boswell politely. ‘Monsieur leclerc, you must not feel attacked. There is no doubt whatsoever that Madame leclerc is your legally wedded wife. What is odd, however, is the way you encouraged her to use her charms to invite the boy Stephen Swinburne to attempt the theft of confidential material pertaining to this conference.’
Now all the clamour of Babel filled the air, so much so that the worried Fat Boy, on duty outside, opened the door and peered in to see the cause of the disturbance. Swinburne waved him out angrily.
‘Leclerc,’ he said loudly, ‘I apologise. Believe me, this man will pay. Boswell, leave now or I’ll have you arrested.’
‘Wait,’ said Leclerc. ‘I have been accused. It interests me. I should like to hear the basis of this fantasy.’
‘Certainly,’ said Boswell. ‘You never wanted this conference to succeed. Whether the opposition is private or official, I do not know. Nor whether it’s absolute or merely relative. Perhaps a conference in Paris would be a more fitting place for success, eh? No matter. It’s one of life’s little ironies that interference on such a large scale as we have seen was being planned. You weren’t to know that as you pushed your own small spanners into the works.’
Red Christmas Page 17
