Amber Nine Page 2

  Oh well, thought Boysie, it could not last for ever. This was the Mostyn he knew.

  ‘You said you were going to be in conference with the Chief. You said you’d be late,’ he tried.

  ‘So I did, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got to start watching the clock does it? Actually I’d hoped this would wait until the morning. It’s “pressure”, old lad.’

  Boysie seemed to have lost the power of speech. It was a long time since he had heard the word ‘pressure’. In the old days it was his code alert that a ‘kill’ was imminent.

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘Pressure. The real McCoy ...’

  ‘But you said. You promised. You said I wouldn’t have to do one of those again. Not ever, you said.’

  ‘Now don’t start shedding the old wool. I promised nothing. I said that I hoped you would not be required in this capacity—after Coronet when your cover was broken. I don’t want you to do it. But there’s no other way. Sorry to take you from any other little plans, but it’s a Red Target.’ Red was the special-urgency prefix.

  ‘But what about my replacement. Only the other day you were telling me how happy you were with him. Trying to needle me. I haven’t done one of these in two years. I’m out of practice. I’m damned if I’m going to do one now.’

  ‘You don’t want to break your contract with us do you, old son? Durance vile that would mean. Incarceration. Nasty damp cells. Warders queening it over you. If you’d kept to the Department training programme instead of consorting all the time you’d feel a lot better about it—and so would I.’

  There was a silence along the lonely telephone cable. Boysie’s mind was clocking up 120 m.p.h. on a small-radius circuit. Mostyn spoke again.

  ‘Matter of fact your replacement’s got a touch of the ‘flu. Got his feet wet last week in Scotland. You must have read about it. That poor little Naval Attaché on leave from the Belgrade Embassy. On a fishing holiday. He got wet as well. Lots of space in the nationals and about ten inches in the Glasgow Evening News.’ Mostyn was cooing now. Then the tone changed. ‘Look, lad, if you’re not over at Briefing within half-an-hour I’m going to have you. To the hilt I’m going to have you. We’ll give you the Guy Fawkes treatment—and you know what happened to Guy Fawkes.’ Boysie did know what had happened to Guy Fawkes, in all its revolting detail. Mostyn was quite capable of doing the same to him—with trimmings.

  ‘You with me “L”? Be a good fellow and move. You have to be on a plane first thing in the morning.’ The line died with a sharp click dissolving into the dialing tone.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ blasphemed Boysie.

  Elizabeth was sitting looking at him, her eyes asking a dozen questions.

  ‘It’s all happening,’ said Boysie. ‘With my luck you could be pregnant after all.’

  ‘You’ve got to go away again.’ A statement. Elizabeth’s voice flat and unemotional.

  Boysie nodded. His mind had turned into a set of hands—scrawny and reaching out, groping at the straws of ideas, fumbling, trying to plait them into a cohesive whole.

  ‘I’d better go back to Hammersmith then,’ said Elizabeth staring at her untouched paella congealing into a solid colourful lump on the plate.

  ‘Yes.’ Far away, not with her. Then ‘Yes, I suppose so. Not tonight though. I’ve got to go out, but I’ll be back. I leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me?’ It was just something to say. She knew him well enough to detect the mounting tide of anxiety. Elizabeth never pried as a rule. Vaguely she knew that Boysie’s work was connected with stealth, but it was better to remain ignorant of the details. Boysie shook his head.

  ‘Mostyn!’ He spoke like an amateur warlock with pins held ready to stab a plasticine effigy.

  ‘Better telephone Sandy and tell her I’ll be coming back to the hovel tomorrow,’ said Elizabeth. She forced herself to make a small explosive laugh sound. ‘That’ll shake her. She’ll be up half the night washing my things she’s been wearing.’

  ‘Not for a minute. I’ll have to use the phone.’ He stretched out his hand, but the instrument began to ring before he reached the receiver.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘You not left yet, Boysie? Come on, lad, I’m on my way.’ Mostyn’s voice sword-blading it in his ear. Then the click and dialing tone. Boysie looked at his watch.

  ‘Oh gawd!’ It was almost a real prayer. Why didn’t he have the guts to get down to Special Briefing now, face Mostyn and tell him the truth? The times he had tried to tell him and failed. He should have known it would happen again one day—all the nerves and uncertainty and the fact of death swilling around him. Time was getting short. They would not give him the chance to mull over the morality of it. Action. He had to take some action.

  ‘Back in the old routine,’ he muttered. Inexplicably a Technicolor movie flashed on to the narrow screen of his mind. A double-act—straw boaters, white flannels, striped blazers and whirling canes against a painted backdrop with an audience roaring its head off. In the front row of the stalls sat Mostyn laughing like a lunatic. The double-act was going through a soft shoe shuffle. The fantasy camera inside his head closed on the nimble feet and tracked upwards to the faces. The double-act was himself and Griffin. He had to get Griffin. Lord help us he may have gone out of business. Changed his address even. The Coronet affair. Two years ago. He had seen Griffin once since then. A sunny day in Winchcombe—on one of their Cotswolds expeditions. They had been looking at the church. One of the gargoyles reminded him of someone. Walking down the path between the bodies laid to rest under Betjemanesque tombstones—Elizabeth was laughing at some quip (about the gargoyle?)—he had raised his head and there was Griffin padding towards them. They looked at each other, and for a suspended moment Boysie thought the ex-undertaker was going to speak. But Griffin was a professional, a real old trouper in his macabre trade. He had not even nodded. The insecurity followed him for a fortnight—chipping away in his subconscious until he was almost convinced that Griffin had been employed by someone—Mostyn maybe—to put an end to things. To give him the grave treatment.

  Boysie still had the telephone receiver in his hand. The old routine after a ‘pressure’ call. Phone Griffin, meet him, set up the deal, put the finger on the customer and leave the horror to Griffin. Then the pay-off. This was the sub-contracted liquidating double-act which Boysie had worked on the Department during that incredible time when his natural aversion to death, in any form, prevented him from actually carrying out the ultimate moments of the kill assignments. And it was still Boysie’s secret. Boysie’s and Griffin’s.

  His stomach felt like a family-pack casata as he dialled the number—coming back to him like an old, trusted, friend. Someone lifted the receiver at the other end and a voice he did not recognise, young and feminine, recited the number.

  ‘Mr Griffin,’ said Boysie. ‘Can I speak to Mr Griffin?’

  ‘E’s owt oim afraid. Ooo is thet callin’?’

  Boysie ignored the question. ‘When do you expect him back? It’s rather urgent.

  ‘Any tame neow reely.’

  What a repulsive accent, he thought. Large dollops of Mostyn’s highly superior attitude to his fellow men had been injected into Boysie. For most of the time he kept them at bay, but, at moments like this, they came gurgling to the surface, all smarmy and snide.

  ‘Could you give him a message?’

  ‘Yeas.’

  Normally Boysie would not have risked it, but there was no other way.

  ‘Would you tell him Mr Oakes called—O-A-K-E-S. He’ll remember me. Mr Oakes. Tell him I must see him urgently. It’s business. If he would call me as soon as he gets in. He knows the number. I have to go out but there will be somebody here. OK?’

  ‘All rate. Ey’ll tell ‘im.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is thet all?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you very much. Thank you.’

  ‘Bay-bay.’

  ‘Bay-bay,’ mimicked Boysie when the line cleared. �
��Sounds as if old Griffin’s been whoring up the ‘dilly. Sorry, Liz love. It’s absolute hell. Mostyn’s a ...’

  ‘I know, Boysie. I know what Mostyn is. You’ve told me.’

  ‘Yes.’ Boysie got up.

  ‘Can I warm your paella for you?’

  Boysie could not have kept down an invalid’s pre-digested Bath bun, let alone the spicy paella.

  ‘I’m not terribly hungry, darling. Anyway, got to go. Queen-and-Country as my lovable boss would say.’

  He wandered into the hall and shrugged his shoulders into the heavy suede car coat with the fur collar.

  ‘You look beautiful, darling,’ said Elizabeth making all light-hearted and loving.

  But Boysie was wrapped in a shroud of personal misery.

  ‘Have you got to go far, Boysie?’

  ‘What, now? Tonight? Or tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t know. Not yet. Further than I bloody want to, wherever it is.’

  ‘I’ll be here, if you want me, when you get back. Well, at the Hammersmith hovel anyway ...’

  ‘In your plush pad on the outskirts, eh?’

  ‘If you need me. You will phone, as soon ...’

  Boysie put his arms round her. ‘Of course, Liz. Soon as I get back. But I’ll see you later tonight.’

  ‘It’s been super. The last few weeks.’

  ‘I know. Sorry about this. You don’t know how sorry. See you later then.’

  She nodded and reached up to kiss him. Forty-five seconds of controlled eroticism, then, peculiarly embarrassed, Boysie took a deep breath and left the flat.

  In a matter of seconds he was back again.

  ‘For crying out loud, Liz, I nearly forgot.’

  She came running to the door.

  ‘Someone will be phoning. Bloke called Griffin. Will you tell him that we must meet quickly. Tonight. I’ll be cruising up and down Waterloo Bridge at ...’ He looked at his watch. Seven-ten. Better leave plenty of time. ‘Between midnight and one. I must see him, I’ll call you to check he’s rung. OK?’

  ‘OK. But it’s a bit, well, a bit dramatic isn’t it? Not like you at all, darling.’

  ‘No,’ said Boysie firmly. ‘No. It’s not like me one itsy little bit.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  GOLD FLAKE: LONDON

  THE theatre traffic was beginning its build-up and the rain had started—the pavements of Regent Street littered with plastic-wrapped human parcels trying to flag down empty taxis which hissed past, heading for secret destinations. Liberty’s windows were being rigged for the spring tide—dismembered dummies, naked or tissue-pinned, sad and humiliated among haughty little ladies and arty gentlemen. In Oxford Street the plastic parcels and traffic became thicker, the rain more positive—blurring between metronomic strokes of the windscreen wipers. Boysie cursed at having to come the long way. At Marble Arch he swung the E-type into the right-hand lane. Edgware Road. The Lotus House. A shop window bristling with antique armour. Praed. Street—sleazy gateway to the West—on the left. Special Briefing on the right, behind a tobacconist’s, almost at the frontier where the Edgware Road does its transformation scene into Maida Vale. Keeping Special Briefing far away from the Department HQ was part of Mostyn’s long-term decentralisation policy, angled to confuse the opposition, and other Government Intelligence Departments. It also served to add a bit of cloak and dagger flavour to life: something which many of the old hands felt had gone from the Department since the war.

  The Second-in-Command’s silver-grey Bentley was parked across the road from the tobacconist’s—too close to the rear of a scarlet Mini. The Mini’s back window carried a sticker which said ‘Come Home Marples—All is Forgiven’. Boysie brought the Jaguar to within three inches of the Bentley, nearly making a three-car sandwich. He hoped Mostyn wanted to leave in a hurry. There would be a scene. Switching off the engine, Boysie took out a pack of Benson and Hedges king-size filters, lit one and eased himself out into the rain. It would ruin the suede, he thought, splashing across the road. The shop front was no credit to its owner, the samples sprayed with a primer of dust. Among them, Boysie noticed several brands which had not been available since his childhood.

  Blore, the tobacconist, opened up.

  ‘I’ve got no Gold Flake left,’ he said, going through the ritual with a smile of recognition.

  ‘It’s not Gold Flake I’m after. I want some specials,’ parroted Boysie.

  ‘Nice t’see yergain,’ said Blore, closing the door behind them and leading the way to the back of the shop. Special Briefing was a small white room furnished with four chairs, a WD folding table, a green WD metal cupboard and an incongruous blue telephone. A solitary 40-watt dangled from the ceiling.

  ‘Someone’ll do that recognition pattern one night and a sharp-eared copper’ll pull him in on a narcotics charge,’ said Boysie.

  ‘Well it won’t be me, lad. Sit down, we’ve got a lot to do.’

  Mostyn did not turn from the table, on which a Eumig Mark S projector and slide viewer stood efficiently in readiness. Short, greying curly-hair cut close to the scalp, small hands in repose on a couple of yellow files, Mostyn was a neat, sharp member of the constant ruling classes. The boys who, like The Brook, went on for ever—in spite of General Elections and Cabinet changes.

  Boysie sat. One of Mostyn’s faceless minions materialised from the gloom and stationed himself near the apparatus.

  ‘Slide One,’ clipped Mostyn. The picture came up on the screen. ‘Know him?’

  Boysie’s forehead creased, emblazoned with worry. ‘I know the face, but ...’

  ‘You can’t remember the name. I wish you’d keep with the government, Boysie. After all, their mistakes are our bread and butter. It’s Mr William Penton, Member of Parliament.’

  ‘Westminster whizz-kid.’

  ‘Not the words I would have chosen but they’ll do.’

  ‘It’s what the Daily Express calls him.’

  ‘Yes.’ The superior being. ‘OK? Red Target L.27 William Francis Penton. Born 1928. Educated Oxford. Sometime lecturer in economics. Extreme leftist leanings. Entered politics through brilliant by-election tactics 1953 at Bettlefield. Ambitious. High tipped as cabinet possibility on formation of last government. Happily the PM took our advice—for a change. Outcry in the popular Press, with whom he has always been at one.’

  ‘Penton Passed Over.’

  ‘That sort of thing. Publicity conscious. Charmer and a traitor. High disposable. Been ferrying simple stuff for quite a while—trade information mostly. But his name’s coming up for an appointment. Can’t stave it off this time—that’s the reason for the haste. They’ll announce it in a matter of days. We’ve been sitting on this for a long time and I don’t want to be forced into toddling to the FO with the dossier at this stage. These new boys think they know it all. Don’t want a clash.’

  Boysie nodded in understanding and stubbed the last quarter-of-an-inch of the Benson and Hedges into the tobacco tin which served as an ashtray. Mostyn continued.

  ‘Other difficulty is that some imbecile has given him access to classified material. No harm done yet, but it advances the urgency somewhat. You want to look him over?’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter what I say does it? You’ll show the film anyway.’

  ‘Don’t be like that Boysie. I just want you to get some idea of his habits. Might help you to decide on the best way.’ Mostyn paused and looked hard at Boysie whose mouth was twitching up severely at the left corner.

  ‘You’re a bit on the edgy side aren’t you?’ Mostyn sounded calm, a doctor with a nervous pre-operation patient.

  ‘So would you be bloody edgy. You mentioned abroad. That I had to be on a plane in the morning. I mean I presume it’s abroad. What’s abroad got to do with it?’

  ‘In the fullness of time, dear boy, all things shall be revealed. Just sit back and watch the pretty pictures. You’re in the most expensive seats.’

  ‘Double feature. Flavour-of-
the-Month—gore,’ muttered Boysie.

  Mostin nodded towards the shadow hovering at his elbow, Boysie glanced up. The man was typical of the many servile seneschals Mostyn seemed to have eternally on call for Records or the GIR. He was dressed, Boysie noted, in the livery of upper bracket Civil Service—the striped pants and black jacket giving the man a normality which was almost sinister. The face meant nothing. As Mostyn’s PA, Boysie had probably seen him before, but none of the 2 I/C’s errand boys had faces one remembered. To Boysie, one of the unnerving things about the past six months had been the revelation that Democracy was still only a pious hope: that the Foreign Office, Home Office and their various satellite departments controlled a network of ruthless intrigue which made the old OGPU look curiously like a clerical gossip society. Behind the white collars and under the bowler hats of ticky-tacky men like this assistant, there lurked a deep particular political nastiness.

  The Eumig whirred, and William Penton—trapped on in-flammable 8mm—went through his paces. The film was like every other identification film Boysie had ever seen. The IFU, it was well known, employed numerous young men who had failed to make the grade in the avant-guarde world of art pictures, hence the odd shots which picked up Penton’s sturdy figure charging through shopping crowds, and his face framed between the fingers of some unidentified woman. Boysie sat still and pretended to concentrate. Long ago he had learned the art of assimilating the facts which Griffin would need, discarding the dross, looking interested and making the kind of comments most likely to lead Mostyn into thinking that ‘L’ was a true professional and proud of his art. The film came to an end and the 40-watt clicked on again.

  ‘Well, at least you’ll recognise him won’t you?’

  ‘Where do I make contact?’ Boysie wondered if he was sounding suspiciously efficient.

  ‘Ah!’ Mostyn opened the uppermost yellow folder on which his hands had been resting. Boysie caught a glimpse of airline tickets.

  ‘Friend Penton goes out of the country twice a year.’ Mostyn sounded unduly lazy. ‘He’s a man of habit. Not the safest attribute to a subversive operative. Always goes to the same place—we think he meets a contact there. We know he has a numbered bank account.’