Understrike (13 page)

“
Well, I just thought...”

“
All right. Thanks, Vladimir. Now get cracking, there’s a good lad.”

“
I’m on my way.”

Boysie
smiled the smile of an irresponsible practical joker—the
Missionary’s
Downfall
still keeping him at bubbling point. Life was just a glorious game and the alarms and excursions of normality merely myths. In this warped, alcoholically-induced state he was even pleased to see that Vladimir’s face wore the marks of fear, as the Russian tip-toed between the rooms modestly clutching a towel round his middle. Boysie stifled the desire to break into hysterical cackling mirth. The exchange was finally concluded, and within minutes of reaching Vladimir’s room, Boysie had his clothes off and was in bed—naked and unashamed. Fifteen minutes later there was a soft, steady tapping at the door.

The
night’s events had told heavily on Boysie’s stamina, and the noise jerked him back from the first stage of sleep. He blinked, shook his head, and remembered the little jape. Getting out of bed, he plodded across to the door.

“
Who’s there” His brain cloudy, he concentrated hard in an attempt to will his flagging senses into a more acute state of readiness.

“
Me, Chicory. Let me in.”

Boysie
opened the door and Chicory nipped over the threshold—still dressed only in the blue bit of nothing.

“
What do you want?” closing the door and sliding the chain into place.

“
That’s a stupid question after what happened earlier. I said I’d think about it. Well, here I am.” She spread out her arms in the acknowledged stance of surrender: palms about eighteen inches from the thighs.

“
You mean?” Boysie could see her quite clearly in the half-light. She nodded. He was close to her now, one hand around her waist, the other moving up to cup a nylon-shielded breast.

“
I knew you’d come,” he said softly. He was getting a body reaction now—lethargic maybe, but better than nothing.

“
Did you, Vladimir?”

“
Of course. Saw it in your eyes,” said Boysie, butter flying it with his eyelids down her left cheek. Then maliciously, “Boysie back yet?”

“
Don’t talk about him, Vladimir. Just us. For a little while, just us.”

How
two-faced can a woman get? Boysie asked himself. She was pulling him gently towards the bed.

“
Not so fast. I only just woke up.”

“
Come on. Please. For me.” In the gloom, Boysie saw her hands move to the tiny bows—first at her shoulder and then the hip—which kept the film of toga in place. A slither and the nightdress dropped to the floor. Then they were between the sheets. Close. Rapturous.

Half
an hour later, as the endearments and caresses were becoming sluggish, Boysie murmured, “Chicory, you are a real whizz ...”

“
Thank you, baby, you’re a bang. Whizz-bang!”

Silence.

“Tell me…?”

“
Yes?”

“
How am I? ... Compared to ... to Boysie?”

“
You don’t want to talk about that.”

Please.
I’d like to know.” A kiss to the nose, and then just off-centre of the lips.

“
You’re both ... Well, you’re both very,
very
much alike. Quite ‘strordinary,” commented Chicory contentedly.

“
Really?” Boysie was floating, but still in control and enjoying the joke.

“
To be honest,” Chicory was murmuring to herself as though under an anaesthetic, “he’s probably a bit more vigorous than you. But what’s an ounce or two of vigour between friends. What you lack in vigour you make up in subtlety, Vladimir.”

Silence
again.

“
Vladimir?” A slow change in the contours of the thin sheet which covered them.

“
Yes.”

“
Tell me about Russia.”

“
In the morning,” said Boysie, aware of the danger inherent in this line of conversation, but too tired to do anything about it.

“
I want to hear about Russia now.”

“
Very big, Russia.”

“
That’s China. Noel Coward said it was China. Very big, China. That’s what Noel Coward said.”

“
Well…Russia’s very big.”

“
So’s China…”

Chicory
snuggled into the crook of Boysie’s arm, and together they sank into a sleep, smooth and unruffled by dreams—oblivious to the fact that, only a few miles away, Dr Vassily Georg Gorilka, Khavichev’s field commander for
Operation
Understrike
, was holding a conference.

*

“There have been set-backs. This must be admitted: I have myself made one bad error of judgment. Two of our assault operatives from the East coast have lost their lives—a small thing. I escaped—a big thing. But—and this is of great importance to your morale and our confidence in the ultimate success of this mission—nothing has so far happened that can in any way upset our plans for the final stage of this operation.”

Gorilka
looked down the table into five pairs of eyes. He could see respect glinting from all ten pupils. It gave him a magnificent sense of power.
Understrike
was the biggest job ever entrusted to him, and he was ruthlessly determined to make it the climax of his career. The men with him were also top operatives. He could trust them. Gorilka laid his paunchy hands over a blubbery stomach and continued:

“
On the face of it, one of our comrades seems to have defected to the West. Or should I say defaecated to the West?” Gorilka enjoyed a joke. Khavichev was always telling people what a witty man Gorilka was. “But, my friends, our apostate knows nothing, nor is he in a position to give anything away. I show no concern for him because I am able to call him to heel at any moment I wish.” The white, rubbery face screwed into a smile. “In fact, the two large gentlemen who arrived here with me tonight, are, at this moment, paving the way for our turncoat’s return to our side of the street. Now, gentlemen, to the final arrangements ...”

The
conference lasted until the small hours.

*

James George Mostyn arrived by the Polar Route—the Boeing 707 sliding into San Francisco before dawn. Mostyn was a man of quite incredible single-mindedness—to the extent that some believed he had a predilection to
idées fixes
. Once the journey to America had begun, Mostyn’s whole being centred on the big question mark which seemed to strangle Boysie and the
Playboy
firing trials. He started by trying to make a logical appreciation of the situation. From the scant evidence at his disposal, he knew that Boysie had gone missing—after abortive attempts both to kidnap and murder him—that the
Playboy-Trepholite
tests were of major importance to Western defence; that Boysie had been travelling to attend those tests; ergo, his disappearance did not bode well for the safety and security of either
Playboy
or its playmate
Trepholite
. Mostyn’s intuition rarely let him down—especially where Boysie was concerned. The equation always came out the same: B + P + T = C (Boysie +
Playboy
+
Trepholite
= Calamity).

As
he sat in the San Francisco Terminal, sipping lukewarm coffee and waiting for the San Diego plane, Mostyns’ sixth sense rippled like the muscles on a Mister Universe contestant. What, he wondered, were the opposition about? They could not mean to sabotage the submarine—that would be sheer foolhardiness. Surely they did not plan to pinch it? No, this was something far more perverse—and dangerous. Mostyn could feel it, as a countryman feels the approach of rain. But what? As he waited, Mostyn continued to research into the possibilities. Somewhere, he knew, there was a clue; a link; a missing factor.

*

From way back, Boysie was recalling a passage of Holy Scripture:
The
Lamentations
of
the
Prophet
Jeremiah
, he thought. He was pretty certain it was from the
Book
of
Lamentations
. He could remember ‘Old Noddler’—as the choirboys used to call the vicar so many summers ago in the Berkshire village church—reading at the great brass lectern. How they used to snigger, surpliced and hiding behind hymn books. Boysie was not sniggering now. “My bowels are troubled: my liver is poured out,” he quoted silently, sitting in the cubicle bathroom of number 29.
Missionary’s
Downfall
had an extraordinary purgative effect. Boysie was not even able to wallow in retrospective pleasure about Chicory—who still lay deep in the arms of Morpheus, on Vladimir’s bed.

Boysie
knew it was simply a question of time before he would feel better. He had only got what Mostyn called “a touch of the scalds”. With a head several sizes too large for him, Boysie closed one eye to focus more clearly on the dial of his wrist-watch. Seven-fifteen. Something was happening at eight. He made a tentative probe into the events of the previous evening, finally remembering that Braddock-Fairchild was sending a car to collect him at eight. Better shave. By this time he found that he had started to dress in Vladimir’s clothes, laid neatly on a chair—as opposed to his own, lying in an untidy pile and partly pushed under the bed.

“
Oh what the hell,” said Boysie. It was too late to bother now. Go and shave. He moved gingerly back into the bathroom, then recollected that his own shaving kit was in the room occupied by Vladimir. Chicory was still spark-out as he once more crossed the room and made his way to number 30.

“
Damn fool, Vladimir!” he muttered when the door opened first time. “Idiot forgot to lock it.”

Vladimir
was also well away in Nodsville: the sheets pulled right over his head, only a tiny lock of hair showing on the pillow. Through the hectic shimmering mess which seemed to be the inside of his skull, and appeared to be joined directly to a similar réchauffé that was his stomach, Boysie considered the situation. His joke with Chicory, such an hilariously nimble bit of by-play in the early hours, now seemed stale. Chicory would be livid. Best get washed, shaved and out to the Base without waking either of them. They would find out soon enough. Quietly he locked the bathroom door and, with hands which resembled the wings of an anxious dragonfly, began his ablutions.

Twenty
minutes later, much refreshed, Boysie donned Vladimir’s poloneck sweater, decided that it was too hot for the climate, took it off and went into the bedroom to root among his clothes for something more suitable. He chose the grey cotton drifter shirt (with cream collar and two-button placket front) which he had been dying to wear ever since getting on to the ship at Southampton. He also gathered together, the small pile of personal belongings—extra shirt (a cool blue creation by Ambassadeur of Paris), the one remaining clean pair of pyjamas, spare underwear and Onyx travel kit—needed for the night stop at North Island Naval Base. Stuffing the soft gear into a flat Cunard shoulder bag, bought on the boat and so far unused, Boysie prepared to go down and wait for the car in the parking lot. His head and vitals still quavered, but something else had been added to the general discomfort: a prickling, tingling sensation up the short hairs at the back of his neck. Boysie looked round the room. There was nothing out of place, yet he continued to sense abnormality. Perhaps the silence was giving him the jitters? The silence. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. Vladimir! The lump lay very still under the sheet. Boysie could hear his own heart punching a heavy pulse. He took a couple of steps towards the bed. There was no movement, not even the rise and fall of breathing. He was trembling now, and the pulse rate—deafening in his ears—had become uncomfortably rapid. He wanted to get out, but conscience, and that odd magnetic pull towards the macabre, drew him closer to the bed. With thumb and forefinger of his right hand, Boysie slowly lifted the sheet.

There
had been no struggle: a comparatively clean kill. Vladimir would have felt nothing: known nothing. He lay on his face with his head turned left, as though still in sleep—the only visible traces of violence being a blackened era about the size of a half-crown, behind the ear. It was the job of a professional. The assassin had come quietly in the night, skilfully forced the lock, walked up to the bed, held a small calibre weapon close to Vladimir’s head (there must have been a silencer) and pulled the trigger. Boysie’s shock reaction was fascination by the fact that there was little blood. Strangely, this amazed him. Vladimir’s left hand was clenched tight, clutching at the pillow—an involuntary grab that must have been his only movement at the sudden crisis of death.

Boysie
stood looking down at Vladimir’s corpse, experiencing, not the usual nausea which overtook him in proximity to death, but a terrible empty well of sadness and grief. Then he realised that he was looking at himself. It was
his
body, the shell of
his
being, that lay among the crushed bedclothes:
his
head burst open by a .25 bullet from nowhere. The familiar swell of disgust frothed in his stomach, followed by a quick second wave as the full impact punched home. The bullet had been meant for
him
. If he had not changed rooms last night, it would be
him
on the bed, trussed by the bands of rigor mortis. First Joe Siedler. Now Vladimir Solev. The room reeled, and Boysie stumbled to the door for air. Stupidly, he saw that he was still hanging on to the Cunard bag and travel kit. Leaning against the balcony rail, taking long breaths of warm air through his nostrils, trying to steady his swimming head, Boysie heard a movement behind him. Chicory was standing in the doorway of number 29.