Understrike (5 page)
Boysie was feeling considerably better. He stepped out of the shower and towelled himself vigorously—the external tingle supplemented by an internal glow and sense of well-being induced by two stiff Old Hickory Bourbons with which he had sluiced out his throat shortly after arriving at the hotel.
The
journey from Pier 90 had been a travelogue in miniature—Joe Siedler rattling off facts; acquainting Boysie with landmarks in a stream of Runyonese which was almost as baffling as the swirling racket of the city at high pitch. To Boysie, New York became, in the first few minutes, a noisy, terrifying, wild brake-slamming fairground—garish, with the harsh compelling beauty of luxury-stressed concrete, steel and glass thrown in.
It
was in the hotel lobby, while Siedler was doing his usual incomparable liaison job with the management, that Boysie committed his first transatlantic blunder. Realising that, in his state of mental deshabille on leaving the ship, he had forgotten to arm himself with a duty-free ration of cigarettes, he approached the booth—which, loaded with newspapers, magazines, gum and potential clouds of nicotine smoke, is standard equipment in hotels the world over—and looked among the choice selection for his favourite brand of Benson and Hedges King-size Filters. Not seeing them, he caught the eye of the vendor and automatically asked for “Twenty
Players
, please.”
“
Twenty what?” said the laconic booth-minder.
“
Players,” repeated Boysie, sounding like a television ad.
“
Sure, Mac. What kindya want? Football or baseball?”
Boysie
eventually settled for Chesterfields, plonked himself into one of the leather armchairs (which seemed to have been provided for middle-aged gentlemen waiting for sleek young girls, and middle-aged ladies waiting for sleek young men), and lit a cigarette with the Windmaster which bore his unfortunate initials, B.O. The first lungful of smoke set him coughing, provoking shocked glances akin to those flung at people who talk in the reading rooms of public libraries.
Snippets
of conversation buzzed round like midsummer bees; “... and she had this rather delightful Mercedes Benz. Milton and I met her in Europe last Fall . .”
“
... You know, honey, he’s very anxious to leave his wife. Did you know that? ...”
Then
Siedler was back again, still beaming and bulging with fulsome bonhomie. During his negotiations he had collected an elderly bell-boy who now took Boysie’s case and led them to the elevator in a manner suggesting that he did not really have to offer this menial service but was doing it out of respect for Anglo-American relations. The elevator whipped them up to the sixth floor, leaving Boysie’s guts somewhere slightly below pavement level.
The
room was large, with furnishings to match. A chest-of-drawers—surmounted by two huge candlestick lamps—ranged over the length of one wall; the bed could have slept three assorted couples, with room to spare for acrobatics; and the television, elegantly slim, might have been built for Cinerama.
Siedler
produced the Old Hickory (“Little welcome gift from the boys”), and lounged on the bed while Boysie unpacked to the whisper of the air conditioning.
A
tap at the door announced the arrival of the CIA contact —a reserved young man in the uniform light grey suit of the American business executive, and the damp manner of one who has lost his sense of humour during the climb towards responsibility. He was introduced, rather soberly, as Mr Lofrese —Siedler’s bouncy attitude changing noticeably to distinct deference in the presence of a senior member of his firm. There was an uncomfortable pause, after which Joe Siedler quietly took his leave, priming Boysie with two telephone numbers written in vermilion ink on the back of an old envelope.
“
If you want anything, just call,” was his final injunction. “If I ain’t at this one, then try this—it’s a direct line to our Department. They’ll always find me.”
Lofrese
set straight to business. Half an hour later Boysie’s initial mission was completed—the code corrections noted carefully in a small, black leather-bound book, gold-embossed with the American eagle. “It’s a wonder it hasn’t got
Codes
.
Secret
stamped all over it,” reflected Boysie.
“
OK. That seems to be it, Mr Oakes.” Lofrese’s voice was reminiscent of an airport controller doing a GCA. Boysie wondered if he was really a computer in disguise, being operated by some remote automaton at Cape Kennedy. Boysie lit a cigarette and relaxed that tiny part of his mind which had been retaining the code corrections for over a week. But, with Lofrese’s next words, his mind—together with all his senses, and accompanied by a quick downward pressure of the bowels —flicked into life again.
“
I’ve got some instructions for you,” said Lofrese. “Guess you’ve already been notified that you’re staying on in the States for a while.”
Boysie
nodded, his heart pounding. Here it comes, he thought; the Sunday punch; Mostyn’s little knife-thrust; the black one that he had dreaded. The least he expected was a directive to eliminate the whole of the Unites States High Command—single handed and armed only with a Boy Scout knife. He dragged his thoughts back to Lofrese who was speaking again:
“
You’re going out to San Diego, California, tomorrow. Like it out there, real nice.”
“
And what,” said Boysie wrestling with the nervous tremor in his voice, “have I got to do in San Diego?”
“
Sit in the sun...”
“
For how long?”
“
... and watch a missile being fired from a submarine. Be out there about a week.”
Oh
no! It can’t be as easy as that, thought Boysie.
But,
when Lofrese had outlined the role of Britain’s Special Security observer for the
Playboy
-
Trepholite
firing trials, the anxieties started to filter away. This, Boysie considered, was beginning to look like a piece of cake—sponge, with chocolate and vanilla icing thrown in. San Diego was a magic name around which he could spin pictures of soft white sand and cream foam from the Pacific; of balmy evenings with Mexican music prodding him towards some curvaceous starlet on vacation from Hollywood only a hundred miles up the road. Today was Tuesday. The firing trials—Lofrese told him—were fixed for next Monday afternoon. Presumably they would have to spend one day being briefed for the event, but that would still leave him roughly four days of suntan, sand, swaying palms and a taste of the fabulous playground coast of California.
“
How do I get there?”
“
Fly presumably.” (Boysie’s stomach did a smart about-turn. Flying was his least favourite pastime.) Lofrese was still talking: “I am only instructed to pass on the nature of your duty. Your Department has just sent us another cable to say that they’ll take care of you until your arrival in San Diego. I expect you’ll get a call from one of your own people. Probably send someone down there with you. But when you do get there you are to report to your Royal Naval liaison officer at our base on North Island. Name of Braddock-Fairchild. Commander Braddock-Fairchild.”
Boysie
’s eyes sparkled, and he distinctly felt a mink-clad hand move deliciously over his abdomen. Of course—his whole being was enveloped in a happy blush of pleasure—the passionate Priscilla’s Old Man. She had said that “Daddy was stationed in California.” Oh boy, breathed Boysie, are we going to commingle.
Now
(forty-five minutes after Lofrese had left) completing the operation of drying himself following the shower. Boysie was alone and happy. Stripped, he padded over to the television and spent some time mastering the switches. One channel was showing a
Maverick
episode he had already seen in London; another, the original Wallace Beery version of
Treasure
Island
; a third was entertaining the admass with a young-looking Olivier smoothing himself through
Rebecca
. Boysie began to hum “On the Road to Mandalay.” The best picture came from a station intent on wiping out the entire US 5th Cavalry. Anyway, the Indians were really whooping it up before riding off over the skyline, getting into their big Thunderbirds and driving away to Beverly Hills. Boysie watched the carnage with one eye as he prepared to put on the white BD nylon shirt, dark Italian silk tie with the diamond dot motif, and the Swedish Terylene slim-line navyat suit he had laid out on the bed before taking his shower. He paused for a moment in front of the wall mirror to take a conceited peep at his figure. The television erupted in a splurge of hard-sell advertising. “Ladies,” said Boysie in his dark-brown voice, “are your husbands lust-less?” The telephone tringed as though in answer.
“
Hallo,” said Boysie into the receiver, thinking that this was not a very imaginative opening to his first telephone conversation in the New World.
“‘
L’?” asked an English voice.
“
Yes. ‘L’ here.”
“
Good. This is
USS
One
.”
“
Oh!” said Boysie who could never remember the individual code classifications. There were times when he even had trouble with his own single letter. “Oh! That’s nice.”
“
You’ve had your CIA instructions?”
“
Yes. I’m waiting here now. They said my own people would be in touch.”
“
I am your own people, that’s why I’m ringing.” The voice lingered on the edge of impatience. “Number Two has been on to me. Asked me to find you a travelling companion to help you get to San Diego tomorrow. Less conspicious than going alone. She’ll be right over. Safe enough, but as far as she’s concerned you’re just a business man who wants to be shown the ropes and have his hand held. Got it?”
“
I think so.”
“
Better to have someone quite unconnected with the Department, don’t you think? Not that you’re likely to have any trouble.”
“
No! Er ... Yes, I agree,” said Boysie, wondering what the hell the bloke was on about.
“
OK. She knows you by your real name and has my number if you do happen to need me. I’m off to the
Coconut
Grove
. Have a ball—as the cannibal chief said at the banquet.” The line went dead. Boysie stood looking at the telephone.
“
Coconut Grove: Schmoconut Grove.” he muttered, Finally he shrugged, placed the receiver back in its cradle, and began to dress.
He
had got as far as the trousers, shirt and tie, and was reflecting on the age, colour of hair and eyes, and vital statistics of his travelling companion, when a double rap at the door announced company. Boysie did a quick neck bend in front of the mirror, rolling up his eyes to see that his hair was in place; then, touching his fingertips with his tongue and smoothing out his eyebrows, he switched on his charm-smile and opened the door. Two ape-type men were leaning against the corridor wall; both identically dressed in blue lightweight suits and snappy straw hats which would have looked better on Sinatra.
“
Joe sent us,” said the first ape, whose distinguishing marks included a large crescent scar below the right eye.
“
Joe asked us to come over,” said the second, following his companion past Boysie into and the room. “Sure gotta nice place up here. Classy.”
“
Joe who?” asked Boysie, leaving the door open and experiencing a mild palpitation of fear.
“
Siedler. Who else?” said the man with the scar.
“
Joe Siedler,” echoed the other who, to Boysie’s alarm, had never moved his hand from the inside of his jacket since entering the room.
“
He didn’t call,” said Boysie with his back still to the open door. “What’s he want, anyway?”
“
Said we should take ya over to his place. Ya know, kinda celebration party. Shoot some craps, play a little pinochle, make with the booze, knock off a couple of broads.”
Boysie
was worried. He was not the quickest of men when it came to being on the uptake, but this did not sound like Siedler.
Come
to think of it, it was more like an old Cagney movie—he could swear that he had seen both these characters before, in a myriad gangster films back in the 30s. Boysie took a deep breath:
“’
Fraid you’ll have to tell Joe I can’t make it tonight. Got a date,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“
Look, buddy.” The hard rasp of intimidation had crept into the first ape’s voice. “We don’t want no trouble. Joe said to bring ya, so ya come over nice and quiet like. Hunh?”
Boysie
’s mind was doing a hundred yards sprint. He had been in New York for only a few hours and already the natives were looking ugly. He could feel his palms begin to film over with sweat, and that nasty trembling of the thigh muscles had set in. He took a pace forward.