The Loo Sanction Page 12

  “Why do you assume they are collecting this evidence, if not blackmail?”

  “We don’t know. But it doesn’t really matter in any substantive way. The very existence of this information constitutes a time bomb planted in the seat of government—ah, there’s the kind of maladroit metaphor that used to set us to laughing in school—and we have no idea when it will go off, or who will be harmed in the explosion. One thing is certain: A revelation of this caliber would damage Her Majesty’s government beyond repair.”

  For a time the Vicar seemed to be lost in gloomy contemplation of so terrible a fate. They walked along a footpath that had been pulverized by horses into a ribbon of gummy slime.

  To get on with the thing, Jonathan asked, “Why did this man come to MI–5 with information that would certainly end his career?”

  “I couldn’t know, of course. Shame, one might conjecture. Or a sense of patriotism. As I said, he was of a middle rank in the civil service. Mere clerks are seldom affected by patriotism, and the leadership is immune to shame. The entire question is academic, however, inasmuch as our first move had to be to assure ourselves of this chap’s silence. Inner pressures had driven him to divulge all to us. Who could know what his next action might be? The popular newspapers? At all costs, this scandal had to be kept from public view. And that, you had better know, remains our primary concern.”

  “So you had him sanctioned?”

  The Vicar did not respond at once. “Not exactly,” he said in a distant voice.

  The truth dawned on Jonathan. “Oh, I see. That is lovely. The poor bastard showed up on my toilet, having failed to pull his trousers down.”

  “Just so. And I must tell you how much I regret the bungling of that matter. There was no call to burden you with the poor fellow’s last words, to say nothing of the disgusting olfactory effect of the misplaced bullet. I can assure you the man responsible has been reprimanded.” He winked.

  “I have a feeling he will be punished further.”

  “Oh? Then you know who it was?” The Vicar’s voice carried genuine admiration. “You certainly have a flair for getting information quickly. I feel vindicated in my choice of you for this somewhat delicate mission.”

  “Which is? . . .”

  The Vicar refused to abandon his sequential progression through events. “Directly we received this information, we began our investigation. One of our best men was set to the task—a man who, because of his Grecian penchant in matters sexual, would have a subtle entrée into the goings-on at The Cloisters. That man’s name was Parnell-Greene.”

  “The fresh grave I saw yesterday evening?”

  “I’m afraid so. But before they got onto him, he was able to pass on some valuable fragments of information. We know, for instance, the identity of the man in charge of The Cloisters. He is best known to us as Maximilian Strange. German, by birth. Born as Max Werde in October of 1922 in Munich. The Werde family had been in the business of flesh-selling for three generations. Posh dens of vice catering to the upper classes—well, to the rich, at least. Young Max seems to have taken to the family line with rare energy, for we find him in 1943 at the tender age of twenty-one catering to the rather vigorous sexual appetites of ranking German officers. In Berlin and in at least two provincial cities, he managed sumptuous pleasure establishments stocked with girls and boys he had handpicked from the concentration camps. The activity was . . . ah . . . irregular. Indeed, there was one small house on the outskirts of Berlin that was called the Vivisectory because . . .”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Good. Recounting it is painful.”

  “You’re a man of delicate sensibilities,” Jonathan said.

  “Irony, if it is to be effective, should lightly etch a phrase. Not drip from each word. But rhetoric is not our study here. When next our researchers catch sight of Werde—or Strange, as he calls himself now—the war is over and he is purveying rather Roman entertainments in such places as Morocco, the Antibes, Samos—all the haunts of what you call the jet set. These amusements involve young people painted with gilt, participants from the audience daubed with grease, and activities between animals and humans—the favored beast being, for some obscure reason, the camel.” He winked.

  “It is at this time that we get our first description of the man. There are no photographs in existence. He is described as a handsome man in his early twenties. This is odd, because you realize that, by then, he was just over forty years old. We also discover that he has an inordinate interest in health, diet, exercise, and the general maintenance of his uncommonly youthful appearance. His linguistic attainments include a faultless command of English and French, along with Arabic, of course, as any man trafficking in his line of goods must have. Not much to go on by way of description, I fear.”

  “Not much.”

  “Again Mr. Strange disappears from sight. And two years ago, The Cloisters is launched in London, with Maximilian Strange at the helm of this fire ship. There you have him, Dr. Hemlock. Your adversary. Certainly a worthy opponent.”

  “His worthiness doesn’t interest me. I’d much rather he was a fool. I’m neither a sportsman nor a hunter.”

  “Yes, I suppose there is a subtle difference between being a hunter and being a killer.”

  Jonathan let it pass. “Knowing what you do about Strange, you could certainly put a stop to his operation. I assume he is in the country illegally.”

  “I have tried to impress upon you the scope of the disaster that would derive from the slightest leakage of these films, or the activities they record. Neither the police nor any other agency of law enforcement must be brought in on this. Our police—like your own—are not distinguished by competence and discretion. And you may wonder why we don’t just buy these films back, ransom them, so to speak. Well, Loo frankly doesn’t have that kind of money in its war chest, and we must get the film back without alerting persons in the government who must not become involved in this delicate matter—that’s part of why MI–5 commissioned us to act for them. We could, of course, dispatch some of our Loo actives to visit The Cloisters and leave no living beings behind them. But what if they failed to locate the films? What if Maximilian Strange has protected himself by leaving the films with someone who would publish them the moment something happened to him? No. No. This must be done delicately. And finally. And that is where you come in.”

  “Why me?”

  “The late Parnell-Greene was able to pass on one further bit of information before his cover fell and he made his unfortunate visit to St. Martin’s-In-The-Fields. He heard your name mentioned by Mr. Strange.”

  “My name?” Jonathan leaped over a ditch and scrambled up a muddy bank. “You certainly don’t think I’m implicated in The Cloisters.”

  “Certainly not.” The Vicar braced himself against the wind and pressed on, shouting over his shoulder, “If we thought that for an instant, we would be entertaining you at another of our facilities.”

  “The Feeding Station?” The wind tore the words from Jonathan’s mouth and flung them at the Vicar, who stopped in his tracks, astonished at Jonathan’s knowledge of their operation. But again he was pleased with this ability to secure information quickly.

  He nodded to himself and strode on. “We ran a thorough check on you, including communication with our colleagues in Moscow, Paris, and Washington. After assuring ourselves that The Cloisters was not a front from your Mr. Dragon and CII mucking about in our affairs, as that aggressive organization is wont to do, we counted it a stroke of rare good luck that a trained professional such as yourself was somehow involved in all this. Oh, goodness! I am sorry! But you really should be more careful where you tread in a cow pasture. Rather like Paris streets, in that respect. May I give you a hand up?” He winked uncontrollably.

  “No!”

  “Oh my, oh my. What a pity.”

  “Forget it. I’m not particularly fond of this jacket anyway.”

  “It does seem odd, if I may say so, that
a man who was once a ranking mountain climber should find a little walk in the country so fraught with difficulty.”

  “Eagles don’t become members of the Audubon Society.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Jonathan was becoming angry with himself for allowing the droning civility of this vicar to erode his cool. “Listen. Exactly how did I get implicated in all this?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. We only know what Parnell-Greene was able to pass on before his death. There are two threads connecting you to The Cloisters. We know that Maximilian Strange is very interested in you indeed.”

  “But—”

  “We don’t know why. Indeed, I had rather hoped you would be able to tell us. You have not, by chance, dealt with him at one time or another?”

  “No idea.”

  “Pity. It might have been a starting point. The other thread linking you to The Cloisters is more direct. What you might call a friend-of-a-friend relationship. On two occasions Parnell-Greene met Miss Vanessa Dyke on the premises.”

  That stopped Jonathan.

  “This might have been totally coincidental,” the Vicar continued, “but it does constitute an intertangency between you and Mr. Strange. At all events, it is clear that your best path into The Cloisters is through Miss Dyke. Permit me to hold this barbed wire up for you. Oh, well. You said you were not particularly fond of that jacket. Let’s take the shortcut back through the fields. Yes, Dr. Hemlock, I cannot adequately express my regret at having to ring you in on this business. We had no original intention to, you know, even after Parnell-Greene first reported that The Cloister people were interested in you. He was doing an admirable job of penetrating their organization, and we had no immediate use for you, although we took the precaution of planting our Miss Coyne with your rather seedy friend, MacTaint. Just in case.”

  “And when they hit this Parnell-Greene, you decided to bring me in as his replacement.”

  “Precisely. Their manner of disposing of poor Parnell-Greene will give you some idea of the kind of men you are up against. He was found impaled on a wooden stake in the belfry of St. Martin’s-In-The-Fields.”

  “Baroque.”

  “Baroque, yes. But very modern at the same time. A bit of advertising that any public-relations man would approve. When one considers the extra danger involved in setting up so spectacular an assassination, one must come to the view that they were doing more than simply removing a potential danger. They were giving public notice to any who might attempt to interfere with their affairs, notice that was both efficient and darkly creative.”

  “Creative?”

  “Just so. And with a diabolic sense of irony. I have alluded to Parnell-Greene’s sexual deviation. He was a pederast; specifically his tastes ran to the passive role. Ergo, a certain grisly flair involved in the choice of anal impalement as a method of execution, don’t you think, Dr. Hemlock?”

  Jonathan trudged on in heavy silence for several minutes until, breaking through a thorn hedge, they were once again in the Vicar’s garden.

  “You’ll want some brisk hot tea to ward off the cold. Let’s go into the den, and I’ll have it brought.”

  The rain swept in over the vicarage with full vigor. After the tea tray had been delivered by one of the young men with flared suit and broad bright tie, Jonathan said, “Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to do?”

  “That must be obvious. We want the films. And we want them quickly, before they can do whatever they have in mind with them.” He winked twice.

  “And what about this Maximilian Strange and his people?”

  “I assume their number will be reduced by those who have the misfortune of standing between you and the films.”

  “And that will be the end of The Cloisters?”

  The Vicar pursed his lips. “Not really. After consideration, I have decided that closing The Cloisters would have no effect on the appetites that maintain it. They would simply seek elsewhere. So, when all this is over, The Cloisters will continue its services. But under new management.”

  “It will become a Loo operation?”

  “I think that would be best, don’t you? The possession of the films together with data we collect in the operation of the establishment will bring effective control of the government under an organization that has the best interests of the nation at heart, together with the background and education to know what those best interests are. More tea?”

  “That would make Loo totally autonomous, wouldn’t it?”

  “Why, yes.” The Vicar’s eyes opened wide with ingenuous frankness. “I believe it will. Just as the information your CII has collected concerning the fiscal and sexual irregularities of your political leaders has long rendered it independent. But I can assure you we shall never use our autonomy to undertake ill-conceived invasions of neighboring islands, or to cover up bungling attempts to spy on political headquarters. However . . .” His eyes softened as he envisioned the future. “. . . such power might enable us to effect a final solution to the Irish Problem.”

  “You’ll understand if I find little real difference between the Loo and The Cloisters.”

  “Ah, but so far as you are concerned, there is one most salient difference. We can put you into prison for thirty years for murder.”

  “They can kill me.”

  The Vicar shrugged. “Well, if it comes to that . . . but really! Our chat has taken an unnecessarily nasty turn.” He winked.

  “All right. For nuts and bolts, what kind of support can I expect in getting the films?”

  “From the police, none. We cannot run the smallest risk of this affair becoming public. Loo will continue its researches, and you will be advised of any new developments through Yank, who will operate as your contact with us. We are also pursuing another line of entry into The Cloisters, partially in support of you, partially as a second line of defense, should some misfortune befall you. Do not be surprised should you meet Miss Coyne within the walls of that evil establishment. For the rest, you are on your own. You will, of course, have my earnest prayers to support you. And you must never underestimate the power of prayer, Dr. Hemlock.”

  Rain rattled against the windows of the snug little den with its damp wood fire releasing bluish flames that lapped lambently at the wrought-iron grate. The rainwater had stopped dripping from Jonathan’s hair down his collar, and the room was becoming close and steamy with the drying of their clothes. Jonathan cleared his throat. “Listen. I want you to let Miss Coyne out of this. She’s done her bit by ringing me in on it.”

  “Oh? Do I hear the sound of affection? A romance perhaps? How charming!”

  “Never mind the crap. Just let her out of it.”

  “But, my dear man, where would she go? I have no doubt she told you her distressing story. Were it not for us, she would this moment be sitting in a Belfast prison. And were it not for our continuing protection, she might be picked up in the streets at any time. Where is she to go? Do you intend to become responsible for her?” He winked.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Well, there you have it. In point of fact, she came to me this morning and asked to be allowed to help you. Perhaps she’s feeling a little guilty, eh? May I offer you one of these biscuits? They’re digestives, and I can particularly recommend them.”

  Jonathan shivered and drew his wet jacket around him. “I’d better be getting back to the inn.”

  “I do hope you haven’t caught a cold. Nasty things at this time of year.” He rose and accompanied Jonathan to the door. “You can work out particulars with Yank, who has been instructed to assist you in every way. This afternoon you will receive a little training from The Sergeant.”

  “Training? From The Sergeant?”

  “Yes. You are with Loo now. Drawing the Queen’s shilling, as it were. And there are certain regulations to which you will have to conform. From your CII records it appears you are a bit short of formal training in hand-to-hand combat. And The Sergeant—an expert
in such matters—has offered to brush you up. In fact, he leaped at the opportunity.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I shall not have a chance to see you again before you go, so let me leave this with you: Be very careful in your dealings with Maximilian Strange. He is a clever man. And be particularly wary of the man called ‘The Mute.’”

  “Who is that?”

  “He works for Strange, he undertakes such physical punishments as Strange considers necessary. We’re quite sure he was the one who did for Parnell-Greene. Evidently he does such things for pleasure. So do be careful, there’s a good fellow.”

  “What on earth happened to you?” Maggie’s surprise converted into laughter, which she suppressed as soon as Jonathan’s eyes told her he had no intention of being a good sport about his condition. “Do leave your shoes outside. I’ll ask one of the boys to clean them.” The corners of her mouth curled. “If he can find them, that is.”

  Jonathan stopped cold in the act of prying his shoes off while trying to avoid the cakes of mud and grass. He drew a very deep sigh of self-control, then continued. His fingers slipped, and he came up with a handful of mud.

  Maggie did not laugh. Pointedly. “Come along up. I’ll draw you a nice hot bath.”

  He growled.

  His eyes closed, his elbows floating loose, he soaked in the large old-fashioned tub, only his mouth and nose out of the steaming water. But it was some time before the heat penetrated to his frozen marrow. Maggie perched on the edge of the tub, attending to him with a blend of maternity and laughter in her gamin face.

  “What shall we do with these trousers?” she asked, holding them at arm’s length between thumb and forefinger before letting them drop to the floor with a squishing sound.

  He heard the reverberating rumble of her speech from under the water, but he could not make out the words. “What?” he asked, lifting his ears above surface.