The English Assassin (4 page)

“Don’t be corny, sweet.” Lobkowitz put the spur on a pearl inlay table.

“Corny!”

Picking up an Erma 9mm machine pistol from the Jacobean sideboard, she offered him a round in the hip. He pursed his lips as if objecting to the noise rather than the pain, and went down on one knee as the dark stains dilated on his jacket and pinstripes. He clutched the ruined hip.

She spent the rest of the clip on his face. He fell. Smashed.

Una Persson came back at the sound. She raised her S&W and shot Eva Knecht once below the left shoulder blade. The bullet entered Eva’s jealous heart and she toppled forward. Murdered.

Eva Knecht’s murderess took a black beret from the pocket of her maxi-coat and adjusted it on her head, glancing once into the mirror above the mantel. For a moment she looked thoughtfully from the coffin to the corpses. She replaced the S&W in her other pocket. She opened her mouth a quarter of an inch and then closed it. She took off the Mozart and flicked through the pile of albums on the floor until she found a Bach Brandenburg Concerto. She put the record on the deck, glanced down at the contents of the coffin, hovered undecidedly by the door, and then she left as quickly as her coat would let her.

The Brandenburg was an inferior performance, spoiled further by a persistent screeching from the box.

From below there came the noise of an SD Kfz 233 starting up, backing out and roaring off down the emergency track through the rubble.

* * *

The screeching assumed a melancholy note and then ceased. Night fell. From time to time the room was illuminated by incendiary explosions from the East. Later there was darkness relieved by a little moonlight and the sound of the Zeppelin returning to its shed. Then there remained only a rustle of atmospherics from the speakers.

The small black-and-white cat, forgotten by Una Persson, woke up. It stretched and began to walk towards Lobkowitz. It lapped at the congealed blood on the face, then moved off in disgust. It washed itself beside Eva’s corpse and then sprang into the coffin to curl on Jerry’s chest, heedless of the insensate, agonised eyes which, wide open, continued to stare at the terracotta ceiling, before slowly filling with tears.

The long, gentle hands came down to reveal a sensitive Jewish face. The large, red lips moved, emitting softly accented English: “Perhaps you should have brought him back, Una?” He was a thin, pale intellectual. He sat on a camp-chair with its back against the far wall of a dry, limestone cave. He was dressed in standard guerrilla gear; it hung on his thin body like a wet flag.

The cave was full of crates; it was lit by a tin oil lamp which cast black shadows. On one of the crates stood a half-eaten Stilton cheese, an almost full bottle of Vichy water and a number of East German and Polish military maps in leather cases.

She was undoing the top button of her black maxi-coat. “That would have been theft, Sebastian.”

“True. But these are pragmatic times.”

“And we agreed we wanted no part of them.”

“True.” He sucked his upper lip into his mouth, his large lids slowly falling to cover his eyes.

She said defiantly: “The M16s are as good as new. There’s plenty of ammunition. He kept his side of it. Many New Germans are very straight in that respect.” She shrugged. “But her violence upset me.” She lit another Sherman’s with a match from a box on the nearby crate. “I’ve still got a feeling I’ve forgotten something.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her gun, turning it this way and that. “What else could I do? If saving her would have brought him back to life…”

“True.”

“Well, I know if I’d thought about it for a moment I might not have done it. But so many people waste time thinking about things and when they act it’s too late. I didn’t want to hurt anybody.”

Sebastian Auchinek got up from the camp-chair and walked to the cave entrance, drawing back the camouflage net. Outside, the drizzle fluttered like a tattered curtain in the wind and Auchinek peered through it, hoping to get a sight of the tiny Macedonian village in the rocky valley below. A herd of goats emerged from the thin rain. They bleated their discomfort as they trotted down the mountainside and disappeared. The water swished on the rocks and it smelled faintly of benzine. At least the air was reasonably warm.

“Sebastian.”

His inclination was to leave the cave, for he hated any form of homecoming ceremony, but he turned.

She was kneeling by the chair wearing a gold and brown puff-sleeved shirt with a long black waistcoat and matching black trousers. Her coat was folded neatly beside her.

With a sigh he returned to his place and spread his spider legs. She reached forward and undid his fly. He gritted his teeth and his hand stroked her head once or twice before falling back at his side. He squeezed his eyes shut. Her face was grave as she moved it towards his crutch, as if she were considering different and more pleasant things while conscientiously performing a distasteful but necessary task.

Auchinek wondered if she did it because she thought he liked it. She had done it regularly for the past few months; at first he had pretended to be pleased and now he could never tell her the truth.

When she had finished, the fellatrix looked up at him, smiled, wiped her lips, swiftly closed his zip. He gave her a strained, bewildered smile in return, then he began to cough. She offered him one of her cigarettellos but he waved his hand towards the bottle on the upturned crate. She did not notice the gesture as she lit and then drew upon the long, brown Sherman’s, staring pensively at her own shifting shadow on the floor. Her eyes were blue and private.

“Perhaps I should go back for Cornelius. We might need him if things get any tougher. On the other hand he might be dead by the time I got there. Is that my fault, I wonder? And the Cossacks are supposed to be moving in, too. Did you say you wanted a cigarette?”

His pale face was puzzled, his gesture nervous as he lifted an exhausted hand to point again at the bottle.

“No,” he said. “Water.”

“Yerst.” Folding her hands together on her great stomach, the fat old bag got her forearms under her unruly breasts and jostled them in her dress until they were hanging more comfortably. “’S’im, orl right.” Her three sly chins shivered. Her round, red stupid head cocked itself on one side. Her tiny eyes narrowed and her thick mouth opened. “Pore littel bleeder. Wot they dun to ’im?”

“We do not know, Mrs Cornelius.” Colonel Pyat stepped away from the coffin which lay where Una Persson’s Slavs had left it. The other bodies were no longer visible, though the small black-and-white cat was still hanging around. “But now that you have positively identified him—” He drew off his white kid gauntlets. They were a perfect match to his well-cut, gold-trimmed uniform, to his kid boots, his dashing cap—“we can try to find out. I almost caught up with him in Afghanistan. But the express was delayed as usual. This could have been avoided.”

“’E always wos a bit’ve a pansy, I s’pose,” Mrs C. said reflectively.

Colonel Pyat went to the grand piano where his vodka things had been arranged by an orderly. “May I offer you a drink, madame?”

“Where’s all them balloons gorn? I ’eard…”

“The Zeppelins have left the city. They belonged to the Neue Deutschlanders whom we routed yesterday.”

“Well, I’ll ’ave a small one. Did anyone ever tell yer— yer look jest like Ronal’ Colman.”

“But I feel just like Jesse James.” Colonel Pyat smiled and gestured towards the record player on the mantelpiece. Faintly, from the Vox speakers, came the muffled sounds of a Bob Dylan record. The colonel poured an ounce of Petersburg vodka into a long-stemmed Bohemian glass, poured the same amount for himself, crossed back and handed Mrs C. her drink.

She drained it. “Ta.” Then, with a fat, knowing chuckle, she flung back the monstrous arm and hurled the glass at the mantelpiece. “Sköl! Eh? Har, har!”

Colonel Pyat took an interest in his white knuckles. Then he straightened his shoulders and quietly sipped his drink.

Mrs C. ran a grimy finger round the neck of her cheap, red-and-white print dress. “’Ot enough fer yer?”

“Indeed?” Pyat put a finger to his lips and raised his eyebrows intelligently. “Aha.”

“Wouldna thort it. Not in bleedin’
Germany
— innit?”

“No?”

She turned, digging at a rotting back tooth with her thumbnail so that her voice was strangled. “Will ’e get better, Kernewl?”

“That’s up to the boffins, madame.”

“Courst, ’is
bruvver
—Frankie—was allus th’ nicest of ’em. I did me best after ’is dad run orft, but…”

“These are unsettled times, Mrs Cornelius.”

Mrs C. looked at him with mock gravity for a moment, a little smile turning up the corners of her crimson mouth. She opened the lips. She belched. Then she burst into laughter. “Yer not kiddin’—ter-her-ka-ka—ooh—give us anovver, there’s a pet… nkk-nkk.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nar—sawright—I’ll ’elp meself, won’ I?” She waddled to the grand piano. Grunting contentedly, she poured half the remaining contents of the bottle into another long-stemmed glass. She rounded on him, raising her glass with a leer and tossing off the best part of the contents. “’Ere’s ter yer!” The drink warmed her further and large beads of sweat sprang out on her happy face. She sidled up to Colonel Pyat, nudging him with her lumpy elbow. She winked and nodded a streaky orange head at the vodka. “Not bad.” She belched again. “Not ’alf! He, he, he!”

Colonel Pyat clicked his heels and saluted. “I thank—”

A piercing screech came from the coffin. They both turned their heads. “Gawd,” said Mrs C.

Cautiously, Colonel Pyat went to peer in. “I wonder if they’ve been feeding him.”

“’E never wos much of an eater.” Mrs C.’s bosom heaved as she joined the colonel and stared sentimentally down at her son. “I never knew where ’e got ’is energy from. Proper little fucker you wos, woncha, Jer?”

The head rolled. The stink of brine was nauseating. The screech came again. The hands, thin and knotted, with broken nails and bruised knuckles, were rubbed raw at the wrists by the twisted nylon cords holding them in the coffin. The mouth opened and closed, opened and closed; only the whites of the eyes were visible.

With a decisive and slightly censorious gesture Mrs C. looked away from her child, finishing her vodka. She glanced almost thoughtfully at the colonel before putting her glass on the Jacobean sideboard. She wriggled her massive shoulders, rubbed her left eye with the index finger of her left hand, gave the colonel a quick smirk of encouragement and said: “Well…”

Colonel Pyat bowed. “Some of my men will escort you back to London.”

“Ah,” she said. “That wos it…”

“Madame?”

“I wos thinkin’v seein’ some o’ th’ sights whilst I wos ’ere. Y’know.” Another wink.

“I will instruct my men to make a tour of the city. Though there are very few sights left.”

“Oo! All them solders all to meself! Oo-er!”

“And thank you so much for your help, Mrs Cornelius. We’ll get your boy back to normal. Never fear.”

“Normal! That’sa good ’un!” Her entire body quivered with laughter. “You’ll do, Kernewl! Eh? Har, har, har!”

She shambled cheerfully from the room. “You’ll do!”

* * *

The Bohemian glass fell off the Jacobean sideboard and landed unbroken on the Persian carpet.

The sounds from the coffin became pensive. Colonel Pyat was filled with sadness. He picked up the fallen glass and took it to the grand piano where he poured himself the last of his vodka.

Beautiful love.

Beautiful love.

Terence Green, 9, and Martin Harper, 8, died last night when overcome by fumes from water heater while having bath in house in Estagon Road, Norwich.

Sunday Times
, 5 April, 1970

At least 90 Vietnamese men, women and children, held behind barbed wire in a compound at the Cambodian town of Prasot, were killed by machine gun and automatic rifle fire early yesterday, as a Vietcong force launched an attack in the area. The events surrounding the killings were not clear.

The Times
, 11 April, 1970

A French woman, aged 37, stabbed three of her children, killing one of them, before committing suicide in Luneville yesterday, police said. Mme Marie-Madeleine Amet stabbed Joanne, aged 14, and Philippe, aged 11, who managed to escape. But Catherine, aged 10, was killed.

Guardian
, 14 April, 1970

It’s a shame, really, said Major Nye as they stood on the flat roof of the looted dispensary and watched the barbarian migration cross the swaying remains of Tower Bridge. The sky began to lighten and to some degree improve the appearance of the horde’s filthy silks, satins and velvets. A few were mounted on horses, motorbikes and bicycles, but the majority trudged along with their bundles on their backs. Some were playing loud, primitive music on stolen Gibsons, Yamahas, Framus twelve-strings, Martins and even Hofners. It’s a shame, really. Who can blame them?

Jerry fingered his new gloves.

You and they have more in common than I, major.

Major Nye gave him a sympathetic glance. Aren’t you lonely, Mr Cornelius?

For a moment self-pity flooded all Jerry’s systems. His eyes gleamed with water. Oh, fuck.

Major Nye knew how to get through.

* * *

When half the barbarians were on the South Bank, the bridge, shaken by a hundred different twelve-bar blues and a thousand moccasins and calf-length suède boots, fell slowly over into the grease of the Thames. Large stones broke away from the main towers as they toppled; pieces of asphalt cracked like toffee struck by a hammer. The whole mock Gothic edifice, every inch of grimy granite, was falling down.

Their long hair fluttering behind them, those babies not in slings and packs falling from their arms, their guitars and bundles scattering around them, their beads and furs and laces flapping, the barbarians sank through the air, struck, and were absorbed by, the river. For a moment a cassette tape recorder could be heard playing ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’ by the Rolling Stones and then that, too, was logged by the water.