The Loo Sanction (12 page)

Unable to eat, Yank excused himself and left.

“That was cruel,” Maggie said.

“Uh-huh. What do you know about this Feeding Station?”

“Nothing, really. It's up the path there. Guards and dogs and all. Sometimes the guards come down here to the bar or to take lunch, but they never talk about it.”

“Can you find out about it for me?”

“I can try.”

“Do that.”

         

It had turned wet and blustery by the time Jonathan was allowed to walk to the vicarage with only the light guard of Yank, who kept up a running conversation of trivia, quite recovered from his crisis of distrust over the mention of the Feeding Station. When they reached the gate. Yank joined two other young men dressed in the flared dark suits and wide bright ties that were almost a Loo uniform. Jonathan could not help noticing how much like East End hoods they looked.

He found the Vicar in his garden, dressed in a stout hunting jacket and twill breeches tucked into thick stockings. His shoes were heavy, boat-toed brogans. The costume contrasted sharply with Jonathan's close-fitting city clothes and custom-made light shoes. The Vicar did not seem to be aware of Jonathan's presence as he muttered angrily to himself while scattering fish food to the carp in his pond. Then he looked up. “Ah, Dr. Hemlock! Good of you to come.”

“You seem distressed.”

“What? Oh. Well, I am a bit. Nothing to do with your affair. It's that damned Boggs! Will you take something? Coffee, perhaps, or tea?”

“Thank you, no.”

“Just as good. I was hoping we might take a little walk through the fields as we chatted. No place like the open country for privacy. There are insects in the hedgerows, but no bugs—if you have my meaning there.”

Jonathan looked up at the threatening, gusting sky.

“No worry about the weather,” the Vicar assured him. “Forecast predicts only occasional rain.” He winked.

Jonathan shrugged and followed him to the bottom of the garden where the path became a narrow foot trail through a tangled coppice. “How did this Boggs get damned?” he asked the back of the figure trudging out briskly before him.

“Pardon? Oh, I see. Well, Boggs owns the land next to the church. A farmer, you know. Been ripping out hedgerows again. Do you know that more than five thousand miles of hedgerows are ripped up annually in England?”

“Pity they didn't get this one,” Jonathan mumbled after stumbling over a root.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Five thousand miles of homes for small creatures and nestings for birds torn out every year! And some of our hedgerows were planted in Saxon times! But the farmers say they get in the way of modern machinery. They are sacrificing the inheritance of centuries for a few pounds' profit. No sense of responsibility to nature. No sense of history. Oh, I
am
sorry! Did that branch catch you as I let it go? And do you know what Boggs has done now?”

Jonathan didn't care.

“He sold off the tract next to the church to construction speculators. Think of it! In a year's time there may be an estate of retirement homes abutting the churchyard. Thin-shelled boxes with names like ‘End O' The Line,' and ‘Dunroam Inn'!”

“Does all this really matter to you? Or is this a little show for my benefit?”

The Vicar stopped and turned. “Dr. Hemlock, the Church is my life. And I take a special interest in preserving the living monuments of its architecture. Every penny I make from my avocation with the government goes to that end.” He winked.

“And is that how you justify the ugly things your organization does?”

“It might be. If patriotism required justification.”

“I see. You picture yourself as a kind of whore for Christ. Presumably Magdalen was your college.”

The Vicar's expression frosted over, his face seemed to flatten, and he spoke with crisper tones. “It occurs to me that we might do better to confine our communication to the problem before us.” He turned and continued his walk, pushing through the brush to a field of stubble.

“Let's do that.”

“It goes without saying,” the Vicar spoke over his shoulder, “that everything you learn in the course of your work with us is absolutely confidential. My young assistant—the man you know as Yank—has told you in outline the function of the Loo organization. Rather like the Search and Sanction Division of your CII, Loo is assigned the thankless task of providing protection for MI–5 and MI–6 operatives by technique of counterassassination. For good or for ill, our position as most secret of the secret and most efficient of the efficient brings extraordinary tasks to my doorstep. The affair at hand is one such. It is not in essence what your people would call a sanction. There is no specific assignment to kill a given person. To state it better: The affair does not absolutely require assassination. But the chances are you will be pressed to that extreme in an effort to remain alive yourself. Oh, my goodness! I should have warned you about that boggy spot. Here, give me your hand. There! Ah, you seem to have left a shoe behind. Never mind, I'll fetch it out for you. There. Good as new!”

The Vicar pressed on, inhaling deeply the brisk breeze that carried needles of rain with it. “I think it would be clearer if I presented the situation to you in terms of morals, for modern trends in turpitude lie at the core of the issue. Sexual license, to be specific. The New Morality—which is neither true morality nor particularly new, as a casual reference to the social lives of the Claudian emperors will affirm—has infected every stratum of society, from the universities to the coal pits—not that that is such a great gulf fixed, what with the democratization of the schools. Perhaps it is only natural that a generation that has passed the greater part of its life under the covert threat of atomic annihilation, that has seen the traditional bulwarks of family and class crumble under the pressures of enforced egalitarianism and liberalism gone to seed, that has experienced the decline of formal literature and art and the rise of television, pop art, folk masses, thriller novels, happenings, and the rest of it—all of which appeal to the nerve ends rather than to the mind, and to immediate reaction rather than to tranquil contemplation—perhaps it is only natural that such a generation would seek the sexual narcotic. Although as a churchman I cannot condone such activities, as a humanitarian I can grant the existence of powerful stimuli prompting people toward burying their minds in the mire of flesh and orgasm. Wish we had a flask of tea with us. That would warm you up. Come, let's press on and get the blood circulating.

“It suffices to say that a general retreat into sexual excess has become a fact of life in all circles, save the working class, which has been protected from infection by virtue of its want of imagination. And it would seem that unnatural sexuality is a habit-forming vice. Once he embarks on its use, the thrill-seeker develops a tolerance for the more . . . ah . . . commonplace activities, and finds they no longer serve to relax him and to dim his mind. The nerves seem to develop calluses, as it were. And so the sybarite is pressed toward more . . . ah . . . unconventional . . . ah . . .”

“I see.”

“I thought you might. For some years now this grass fire of the senses, if I may avail myself of metaphor, has been spreading amongst persons in the government and civil service. At first it was limited to the relatively safe and pallid practice of exchanging wives while on holiday. But in time, the fire demanded more occult fuels. And, as one might expect, certain organizations sprang up to supply these demands. Most of them are smutty little operations offering simple varieties of number, race, and posture, together with the dubious advantage of becoming famous through the efforts of spying newspaper photographers. A little higher on the scale were places that offered variants long popular on the Continent—particularly in France, of course. Girls dressed as nuns, girls in caskets—that sort of thing. Look there! Did you see them? Two hares bounded across that bit of meadow. The autumn hare! Memories of boyhood, eh?”

Jonathan turned up the collar of his jacket and stared ahead miserably.

“At the apex of this pyramid of vice—Oh, my, I
do
wax Victorian. At the apex is a small and terribly expensive operation that offers to elite clientele what might be described as sexual maxima. I shall not abuse you with the details of these events. Suffice it to say that the organization in question is also involved in the importation of Pakistanis—illegal immigrants who cannot find gainful employment and who are driven to extremes to stay alive. This organization finds particular use for Pakistani children of both sexes between the ages of nine and fifteen. And I must confess that it is not only men in government that frequent this establishment, but often their wives and daughters as well. And all this nastiness goes on to the accompaniment of excellent wines and lobster—in season.”

“I assume the clientele is not limited to clerks and middle-management personnel.”

“Sadly, it is not. I blush to admit that among the clients are certain Very Highly Placed Persons.” He winked.

“Do the bed linens bear the stamp ‘by appointment'?”

The Vicar flushed, angry. “Certainly not, sir!”

Jonathan held up one hand in a gesture of peace. “Just wanted to know what league I was playing in.”

“I see.” The Vicar was not mollified. He turned and continued trudging on, entering an overgrown wood, anger making him increase his stride and breast his way through the tangle. When his anger had burned out, he continued. “For a year or two, this activity went on. A deplorable business, but not one that endangered the security of the country, so far as we knew. But then something happened that required me to review my evaluation of The Cloisters—for that is the ironic name of the resort in which these excesses take place.”

“It's in the country somewhere?”

“No. London. Hampstead, in fact. Look there! A rhododendron! Like you, a visitor to our shores.”

“What happened with The Cloisters? Blackmail?”

“No. Not really. And that's the uncomfortable part of it. But I'll get to that in a moment.

“One afternoon—just after tea, as I recall—I received a confusing call from my opposite number in MI–5. He had a report, the content of which had galvanized that normally lethargic branch of the service into activity. As one might suspect, they had no idea what to do with the information, but they had the good sense to push it over onto my plate. A man had stopped by at their office, a civil servant in the middle ranks with the Defense Ministry, and had boldly revealed to them a number of astonishing facts. Getting a bit above himself, he had participated in the leisure activities offered at The Cloisters. I don't know whether his money ran out or his conscience prevailed, but after a time he discontinued his visits. Then one afternoon he was visited by a caller who, with all the trappings of civility, demanded that he come later that evening to The Cloisters. The poor wretch dared not refuse. When he arrived, he was taken to a private salon where he was treated to a private showing of motion pictures.”

“And he was surprised to find himself the star of the film. Argh-ga!”

“You anticipate correctly. Good Lord! I knew it! I told Boggs a dozen times that stile was rotten and wanted mending. I
knew
it would give way just when someone was straddling the fence. You didn't by any chance—”

“No! I'm all right!”

“Could I give you a hand down?”

“I'll make it!”

“You're quite sure you're all right? You're walking a bit oddly.”

Jonathan crashed angrily on through the pathless thicket.

“The strange thing,” the Vicar continued, “was that there was no threat of blackmail. Indeed, no pressure was brought to bear on the official to continue frequenting The Cloisters. But it was made perfectly clear to him that any mention of their activities would be met by an immediate publication of the film. As you might suspect, he was distressed beyond telling, but he was assured that he was not alone in this uncomfortable position. They evidently had a large number of films implicating a wide spectrum of government personalities.”

“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.”