"The Conduct of Major Maxim" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lyall Gavin)

Chapter 7

The next morning, Maxim came into Number 10fizzing with the nauseating good humour of a breakfast cereal advertisement. He gave George a perfectly typed report of the CIA briefing, cross-referenced to recent papers and articles on the subject. He passed on some hot gossip about tactical nuclear command picked up from the Army attache's man, and then he started retelling what Chris had said on the phone about how well he'd done in the house cricket match.

George was suspicious of enthusiasm, particularly in the mornings, but a second-hand description of a prep school cricket match broke his nerve completely. The Blagg affair seemed to have blown over, he had Tired Tim's performance at tomorrow's Cabinet and another Question Time to worry about, so he readily agreed to Maxim taking the afternoon off to attend a lecture at the Royal United Services Institute. After all, he told himself, Maxim wasn't fool enough to go wandering around Rotherhithe with no better lead than a man called 'Jack'. If he'd bent his distracted mind to it, he might have realised there were one or two other little clues, but the very idea of tramping the streets asking questions of strangers was so far outside George's experience that he couldn't imagine anybody he knew doing it anyway.

Rotherhithe's whole history had been the Thames, but now the river was hidden behind clumps of derelict warehouses and shaky fences that sealed off the abandoned dock basins. Maxim had never realised just how complete the closure of theup-riverdocks had been, nor how total its effect on the neighbourhood. This wasn't the tough, rowdy waterfront, but a district left dazed, uncertain and incomplete. The buildings didn't seem to fit; a run-down Victorian terrace, a row ofneat little dolls' houses with varnished doors and gardens only big enough to park a motorbike, then a low block of modern flats, already cracked, with overgrown lawns and skeins of washing. There were gaps where houses had been torn down, several filled with second-hand cars plastered with garish Bargain Of The Week stickers.

Only the pubs remembered the sea: the Lord Nelson, the Warrior, the Jolly Caulkers, the Albion. The rest was churning cement lorries that scattered a fine dust in the sunlight, making Maxim hawk and spit every few minutes.

He tried the first motorcycle shop he came to He was looking for Ronnie Blagg, chap he'd known in the Army. He rode a Honda 4Oo N but a friend said he'd been around on a silver Yamaha XS5OO, two years old.

"He talked about coming back to Rotherhithe on his leaves," Maxim went on, "but he doesn't have an address here. He was an orphan, the Council brought him up The proprietor looked both suspicious and blank. "What did you want him for?"

"I thought if he was out of the Army now, he might be looking for a job."

"You come down herejust to offer him ajob?"

"I'd go a lot further to find a man I know's been properly trained and I can trust to work by himself. Some of the kids you get these days – well, you must know it yourself "

The proprietor, who was about forty, nodded sympathetically. His suspicions were gone, but he still didn't know Ronnie Blagg. Maxim left his home phone number and the name Fairbrother Blagg would certainly want to speak tohim, no matter what he felt about Maxim.

It was the same at the second shop Of course, Blagg didn't have to have bought his Honda in Rotherhithe; more likely he'd got it in Hereford during his three years with the SAS. And friend Jack might have got the Yamaha elsewhere, too. But he plodded on At the third shop he got a nibble.

There were two of them, and they could have been father and son The younger one said' "I think I know those bikes. The Honda's blue, is that right?"

Maxim didn't know.

"I remember the bloke He's been riding those two the last month or so. He's one of those that comes around Saturdays, mst for a natter with the other bikers and buy something small. Tack something But that other bloke, Blagg, I don't know him."

The father figure was leaning on one end of the counter patiently poking at a lump of electronics. He said quietly "The name rings a bell. Are you a friend of his?"

Maxim went into his act. At the end, he remembered something else: "He was a bit of a boxer, at one time."

"That's it," the father said, "That's where I heard it. I remember Billy talking about him. It was before your time," he said to the young man. "He must have gone in the Army nearly ten years ago. I remember Billy thought he could've been a contender "Billy?"

"Billy Dann. He runs the gym up at the Lord Howe. He manages Ranee Reynolds; he's a contender But you don't follow the fights'"

"I've been abroad too much. Will Mr Dannbe there now?"

"Should be " They gave him directions and he left his real name this time, just in case Jack whoever came by The Lord Howe stood on a wide street corner, a tall, confident square of red brick and ornate stonework from the great days of Victorian sin and gm. Now almost alonemthe afternoon sunlight among the boarded-up houses and second-hand car lots, it looked as wicked as a kitten stealing cream.

The dim corridor at the top of the stairs smelt of embrocation and shook slightly with the distant rhythms of somebody skipping and the rattle of an overhead punchball Maxim hesitated, then walked towards the noise. He was almost there when a door opened behind him and a chunky man aged fifty-something bustled out and gave him a hard look.

"Is Mr Dannabout?" Maxim asked politely " 'She expectm' you?"

"No, it's about -"

Why'nt you give'ima ring, then?" He pushed past, his belly bulging his thin tee-shirt. "He's busy."

"It's about a boy he trained once. Ronnie Blagg."

"Never 'eard've'im" He had his hand on the gymnasium doorknob "Next time," Maxim suggested, "pause a moment before you say that. It'll sound much more convincing."

The man turned slowly around.

Maxim said. "I'm not the Military Police." He already knew he couldn't be mistaken for the ordinary police, no plamclothes detective would be fool enough to be the only person wearing a dark suit in Rotherhithe that warm afternoon He held out his ID card.

The man peered at it "Woddaya want, then?"

"A word with Mr Dann. You've already told me I've come to the right place, but I don't necessarily have to tell anybody else – if I can get a word with Mr Dann. Would you ask him?"

The man looked very suspicious, then hurried through the door, letting out a brief draught of light and noise. Maxim waited. A boy of around eighteen clattered up the stairs carrying a sports bag labelled LONSDALE, smiled uncertainly at Maxim, and went into a side room.

The gymnasium door opened and the chunky man jerked his head at Maxim "O'right, Major, you can'ave yerword. "

It was a high room, clean and busy and very bright, with big windows around two walls It had nothing to do with the boxing gyms of the movies, or with the tired, almost empty pub downstairs. There were over a dozen men in the room, but with two whole generations missing The boxers were all young, barely twenty, wearing vivid coloured tights and tee-shirts, thick leather head-guards and big groin protectors. The next age up was at least fifty, and a handful sitting on hard chairs beneath the windows and sharing the sports pages of the Standard were obviously old-age pensioners.

Billy Dannwas about fifty-five, tall, very solid, with a square calm face and longish white hair He wore a clothjacket like a hospital porter's, with big pockets, and was leaning on the ropes of a boxing ring that filled one corner of the room.

Two boys, one white and one black, were sparring in the ring, their feet going hiss-hiss-hiss as they slid flat-footed across the canvas.

The chunky man said " 'Ere's the officer, Mr Billy."

Maxim said: "Major Harry Maxim." Billy Danngave him one quick glance and a nod and went back to watching the boxers. His eyes were a pale, cold blue.

"You've been asking about Ron. Why?"

"He's AWOL. I saw him in the country, last weekend. He told me about it. Then he vanished. I want to talk to him. "

"You want to take him back. Are you his CO?"

"No, and I've no power to go around arresting people I just want to talk to him. "

"Suppose he goes back – what'll happen?"

"It depends on his story. He'll get a few daysmcells, probably, and lose his stripes for a while. But he'll live it down."

"It could take a long time "Danntook a stopwatch from his pocket and called: "Last ten," and the boxers speeded up to a flurry of blows. After ten seconds Dannsaid: "Time. " The boxers stopped and took sips from a communal water bottle. Dannwent and talked to each separately, demonstrating with a dropped shoulder, a jabbing hand, a weaving head.

"Looks pretty busy," Maxim commented. Other boxers were pounding at the heavy bags, skipping, one was dancing poncily in front of a full-length mirror and another lying down doing sit-ups with a trainer standing on his feet.

"Busy?" the chunky man snorted "You should see it five o'clock of an evening in the fights season." He indicated the black boy, who was listening carefully to Dann, nodding his head at each point made "You know 'im? That's Ranee Reynolds. He's a contender."

"What weight?"

"Welter. You ever fight?"

"Not boxing."

"Karate, I suppose."

"Something like that. "

Danncame back and called: " 'Way yer go," then glanced at his stopwatch. His whole life was chopped into sections of three and one minutes, and looking at the watch was merely a gesture by now. The fighters movedm oneach other, hiss-hiss hiss-hiss.

"What's Ron to you?"Dannasked.

"A useful soldier. An investment, if you like."

Dannwatched the fighters for a while. "He came here when he was just fourteen. I couldn't take him in properly, but I had a word with the Council-you know about his background, of course? – and they said they'd rather he spent his evenings here than on the street. He'd started fighting in his youth club and he'd beaten everybody there twice over and they didn't much want him back. He was looking for something bigger, and it could've been sailors with a month's paymtheir pockets coming out at closing time. He was good enough to sort them out sober, let alone half cut. At fourteen. But he didn't really need the money, not if he hadn't got the time to spend it. Keep kids busy and they don't need money. You got any kids?"

"One But I just want to know -"

"So I let him come here any time I was open. He swept up, he washed bandages, posted my letters. I taught him the exercises and let him get in the ring with some of the bigger lads."

"Bigger?"

"The little ones would've chopped him up, just to show who's boss."

"'E was a cocky little bugger," the chunky man said, smiling.

The hiss-hiss from the ring suddenly became sharp howls as the white boy lost his temper and both boxers started throwing real punches from a solid footing. Reynolds snaked out three right jabs, each tearing through the other's guard and snapping his head back sharply.

"Now, now, now,"Danncalled.

The white boy backed off, head hunched down and angry. Reynolds moved smoothly after him, the hunting cat who knows it's only a game – until he wants it to be something different.

Danncaught something in Maxim's look and smiled briefly, for the first time. "You can't have him, Major. He could have a big future, that boy. The other one, he's a street fighter. Ron Blagg was a street fighter, to start with. He learned; he learned a lot, then he jomed the Army. "

Maxim said: "It's kind of you, but I don't really need all the background. I just want to get a word to him."

"I'm telling you something about him. Before you knew him. I could only get him for, maybe it was two hours a day. He wanted more than that. He wanted a family. A fighter ought to have a family. I don't mean married. I don't want any married fighters Give me a kid from a big family, a poor one, but solid. I couldn't be Ron's family Maybe the Army was I hoped it would be Now, I don't know. "

"He was doing pretty well."

"Yes – he used to drop in here when he was on leave. I dunno…" He looked at the watch, called: "Last ten, " and watched the fighters speed up for the finish The white boy came out of the ring, Dannhad a few words with him, and called over another to take his place '"E stopped boxing," the chunky man said "'E said he'd stopped, Ron did. Couple of years ago, that was. Said 'e wouldn't getinthe ring, 'e was afraid he might hurt somebody. Well…"

Maxim felt vaguely relieved that Blagg, freshly trained in the SAS's version of unarmed combat, had known himself well enough to stay out of the formal boxing ring. Perhaps the Hereford course was really what he'd been looking for all along. It was lucky that Her Majesty had more jobs open for street fighters than true boxers.

Dannsaid: " 'Way yer go," and the new round started. "So what do you want with Ron, then? Try to make him go back'"

Maxim took a calming breath. "That has to be part of it. Every day he stays away makes it worse. But I want to talk to him first."

"You could write him a letter. "

"This isn't something I want to put on paper It's all a bit unofficial."

The door to the corridor opened and another fiftyish man with a broken nose came in and up to Dannand said: "All okay, Mr Billy. It's all right." He went away again, passing within two feet of Maxim and not even glancing at him. In fact, being careful not to see him at all.

Maxim felt a retch of sick anger. "Youarseholes. He washere, wasn't he? – when I came in. And you kept me gabbing away while you smuggled him out the back or something. And you think you've been so bloody clever and all you've done is screw the boy's life up a bit further, but you're all right, Jack. No dirt on your hands."

Danngazed at him with cold, mild eyes.

"D'you want to know what happens to a deserter? " Maxim demanded. "He becomes a non-person. He can't get a National Insurance card so he can't get a real job. He can't sign his name to a cheque or a lease or hire purchase deal. He daren't even go to a doctor because he's got no medical records. Had you thought of anyofthat? He's got to move away from here to some place he doesn't know, and to live he'll probably have to go crooked, even if he doesn't want to. And since he's no good at it he'll get nicked and then he'll have a criminal recordand be dismissed from the Army because of it. You've just given Blagg a great start in life, Mr Dann, and without even it costing you one penny!"

He had suddenly become the main event of the afternoon. The boxers in the ring had stopped and even the pensioners by the windows were staring at him. And everybody had the same expression of Nobody-talks-to-Billy-Dann-like-that-and-least-of-all-in-here. The Fight Game had abruptly become a seminar of shocked spinsters.

Maxim scribbled his home number on an Army calling card. "Get Blagg to call me at that number. Don't have any more bright ideas of your own, just get him to callme "

One of the boxers drifted over from the punch-bags, wearing only the protective bandages on his fists. "D'you want me to see'imout, Mr Billy?"

Maxim ignored him. "And don't send any of your Palais-de-Dansers after me unless you want him back in a hamburger bun!"

He brushed past the boxer and slammed out of the door. Danngazed after him, his face still mild. He took the stopwatch out and looked at it. Beside him, the chunky man was turning purple and spluttering at the room: "Did you'ear? Did you'ear'im?"

Maximwalked a fast quarter of a mile, breathing quickly. Oh, but that had been clever, that was really cool. You sneak out to make a few discreet enquiries under an alias and you end up being so discreet that they'll probably rename the bloody street after you. Your real name, too.

All right, then. Now we really will be cool. As a penance we will now do everythingexactly right. Pretend we're back on the Ashford course and been sent up to town to check a dead letterbox, make a brush exchange, all the tradecraft and with the experts watching and eager to make a banquet out of your mistakes. We'll go by the book, we'll go by the book down to the full stop at the end of The End.

For the next twenty minutes he was Harry Maxim, Super Secret Agent. When he crossed a road he looked both ways -but not for too long, and crossing only when he needed to. He walked against the flow of a one-way street, to shake off any tailing vehicle, but only because it led in the right direction. He found a telephone box on a corner and called Number 10to check for messages, giving himself a chance to gaze innocently around and spot anybody who might be loitering. He crossed an open park, forcing a foot tail well back – but again only because it was a short cut. And he used the reflections in shop windows to check the other side of the street, but only with shops that Harry Maxim (non-Super Secret Agent) would logically look into.

At the endofthattime, according to the Ashford book, he should have lost – seemingly by chance – most of any team following him. More important, he should have established whether or not he really was being followed.

And he was.

One thing was certain: it wasn't anybody from the Lord Howe gym. These people were real contenders, and that needed some thinking about. But first of all, he had to reassure them, certainly not lose any more of them. So he caught a bus up to London Bridge station; it was impossible to lose a man travelling at the glacier speed of a London bus.

The real question was whether they knew who he himself was. Were they following him to find out where Harry Maximwent, or had they picked him up in Rotherhithe and were following to find out who he was? If they didn't know, he didn't want to tell them, but if they did then he mustn't do anything blatantly un-Harry Maxim that would show he'd spotted them.

Damn. He should have started playing spies a little earlier. Or rather, he should have remembered the Ashford instructors who had told him often enough – no, obviously not often enough – that this wasn't a game, something to be stopped and started. It was a way of life, till death did you depart.

With the Underground map in his diary, he worked out a-route that involved two changes of train and landed him at Finchley Road station – near enough to home that he might have detoured to visit the big shops there. At Ashford they'd told him to assume that any fan club would be working by radio – in their cars, on their motorbikes, in their pockets. But going underground through central London would shed all the wheels, and radio doesn't work down there. In theory, every time he changed trains somebody should flake off and go up to the open to broadcast his new direction. The final trick was to make sure you shed the last of your fans as fast as possible when you came up for air yourself, before the vehicles could be homed in on you again.

But you can never be sure it's really worked.