Understrike Read Online Free Page B

through Boysie’s pregnant imagination. He saw himself being shot at by hulking great men in slouch hats and raincoats; chased over scaffolding, mountain high above the city; roped and gagged in a cellar crawling with puce spiders (at the very thought of spiders, Boysie was attacked by what looked like the rectangular twitch); pushed into a swimming bath containing a red-eyed octopus; and put to the torture by a voluptuous negress. He lingered over this last, for the negress turned out to be a diverting girl. At least it was a sign that the initial impact of fear was passing. Slowly, Boysie began turning his mind from the horrors. In their place stood the short, compact, oily, curly-haired figure of Mostyn—his immediate boss. In times of stress Boysie always took comfort in railing silently upon Mostyn. Now he railed—with a selection of oaths and curses that would not have disgraced a joint meeting of Macbeth’s Witches and the most proficient members of the Billingsgate Bad Language League.
    A few hours, and six brandies, later, Boysie stood—still in a profound state of anxiety—on the games deck. He leaned moodily against the rail, crowded with passengers eager for their first glimpse of the Manhattan skyline. Away to the left, the Statue of Liberty raised a green hand, half-aggressive, half-pleading. Boysie smiled for the first time since the cablegram had arrived. “Please, miss, can I leave the sea?” he muttered to himself, watching the statue’s suppliant arm slide past.
    Downtown Manhattan came up, rusty and grey mixed with heat-haze. The dogmatic wail of a police siren floated over the water from the West Side Highway. Up river they could see the slim skyscrapers, climbing pock-marked fingers. A broad American with watery eyes and a purple checked jacket nudged Boysie hard in the ribs and pointed to the centre of the forest of concrete peaks:
    “ There it is, bud. Biggest phallic symbol in the world. The good old Empire State.”
    Boysie could see the man’s point. Even at this distance, he thought, New York looked as sexy as he had always been led to believe.
    Forty-five minutes later he stood sweating in the queue which moved, almost imperceptibly, into the main lounge, where US immigration officials sat impassively scrutinising passports. In spite of his light linen suit, voile shirt and tropical underwear. Boysie felt as though he was sitting, wrapped round with rugs, in a Turkish bath. The heat seemed to claw into his skin, wrenching the drops of perspiration from the pores by force. By the time he reached the head of the queue, Boysie felt so tired—a by-product of emotional fatigue and the strength-sapping heat—that he had consciously ceased to worry about the immediate future. His imagination was brimful of ice cubes slowly melting in a tall drink, and the exquisite chill of a cold shower, followed by soft breezes fluttering over his body, emanating from fans—preferably wielded by silk-thighed Vargas-girls.
    An aquiline immigration man, with the name ‘Gozinsky’ stencilled on to a circular plastic disc pinned to the left side of his brown uniform shirt, quietly took Boysie’s passport and opened it.
    “ Mr Oakes?” he asked without looking up.
    “ Yes.”
    Gozinsky turned away, and with an almost invisible nod caught the eye of a squat, leather-faced little man who had been sprawling in one of the main lounge armchairs a few feet away. The man toddled over to the immigration table.
    “ Yours, Joe,” said Gozinsky.
    “ Oakes?” said Joe.
    Gozinsky cocked his head towards Boysie, at the same time going through the prestidigital exercise of stamping the passport, flicking it back into Boysie’s wilting palm and saying: “Welcome to New York. Welcome to the United States. Mr Siedler here has been waiting for you.”
    Mr Siedler came forward, his chubby face breaking into an outsize smile. Big welcoming smiles were Joe Siedler’s speciality. At one time—when he had worked as a CIA