Gardner, John (2 page)

'Of course, sir.' Bond remembered smiling. In spite of M's brusque and often uncompromising attitude, Bond loved him as a father. To 007, M
was
the Service, and the Service was Bond's life. After all, what M suggested was exactly what the Russians had done with his old enemies SMERSH -
Smyert Shpionam,
Death to Spies. They still existed, the dark core at the heart of the K.G.B., having gone through a whole gamut of metamorphoses, becoming the O.K.R., then the Thirteenth Department of Line F, and now, Department Viktor. Yet their work and basic organisation remained the same-political murder; kidnap; sabotage; assassination; the quick disposal of enemy agents, either after interrogation or as acts of war on the secret battlefield.

Bond had left M's office on that occasion in an elated mood. Yet, in the few years that had passed since, he had performed only four missions in which his Double-O prefix had played any part. A portion of his work was to kill people. It was not a facet of life he enjoyed, but he did it very well in the course of duty. There was certainly no pathological hankering after that kind of work. It was the active life that Bond missed; the continual challenge of a new problem, a difficult decision in the field, the sense of purpose and of serving his country. Sometimes he wondered if he was falling under the spell of that malaise which seemed, on occasions, to grip Britain by the throat — political and economic lethargy, combined with a short-term view of the world's problems.

Bond's four most recent missions had been quick, cut and dried, undercover operations; and, while it would be wrong to say that James Bond yearned for the danger, his life now seemed, at times, to lack real purpose.

He still kept in the peak of condition: each morning going through a rigorous workout of press-ups, leg-raising, arm and breathing exercises. There was a 'refresher' on combat and silent kills once a month, at the firm's training establishment; the weekly small arms shoot in the sophisticated electronic range far below the Regent's Park headquarters; and the monthly all-weapons shoot at the Maidstone Police Range. Twice a year he disappeared for a fortnight to the SAS headquarters in Herefordshire.

Bond had even managed to alter his lifestyle, very slightly, adapting to the changing pressures of the 1970s and early 1980s: drastically cutting back - for most of the time—on his alcohol intake, and arranging with More-lands of Grosvenor Street for a new special blend of cigarettes, with a tar content slightly lower than any currently available on the market. At this moment twenty of these cigarettes, each one with the distinctive three gold rings just below the filter, lay in the gunmetal case, snug in Bond's breast pocket.

For the rest, the last few years for Bond had been the grind of an executive officer to M: planning paperwork, interrogating, de-briefing, analysis, dirty tricks and bugging operations, with his fair share of Duty Officer watches to stand. His only extra joys during this period had come from the purchase of the cottage and the new car.

He had fancied a small country retreat for some time, and found the right place five miles out of Haslemere, and a good mile from the nearest village. It fitted Bond's requirements perfectly and was bought within twenty-four hours of first viewing. A month later the builders and decorators had moved in with very precise instructions from the new owner.

The car was a different matter. With fuel costs running high, and the inevitability that they would continue to do so, Bond had allowed the beloved old Mark II Continental Bentley to go the way of its predecessor, the 4.5-litre Bentley.

Some eyebrows were raised at his choice of a foreign car, when all the pressure was on to buy British, but Bond shrugged it off by pointing to the fact that it was a British specialist firm which carried out the particularly complex and sophisticated personalisation - such as the head-up digital instrument display, the cruise control system, and several other pieces of magic, made possible by British know-how and the mighty micro-chip.

He did not mention the month during which the car had been taken over by the multinational Communication Control Systems (C.C.S.) company, who added some of their own standard refinements - security devices that would make Q Branch's mouths water. Bond reasoned that it was his car, and he, not Q Branch —which was under severe financial restraint anyway —would decide what features should be incorporated. On several occasions he had seen Major Boothroyd, the Armourer, nosing around the Saab; and it was now commonplace for him to catch members of Q Branch —the 'gee-whizz' technicians of the Service-taking a close look. None of them ever mentioned the things they could not fail to notice - such as the bullet-proof glass, steel-reinforced ram bumpers and heavy-duty tyres, self-sealing even after being hit by bullets. There were other niceties, though, which nobody in Q Branch could detect without bringing out specialist gear.

The Saab now suited Bond's purposes, and was easily convertible from petrol to gas, if the fuel situation became even more critical; the consumption was low in relation to speed; while the turbo gave that extra dynamic thrust always needed in a tricky situation.

Only a few people knew about the cottage, so there were no raised eyebrows or jokes about Bond having a country seat.

The London Friday evening rush was almost over by the time he reached Roehampton; so the Saab was in Bond's personal parking slot, in the underground garage of the headquarters building, before seven-thirty.

Bond would have put money on M having some inane and boring job waiting for him, and even made a mental wager with himself as the lift sped him silently to the ninth floor, at the top of the building, where M's suite of offices was located.

Miss Moneypenny, M's P.A., looked up with a worried smile as Bond entered the outer office. This was the first sign that something important might be on the cards.

'Hallo, Penny,' Bond greeted her breezily, shrugging off the slough of irritation over the lost week-end. 'Not out with one of your young men? It's wicked Friday night, you know.'

Miss Moneypenny cocked her head towards the door of M's office as she spoke: 'And he's been wickedly waiting for you. Keeping me here into the bargain.' She smiled. 'Besides, the only man who could lure me out on the town seemed to be otherwise engaged.'

'Oh Penny, if only . . .' Bond grinned. There had been a special bantering relationship between them for years, yet Bond had never fully realised how much the able and neat Moneypenny doted on him.

'Tell Commander Bond to come straight in,' M's voice snapped metallically from the intercom box on Miss Moneypenny's desk.

Bond lifted a quizzical eyebrow and moved towards the door. Lowering his voice, he said, 'Did anyone ever tell you that Janet Reger started her business with you in mind, Penny?'

Miss Moneypenny was still blushing as Bond disappeared into M's office and closed the door. A red warning light blinked on above the door as it clicked shut. She stared into space for a moment, her head filled with the after-image of the man who had just entered M's inner sanctum: the bronzed good-looking face, with rather long dark eyebrows above the wide, level blue eyes; the three-inch scar which just showed down his right cheek; the long, very straight nose, and the fine, though cruel, mouth. Minute flecks of grey had just started to show in the dark hair, which still retained its boyish black comma above the right eye. As yet, no plumpness had appeared around the jowls, and the line of the jaw was as straight and firm as ever. It was the face of an attractive buccaneer, Miss Moneypenny thought, shaking herself out of a slightly improper reverie, and wondering if she should have warned James Bond that M was not alone in his office.

As James Bond opened the door to M's office, another door was opening, some five hundred miles to the north of London.

The man who had left Dublin so skilfully disguised, early that morning, looked up, rising from his chair and extending a hand in greeting.

The room in which he had been waiting was a familiar place to him now, after so many visits: book-lined, with a large military desk, comfortable leather chairs, the impressive cabinet containing, literally, priceless antique weapons - a pair of chased silver flint-lock pistols, a matched set of American Kentucky hand guns, lavishly inlaid, a French wheel-lock with mother-of-pearl and gold wire stock decoration, a pair of cutlass pistols, and an Allen pepper-box with six revolving barrels. The artist of disguise knew the pieces and lusted after them on each viewing. The whole place had that air of solidity which comes with what is known as 'old money'.

The person who entered the room was its owner, playing host now to the man from Dublin. They shook hands, almost gravely, the guest waiting in silence until his patron had moved to the large upright chair behind the desk. He did not speak until he was seated.

'It's good to see you again, Franco.'

'Good also to see you. But I enjoy working for you; this always makes a difference.' The man called Franco paused, searching for words. 'You know, after all this time, I never know how to address you - your title, or scientific . . . ?' He made a small gesture with his hands.

The other man chuckled, his bulldog face creasing into a smile. 'Why not Warlock?'

They both laughed. 'Appropriate,' Franco nodded. 'Operation Meltdown, with you —its creative and directive force —Warlock.'

The man behind the desk laid his hands flat on the leather top. 'So be it.' He nodded his head in a quick, birdlike, manner. 'You had no trouble?'

'Nothing at all. Clean as your proverbial English whistle. The chopper was on time; there were no tails. By now you should know I always have care.'

'Good.' The birdlike pecking nod again. 'Then I trust, my friend, that this will be your last visit here.' Franco gave a quirky little grin. 'Perhaps. But maybe not quite my last. There is the question of payment.'

The man behind the desk opened his hands, fingers splayed, palms upward. Т mean, of course, your last visit until after Meltdown is completed. Yes, of course there is the question of picking up your share. But first, location and the small detail. That's one of the things we have to discuss; one of the reasons you will be here for a slightly longer period this time, Franco.'

'Naturally.' Franco's voice took on a cold edge and the word came out in four syllables, spoken curiously like the slow, cautious footsteps of a man testing an ice bridge across a deep crevasse.

'There is much to talk about. Europe, I presume, is completely arranged?'

'Everyone ready, yes.'

'And the States?'

'Ready and waiting for the final instructions.'

'The men . . . ?'

Franco leaned forward. 'These
people,
as I've already told you, have been waiting for a long time. They always were the least of my worries. Each of them is dedicated, ready to give his or her life for his separate cause. To all purposes, they consider themselves martyrs already. But the various organisations that have provided the personnel for your operation — organisations outlawed by most Western governments, and regarded as terrorists — are anxious. They want assurances that they will receive their share of the money.'

'Which, I trust, you have given them, Franco.' From behind the desk the bulldog face had ceased to beam. 'Our commitment was clear. I seem to recall that we spoke of this, at great length, over a year ago. I provide the plan, the - how do you say it these days? - the know-how. I also arrange the means. You are the go-between, the contact man. Now, we have more interesting things to talk about.'

BOND BECAME MORE alert when he reached the far side of M's door. He was prepared for his old chief to be seated in his usual concentrated position behind the large glass-topped desk; but he was not expecting to find two extra men in the room.

'Come in, Bond.' M addressed him with a small, economic, movement of the hand. 'Gentlemen,' he glanced towards his visitors, 'allow me to introduce Commander James Bond. I think he's the man to fit the bill.'

Bond warily acknowledged the other men. He knew well enough who they were, though it would not do to show it openly.

M allowed the pause to lie for just the right length of time, as though testing Bond's discretion, before completing the introductions. 'Commander, this is Sir Richard Duggan, Director-General of M.I.5; and Deputy Assistant Commissioner David Ross, head of the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police.'

Bond reached out and, in turn, shook hands with the men, noting they both possessed firm dry handshakes. They also looked him straight in the eyes. These were two features Bond had long since come either to admire or guard against - depending on what side he suspected the owners of such attributes to be working.

It was certainly a puzzling situation. M.I.5, and its executive arm, the Special Branch, constituted what was known officially as the British Security Service — responsible for counter-espionage and anti-terrorist activities on British sovereign territory.

To Bond's service they were always jokingly known as 'The Opposition', and there had always been a keen rivalry between the two organisations: a rivalry which had sometimes led to grave misunderstandings; even open hostility.

It was certainly most unusual for the heads of 'The Opposition' to come calling on M, who saw them regularly anyway - at least once a week at the Joint Intelligence Committee meeting.

M motioned Bond into a leather chair and looked — a shade too benignly, Bond thought - first at his two visitors, then at Bond. 'Our friends from M.I.5 have a small problem, Commander,' he began, and Bond noted with caution that M was treating him with almost military correctness. 'It is an interesting situation, and I feel you might be able to help; especially as it has all the marks of moving out of M.1.5's jurisdiction, and into our own area.' He tapped his pipe into the copper ashtray on the desk. For the first time, Bond noticed his chief had a file lying directly in front of him. It was thick and marked with the red Most Secret: Classified tags. Two small circles, on the top right hand corner of the white binding, denoted that the file concerned both European and Middle East connections; while a small sticker bore the words, which Bond could easily read upside down, 'Not for Brotherhood', which meant it contained information not to be circulated to the American service, the C.I.A.