Solo (20 page)

‘Thanks for the whisky, sir,’ was all he could manage in the end.

Three days later the ward sister yanked out the rubber tube draining Bond’s thigh. It was one of the most unpleasant sensations he could recall experiencing, as if some sinew or vein had been bodily wrenched from his side. His head reeled as she reapplied the dressing and taped it down again. The sister was a rather wonderful woman who treated Bond with pointed egalitarianism – he could have been a duke or a kitchen skivvy and nothing would change in her manner, he knew.

‘There you are, Commander,’ she said, with an ironic smile, using his rank for the first time. ‘A normal human being once more – no tubes hanging out of you.’

After she’d gone Bond went into his bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. He was pale and he’d lost weight and the scar on his face stood out more starkly, he thought. He felt well enough but not particularly strong, not his usual self. Still, he couldn’t hang around until his physical status quo returned. There was work to be done. He had been thinking hard since M’s visit and the unexpected offer of a month’s leave. A whole month – what could be achieved in four weeks? As far as M was concerned he had carried off his mission with flying colours, but from Bond’s point of view there was a sour taste of bitter dissatisfaction and incompleteness. Two people had tried to kill him – one had tried to maim him in the most brutal way possible; the other was a woman he had made love to in all openness and generosity of spirit, and she had tried to deliver the
coup de grâce
to a man who was already grievously wounded. He couldn’t forget those terrible seconds in the control tower at Janjaville airstrip – he would never forget them. To stare death in the face like that, to feel bullets impact on your own vital body . . . You couldn’t, you shouldn’t, just write that down to experience, walk away with a shrug and congratulate yourself on your luck. Fate and blind chance had conspired to keep him alive. Many people had tried to kill Bond over his career and, more often than not, he had managed to show them the folly of that ambition. M had told him to relax, get well, cosset himself – but at the forefront of his mind he wanted retribution, he wanted to hunt these people down and confront them. He wanted to be their grim nemesis and revel in that moment. What was the point of a month’s holiday when this was your frame of mind? No – this was an opportunity to be seized. His superior officer had gifted him a month of repose and idleness. Bond decided instead, with hardening resolve, that these days were going to be put to exceptionally good use.

He pulled on his dressing gown over his pyjamas, and left the private wing, going down to the ward sister’s station at the foot of the stairs. He asked if he could make some telephone calls and was directed to a glassed-in cubicle with a pay telephone inside. Once he’d borrowed some change he made three calls: first to his bank to arrange a transfer of money; then he telephoned Donalda and asked for an address and finally he was put through to his secretary, Minty Beauchamp, and told her he was going on holiday for a month and would be out of contact.

As he lay in bed that night, Bond plotted the nature of his revenge in more detail – revenge on Blessing Ogilvy-Grant (or whatever name she was now going under) and Kobus Breed, the man with two faces. And throw in Hulbert Linck for good measure, he thought, if it turned out he’d been involved in Bond’s purported assassination. And as he speculated about what he might do to these people, as and when he caught up with them, he felt peace of mind slowly returning, but he didn’t forget that they too, if they were alive, might simultaneously be plotting their revenge on James Bond, the man who had messed up their little war in Africa. Somehow he was sure that they would know he hadn’t died in the concrete cell beneath the Janjaville control tower. Any dead Briton found in the aftermath of Dahum’s collapse would have made some newspaper or news bulletin, somewhere. No, the absence of comment would be seen as confirmation of his unlikely survival.

In any event, a plan was slowly taking shape in his mind – but it was a plan he had to carry out himself. It could have nothing to do with his role as a Double O operative, M or the Service. It had to be wholly unauthorised – it had to be rogue action. He smiled to himself in the darkness of his room: in a way the fact that it would be unauthorised would make it all the sweeter. He intended to ‘go solo’, as he phrased it to himself. In the unwritten ethos of the Secret Service he knew that such solo personal initiatives were strictly forbidden. Punishments for going solo were draconian. Bond smiled to himself – he didn’t care. He knew absolutely what he wanted to do.

The next day he dressed in a dark navy flannel suit, white shirt and black tie (his clothes had been sent from Chelsea by Donalda) and went down to administration and informed the duty officer that he was discharging himself. A doctor was summoned who strictly forbade him to leave – he needed at least another week to ten days to recover fully. Bond said he was going to stay with a cousin on his estate in South Uist in the Hebrides and gave a name and address – there was no telephone but he could always be reached by telegram – and took full responsibility for his decision.

Bond sought out Sheila and said goodbye, thanking her warmly and kissing her on the cheek, then a taxi was summoned and he was driven to Edinburgh. In a bank in George Street he withdrew £300 in cash. He next went to an oyster bar off Princes Street where he ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, a dozen oysters and smoked salmon and scrambled egg. At Waverley Station he bought a first-class sleeper ticket to London and boarded the train. He took a sleeping pill and slept all the way through the night as the train thundered southwards. A steward woke him at six in the morning with a cup of strong British Rail tea and two digestive biscuits. Bond ignored the tea – he didn’t drink tea – but gladly ate the biscuits.

He booked himself a room in a clean but somewhat decrepit bed and breakfast near King’s Cross under the alias of Jakobus Breed and considered his few options. As far as he was concerned everyone would think he was convalescing in the Hebrides for a month. The address he’d given to the hospital and to Minty was that of Donalda’s uncle. The key factor, Bond thought, was that nobody knew he was in London. He had plenty of cash and he had plenty of time – somewhere in the city he would pick up the ghost of a trail that would lead him to his quarry and he had a good idea where to start. But first of all he needed some essential equipment and information that were hidden in his Chelsea flat.

Bond sat in a booth at the rear of the Café Picasso on the King’s Road, a carafe of Barolo and a plate of spaghetti amatriciana in front of him, his eyes on the door. He’d finished his spaghetti when Donalda entered and he waved her over. She sat down at the table, unable to conceal how pleased she was to see him as they greeted each other.

‘The flat’s all finished, sir,’ Donalda said. ‘And they did a grand job. It’s a shame you haven’t been here to enjoy it.’

‘I’ve been abroad,’ Bond said.

‘Have you no been very well? You look a bit pale, sir.’

‘I got some kind of bug.’

Bond supposed that May had told Donalda the bare minimum about her employer’s unusual job. The less she knew and the fewer questions she asked, the better.

‘I don’t want anyone to know I’m back in London,’ Bond said, choosing his words carefully. ‘That’s why I’m meeting you here – I think someone may be watching the flat.’

‘I’ve seen nobody suspicious in the square,’ Donalda said. ‘And I’ve been popping in every two or three days – just to check, like, and gather up the post.’

‘Good. So you could pop in again, now, and unlatch the big window that looks on to the back garden.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Then leave, and come back as usual in a couple of days.’

‘All right, sir.’ She couldn’t help a small smile of excitement at all this subterfuge.

‘And your uncle knows what to say if anyone comes looking for me.’

‘You’ve gone to Inverness. Fishing trip.’

‘Perfect. Thank you, Donalda.’ Bond poured himself another glass of Barolo. ‘Do you want a glass of wine?’

‘I’ll just have one of those wee frothy coffees, if you don’t mind, sir.’ She opened her handbag and took out some envelopes. ‘There’s a few bills need paying and I ran out of cheques.’

Bond gave her the necessary cash and ordered a cappuccino.

‘What do I do if I need to get hold of you?’ Donalda asked.

‘Call the usual number and leave a message for me. Then I’ll call you back.’

‘Fine,’ Donalda said and smiled brightly. ‘Delicious coffee, here.’

After Donalda left to go to the flat Bond waited ten minutes then walked down the King’s Road to the street adjacent to Wellington Square. There was a covered passageway off the street that led to a small mews where the former stables and coach houses had been converted into workshops and tiny flats. It was possible to ascend a flight of stairs and shin over the wall and drop into the garden that belonged to Bond’s basement neighbour. It was an easy matter to gain access to his rear window – there was a stout trellis and a convenient drainpipe. It was a route that Bond had occasion to use from time to time when he wanted to leave his flat clandestinely. His neighbour – a flautist in a symphony orchestra who was often away on tour – was both incurious and happy with the arrangement. He left his spare set of keys with Bond for safe keeping.

Bond stood on the trellis and pushed up the big sash window then, stepping on to a horizontal length of drainpipe, he climbed easily into his drawing room.

The flat still smelled of paint and builder’s putty. He needed to smoke a few cigarettes in the place, he thought, make it his own. He went into his study and lifted the false radiator off the wall by the desk. There was an airbrick behind it that pulled out to reveal a small cavity that contained a spare Walther PPK automatic, extra clips of ammunition, some cash, a set of keys to a bedsit in Maida Vale that he rented as a safe house, and a list of crucial telephone numbers and addresses.

Bond was after some essential contacts and he jotted the telephone numbers down that he might need. He slipped the gun and a clip into his pocket and debated about the Maida Vale bedsit. He decided that the King’s Cross bed and breakfast was more anonymous – he didn’t want to encounter any other occupants in the house and have to start making up stories about his long absence.

He replaced the brick and rehung the radiator and went to look at his new bathroom. Doig and his team had done a good job. The marble tiling was laid faultlessly, the grouting and the mastic professionally smooth, and the new shower’s chrome fittings gleamed invitingly behind its plate-glass door. Bond slid it open and turned on the shower: he heard the pump kick in quietly in its concealed housing beneath the bath. Ordered from America, the pump boosted London’s water pressure fourfold. He turned the tap off. There would be plenty of time for domestic pleasures later. Still, he thought, maybe he would make himself a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette in his new streamlined kitchen. He switched off the lights and padded along the recarpeted corridor and pushed the kitchen door open.

Donalda lay face down on the floor, the hair on the back of her head matted with fresh blood. Bond crouched down beside her and for a ghastly second thought she was dead – then she gave a little moan. Bond gently rolled her on to her side and she opened her eyes – and winced.

‘Don’t move,’ Bond whispered. ‘Just lie there.’

He took the Walther from his pocket and quickly searched the flat again, finding no one and no trace of intrusion. But someone must have already been inside when Donalda arrived to unlatch the window. Someone looking to see if James Bond had returned from abroad . . . ?

He returned to the kitchen and carefully sat Donalda up. He found a dishcloth, soaked it in warm water, wrung it out, and dabbed the blood off the back of her head where he could see she had a nasty two-inch cut. She still seemed very dazed.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said.

Bond managed to grab a saucepan out of a cupboard before Donalda vomited.

‘That’s good,’ Bond said. ‘You’re always sick after you’ve been knocked out. It’s a good sign.’

He put the pan in the sink and helped Donalda to her feet, sitting her on a kitchen chair. Then he made her a cup of tea.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Did you see or hear anyone?’

‘No. I came in – everything was just as I’d left it. I put the post on the hall table, unlatched the window, came in here and everything went black.’

‘Must have been in here behind the door, hoping you wouldn’t walk in. Then left.’ Bond was thinking: they know where I live. They entered with a key. This was no burglar casually thieving in a Chelsea flat. At least they didn’t kill Donalda.

He looked at her as she sat there shivering, both hands cupping her mug of tea, drawing off the warmth. Then she wiped away a tear. The gesture reminded him – Kobus Breed? Could it have been Kobus Breed in his house? As he speculated, Bond felt an unreasoning fury mount in him, not so much at this violation of his personal space but at the fact that Donalda – his Donalda – had been so brutally attacked. Do not prey on my people, Bond said to himself, the consequences for those who do tend to be fatal . . .

He told Donalda he was going to call a taxi to take her to hospital, where her head wound could be examined, cleaned and stitched. She was to say only that she had slipped and fallen – and then to go home and rest in bed for a full twenty-four hours. Then he had a better idea – he called May, who said she would be with them in thirty minutes. Bond relaxed: everything would be taken care of now. While he waited, he packed a few clothes in a suitcase, thinking further. So someone was checking on his movements – was James Bond back in his London flat? Any traces of his presence? If he was truly going solo then he wouldn’t be returning here, he felt sure, until this business with Kobus Breed, or whoever else it might be, was fully resolved.