Cold

by John Gardner

  15

  A VOICE FROM THE PAST

  Bond had flown back from Puerto Rico in a Gulfstream ambulance aircraft, laid on from RAF Lyneham. Freddie von Grüsse, her face broken and battered, like the rest of her body, was made comfortable and tended by two nurses and one RAF doctor. Tubes ran out of her nose and mouth, the terrible scars and livid bruises which spoke of fractured bones provided the only colour in her face. The rest was a luminescent grey-white. Her eyes were closed, the only movement came from shallow breathing. Her only sustenance reached her through a drip running into her hand.

  Soon after take-off he managed to get the doctor to one side. ‘Is she going to make it, doc?’ He was aware that his eyes showed only anxiety, and his voice sounded tired and nauseated.

  ‘I hope so, sir.’ The doctor was young, but obviously experienced. ‘Hard to tell at the moment. I’ve examined her thoroughly, set what bones I can, and we think we’ve stopped the most immediate internal bleeding. When we get to Lyneham, I understand she’s to be moved to another facility where they’ll be able to make a more accurate prognosis.’

  ‘What’s your own prediction, doc? You can be honest with me.’

  The doctor looked away and would not meet his eyes. ‘I give her a forty per cent chance of recovery,’ was all he could say, except for the worse part yet to come – ‘If you really want the truth, sir, if she does recover, I think she’ll spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair.’

  Jesus, Bond thought, she would rather be dead. Freddie von Grüsse was only happy when involved in the active life. There was no way she would possibly adjust to spending her days as an invalid. It was at this moment, he later realized, that he hoped she would die.

  There was an ambulance waiting at Lyneham, and he went with her to the clinic which the Secret Intelligence Service sh@?Edownared with the Security Service in Surrey. It was a converted old house, and even with their shrinking budget, the two services had managed to keep the place running on a proper footing. It had a dozen nurses who lived in the house, and three expert doctors also on the staff. Specialists were available at, literally, an hour’s notice. The operating theatres were state-of-the-art, and if Freddie had any chance of recovering, it would be at this secret facility.

  On the first evening they called in two specialists and within a couple of hours of her arrival, Freddie was on the operating table. She remained there for seven hours and it was around one o’clock in the morning that Bond got the news from the senior surgeon.

  ‘It’s touch and go.’ The doctor was a bearded, grizzled man in his early sixties. ‘We really can’t be certain. She’s in a deep coma, and there are no signs of her coming out of it in the immediate future. There’s been massive bleeding in her brain – we’ve put that right as far as we can – but one lung was punctured and she has thirty-seven fractures in all. We’ve patched up the lung and drained off the fluid, but she’s going to be on massive doses of antibiotics to stave off pneumonia. And, of course, we really don’t know if there’s been any brain damage. If she ever comes out of the coma, we’ll be able to assess the situation, but I have to be honest with you, Captain Bond, I think the chances are slim. I do not think she’s going to be able to live a normal life again.’

  He took a cab back to London with a dark cloud of despair hanging over him. The flat seemed deserted without Freddie, and in the end he sat up for most of the night trying to decide what his future would be. That he had loved Freddie was not in dispute, but now he had to face a possible loss of her, or a life spent looking after a vegetable, and however strong his love, he could not see himself living out the years as a nurse to the once vibrant Freddie von Grüsse. She would not want it any more than he could do it.

  He thought of his past, and his luck with women. Sex was one thing, but there were only four females in his life whom he had truly loved, and one he had married, only to have her killed within hours of the ceremony.

  Bond had begun to wonder if his bad luck with real partners was something to do with him and his job. The following morning, tired and still in a black dog of a depression, he drove out to M’s beautiful Regency manor house – Quarterdeck – on the edge of Windsor Forest.

  When he had last visited M, the admiral had been a sick man, confined to his bed with a nurse in residence. This was just before the final stages of the SeaFire business, and Bond had been very concerned about his old chief. As it was, M had become very disillusioned about the way things were going. While he remained nominal head of the Service, everything concerning daily orders, and the running of any special operations, had to go through a powerful steering committee known as MicroGlobe One. Neither M nor Bond could stomach the way in which intelligence matters were being handled in this post-Cold War era. Just as General Haig had told a special committee before World War One, ‘The job of intelligence gathering has always been, and will always be, the job of the cavalry,’ so both M and Bond had fought to keep a tight hand on their own autonomy, but without luck. Bond had certainly wondered if their steadfastness to the old way was as outdated as General Haig’s dogmatic idiocy earlier in the century. Maybe they were wrong and the government was right in moving intelligence and security matters under its wing.

  He rang the famous old ship’s bell outside the stouherbbt oak door of Quarterdeck, and was overjoyed to find that it was M himself who came to the door. He looked fitter than ever, and his cold grey eyes were as damnably clear as they had been before the recent illness.

  It was plain that M was very pleased to see Bond, welcoming him in with an unusual warmth; sitting him down and serving him a glass of sherry. After some idle chatter, M looked hard at his agent. ‘You just here to check up on your old boss, or was there something else, James?’

  Bond first told him about Freddie’s condition, and M cut him off with, ‘I know, my dear boy. I know all about it. You did well, and she lost out. My advice is that you get on with your life. Visit her occasionally, but whatever happens, time usually takes care of everything. Know how you feel, but you can’t allow yourself to fall into the kind of depression you did after the unfortunate . . . well, after the death of your wife.’

  Bond sighed. He knew all too well what M was talking about, just as he knew he had never felt quite as bad as he did now, except for those terrible months after Tracy’s death.

  ‘I’ve advised a lengthy leave for you. That damned committee has okayed it. So you’re free for the time being, until January 1st of next year. Relax, James. Go off to somewhere pleasant for a while. Recharge the batteries. As I’ve said, time will tell with regard to your girl, Freddie.’

  At that moment, Bond had no desire to go anywhere further than the clinic where Freddie lay like the sleeping beauty awaiting his kiss to waken her. As he drove away and headed his Saab towards the clinic, he cursed himself. What a damned stupid simile, he thought.

  There was absolutely no change in Freddie when he got to the clinic. He now began what was to become months of routine. He would rise at seven-thirty sharp, shower and do the series of exercises which had been his practice over the years – the twenty slow push-ups, leg lifts and toe touching. Then breakfast, his favourite meal.

  In fact he was back into his old ritual from former days, and what would a psychiatrist have made of that? Was he searching for some kind of inner peace? Freddie von Grüsse had pulled him out of his normal routine during the time she shared his flat. Was her state of suspended animation sending him back to the safety of life as it used to be?

  At around ten each morning he would visit the clinic and sit for most of the day near Freddie, as she lay, unmoving, on the bed facing a window which looked out on rolling fields, scattered here and there with little copses of trees.

  Sometimes he would talk to her, hoping she might suddenly respond. Always he held her hand, occasionally pressing it, longing for the pressure to be returned. Freddie showed no sign of being pulled from her coma.

  After he left Freddie on the following Friday afternoo
n, he headed straight home, still with the black depression almost like a visible cloud. On arrival he picked up the mail which he had not been able to go through before leaving for the clinic that morning – another break in routine which made him irritable.

  He took the mail through to the room he used as a study, seated himself at his desk and began to go through the various items. There were a couple of bills to be paid, a letter forwarded from his club (he recognized the handwriting, a young woman he had been attempting to avoid for some time now). There was the latest price list from Berry Bros & Rudd, the wine merchants; a bulky envelope from The Folio Society; and a communication from American Express telling him of some splendid holiday offers that were exclusive to members only.

  Last, he came to a small package with an@eterbb Italian postmark. Gently, he slit the small package open with the Royal Marine Commando dagger he used as a paper knife. Inside was a cassette tape marked James Bond Esq. Private & Confidential.

  Intrigued, he went to his bedroom, quickly returning with his Professional Walkman into which he slid the tape. Slipping the headphones over his ears, Bond pressed the Play button.

  ‘Hallo, James, I do hope you remember me. If you don’t, I’ll use one of the code names we had to learn during that wonderful, if dangerous, time we spent together. Hellkin, James. Remember Hellkin?’

  Hellkin. How could he ever forget? Her voice poured into his ears like honey and he could see her again as though she were standing in front of him, as she had first done outside the villa on the island of Ischia in the Bay of Naples.

  On that day she had taken his breath away, dressed in a tank top and cut-off jeans. He recalled that at the time he had looked with such wonderment because they were cut off very high, almost to the junction of her thighs and buttocks, giving a clear view of her long, gorgeous, slim legs and the small exquisite body.

  He now saw her face again: dark, dancing eyes, snub nose, a very wide mouth which seemed to be in a perpetual smile, and the tight bubble of black curls. As he heard her voice, he could remember how she had first introduced herself – Beatrice (pronounced Beé-ah-tree-che). Beatrice Maria da RicciM was reported

  16

  NEED-TO-KNOW

  A light drizzle began as he drove to Quarterdeck, yet even on this unpleasant English November evening, he started to feel his spirits lift, and realized what had been wrong with him. The inactivity imposed on him by the lengthy leave of absence, coupled with his concern for Freddie von Grüsse, had pushed him into a selfish despair. It had happened before. Too long away from the active life, and the dangers it provided, had brought on what he could only describe as withdrawal symptoms. He was longing to get back into the game, and here was his chance. He had to persuade M to allow him to fly to Geneva tonight and he would probably be given a chance to settle old scores.

  The journey to Quarterdeck took him a little over an hour, and it was M himself who opened the door.

  ‘James, my boy.’ The Old Man’s face lit up in obvious pleasure. ‘Come in, come in. I’m alone tonight, the Davisons have gone into Windsor to a concert.’ Mr and Mrs Davison had taken over the job of looking after M’s creature comforts.

  He stepped over the threshold and smelled the familiar odour of polished pine panelling, saw again the Victorian hall stand and the table on which stood the wonderfully detailed replica of HMS Repulse, M’s last command in the Royal Navy. It was the Repulse’s ship’s bell that hung outside the front door.

  ‘Can I offer you something, James? The Davisons have left me a cold collation, ham, tongue, salad, that sort of thing. There’s plenty for the two of us.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but no. I have something of great importance to ask you and I want your authority to be out of the country in a matter of hours. First, I’d like to play you a tape which was delivered in my mail today. I listened to it and came straight out to see you.’

  He looked into M’s eyes and thought he saw a cloud pass over them, a sudden crease of concern appearing on his brow.

  After a short pause, M said he should come and sit near the fire, so it was there in front of crackling logs and with a small glass of sherry that Bond played Beatrice Maria da Ricci’s tape.

  ‘If I get a move on, I can be in Geneva tonight, sir. I only need your instructions. You do know who that is on the tape?’

  M stared into the fire, his face grave, as though he were trying to make a momentous decision. At last, he spoke. ‘Yes, James. Yes, indeed I know who it is; just as I know you’ve worked with her in the past.’

  ‘Well, sir?’

  ‘You’ve put me in a qu@byadf courseandary, James. Also, you know that, in these times, I cannot give you a briefing or permission to go into the field. The world has turned, you know that as well as I, and I’m troubled that Beatrice has seen fit to contact you directly: it’s against all our current field rules.’

  ‘You could still give me the nod, sir. After all, I’m on leave until the first of the year . . .’

  M held up his hand as though to block the words from reaching his ears. Again, he stared into the fire for a full minute before he cleared his throat. ‘This is a need-to-know business, James. Strictly you have no need to know. If – and it would be a very large if – I took this matter in front of our masters in MicroGlobe One, it would take several days for them to make a decision to bring you in. I’ll grant that I could plead a right for you to become part of an operation that has been running some time now, but my fear is that Beatrice da Ricci has been compromised. She’s very good in the field, and this tape may well be some attempt to lure you back into a matter about which you have a little knowledge. For instance, I do know that something diabolical is coming to a head out there. Something that has to be stopped. There are people working on it who, I trust, will do the stopping. On the other hand, this cry for help, which is highly irregular, could well mean something has gone wrong.’

  He went on at some length about the old Service rule of need-to-know, then, with a heavy sigh, said that he would take the risk and give Bond the full details of the situation. ‘But you, in turn, must never let me down. What I’m about to tell you is in the strictest confidence. I shall deny that I ever spoke to you. Understand?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir. Can I take it that, whatever it is you’re about to share, could allow me to get to Geneva on my own time, so to speak?’

  ‘What you do with this information is your own business. You’ll have no sanction from me, and certainly there is no time to bring in the committee. However, if you do finally decide to follow up matters and head out for Geneva, I cannot stress strongly enough that you may well be putting yourself into a position of extreme danger. I should also tell you, under confidential seal, that by the time you return, I might have no pull at all – with the Foreign Office or MicroGlobe One . . .’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘I’m on the chopping block, Bond. Got too old and doddering for this business, it seems. I’ve been told that I’m about to be retired. Could be a week, or a month, or the end of the year, but I’m basically finished, put out to graze. I even know who my replacement is to be – and, if I know you, it will not be sweet music to your ears. They’re going to supplant me with a woman.’

  He paused again, as if to let it sink in. But Bond would probably go on working, be it a woman, man or height-challenged monk at the head of the old firm.

  ‘Whatever you’re going to tell me, sir, I did not hear it from you. If, after listening, I decide to take a short Swiss holiday, then that’s my own personal business. Are we clear?’

  ‘You were always a joy to work with, 007. Even when bending the rules you could make it sound innocent.’

  M had used the old 007 crypto, and it gladdened his heart. They were now speaking the same language.

  ‘Cast your mind back to the terrible act of terrorism against poor old Harley Bradbury’s inaugural flight to Washington Dulles International. You were sent out to represent the Secret Intelligenate
rbbce Service. Right?’

  ‘Very much so, sir. We never did get our hands on the motive.’

  ‘We didn’t?’

  ‘I gather we got two of the planters – what were their names? Winston Mallard and Nuala McBride.’

  ‘Still have ’em, James. Bring ’em out and charge them when other bits of business have been settled.’

  ‘There was talk of the motive being linked to a pair of FBI agents taking some mob figure back to the States. Extradition.’

  ‘Never happened, James. Though we do know that Mallard and McBride were tied into the infamous Tempesta brothers. In turn, we know the Tempestas are tied into that most dangerous organization, COLD.’

  ‘The Children Of the Last Days,’ Bond muttered.

  ‘Quite. So I should also tell you that COLD and the Tempestas were behind the bombing of BD 299, and the truth about that will finally come out. I should warn you it’s more than diabolical. That aircraft and all aboard were sacrificed to protect both COLD and the Tempestas from blackmail.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We had been – to use that revolting American expression – downsizing GCHQ at the time.’ GCHQ was the Government Communications Headquarters in the staid, very proper town of Cheltenham and covered everything from random telephone sweeps to the incoming data from satellites.

  ‘One of the men we retired around that time was a fellow called Carter, Julian Carter. He worked in the anti-terrorist field. Built up names, addresses and profiles of current terrorist organizations. A very present help in trouble was our Mr Carter. He was also only a year from retirement and we gave him a golden handshake. He was on that aircraft.

  ‘Oh, it must have been a year later that we made the connection – I should say GCHQ made the connection with our help. Somebody in Carter’s old office managed to rejuvenate some deleted files. Carter used a big Cray computer, and his successor found a massive tape – several gigabytes I’m told, though I couldn’t tell you what a gigabyte is. Don’t hold with a lot of this modern way of securing data. The tape was marked Carter on Freezing.