Win, Lose or Die

by John Gardner

  ‘Well,’ M began, ‘this had better be good, Bond. There was a specific arrangement. No contacts unless you fired a distress signal.’

  ‘Sir, I was. . .’

  ‘If you’re going to tell me someone had a pot shot at you with a missile, I know about that; just as I know it could have been an electronic fault in your aircraft . . .’

  ‘With respect, sir. That was no electronic fault. There are other matters also. I wouldn’t break field rules if there were no reason.’

  M motioned to an armchair. Bond sat, and M took his usual place behind the desk. ‘You’d better . . .’ he was cut short by the red telephone purring. He lifted it to his ear saying nothing. Then M grunted twice, nodded at the receiver and re-cradled it. ‘There was nobody on your back, anyway. We’re sure of that. Now, if you’re certain about the missile – and I’m not – what did you come to talk about?’

  Bond started at the beginning – the Sidewinder doing its best to blow him out of the sky, then, without a pause he went on with the story of First Officer Clover Pennington. ‘She says there are fifteen Wrens slated for attachment in Invincible, says it’s common knowledge, just as she says it’s common knowledge that I’m going to be there as well. I felt it vital that I talk directly to you, sir. This is a security matter, and I don’t like details being known to all and sundry. Particularly as you were so adamant that we kept to strict field rules, and I was to operate under deep cover. If a Wren First Officer’s blabbing about it, how do we know these BAST people haven’t got everything already? Knowledge that the three admirals are going to be in Invincible, knowing I’m their Nanny, responsible for their safety? Damn it, sir, they can take me out any time they want. For all we know that Sidewinder was an attempt to remove me.’

  M remained silent for a full minute, then cleared his throat. ‘The best thing would be to remove young First Officer Pennington from the draft,’ he growled. ‘But, if she’s not on the side of the angels, it might be best to leave her in play, where you can keep an eye on her. It’s all very interesting though, especially in view of this.’ He opened a plain buff file and carefully removed two stapled pages, handing them over to Bond.

  They were a standard maintenance form, dated the previous day and referring to a detailed examination of the Harrier in which he had flown on the day of the missile incident. Bond’s eyes moved down the pages, taking in the technical detail as he went. Most of it referred to a pair of faulty transponders, part of the internal warning system. The summary and conclusion were written in a neat hand towards the bottom of the second page—

  While it is quite possible for Captain Bond’s aircraft to have developed the trouble in the transponders after some accidental firing of the missile, it appears more likely that the faults were triggered either before or during his bombing run. Pilots have been known to report missiles closing, or at least fired in their direction after failure in one or both of the transponders mentioned in the report above, and, bearing in mind the absence of any missiles aboard aircraft in the vicinity, this appears to be the only adequate reason in this case.

  C Pennington (First Officer WRNS)

  ‘Nice to know who’s on your side, sir. I can assure you there was no transponder failure. That was a missile, and First Officer Pennington seems to be doing her best to play it down. To cover her own pretty little backside do you think, sir?’

  M grunted, took back the report then looked at Bond with his unflinching damnably clear grey eyes. ‘You are absolutely, one hundred per cent certain, 007?’

  ‘Stake my life on it, sir.’

  M nodded. ‘In the circumstances, while it would appear to be normal security to have this young woman removed from the draft going to Invincible, I prefer to leave things as they are. At least you’re alerted.’

  A tap at the door brought Davison in to announce that luncheon was served. ‘Nothing much, even for a Sunday.’ M pulled himself from his chair. ‘Kind of thing you like though, 007. Cold roast beef, new potatoes and a little salad. That do you?’

  ‘Make a change from wardroom food, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be bound,’ M gave an imitation which came as near to a laugh as you would ever get from him. ‘Good for you. Get all the more unpleasant chemicals out of your bloodstream. Those chi-chi meals you’re always eating’ll be the death of you yet.’

  Mrs Davison assisted her husband to serve the modest meal which was very much to Bond’s taste – particularly the horseradish sauce, rough-cut and made by Mrs Davison herself. ‘Calculated to clear the sinuses,’ M commented. ‘Can’t do with that namby-pamby creamed stuff they’re always serving these days. Sans taste, sans bite, sans everything horseradish should be.’

  When they were alone once more, Bond slowly introduced the question that had been most on his mind – ‘Might I know, sir, exactly why we have to put up with fifteen Wrens in Invincible? I’m only as superstitious as the next sailor, so I personally think of it as bad luck – women on a naval vessel.’

  ‘Not simply superstitious, but a solid male chauvinist pig, I’d say, Bond – whatever male chauvinist pig means, dratted bad use of language if you ask me. But you’ve asked me something more tricky. Something you shouldn’t even know, and I’m not sure if this is the right time to tell you. I was going to do it before you went on draft to Invincible, of course.’ He helped himself to more of the beef and a large spoonful of the horseradish. ‘My story was going to be that the Russkies’re bringing at least one female Naval Attaché with them. But one Russian woman does not equal fifteen Wrens, does it?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Bond followed his Chief’s lead and took some more beef.

  ‘Then here goes, 007, and remember, this really is high security stuff, classified possibly as nothing has ever been classified before – not in time of peace anyway.’

  He talked for over half an hour, and Bond’s initial surprise at what M said, turned into a whole world of churning worries which were to haunt him for many weeks to come.

  At six o’clock that evening, James Bond made the return journey to the RNAS at Yeovilton, via a small car-changing charade in Cheddar. Now he knew the entire enterprise and could see that the covert action which appeared to be in motion via BAST had pushed him into one of the most difficult and dangerous assignments he had ever been forced to undertake.

  While Bond and M were meeting in the house near Windsor Great Park, another fortuitous meeting was taking place in Plymouth. A Petty Officer Engineer, on twenty-four-hour leave, spent the lunchtime in an unfamiliar public house. It was Sunday and drinking men often go over the limit during a normal pre-lunch session, but this particular man only took his usual number of pints. When it was time to leave, he was, if anything, only slightly ‘merry’, full of good cheer, and not given to making an exhibition of himself.

  He had also made two new friends.

  The Petty Officer did not live in Plymouth, but knew the city well, like many a sailor before him. Plymouth on a Sunday can often be lonely for a sailor without a girl in port and this particular man’s girl was his wife of fifteen years who lived in London because she had a good job there. The new friends were a pair of civilians who started to make conversation with him at the bar of the pub. One, called Harry, was the representative for a firm that provided some essential components for turbines, so he had something in common with the Petty Officer; the other, Bill, was also a rep – for a company that specialised in fibre optics. Harry and Bill were old friends, for they often met at the same hotel when work brought them to Plymouth.

  The Petty Officer was glad of their company, and found the conversation, mainly of wine, women and ships, exceptionally stimulating. So much so that he invited the two men to have a bite to eat with him. ‘After that, me old mates, I’m going to find a good-looking young pusher.’ Freely translated a ‘pusher’ had nothing to do with drugs. The term was old Navy for girl; usually one of easy virtue and who did most things for money. Professional or amateur.

  ‘Now, there we can rea
lly help you,’ said Harry. ‘Bill and me, we stay here often. And guess what our hobby is?’

  They lunched well, their conversation rarely straying from matters below the navel. ‘What’d your wife say if she ever caught you at it?’ Bill asked the Petty Officer.

  ‘Give me bloody ’ell. She’d set her brothers on me, that’s for sure, and they’re big bastards.’

  They took him to a small private club where they both had membership. There, the Petty Officer was shown a series of young girls, all of whom were highly desirable. So much so that the PO commented on the fact that he had never seen ‘pushers’ like that in clubs or on the streets of Plymouth in the whole of his life.

  ‘That’s because you don’t know the right places to go,’ Harry said with a smile. ‘Take your pick, “Blackie”. Any one of them . . .’

  ‘Or more if you’re feeling greedy. This is on us, mate.’ Bill laughed.

  The Petty Officer chose a blonde who looked about sixteen, but had the credentials of someone far more experienced than any teenager.

  The cameras were hidden behind a pair of two-way mirrors, often used in this particular establishment. The PO spent nearly two hours with the girl and left, as he said, ‘suitably impressed’.

  Harry and Bill invited him to dinner at their hotel. Over dinner they all planned to spend the following Sunday together. Then the conversation turned to the big naval turbine engines, on which the Petty Officer was an expert.

  5

  THE CHRISTMAS HORSE

  The phrase ‘health depends on strength’ was picked up once more by the listening-posts towards the end of November. The computers locked on and the transcript was on M’s desk within twenty-four hours.

  Again it was Bassam Baradj and Abou Hamarik who spoke.

  ‘Surely you don’t think this naval man, Bond, will be any threat to an operation as complex as ours?’ Baradj said.

  ‘I like to be sure of my enemies.’ Hamarik’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘Bond isn’t merely a simple officer of the Royal Navy: not that there are any simple Royal Naval officers. This man has a curious and impressive record, and my informants tell me he is to be drafted to the ship as a special liaison officer.’

  ‘Head of a select bodyguard section?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘And you thought he was enough of a threat to warrant removing, even in the midst of something vital to the final plan?’

  ‘I saw it as a military opportunity. The chance was there. It failed.’

  There was a long pause, then Baradj spoke again. ‘Well, Abou, I trust the other part of our Operation Lose goes well and will not be compromised. Apart from the general political aims of the Brotherhood, I have a great deal of hard currency tied up. I’ve never disguised the fact that there are financial issues here. While I believe ardently in the Brotherhood, and see it as the only way a new and more just world can be established, I am also concerned with creating a financial buffer for myself, and, of course, the Brotherhood which would be nothing without my support. Pray the next segment of the plan goes without any hitches.’

  ‘This coming weekend will see the completion of that phase. We have our man neatly sewn up. You need not be concerned about that part. All will go well.’

  ‘And the Bond fellow?’

  ‘Maybe it would be a good idea to remove him from the scene. He was formerly a member of the British Secret Intelligence Service, at one time a skilled assassin until the British had no more stomach for such things. But he is experienced, a good leader, and a man to be reckoned with. He will, doubtless, have people under his command guarding the trio who will be aboard Birdsnest Two.’

  ‘If we get rid of him before the event?’ Baradj paused. ‘If we dispose of him, will they bring in someone of his quality as a replacement?’

  ‘They will replace him,’ Hamarik sounded a shade diffident. ‘But not with a man of like calibre. Bond is, shall we say, unique.’

  Once more there was one of those long pauses, when the listening devices picked up stray noises: a goatherd or shepherd on the slopes below; people, probably servants or bodyguards, arguing.

  ‘They have their feast of Christmas next month.’ Baradj sounded suddenly hard, and threatening. ‘Find out where this man is to spend Christmas. I’ll give him to the Cat. That will lessen our chances of failure.’

  M, in his office overlooking Regent’s Park, watched Bill Tanner reading the transcript. Tanner was a quick reader, but M was impatient, drumming his fingers on the leather skivers inlaid in his desk top.

  ‘Well?’ he asked sharply when his Chief of Staff had finished.

  ‘They’re too well informed,’ Tanner spoke decisively. ‘It’s become uncontrollable. I think you should advise a rethink. Call the whole thing off.’

  M grunted. ‘Mmm. But, Chief of Staff, can you see our advice being taken? Knowing what’s involved, there are risks in trying to have the thing called off.’

  It was Bill Tanner’s turn to grunt as he moved to his favourite place, by the window, looking down into the Park below. ‘I understand the problem, sir. But if the worst happens . . .’

  ‘Our best chance is to stop it happening at all. Keep Bond in play. You heard what Baradj said about Christmas. Why don’t we flush ’em out? Make ’em vulnerable by letting them show their hand.’

  ‘You mean use Bond as a tethered goat?’

  ‘More a stalking-horse, Tanner. Have to ask him first, of course. Yes, set up a meeting, and make sure it’s absolutely one hundred per cent sterile. Got me?’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘The Cat,’ M was almost musing to himself. ‘BAST, the three-headed monster riding on a viper. The heads of a man, a snake and a cat. The Cat, Tanner.’

  ‘Saphii Boudai, yes?’

  ‘What’s on file?’

  ‘Precious little, sir. We know she was PLO at one time. There is a possibility that she spent a few years as a penetration agent within Mossad, but they’re either too coy, or tied too tightly into their own vengeance plans to release any photographs. Boudai, we know, is around twenty-nine, or thirty years of age; we also know she is attractive and an expert in many things clandestine. But we have no photographs and no real description.’

  M gave another grunt. ‘They have Bond well assessed. His weak point has always been women. He’s going to have to be briefed fully. Try and get more information on the Boudai woman, even if you have to lean on your Mossad contacts. They’re a touchy lot, I know, but do your best – and set up that meeting with more than usual care.’

  Tanner nodded and left the office looking grim and determined.

  The Harrier conversion course at Yeovilton had become even more demanding. Each day Bond flew, and each day they stretched him to new limits – not just on the bombing range but also in the role of fighter pilot.

  First in the simulator, then later in the more dangerous environment of reality, he practised dog-fight techniques – sometimes with other aircraft flown by instructors, or his coursemates.

  In one day he would go through the high-speed, stomach churning manoeuvres like the High G Yo Yo, Flip Yo Yo, Low G Yo Yo, and the old, tried and true Immelmann, modified for jet aircraft so that you changed direction by rolling the aeroplane, not at the top of a loop, as in the classic Immelmann turn, but as you shot up in a vertical climb.

  There was also the manoeuvre unique to the Harrier – thrust Vectored In Forward Flight, or VIFF as it is known. The Harrier has the ability to rise vertically, or move sideways from its normal flight path. This was a technique thought to be absolutely revolutionary in air combat, but the conversion course pilots, having learned how to perform the VIFF, were put in the true picture by a veteran pilot of the Falklands campaign.

  ‘The Press made a big deal out of VIFFing,’ the pilot told them in a closed lecture. ‘But I don’t think any of us used it. I’ve seen articles and drawings in magazines showing Harriers allowing an enemy aircraft to position himself for an attack directly behind th
eir six, then whizzing upwards and blasting the attacker as he overshot.’ The pilot, a young Lieutenant-Commander gave a rueful smile. ‘You just don’t let anyone calmly place himself at six o’clock, it’s just too bloody dangerous. Also the VIFF slows you down – that’s its one great use. Personally, I’d only use it to alter the position of my nose so that I could get a good shot at my opponent. Forget about heroic leaps upwards, and letting enemy aircraft overshoot you. If there’s someone on your six, he’ll probably get you whatever you do – unless he fires a missile a long way out of range. These days aerial combat is still mainly Battle of Britain stuff at speed, and at a longer separation. Rely on your radar and lock-on. A well-placed heat-seeker fired from even the outer limits of range will do the job – on him, or you.’

  So, they added VIFFing to their stockpile of manoeuvres, knowing its limits, just as they all began to feel out their own limits. Bond knew he had not operated under such stress for a long time, and was particularly concerned about Clover Pennington, who, instead of being put off by his own cold-shouldering, appeared to have become more and more interested. She would wait for him, lingering in the ante-room, or seek him out at meals, showing an unusual concern for his well-being, but careful not to overstep the mark.

  ‘That spectacular Wren three-ringer’s really got the hots for you,’ the US Navy pilot remarked one day at lunch.

  ‘Really?’ Bond gave him a surprised look. ‘Well, if she has, I suggest that someone tells her to take a cold shower.’

  ‘Know what you mean, Captain. After a day chasing around the sky in these birds, I doubt if I could put on a performance, even for the most desirable two-legged bird. These Harriers sap it all out of you.’

  ‘True,’ Bond said with a tight smile as he rose and left the table.

  A couple of days later he received a postcard picturing the Martyrs’ Memorial in Oxford. He did not recognise the writing, but presumed it had been done by one of the cleared secretaries back at the Regent’s Park office. It was neat, short, and to the point.