High Time To Kill rbb-3

by Raymond Benson

  Bond knocked the ball to a position nearly 180 yards from the green. Marquis made an identical shot, knocking his ball into Bond’s and causing it to roll a few feet forward.

  “Thanks, that’s where I really wanted to be,” Bond said.

  “As the song goes, Bond, ‘anything you can do, I can do better,’ “ Marquis said. He had meant to hit Bond’s ball just to prove something. All four men made par on the hole. After Harding sank the last putt of the game, Tanner sighed heavily and looked at Bond. They had lost the game with the score at 74 to 73. Now they had to come up with five hundred pounds.

  “Bad luck, Bond,” Marquis said, holding out his hand.

  Bond shook it and said, “You played a fine game.”

  Marquis shook Tanner’s hand and said, “Bill, your game has improved a great deal. I think you ought to have your handicap updated.”

  Tanner grunted and shook Harding’s hand.

  “Shall we meet back on the patio for drinks after changing?” Marquis suggested.

  “Fine,” Bond said. He and Tanner left their clubs at the starter shed, went to the dressing room to shower and change clothes, and emerged feeling fresher, if not altogether happy. Tanner hadn’t said a word to Bond since the game had ended.

  “Bill, I know you’re terribly upset with me. I’m sorry. I’ll pay for it all,” Bond said as they took a seat at a table. The sun had, in inimitable English-weather fashion, reappeared.

  “Don’t be silly, James,” Tanner said. “I’ll pay my share. Don’t worry about it. I’ll write you a check now and you can pay them in one lump sum.”

  Tanner began writing the check and murmured, “Why the hell does Marquis always call me by my Christian name, but he always addresses you as Bond?”

  “Because the man is a complete bastard who thinks he’s a superior being. I’m doing my best to swallow my pride and put this behind me, but if he says ‘bad luck’ one more time, I’m going to punch him in the nose.”

  Tanner nodded in agreement. “Too bad he’s working with us, or I’d kick him in the arse myself!”

  “What is this top secret project, anyway?”

  “James, it’s classified. M and I are privy to it, but it’s something that the DERA have been working on for quite some time. I can tell you more later, at the office. I had no idea Marquis was the RAF liaison with the project.”

  “You’ve aroused my interest. Can you give me a hint?”

  “Let’s just say that when the project is completed, it will change the way wars are fought.”

  Right on cue, Marquis and Harding joined them.

  “Excellent game, gentlemen,” Marquis said. “I’m so glad we ran into you. It made the day so much more interesting.”

  Bond took out his checkbook. “Shall I make it out to you or to Dr. Harding?”

  “Oh, to me, by all means. I want to watch you write my name on that check,” said Marquis. He turned to Harding and said, “Don’t worry doctor, I’ll give you your share.”

  Harding smiled complacently. He gazed at Bond’s check as a sparrow might eye a worm.

  Bond tore out the check and handed it to Marquis. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Thank you, Bond,” Marquis said, pocketing it. “‘You played admirably. Someday you just might be able to beat me.”

  Bond stood up and said, “That might give you an inferiority complex, Roland, and that would be so unlike you.”

  Marquis glared at Bond.

  “Bill and I must be going,” Bond said quickly. “It was good to see you again, Roland. Nice meeting you, Dr. Harding.” He held out his hand to both of them. “Take care.”

  “Rushing off so soon?” Harding asked.

  Tanner stood up, following Bond’s lead. “Yes, I’m afraid he’s right. We have to be back at Vauxhall before the end of the workday.”

  “Well, by all means, you’ve got to keep our precious country safe and sound,” Marquis said with mock sincerity. “I’ll sleep better tonight knowing you boys are on the watch.”

  After they said their good-byes. Bond and Tanner walked around the clubhouse to pick up their bags. As men who were quite used to winning or losing, they quickly put the loss of money and the game behind them.

  Bond drove the old Aston Martin DB5 back to London, and instead of heading straight for Chelsea, went into West Kensington. The car had been kept in excellent condition, but Bond wanted something new. What he really had his eye on was the company’s Jaguar XK8 that he had recently used in Greece. Sadly, it would probably be a while before Q Branch removed the “extras” and sold it as an ordinary secondhand car, as they had done with the DB5. He kept the Aston Martin in a garage in Chelsea along with the other dinosaur he owned, the Bentley Turbo R. His friend and American mechanic Melvin Heckman, made sure that both cars were always in prime condition.

  Helena Marksbury lived on the third floor of a block of flats near the Barons Court underground station. All day he had been glad to be away from her. Oddly, now he was starving for her.

  Bond parked the car in front of her building, got out, and buzzed the intercom. It was just after four. He knew that she had been planning to leave the office early that day.

  “Yes? Who is it?” Her voice, usually soft and seductive, sounded odd and metallic through the small speaker.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then the buzzer sounded.

  Bond took the stairs two at a time and found her waiting in the doorway of her flat. Her hair was wet, and she was wearing one of his shirts and nothing else.

  “I just got out of the shower,” she said.

  “Perfect,” he said. “I’ll dry you off.”

  “How did you know I left the office early today?”

  “It was a hunch. I had a feeling that you were thinking about me,” he said.

  “Oh, really? Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “And I have a tension headache that needs some tender loving care.”

  She made a face, whispered “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” and ran her fingers through his hair.

  He took her by the waist and pulled her inside, closing the door behind them. Their mouths met as she hopped up and wrapped her smooth, bare legs around his waist. He carried her into the bedroom, where they spent the next two hours releasing the stress that had been dogging them both for the past two weeks.

  THREE

  SKIN 17

  THE DEFENCE EVALUATION AND RESEARCH AGENCY runs, on a commercial basis, the research establishments that were formerly part of the Ministry of Defence Procurement Executive. With locations scattered around the UK—both public and private—the DERA is, in part, responsible for research in aerodynamics and materials used to build aircraft for the RAF One of their larger facilities is located in Farnborough, southwest of London, at the former Royal Aircraft Establishment and home of the Farnborough air show. While most of the DERAS work is done at such official sites, which are guarded by heavy security, a few laboratories and offices are located in seemingly innocuous, unmarked buildings. Some of the agency’s most sensitive and classified secrets are generated at these locations as a preventive measure, should there ever be any industrial espionage attempts against the DERA.

  Not far from Farnborough is the small village of Fleet, a quiet residential community surrounded by warehouses and industrial complexes of neighboring towns. It has a railway station used daily by commuters to and from London. Its convenience to both London and Farnborough was one of the reasons the DERA hid their most secret and important project in a warehouse that appeared to be unused.

  The exterior had been treated to look old. Windows were boarded and posted signs read NO TRESPASSING. All doors were locked. It was always dark and quiet. As the warehouse was off one of the main roads, the residents of Fleet took no notice of a building that one day looked much older and decrepit than it really was. In actuality, the building contained a secret entrance, a 20-foot-by-500-foot wind tunnel, foundry equipment, a seal
ed pressure vessel called an autoclave, and the offices and laboratory of a small research team headed by the noted aeronautics physicist and engineer Dr. Thomas Wood.

  Two years previously, the DERA had hired Dr. Wood away from Oxford to work on a classified assignment. He was an expert in ceramics, especially when it came to designing “smart skins” for air-craft fuselages.

  Wood was fifty-three, a warm and intelligent man with a family. He loved his new job, for he found “government work” exciting. He had missed out on military service because of a heart murmur and other indications of an unstable condition. An insensitive army doctor had told him that he wouldn’t live to see forty. He had fooled them all. Even though he was overweight, he felt great and was enthusiastic about the project. If tonight’s tests on the l8-scale prototype were positive, and Skin 17 was indeed a success, he might be on his way to a Nobel Prize.

  Skin 15 had almost worked. There were some minor flaws. The scalable autoclaved material showed possible defects in the built-in photo electrolysis that served to change the skin’s resistance to abuse. The impedance sensitivity was weak. When his assistant, Dr. Steven Harding, suggested that they keep trying, Wood concurred. That had been three months ago. What they thought would be a week’s tinkering resulted in a major overhaul, and out of the ashes rose Skin 16.

  Wood considered that particular version of the formula to be his most brilliant creation. The team had almost declared themselves victorious; but the prototype skin failed one of several key tests. Despite the material’s radio frequency transparency, one sensor was unable to transmit and receive through an aperture. There were glitches, but they were closer than ever to the goal. The biggest hurdle was always how scalable the material could be so that prototype models might be built and tested in extreme conditions. Another month’s work perfected Skin 16 to Dr. Wood’s satisfaction. Today he was to see the results of the tests conducted on Skin 17’s prototype. If it worked, the carbon-fiber and silica ceramic that he and his small team had developed could change the world of aviation forever.

  An admitted eccentric, Wood gave his team the day off so that he could work alone. He had, however, asked his second in command, Dr. Harding, to come in that evening.

  Wood sat at a computer terminal, punching in data at a furious speed. Harding watched him from across the room near the autoclave, which contained a prototype of Skin 17.

  “You didn’t say how your golf game was,” Wood remarked, still typing.

  “It was lovely. We won,” Harding said. “I actually made a little money.”

  “Splendid!” Wood said. “I hope you didn’t mind me kicking you out today. I just needed to work on these figures alone. You understand, don’t you, Steven?”

  “Of course, Tom,” Harding said. “Don’t worry about it. I thoroughly enjoyed myself! Except for the bit of rain we got, it was a lovely day. I must admit that I found it difficult to concentrate on the golf. I kept thinking that you might finish it today.”

  “Well, Steven,” Wood said as he clicked a button to execute a program that he had written himself, then sat back with his arms folded. “We’ll know in a few minutes, won’t we?”

  Harding nervously tapped his fingers on the oval-shaped autoclave that looked like a pressure chamber used by divers. “The waiting is dreadful! I must say, this is very exciting.” He looked at his watch intently. The physicist’s birdlike qualities always seemed more pronounced when he was agitated or tense. His hair tended to stand up, and he involuntarily made jerking movements with his head. Wood presumed that Harding had some kind of tic.

  “Staring at the minute hand on your watch will only make the time seem slower,” Wood said, laughing. “It’s hard to believe it’s been two years since we started.”

  Harding got out of his seat, stepped over to Wood, and looked over his shoulder. They watched the figures appear on the monitor at an alarming rate.

  “Steven, go over to the Mac and punch up the juice,” Wood ordered.

  Harding adjusted the level of temperature in the autoclave’s chamber.

  No one said anything for ten minutes as the printer began spewing out a long stream of perforated paper. It was filled with equations, letters, numbers, and symbols.

  Skin 17.

  When it was done, Wood peered at his monitor and a smile played on his lips. He took a deep breath, then swiveled around and faced his assistant.

  “Dr. Harding, Skin 17 is a success. It’s passed every test.”

  Harding beamed and said, “Congratulations! My God, this is bloody marvelous! I knew it, Tom, I knew you’d do it.” He clasped Wood’s shoulder.

  “Oh, come now,” Wood said. “You and the others were a tremendous help, and so were the boys at Farnborough. I didn’t do it all alone.”

  “But it’s in your contract that you get the credit,” Harding reminded him.

  “Well, there is that!” Wood laughed. “Shall we have some wine? I think there’s still some in the refrigerator. Now I’m sorry I sent everyone home today. I feel our entire team should have been here.”

  “We were all grateful for the holiday, Tom. Jenny and Carol were both going away for the weekend, and Spencer and John had family coming to London. But they’ll hear about it soon enough.”

  Wood got up from the desk and started to walk toward the kitchen.

  “Shouldn’t we save it to disk?” Harding asked.

  “You’re right,” Wood said. “I’ll burn a disk. It’ll be the gold master.”

  Wood placed a blank compact disk into the recorder and punched the computer keypad. The entire Skin 17 formula was saved on the disk. He removed the disk and placed it in an unmarked jewel box. Wood found a red marker on the desk and wrote “Skin 17 Gold Master” on the cover.

  “I better put this in the safe so it won’t get lost,” Wood said. “I’ll make some more copies later.”

  “Nonsense, Tom, go and get the wine!” Harding said, laughing. “There’s no one else here! Put it in the safe later.”

  Wood felt foolish for a few seconds, then his better judgment took over. “No, I’ll just put it in quickly,” he said.

  He walked to a twenty-four-inch safe embedded in a wall and carefully turned the combination knob. The door swung open and Wood placed the jewel box inside.

  “Now, about that wine,” Wood said, closing the safe and starting to move toward the kitchen again. He was stopped by the front office buzzer. Wood looked at Harding with a furrowed brow.

  “Who in hell could that be?”

  Harding punched the intercom and said, “Yes?”

  A voice announced, “It’s Marquis. Code Clearance 1999 Skin.”

  Wood was surprised. “He didn’t say he was coming by tonight. What does he want?”

  “Shall I not let him in?” Harding asked.

  “No, no, let him in. He’s the messenger boy from our employers, you know,” Wood said. “I just didn’t want to have to share our victory with him tonight, that’s all. I find him rather rude.”

  Harding pushed the button and a portion of the building’s back wall opened just enough for a man to slip through. A passage led through a vacant ground floor that had been treated with dust and cobwebs, then up a flight of stairs to a false wall. By slightly rotating an electrical fixture hung there, a visitor could open the wall and get inside the DERA laboratory. Marquis had been there several times, so he knew the way. In a few moments Harding got up and went to the lab door to let their visitor in.

  Group Captain Marquis was dressed in full uniform and was carrying a small black box. He was a physically imposing man in his own right—but when he wore his RAF uniform, he always com-manded attention. The epitome of a disciplined British officer, he looked sharp, stern, and efficient.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I have new orders. I’ll explain after you tell me about your test results, Dr. Wood.”

  “New orders?” Wood asked. “What do you mean? How did you know we w
ere testing tonight?” He looked at Harding.

  Harding’s beady eyes widened as he shook his head.

  “Dr. Harding didn’t tell me,” Marquis said. “I knew. It’s my job.” He placed the black box on a counter.

  Wood looked uncertain. Marquis had visited the office a few times over the last year, but it was always during the day and with a specific administrative agenda.

  “All right,” he said, “but I find this highly irregular.”

  “Dr. Wood, you’re among friends,” Marquis said. “I, too, have an emotional investment in the success of your project—our project.”

  “You’re right,” Wood said, relaxing a little. “Steven, why don’t you tell our friend what we’ve just learned.”

  Marquis looked at Harding, who grinned and said, “We did it. Tom did it. Skin 17 is a success.”

  “Unbelievable!” Marquis said. “Well done. Dr. Wood! This calls for a celebration,” Marquis said. “Where’s that wine you said you had?”

  Wood pointed to the kitchen. “It’s in the—” He stopped abruptly and looked at Marquis. “How did you know I said anything about wine?”

  Marquis reached into his jacket with his right hand and pulled out a 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol. He revealed a small black rectangular object with a short antenna in his left hand.

  “I heard you, of course,” he said. “This is a two-channel UHF receiver. And the transmitter is over there in Dr. Harding’s wrist-watch. I was right outside the building all the time, listening to your conversation. I only had to wait for my cue. Dr. Harding was certain you would strike gold tonight, and you did.”

  Wood looked at Harding, but the traitor couldn’t look his colleague in the eyes.

  “I don’t understand,” Wood said. “What’s going on? Steven?”

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” Harding said.