by John Gardner
‘One big happy family,’ mused John Smith as the driver honked his horn loudly at a tourist-driven car that suddenly swerved in front of them.
At the hotel, Bond held back to let the others check in first so that the registration desk was clear before he took out one of his Boldman identity credit cards and filled in the form.
‘There’s a long fax for you, sir.’ The young attractive black girl who was on the desk pushed an envelope towards him. ‘I’ll get a bell-boy to see you up to your room, and if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.’
The name tag pinned to her uniform said Azeb. ‘Thank you, Azeb. I think I can manage to find the room, and I’m travelling light.’ He lifted the garment bag and the briefcase to show her as he turned away.
He had just reached the bank of elevators when a voice behind him pe="text/css"/
2
BAIT?
‘My message . . . ?’ Bond grasped blindly for an explanation. ‘I think we’d better go upstairs and talk about this in private, Sukie.’
‘What a novel idea. I change all my plans, which, incidentally, happens to save my life, and you want to go upstairs and discuss it.’
He took a step towards her. ‘Sukie, it’s only four years since we had a clash with SPECTRE. This could well be the same people, and you know how hairy they can be. I think we should talk about this now. You could be in some danger. I sent you no message, and that concerns me.’
‘You . . . ?’ she began, but Bond took her by the upper arm and propelled her into the elevator.
His room was 21st-century utilitarian beehive.
‘At least you have Dial-a-Movie.’ Sukie gestured towards the TV, and her smile lit up his life as it had done every time they were together – which was never as often as he would have liked.
‘Thank heaven you’re alive.’ He dumped the garment bag and briefcase. ‘When and where did you get any message from me, Suke? Better still, what was the message?’
‘At the Dorchester. I’ve still got it.’ She rummaged in the large white leather shoulder bag that matched her heavy winter coat. The clasp on the bag was a large gold-coloured letter ‘T’ entwined with an ‘S’.
He took the envelope from her, noting that the address was typewritten: The Principessa Tempesta, The Dorchester Hotel, To Await Arrival. Inside was one sheet of heavy paper containing a simple typed message –
Sukie My Dear,
You could be in grave danger. Do not try to make contact, but get out of London and head to Washington DC as quickly as possible. Straight away if you can. Book yourself into a hotel and watch for me on all flights coming in from London. I should make it within twenty-four hours, but do not delay your departure. Just get out of London as quickly as you can.
As ever –
Then came his signature, which was a very good forgery, not quite right but good enough to take in Sukie.
‘Not me,’ he spoke curtly. ‘You took it at face value?’
‘Of course.’ She gave a little mock curtsey. ‘I know better than to disregard your advice, James; you know that.’
‘And you got it when you were checking into the Dorchester.’
‘I told you, yes.’
‘Which was when?’
‘Sunday evening. I didn’t even go up to my room. I simply flew back to Heathrow and took the first flight to Dulles. To hear is to obey, O master.’
‘Sure, yes. Why did you choose this hotel?’
‘I didn’t. I’m checked in at the Hilton up the road, but I’ve spent most of my time hanging around the arrivals area. It was luck that latched me on to you in the end. I overheard a conversation about the arrival of a Royal Air Force plane. There were a couple of drivers talking – I guess you’d say being very insecure. One of them mentioned that some passengers from the RAF flight would be coming to this hotel. So I watched the aircraft land, then shot over here to wait and see if you were among the group, which you were.’
He detected that something was not quite right. The look in her eyes, a certain movement, a gesture. It was one of those things his intuition picked up and yet the fact of it lay just beyond the reach of his mind.
‘You have a car?’ he asked.
‘I rented a piece of Japanese high-class stuff – a Lexus – as soon as I got here.’
‘Under your own name?’
‘It’s the only one I’ve got.’
‘You realize we have one hell of a serious problem?’
‘It does seem pretty unusual.’
‘That’s like saying Perrier tastes like Krug.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Sukie, do you have any connection with t is my understanding that theomadHarley Bradbury?’
‘The family does.’
There it was again, and this time he caught it, a slyness in the eyes: something he did not recall from the time they had spent together in the past.
‘You mean your family, or the Tempestas?’
‘My stepsons, their wives and the hundreds of sisters, cousins and aunts. The Tempestas, of course. They have dealings with Harley, yes.’
‘So you got a special invitation to be on the inaugural flight to DC.’
‘That’s how it worked. I’ve told you before, James. The Tempestas – my stepsons and their ladies – rarely move further than the Appian Way. Except for Venice, for the Carnival, of course, and the place they have near Pisa – and their little jaunts to the USA. We all had invitations, but I do the parties for the old family firm. Known for it.’ She gave a little laugh. It was not the kind of laugh he remembered from the last time they had been together, but that could simply be a faulty recollection. Yet he had a distinct feeling about it. She seemed edgy, nervy, uncertain.
‘And you came into London on Sunday straight from Rome?’
‘Paris actually. I spent last Friday and Saturday in Paris. Flew to London on Sunday, and bounced straight here as soon as I got the letter you didn’t send me.’ The laugh again and an uncharacteristic movement of her hand, the forefinger plunging into her hair and winding some strands around it. A child’s action. He had seen small children do exactly the same thing, usually accompanied by a sucking of the thumb. It was as though in the past four years Sukie Tempesta had been subjected to great stress.
‘So, on Sunday night you got a message to say get out. Go to DC and wait?’
‘Right.’
‘And on Sunday night the only people who knew there was going to be a tragedy on Tuesday – that Harley Bradbury’s Flight 299 was going to be blown to pieces – were the people providing the terror. Incidentally, you weren’t the only one to miss the flight. Harley cancelled as well. And your name was still on the passenger list.’
‘I didn’t cancel, so I’d be a no-show.’ She had slipped out of her coat revealing that she wore a neatly tailored white suit.
Bond nodded, ‘They probably didn’t pass that on. They’d be anxious to get away on time, but the main question is why would anyone try to get you on a different flight by posing as me? That’s what they did, Suke.’
‘I understand that.’ She visibly shuddered, ‘Gives me goose bumps. Yuck.’
‘By the same token, how would these people think they could get away with it? Did they think there was a possibility that I might actually turn up here? Incidentally, where were you when the aircraft blew up?’
Sukie had seated herself near the window, leaning back and crossing her long and exceptionally lovely legs, the finger still winding the strands of hair and her eyes flicking to and fro: again almost slyly. She also seemed to have gone a little pale. ‘I was there. Over in the mid-field terminal. I saw it . . .’ Her eyes were brimming now, and there was genuine distress about her body language: a particular movement deep in her eyes. ‘Haven’t got over it yet, James. Horrible. Absolutely horrible. That night, after the last flight had come in from the UK – and you weren’t on it – I went back to the hotel. Couldn’t sleep until I had written a description and drawn pictures. As
for you turning up, perhaps they were banking on letter ‘T’ entwined with an ‘S’.itdy you not being here, which makes it even more sinister.’
He went over to her, bent down and enfolded her in his arms where she snuggled like a small child drawing comfort from his presence. To begin with, she was rigid, tense and he could almost feel the fear reaching out from her. Then she eventually eased herself free and led him towards the bed. ‘It’s been a long time, my dear James,’ she whispered.
He was uncertain, not sure that this should happen so quickly, even though, in the past, he had been her lover, but she was insistent, and when it came down to it, frantic, passionately wild as though sex released some drug into her body, transforming her, so that she became a different person. Again, he wondered what had happened in the interim years. Later, after the loving, she asked what he thought was going on.
‘That’s what I’m here to find out. We’ve always been completely straight with one another. It goes without saying that I’m more than just worried about you. Someone cut you loose from flying over on Bradbury Airlines, yet sent you here using me as bait – if that isn’t too arrogant.’
‘Why should it be arrogant? People know we’ve been lovers on and off since we first met. I’m worried as well. To be honest with you, I’m terrified. Someone wanted me off that flight . . .’ She stopped suddenly as though she were about to say something indiscreet, or not for his ears.
‘And whoever that was must have known what was going to happen, yet could not have known I’d be here within hours of the incident – if you can call the deaths of almost five hundred people an incident. What about your stepsons? You said they knew Harley Bradbury.’
‘Yes.’
‘How far were they in bed with him on Bradbury Airlines?’
She cocked one eyebrow. ‘I think one of their wives was in bed with him.’ The sly look once more.
‘Literally?’
‘Is there any other way?’
‘Which of the wives? Luigi’s or Angelo’s?’
‘Luigi’s. The lovely Giulliana.’
‘Evidence?’
‘The last time Harley came to see them in Rome, Giulliana was supposed to be staying with her mother for a couple of nights. In fact I saw her coming out of the Cardinal with him. You know the Cardinal, small but elegant. On the Via Giulia – I thought it was quite an amusing choice. They seemed rather close, and this was two days before he was due at their Palazzo.’ The same laugh as before. A laugh alien to her former self.
‘You’ve told nobody?’ He was worried about her. Wondering if there was some deep problem between her and the remainder of the Tempesta family.
‘James, what do you take me for? Luigi’s three years older than me, and Angelo’s about a year older. They’ve been incredibly supportive. My late husband’s estate was split two ways: two-thirds to me, and a third jointly to his sons, plus the companies. They accepted that, but I’m not going to get mixed up in family scandals. Please, would you come back to Italy with me? Meet them?’
‘Yes, I’ll come to Rome with you. Back you up. If you’ll give me tips and hints when I meet the brothers Tempesta.’
‘To do that we would have to go to Tuscany. They’re all there at the moment. It’s a kind of family tradition. March until after Easter.’
‘Okay, then I’ll come to Pisa with you.’">‘Is there any other way?yE
‘Only if I can move in here for as long as you stay.’
‘Deal. Food?’
‘Just something expensive from room service.’
He called room service and ordered two chicken salads, coffee and a semi-reasonable Chardonnay – the best in a dubious wine list.
‘You’ve become mean since I last saw you, James.’ Sukie did a mock pout. ‘I asked for something expensive.’
He handed her the room service menu, ‘Look for yourself. You got something expensive.’
He remembered the fax handed to him on arrival, slipped the envelope out of his pocket, used his thumb to rip it open, then began to look through the pages. The first three pages consisted of the passenger manifest, and he did a mental double-take at some of the names. ‘My god,’ he said aloud. ‘Whoever did this just got rid of half of Who’s Who.’ There were three very well-known actors on board, seven politicians, two from each party and one independent. One of the politicians was a Cabinet Minister. There were also three popular best-selling authors and two more highly regarded literary figures.
‘What?’ she asked as he sighed coming to the end of reading the list.
‘Your name and Harley Bradbury’s are still both on the manifest,’ he began. It was the reason he had thought her dead. He went on to read out the other high-profile passengers, his reading punctuated by little gasps as she recognized names.
‘James, I didn’t know. There were half a dozen people I knew. Friends. Oh . . . Oh, Christ, James . . . I really didn’t know . . .’ She began to sob, making a dash to the bathroom when room service knocked on the door.
The waiter spoke little English, but understood the tip, which Bond slipped to him in cash.
He tapped on the bathroom door and called to Sukie.
‘I’m all right. Be out in a minute.’ Her voice was small, still not under control.
He laid out the lunch on the room service trolley, then turned back to the faxed documents. There was one more page which gave details of the aircraft’s movements for the twenty-four hours before its final flight. He scanned it, then stopped to read it more carefully, his lips pursing in a long silent whistle.
She came into the room looking pale and shaky. If he did not know better, he would have thought she was a very frail young woman. The sight increased his concern about her.
‘Sukie, are you really all right?’
‘I’ll get over it.’ A wan smile which did not reach the eyes. ‘It’s just . . . well, a shock. I knew so many of those people.’ But that was not all. He could tell by the new nervous habits, the apprehensive laugh and her almost fidgety manner.
He encouraged her to eat, and over coffee asked her if she still wanted to join him here, at the hotel. She cheered up a little at that, even wisecracking – ‘I’d rather we joined each other.’
‘That can be arranged,’ glancing at his watch. ‘I’ve got a briefing at three-thirty. Why don’t you go back to the Hilton and move your things over here?’
‘Can’t I come to the briefing?’
‘Your friend Harley will be there, and we might get some flak from the NTSB people if I march in with you.’
Ten minutes later they took the elevator down to the main lobby which was deserted except for the girl at Reception.
Winston Mallard and Nuala McBrideriIQHe took Sukie by the elbow and steered her towards the desk.
‘Azeb,’ in his most suave and charming manner. ‘This is the Principessa Tempesta, from Rome. The Principessa is going to join me here for a couple of days. She’s going to collect her luggage and move in while I am in a meeting. I’d be more than grateful if you would see that she gets all the help and co-operation you can muster.’
Azeb looked at Sukie as though she were a person of great wonder. ‘You’re a real princess?’
‘Well, a kind of dowager princess. Minor Italian royalty. Very minor, sort of C Minor.’
‘Yes, Mr Boldman, I’ll see that everything is done to make the princess comfortable.’
‘Thank you, Azeb.’
They turned to move away, but she had not finished. ‘What’s a dowager?’ she asked.
‘Like the Queen Mother.’ Sukie’s smile danced towards the receptionist. For a second, she was the old Sukie, remembered with great affection. It’s the Tempesta stepsons, he thought. That is where the trouble really lies.
She said she would be back in half an hour or so as he saw her into the Lexus. She lowered her window and turned her face up to be kissed, then drove smoothly away, one hand raised in temporary farewell.
The hotel looked out, through a
small screen of trees, onto the huge parking lots that spread in front of the main terminal of Washington Dulles – a glass and concrete edifice which stood like some modern rendition of a sixteenth-century canopied structure erected for a king on the verge of a battlefield.
Bond thought how bleak and uninviting the environs of modern major airports had become. The romance of travel was now long gone; in its place there was only a wasteland of parking lop://www.w3.org
3
VOICE MAIL
The IIC – as they called the leader of the American NTSB team – was a broad-shouldered man with a gentle, almost fatherly, voice. He had short-cropped grey hair and announced">‘Is there any other way? tprgh that his name, for those who had yet to meet him, was Jack Hughes. ‘But most people at NTSB call me Pop.’ He gave a slow smile starting at the mouth, creeping up his leathery face and settling in the dark blue eyes which looked as though he had seen everything there was to see in the way of disaster, pain, sorrow and, paradoxically, happiness in the fifty or so years of his life.
Everybody had been given a chance to wash and change before assembling in Convention Room A, part of the hotel’s Conference Suite, a series of uninviting rooms, reached by elevator from the main lobby.
Bond had already introduced himself – as Jim Boldman from the British Foreign Service – to Pop Hughes and the senior member of the Famborough trio, Bill Alexander. A nod had sufficed for Mr and Mrs Smith who claimed to represent the Home Office’s Anti-Terrorist Department which fooled people about as much as his own Foreign Service assertion.
He had finally put a name to ‘Smith’ – Peter Janson, formerly of the Security Service’s Watchers Division, currently – after several quick-and-dirty courses – he was billed as an expert on terrorist operations in what was known among the more jocular members of the intelligence community as Global Terror, Inc.
Mrs ‘Smith’ remained a mystery, a pallid, pasty-faced young woman with a laugh which clanged rather than tinkled.