by John Gardner
At last, both M and Grant talked. When they had finished, Bill Tanner wished that his old friend Bond knew what he could be getting himself into. Calmly he put his thoughts into words.
‘Oh, he knows.’ M sounded like a man whose stocks had just fallen to an all-time low. ‘Bond knows.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Ahemm, but . . . well, the girl has no idea.’ He tapped the desk with his fingertips, then spoke to Grant. ‘The other girl, whatsername? Bradshaw?’
‘Myra Bradshaw, yes. Our people are holding her in a place we keep for that purpose in Virginia. High up, overlooking the Shenandoah Valley. She’ll be safe enough and we can dry her out slowly. Just a pawn, I think.’
‘And the attempted murder?’
‘We have those guys – well, the FBI has them. Straight contract killers. Both known. Unlikely to talk. Come to that I doubt if they know who ordered the killing, and the thing that does surprise me is that it went ahead at all. You’d have thought Lee would’ve had surveillance on that apartment building.’
‘Maybe he did,’ Tanner mused. ‘It’s always possible that either he couldn’t stop the attempted hit or he wanted it to go ahead simply to discourage others.’
‘Mmmm,’ Grant grunted.
Tanner still thought he would not like to be in Bond’s shoes when there were so many imponderables.
The interior of the Grumman Gulfstream was luxurious even for a corporate jet. The passenger area was lined with a light-blue watered silk, and, while the normal configuration for a Gulfstream called for nineteen passengers, the interior of this particular aircraft had been drastically altered to take only eight. The seats were covered in soft grey leather and were on swivels which could be locked for take-off and landing. They were also high-backed with built-in headrests containing personal stereo headphones. On the right arm of these extravagant chairs was a bank of controls so that the seat could be adjusted to conform to any position, allowing the user maximum comfort.
Ding and Fox had shown nothing but courtesy to their charges who were asked to choose whatever seats they liked, while a young uniformed Chinese girl offered them drinks. There was no hint of threats, no indication of menace. ‘Mr Lee wishes you to have the best he can offer,’ the ugly-looking Bone Bender Ding smiled, nodding like a Buddha.
Bond and Chi-Chi chose seats together towards the back of the cabin. The stewardess brought a martini for Bond and a white wine spritzer for Chi-Chi. The martini was just as he had ordered it and prepared to his usual formula. ‘Three measures of Gordons, one of vodka, half of Kina Lillet, shaken not stirred, until it’s very cold. Then add a thin slice of lemon peel.’ The Chinese girl merely smiled and bowed and he thought the chances of getting the real thing were pretty remote, but sure enough, when served, the martini passed even Bond’s most exacting standards.
It was almost three-quarters of an hour later that they reached the threshold of the active runway and the captain announced that they should prepare for take-off. Already, Ding had come back from his seat in the forward part of the cabin and apologised for the hold up. ‘Even Mr Lee cannot override the airport handling delays, I fear,’ he said with a look which bade Bond not to be too irritated.
Finally the little executive jet hustled off the runway, pulled back into a rather extreme angle of climb and levelled off at somewhere in the vicinity of thirty-thousand feet, at which time the captain turned off the discreet ‘seat belt’ sign and the stewardess came back with a large menu.
‘Please order anything,’ she smiled and bowed her head. ‘We have excellent chef on board.’
‘Mr Lee certainly knows how to enjoy himself.’ Bond leaned over and spoke softly to Chi-Chi, who looked at him and shrugged, ‘Eat, drink and be merry for . . .’
‘Don’t finish it,’ he said a little sharply. ‘I’m not superstitious except for that little phrase and any quotations from William Shakespeare’s Scottish play.’
‘Scottish? Oh, you mean Mac . . .’
‘No!’ He laid a hand on her arm. ‘Humour me, Jenny. These are my only superstitions.’
‘You’ll have to hear mine, one day,’ she said. ‘They outnumber yours a hundred to one. But this menu is splendid.’
‘Let’s hope the food’s as good as the menu. While I was still at school, which was not for all that long, I made a vow that I would one day only allow the best food in the world to pass my lips.’
‘Was it that bad? School, I mean.’
‘On Fridays we had fish. It was known as the piece of cod that passeth all understanding.’
She gave a wan smile and buried her nose in the menu.
Chi-Chi ordered caviar followed by grilled rognon de veau with new potatoes and petits pois. ‘I shall also make a pig of myself and have the fraises des bois with a great deal of cream,’ she added with a cat-like smile.
Bond said he would join the lady with the caviar. ‘But make certain there is a lot of toast.’ He glanced at Chi-Chi. ‘Good caviar is easy to come by. The trick is to get enough toast.’ He then ordered lamb cutlets with the same vegetables as Chi-Chi. ‘And while Madame is enjoying the strawberries, I’ll have an avocado with a lot of French dressing – vinaigrette that is, not the pink stuff that sometimes passes for French dressing in this part of the world.’
The stewardess looked shocked. ‘But, certainly, sir. It will be vinaigrette. There is no other kind of French dressing.’
The meal was extraordinarily good, Bond’s cutlets being tender enough for him to cut with a fork alone, while the wines served with each course were, as he said later to Chi-Chi, ‘Quite remarkable. There can’t be many bottles of the Lafitte-Rothschild ’47 left in the world.’
After dinner, Ding came back again to ask if there was anything else they needed. ‘They’re being a little overly solicitous, aren’t they?’ Chi-Chi whispered.
‘Just a bit.’ He hardly moved towards her, yet he spoke in almost a whisper. ‘Don’t worry, Jenny, I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.’ He looked down the cabin. Both Fox and the large Chinese seemed to be settling down to sleep.
Turning his head back to Chi-Chi, he suggested that they should also get some rest. ‘We don’t really know when we’ll have a chance to sleep again.’
She merely nodded, not looking at him, and closed her eyes.
As he tried to catnap, Bond was aware of the aircraft doing a series of long, steady turns, as though it was under ATC instructions.
Just under seven hours after he had given instructions to the New York station on Lexington Avenue, Grant was called back to the makeshift communications room which the CIA had set up on the carrier. He had been down there for long periods in the interim, checking on the company called Silver Service. Now both M and his chief of staff accompanied him, arriving to find Mac hunched over the equipment, a series of maps spread out before him and headphones clamped over his ears. He hardly looked up when Grant tapped him on the shoulder and asked what was going on.
‘Tell you in a minute, John.’ Mac had pushed back the right side of the earphones, now he settled the headset back in place. He was repeating everything being relayed to him from New York.
‘He’s locked on to the Salinas VOR now, okay . . . ? Cleared by 117.3, okay . . . ? Yes! Yes, I know that’s Salinas tower . . . Salinas tower, Gulfstream 44 landed. Okay, yes. Yes, get back if there’s anything else. I don’t suppose we have anyone out there to cover it. You might call the tower direct and find out. Yes. Good, then do it.’ He pushed the headset back and swivelled his chair round to face Grant, M and Tanner.
‘Well?’ Grant asked.
‘Clever. Very clever. His flight plan routed him to hit the coastline around forty miles south of SFO. About an hour ago he complained of turbulence at 31,000 and asked permission to descend to 20,000. Seemed okay, nothing unusual about that. Then, just before he reached the coast, he Maydayed. One engine overheating and losing altitude. No way could he make SFO, or so he said. SFO directed him to the only possible alternative. Salinas. They land
ed about three minutes ago. You heard me tell the boys in NY to contact Salinas tower direct.’
Grant shook his head. ‘All we can do is get Rushia and a team into a vehicle with tracking facilities and head out there to search for the homer signals.’
Tanner asked if they yet had information regarding the company with which the jet was registered.
Grant nodded. ‘I was about to fill you in on that. Very solid little recording company. Specialise in heavy metal nine-day-wonder bands. A bit of an iffy set-up, but they’re not breaking any laws. They’ll sign up some greasy long-haired group who shove the decibel level to a point where it’ll terminate pregnancy, then issue a couple of CDs which just make money for the company. Then they throw away the group, or band, or whatever they want to call it.’
‘Exploitation?’ M was asking if their FBI friends might get Silver Service on some exploitation law if necessary.
The CIA man shook his head. ‘Doubt it. They also have around four to five very successful bands who make big money. Anyway, we don’t know the tie-in yet. They own a small studio in New York and another in LA. New York’s going to run a trace on the company. See who owns it, who’s behind it. If their corporate jet takes Custodian and Checklist on a jaunt to meet Mr Lee, the betting’s on Mr Lee holding a lot of stock in Silver Service, Inc.’
One of the telephones rang and Mac answered with a series of noncommittal grunts and sighs. ‘Well, that just about settles it,’ he said, not even looking at Grant as he cradled the instrument. ‘Salinas tower says there was a damned great limo there within fifteen minutes of the Gulfstream landing. Carted the passengers away. They thought it was for another corporate they’re expecting within the hour.’
‘What about . . . ?’
Mac overrode Grant, ‘The airplane? Salinas switched on every light they could to assist the landing. Seems their port engine has gotten problems. There was a lot of oil loss and smoke as they came in. They – Salinas tower – say there’s no doubt it was a genuine emergency landing.’
Grant grunted. ‘And I suppose they radioed for a limo while wrestling with the controls.’
‘Bit fishy, eh?’ from M.
‘Like swimming in a vat full of tuna sandwiches.’
There had been absolutely no panic on board the Gulfstream when the emergency began. This was no reflection on anyone’s bravery or courage, for the knuckle-dragging Bone Bender Ding had come to the rear of the cabin and told them that they might well experience some alarming manoeuvres within the next few minutes. ‘We have a small piece of deception going on.’ Ding’s smile showed two rows of gold teeth and, Bond thought, a narrowing of the man’s eyes which gave him an undeniably sinister look. The face said, ‘I enjoy inflicting pain and death.’
‘This is a precaution only.’ The eyes had become very thin slits by now. ‘There is a small possibility that your arrival in the country has been detected, so Mr Lee insists that we play a game in order to throw off any possible surveillance. You understand me, Mr Abelard?’
‘I can only thank Mr Lee for his foresight and protection.’
Ding’s smile spread wider across his face. ‘You will be able to thank Mr Lee personally before long.’
During the twenty minutes or so that followed, they sat, seat belts fastened and the seats themselves locked into the upright position.
At last, Bond heard the whine and thump of the gear coming down and the captain’s voice – strangely English – told them they should evacuate the aircraft from the rear door as soon as they came to a standstill.
They roared into a brilliantly lit small airfield and Bond fleetingly saw the name Salinas painted in black along the small clutch of buildings below the tower.
Things happened very quickly after that. Within seconds they were out of the plane – there was a lot of heavy black smoke surrounding the starboard engine – and Ding was urging them on, running towards the left of the buildings.
Bond saw that the crew members and the stewardess were leaving the airplane via the emergency hatch towards the nose, but, strangely, Fox had lagged behind as fire and emergency vehicles hee-hawed their way towards the Gulfstream.
Behind the small airport’s limited buildings a black stretch limo had switched on its lights, moving slowly as though to intercept them.
‘In!’ Ding ordered. ‘In quickly. Back of the limo! Now.’
Bond stood back allowing Chi-Chi to climb in and he followed, pushed from behind by Ding. ‘Is okay,’ the Chinese said to the uniformed driver through the sliding glass partition. ‘Foxy coming with baggage. Only take three – four minutes.’
It seemed longer, but Fox appeared on a small electric baggage cart and the driver climbed down to help load the baggage into the trunk. Then with no further delay they were driven away, Fox joining the chauffeur up front, riding shotgun.
Once away from the immediate vicinity of the airport it became very dark and impossible for Bond to get any bearings.
‘Long ride now. One-two hour.’ Ding’s voice came to them in the darkness. Something else accompanied the voice, making Bond’s nose twitch. The massive Chinese had a bad case of body odour.
Blackness closed in and soon they were driving on winding narrow roads, climbing upwards through mountain country, Bond thought. Chi-Chi, he was pleased to note, had gone to sleep and shortly he felt her head fall softly against his shoulder.
The roads seemed to level out and they met only occasional cars coming from the opposite direction. Then a thin mist began to float in around them, the driver slowing and taking all sensible precautions.
The mist thickened from time to time, forming a wall from which the headlights reflected, throwing their glare back into the rear of the limousine. It would thin out for a few miles, then, with no warning, suddenly appear ahead, almost an unearthly curtain of heavy greyness that made Bond turn away in a reflex. His intuition told him that they had gone north, then climbed to the west, finally turning back on a northerly heading. But nothing was certain because of the murkiness that had accompanied most of the drive.
Finally they were through the worst of the mist, though it still lay around them in small wispy pockets. The driver moved his right hand from the steering wheel and Bond saw him pick up a cellular telephone into which he spoke a couple of brief sentences.
He had hardly replaced the instrument when, from straight ahead, a sudden blaze of light exploded in the darkness. Some of the lights had an almost blinding effect as they seemed to be directly facing the car, but the driver did not slow or even falter.
Now the lights were all around them and Bond thought he could see the large bulk of a building. He did glimpse tall metal gates, open, flanked by high dark walls, then they were driving through what appeared to be a tunnel of trees. The white façade of a large house suddenly appeared in the headlights and a couple of seconds later the limo drew up under some kind of canopy. Ding was quickly out of the car, holding the door open for Chi-Chi who seemed dazed with sleep. Bond followed, his feet crunching on what he suspected was gravel, and they were hurried through a heavy, iron-bound door.
Before the door closed behind them, Bond could have sworn that he heard the sound of the sea in the distance and his nostrils twitched, sensing what he thought was the scent of the Pacific in his nostrils.
They were standing in a hallway which would not have been out of place in Bond’s beloved western highlands of Scotland. For a fraction of a second, he realised that out there in the fog he had experienced the same tingling dreadful sensation which he had once had on a visit to Glencoe, the site of both the horrific massacre in 1692 and the birthplace of the father he had hardly known. But any further reflections were quickly banished.
They stood on a deep-pile carpet laid across a highly polished oak floor. A wide staircase faced them and oil paintings of rough and barren landscapes hung, one above the other, almost to the top of the high walls, which were covered with thick, heavily patterned paper of gold with a repetitive red desig
n like a Greek urn. The staircase looked to be made of old mahogany, the bannister rail polished to the sheen of glass, as were the several doors which led off the hallway. From the ceiling a great heavy brass chandelier was suspended from a thick chain which must have hung down almost seventeen feet. The chandelier was circular and, at a rough guess, contained fifty electric candle bulbs. The instant impression was of being in a very old house, certainly older than anything Bond had ever seen in California, but the atmosphere was undeniably early seventeenth century, if not earlier. It also had the feel of a well-run house, for everything, from wood to the gilt picture frames down to the brass fittings, gleamed in the light.
All this was taken in as soon as the door shut, for hardly had the sound of its closing died away when one of the tall doors to the left opened.
‘Peter Abelard, welcome. Was the surgery successful?’ Bond recognised the identification code.
‘Completely. I am a fully restored man.’ It had gone through Bond’s mind that the people in CELD had an odd Chinese sense of humour, considering the fact that the real Peter Abelard had been castrated in the twelfth century because of his love affair with Héloïse.
‘And to you, Mrs Abelard, or do I call you Héloïse? Or simply Ms Mo?’
‘Jenny will do . . .’ Chi-Chi faltered, and no wonder. Brokenclaw Lee seemed even taller and more imposing than when Bond had last seen him in Victoria. Now that he was close to the man, his features appeared to be more pronounced – the strange yet fascinating meld of Chinese and American-Indian bone structure and colouring. The voice was unchanged, soft, pleasant with a genuine welcoming quality. He wore dark trousers and a red, heavy velvet smoking jacket, while his face seemed to shine with no trace of stubble around the chin. Here was a man who knew he looked like a powerhouse, and so presented an image not only of authority but also of richness, from his clothes to his hair and the well-barbered chin.
‘But come in, Peter, my dear fellow, and Jenny, come in, come in.’ Without changing his pleasant tone, his eyes lifted behind Bond’s shoulder as he spoke to Ding. ‘We have something which needs your special talents, Ding. Unfortunate, but these things happen.’ He continued to talk as they entered the large room from which he had emerged. It was like time travel, walking from the seventeenth century of the hall into a room of the present – tall, light and airy, decorated in light blues and creams, furnished with a stylish, almost Scandinavian touch.