by John Gardner
‘I look forward to it . . .’
Now, on the morning after a strenuous night before, she stood in the doorway, one foot tapping and the other pointing to the picture of the elaborate brunette. ‘Is this the trollop, Carmel Chantry?’
‘No,’ Bond said, shifting his body and reaching up, as though to take the paper. ‘No, that’s not her, but there is a likeness . . . I wonder . . . ?’ He reached for the telephone and dialled Brown’s Hotel, asking for room 349.
A few seconds later the operator came back and asked who he actually wanted to speak with.
‘Three-forty-nine. Ms Chantry.’
‘Ms Chantry checked out yesterday evening, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ He cradled the telephone, and looked up at Flicka again. ‘Does the paper give a name?’
‘Of the murder victim? Yes, she was staying in the hotel under the name Barnabus. Heather Barnabus. Shall I read it to you?’
‘No, let me see.’ He all but snatched the Telegraph from her, quickly scanning the story. The girl had arrived at the hotel during the previous afternoon, had registered under the name Heather Barnabus, and, it was reported, she had been seen talking to a man in the lounge just after they had stopped serving tea around six o’clock. A chambermaid had found her body at seven-thirty when she went to make up the room for the night. According to the story, she had died from multiple stab wounds. Then came the description that, at a pinch, would pass for Bond. The police, as ever, wished to interview this man in order to eliminate him from their enquiries.
‘This girl is definitely not Carmel.’ He tapped the picture again. ‘Though there is a passing resemblance. It’s possible that someone saw me with Carmel before we went up to her room.’
‘A passing resemblance? Really? So this Carmel looks a bit of a tar eventually, the animals became me cleart, yes?’
‘Not at all. She’s been put in a very difficult position . . .’
‘Many times I should imagine . . .’
‘By her imbecilic superior who appears to be about as professional as a veterinary surgeon in an abattoir . . .’
‘If this one is like the Chantry person, she looks pretty professional to me . . .’
‘She’s an experienced security officer, Flicka!’ He raised his voice, just enough to put paid to the bitchy remarks.
‘Don’t you think you should do something about it? I mean, somebody’s going to connect you with that photofit, and they’ll haul you off to the pokey before you can say cipher.’
‘I’d feel happier if I knew where Carmel had got to.’
‘Oh, damn Carmel.’
‘No, Flicka. She has serious problems, as does the Security Service. The idiot officer who’s head of their Anti-terrorist Section is about as efficient as a wasp in a jar, and I guess he’s capable of almost anything, though I doubt if murder comes into it. To be honest, I’m worried in case this other girl, Heather Barnabus, has been snuffed in error.’
‘You still have to clear yourself with the local law, darling.’
He nodded, kissed her lightly on the cheek and headed for the bathroom.
Some twenty minutes later, shaved, showered and dressed, he called West End Central Police Station and asked for CID. The line was answered by somebody who called himself Detective Sergeant Tibbie.
‘The Heather Barnabus murder,’ Bond began. ‘I’d like to speak with the officer in charge of the investigation.’
‘That would be Detective Chief Superintendent Daily, sir. Can I tell him who’s calling?’
‘Yes. Bond. James Bond.’
There was an immediate reaction, as though the detective had been jabbed with a pin. Seconds later a honey-smooth voice came on the line. ‘DCS Daily, Mr Bond. We’ve been looking for you.’
‘I’ve just seen the papers. I’d like to get a few things straight.’
‘So would we, Mr Bond. Where can I pick you up?’
‘You can’t. I’m coming to see you.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll be with you in less than half an hour.’
He gave Flicka strict instructions. ‘Stay in this room, even when the chambermaids come to make up the room. Don’t let anyone else in. If the phone rings, pick it up and say nothing . . .’
‘I do know how to handle it, James. I’ve been in the business for some time.’
West End Central Police Station is a utilitarian building, without any personality, which lies off Regent Street. Over the years, an encyclopaedia of London’s more fashionable criminals has walked up its front steps, and through the swing doors; infamous murderers and insignificant petty villains have sat in its bare unvarnished interrogation rooms. Now, James Bond sat on a chair that was bolted to the floor. Across the table, similarly bolted, sat the smooth-jowled Detective Chief Superintendent George Daily. A second plainclothes man hovered near the door.
Daily’s reputation was not unknown to Bond, for he was one of the new generation of policemen, university educated, smart, sharp and eminently likeable. Daily had been with the now renamed Special Branch when it really was me clear special, so he was well known among members of both the Security and Secret Intelligence Services – which was probably the reason he had been assigned this case in the first place.
‘Well, Captain Bond, I’ve always wanted to meet you. You have quite a reputation, and I recognized you from the photofit.’ His accent was not quite what you would call upper class, which was a blessing for that affected drawl was anathema to Bond.
‘Then with due respect, Chief Superintendent, why didn’t you blaze my name all over this morning’s front pages?’
Daily gave a little half smile. On the table in front of him were a leather notebook and an expensive gold pen. Bond thought he should mention to the man that it was not always wise to leave something like a pen on a desk when interrogating. He figured his chances and knew he could probably take out Daily by snatching the pen and thrusting it hard into the man’s eye. The other cop could be dealt with in a more orthodox manner.
‘Why didn’t I have you named in the Press release, Mr Bond? Well, I could have been mistaken. We got the photofit from a waiter who says he saw you with the victim. He says you arrived a little before six. He claims to have actually spoken with you, telling you that they had finished serving tea. You replied that you were to meet someone, and he says he saw you join the victim. Eye witnesses are often wrong. The description could well have been inaccurate: photofits often are, as I suspect you already know.’
‘So you gave me the benefit of the doubt?’
Again Daily gave his most charming smile. ‘No. No, not really. I took the precaution of telephoning your Chief when I saw the likeness, and he had a little story for me.’
‘So you know I was there?’
‘I do. I also know that you went there to see somebody else, and that’s quite important, because the someone else looked very much like the victim.’
‘You know who she was – the person I was meeting?’
‘Oh, yes. In fact, I’ve worked with Carmel on a number of occasions, and, while the victim is superficially like her, facially really, she was not at all like her in the flesh so to speak. Yet . . .’
‘She could have been mistaken for Ms Chantry . . .’
‘In the dusk with the light behind her, to quote W. S. Gilbert.’
‘Oh, I do think you educated policemen are wonderful.’ Bond gave him a crooked smile. ‘But you think there was a mistake?’
‘No doubt in my mind. Once the balloon went up, and I’d spoken with your guv’nor, we removed the other lady from the hotel.’ His eyes strayed to the plainclothes man by the door. ‘I think you can leave us now, Meyer.’ A friendly nod and a wink. The cop shrugged, but left, closing the door behind him.
‘In fact, I have a message from your boss . . .’
‘I don’t think he’d appreciate being called either guv’nor or boss . . .’
‘No? Well, he’s not going to he
ar me, is he? He says that Ms C is safe and that your Mr Grant is also safe, contained, in fact, under house arrest. Strikes me that the ladies and gentlemen of the Security Service are in the midst of a crisis.’
‘Does it now?’ The last thing he wanted to do was to get drawn into any loose talk concerning MI5. You never knew with policemen.
After a pause that went on a shade too long, Daily said that M also wanted him to telephone. ‘He">She nodded f ble asked me to tell you that he had removed surveillance on you and would you call him. Been a naughty boy, have we, Mr Bond?’
‘Not so as you’d notice,’ he said icily.
He telephoned M from a public coin box, or at least that was what they used to be called before the proliferation of public telephones that only took credit cards, or British Telecom calling cards.
‘Just wanted you to know that our sisters have got themselves an almost entirely new Anti-terrorist Section,’ M growled.
‘About time, if all I’ve heard is true.’
‘Mmm. Well, I fear it is. The former Head of Department has been guilty of much folly, and many a cover-up. The work got done, but he had to watch his back, and he’ll now be doing it from an easy chair on half pension – if that.’
‘You think someone was out to get Ms C as well as the other late lamented lady, sir?’
‘Could be. I’ve spoken to their Director General, and the lady you saw last night is in very safe hands. Now, I will be in touch, just make the most of this enforced rest.’
‘Of course, sir.’
He spent almost two hours getting to his final destination, running the back doubles and practising every anti-surveillance trick in the book. M, no doubt, had been keeping an eye on him and he had a healthy respect for that; but, with all that seemed to be going on, he wanted to be certain that nobody else was hard on his heels.
It was almost two-thirty in the afternoon by the time he turned into the pleasant little street off the King’s Road, with its plane trees dusty from the August heat.
Inside his apartment, he rapidly did all his personal security checks. Nobody appeared to be watching the house, though he still could not rule out a listening device or telephone bug. With an anti-bug scanner, loaned to him some time ago by Ann Reilly, assistant to the armourer who provided all hardware for the service, he scoured every inch of wall and floor. Only when he was ninety-nine per cent certain that there were no unauthorized electronics in the house, spiked through the walls, or hidden manually by some expert cut-and-run professional, did he telephone the Inn on the Park.
Flicka picked up without answering.
‘It’s me.’
‘Who’s me?’
‘James.’
‘How do I know it’s James?’
‘You have a small mole high on the inside of your left thigh. That good enough?’
‘Yes. Go on.’
‘Have you heard from your Alpine friend yet?’
‘They brought in a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown – or at least their version of that verdict.’
‘And the funeral?’
‘Tomorrow. She left instructions apparently. Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon at a crematorium in Bournemouth. It appears that she liked that area. Do we go?’
‘Yes, but first I must give you some instructions.’
He told her to check out of the hotel and come over to his flat. ‘Not the easy way, it would be best if you ran some interference for yourself. I’m pretty sure that I’m clean, but anyone could have been waiting for me where you are now. If so, they’ll pick you up, so give them a run for their money.’
‘Will do.’ She broke the contact. Very professional, he considered. Then he wondered why he had asked her to come to him. He seldom invited off the case.’; margin-bottom: there ladies to the apartment. It was one of those things he very rarely did, and even then never had he let them stay overnight.
Flicka arrived just after six-thirty, having come via Heathrow Airport and then the Underground into central London, and again another runaround involving three taxis. For the first time, a woman slept in the apartment, and it proved to be one of those world champion nights about which most people only fantasize.
The crematorium was about as personal as a public convenience. Bond had the feeling that it was worked on the production line principle, with clergy of many denominations doing shifts at the numerous chapels.
Apart from Flicka and Bond, only three other people turned up for the service, which the clergyman read as though he was bored stiff with the entire thing. At last, the coffin slid away and the little velvet curtains closed with only a slight whirr of machinery.
Two of the other mourners had MI5 written all over them, if only because they had tried to look completely normal – a man and a woman. The woman wept as she left the chapel of rest, and the man did nothing to comfort her. The other person was a man of around forty, dressed in a well-tailored suit. He showed no emotion and walked quickly away from the place as soon as it was all done.
At the door of the chapel, the undertaker told them that there had been a few floral tributes, though the deceased had asked for none. ‘It was all a bit of a rush, I’m afraid,’ he said, looking at Bond as though he would know exactly what was meant. He pointed the way to the garden area where Laura March’s flowers were lying in a rather pathetic little row, and they went to take a quick look.
There was a medium-sized wreath with a card that simply said, ‘From the Director and Members of the Board with tender memories.’ Bond thought it reeked of officialdom. There was another from the aunt in Birmingham; a third ‘Ts husky.
9
RICHARD’S HIMSELF AGAIN
The road had been hewn out of the rock, twisting and turning so that one minute they were gazing down an almost sheer drop into the greeny blue waters of the Rhine, and at others they seemed to be pressed against great cuttings, the rough walls of natural stone rising on either side of them. They came upon their first view of the castle suddenly, following a long gentle bend and on to a kilometre of straight road, the Schloss Drache appearing below them like some kind of trick, an illusion, for the castle seemed also to have been cut from the rock itself: a Mount Rushmore in which people lived.
‘Bigger than the one at Disneyland,’ Bond said quietly, and Flicka reached out, putting her hand over his for a second, as the late summer afternoon sun hit one of the turrets, glancing off the windows, flashing light from the castle to the river, as though someone within had directed a prismatic beam directly on to the water.
The legends of the Rhine passed quickly through Bond’s mind – the legend of the nymph, Lorelei; or the Rhinemaidens, and their hoard of gold.
Time seemed to stand still, and it was hard to believe that only forty-eight hours ago they had driven away from Laura March’s lonely funeral on England’s south coast, as though the hounds of hell were on their heels.
They made it back to the King’s Road in record time, the white Saab 9000 CD Turbo whining through the New Forest and then on to the M3 motorway, Bond breaking the speed limit whenever it seemed safe, driving hard and using every ounce of skill he could muster. The hybrid rose with its strange message ran in circles around his brain, stirring another memory, only half-caught and almost out of reach.
The moment they walked into the apartment he retrieved his briefcase from its hiding place in the compartment behind the wainscot in his bedroom, opened it and removed the files, which had so conveniently found their way into his safe back at the office. He carried the folders through to the sitting-room and began to pore over them.
Flicka took her cue and disappeared into the kitchen, making tea, hot and very strong, which Bond sipped as he went through the flimsy pages, searching, making notes here and there. He found what he wanted in the files on Generale Claudio Carrousso’s assassination, and then, again, in the papers referring to Archie Shaw. The other two – the Russian, Pavel Gruskochev, and the CIA man, Mark Fish – required further checking.<
br />
He called an anonymous number in Paris, and waited while his contact went through the more recent information they had on the Gruskochev killing. Bond nodded and smiled, making a note on his file as the data was read quietly to him from an office not far from the Champs Elysées. eventually, the animals became n wouldr
He then called Washington, went through a little game of telephone tag, and finally tracked down the man he wanted, who was dining out, in Arlington, Virginia, with a friend from the Pentagon. The man in Washington asked how quickly he needed the information, and was told yesterday. ‘If it really is that important, I’ll go out to Langley and call you back,’ he said, adding that Bond was about the only person in the world he would do something like this for. An hour later the telephone rang and Bond again smiled to himself as he made notes, the telephone pressed hard against his ear.
‘Just what I wanted to hear,’ he told the caller. ‘I owe you one.’
‘And I’ll collect.’ The Washington contact closed the line, and drove back to the house in Arlington where his friend from the Pentagon waited patiently – she was a G3, twenty-eight years old and with the greatest legs this side of New York.
Bond then dialled a number in Chalfont St Giles, greeting an old friend he had not seen for almost two years. After the usual pleasantries, the talk turned to the growing of hybrid roses. The conversation lasted for almost thirty minutes.
Only when he had finished talking on the phone, did he call Flicka from where she was reading a paperback in the bedroom.
‘So, Sherlock,’ she dropped gracefully on to the big leather couch. ‘Have you found the secret of life and death?’
‘Enough to tie a few knots together, and enough to put at least one name in the frame, as they say on those TV police dramas. Look . . .’ He came over and sat close beside her, the four files on his lap.
‘When it comes to murder or assassination, one of the standard procedures – as you must know – is the general surveillance of those who come to the victim’s funeral. There were people from both my service and the Security Service there today. You saw the MI5 couple, my guys were not so obvious, but they were around. Again, as you know, the job is to identify everyone who comes to pay their respects, and, when it’s all over, someone else usually goes through the so-called floral tributes. Notes are kept regarding the messages, and then the sources are tracked down if necessary. That’s straightforward stuff as far as the police, and the security and intelligence services are concerned.’