High Time To Kill

by Raymond Benson

  Marquis smiled and shook his head. “You always have a comeback, don’t you, Bond?”

  Bond ignored him and finished his drink, then put out the cigarette. He glanced up at the sky and said, “Those clouds don’t look friendly. We had better get started.”

  The sun had completely vanished. Thunder rumbled lightly in the distance.

  As Bond predicted, it started to rain on the thirteenth hole, but it wasn’t heavy, and they continued to play. Apart from Marquis’s birdie on the eleventh, everyone had made par on the first three holes of the back nine. With Marquis and Harding still in the lead, the game had become a contest of machismo between Bond and Marquis. The tension between them was palpable; it even made Tanner and Harding uncomfortable. The rain didn’t help matters. Everyone but Marquis was in a foul mood when they approached the fourteenth tee.

  The score remained constant after the fourteenth and fifteenth holes. Bond had to do something to better theirs. Hole sixteen had recently been redesigned. It was a par 4 at 320 yards. The old green had been tree-lined on both sides and protected by a bunker in front and a greenside bunker to the left. Now the green was farther back, closer to the small pond, so that an overshot would be a disaster. It was another opportunity for Bond to try his backspin. His tee-off sent the ball 210 yards straight down the fairway, where it landed in an excellent position. Marquis performed an equally impressive shot, dropping a mere six feet away from Bond’s ball. Tanner and Harding did well enough, both driving their balls 175 yards onto the fairway. Bond approached the ball with the Lyconite wedge once again. If he could make this shot, he would narrow the gap between the scores.

  The rain had subsided, so now the grass was wet and heavy. It made the task even more difficult.

  “That little backspin might work for you this time, Bond,” Marquis said. He perceived that Bond was about to try it again and simply wanted to rattle his nerves.

  Bond paid no attention and concentrated on the ball. He shook his shoulders, rotated his head, and felt his neck crack, then took his stance over the ball. He was ready.

  Tanner watched, biting his lower lip. Harding, who hadn’t said more than twenty-five words all day, nervously chewed on a scoring pencil. Marquis stood with casual indifference, expecting Bond to muck it up.

  Bond swung, snapped the ball into the air, and watched as it fell neatly on the back of the green. Would it roll off, away from the hole and into the pond? He held his breath.

  The ball, propelled by a perfect backspin, rolled toward the hole and stopped an inch from the pin. If it weren’t for the moisture on the green, the ball would have dropped in the cup.

  Tanner and Harding both cheered. Marquis didn’t say a word. His feathers ruffled, he knocked his ball straight into the bunker on the side of the green.

  As they approached the eighteenth tee, the score was 70 to 69 in favor of Marquis and Harding. It was a par 4 at 406 yards. With a magnificent view of the mansion, the hole was uphill with bunkers on the right at 184 yards and out of bounds on the left from the tee. What made the hole extra difficult was the second shot, which had to go over a hollow just short of the green. The green was slightly elevated and bunkered on both sides, and it sloped from left to right.

  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 toMarquis. “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 me
chanic, 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 sealed 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 aircraft 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 18-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 impedence 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 i
t 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.”