“James Bond,” he said. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Please, sit down.” Chandra gestured to the chair and waited until Bond had sat before taking the chair across from him.
“Sergeant, I understand you’ve been briefed on all aspects of the mission.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bond put up his hand. “Let’s forget the sir, all right? This isn’t a military operation, and I’m not your commanding officer. As far as I’m concerned, we’re equals.”
Chandra smiled again. “My orders are to follow your orders.”
“Well, yes, unless they are totally without merit. In the Himalayas, they might often be.”
Chandra laughed. “You have climbed before?”
Bond nodded. “Oh, yes, but I’m no expert. I’ve been to the top of Everest and several big peaks in Switzerland and the Austrian Tyrol.”
“Never on Kangchenjunga?”
“Never. What about you?”
“I went halfway up Kangchenjunga once. I was forced down by an avalanche and then a bad storm. I am eager to try again.”
“How did you get to be such a climber?” Bond asked.
“We live our entire lives going up and down hills and mountains,” Chandra said. “That’s why the muscles in our legs are so big. When I was a boy I went on a climbing expedition with my father, who was friends with some Sherpas in Kathmandu. They operated one of the first trekking services there. As I grew older, I made frequent trips to the Himalayas and climbed. I guess I just like it.”
“You get on well with the Sherpas?” Bond asked. Sherpas are the tribe of Nepalese hill people more prominent in eastern and northern Nepal who are expert climbers and are almost always hired to haul equipment and luggage for western tourists wishing to trek across the country or up into the mountains.
“Yes, absolutely. Although Nepal has many dialects and tribes, Nepali is understood by everyone. Sherpas have called me their ‘climbing cousin’ because not many Gurungs have shown much interest in mountain climbing. I am an exception. Every time I go home to Nepal, my wife gets angry with me because I take some time to go climbing!”
“She’s in Nepal?”
“Yes,” Chandra said. He smiled broadly, obviously pleased with the thought of his mate. “Our wives remain in Nepal. They are not allowed to visit very often. Every three years we can go home for six months. That is in addition to our normal block leave of one month and the family leave in which she was with me for two years in the Far East. So I see her every now and then.”
“What do you think of Group Captain Marquis’s schedule for getting up Kangch?”
Chandra shook his head. “Not quite impossible.”
“But almost.”
Chandra’s smile said a thousand words. Then he added, “We must beat the monsoon. It’s the only way.”
“What do you think our chances for success are?”
Chandra looked hard at Bond. “Sixty-five percent.”
Bond leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What do you know about the Union?”
Chandra frowned. “Not much. I spent most of last night reading the file your people gave me. Very interesting group of people. I am interested in their psychology.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, I am interested in how their minds work,” Chandra clarified. “I don’t understand men who will do that sort of thing for money. I come from one of the poorest countries on earth. The concept of working hard for a living is an accepted way of life for us. To turn to crime, especially betraying one’s country, is confounding to me.”
“They are very dangerous,” Bond said. “We’ll have to have eyes in the backs of our heads.”
“If they are responsible for the theft of Skin 17, then I’m sure we will encounter them along the way,” Chandra surmised. “They will try to sabotage the mission.”
Bond sat back in his chair and raised his martini glass to his new companion. “Oh, of that I am sure, sergeant. You can count on it.”
THIRTEEN
LE GÉRANT
STEVEN HARDING HATED NORTH AFRICA. IT SMELLED, THE VAST CULTURE shock frightened him, he was suspicious of everyone hemet, and it was hot. It was so hot that he was afraid the sweat would ruin the carefully appliedmakeup that had enabled him to get to Morocco as Randall Rice.
At least Casablanca was a bit more westernized than other places Harding had been to. By far Morocco’s largest city with a population of three million, it is the country’s industrial center and port, and the most attractive tourist stop in western North Africa. The famed Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman film is, in part, responsible for the attention that Casablanca receives. As it is the place to go when Moroccans aspire to fame and fortune, Casablanca has all the trappings of a western metropolis, with a hint of the decadent ambience of southern European cities. Alongside the business suits, long legs, high heels, and designer sunglasses are the willowy robes of djellabas and burnooses of traditional Morocco.
Wearing a suit much too heavy for the climate, Harding stepped out into the bright sunlight and donned his sunglasses. The heat was barely tolerable, and it was only midmorning. Frowning, he walked away from the Sheraton and went south on Rue Chaoui, ignoring the cluster of beggars, old and young, who reached out to people entering and exiting the hotel.
He walked along what seemed to be a fairly modern street with western architecture. The atmosphere completely changed two blocks away, when Harding entered the Central Market bazaar. Here he felt as if he’d walked into another century. As colorful and noisy as any Hollywood film depiction, the market was an overwhelming assault on the senses. Harding focused straight ahead, walking quickly through the mass of veils, fezes, turbans, and fedoras. The visual display of the distinctive customs and clothing of local tribespeople who had come to buy and sell didn’t excite him. He didn’t want to buy fruits, vegetables, or spices.
No, thank you, he thought as he rudely brushed past a vendor. He was not interested in the “special” on rich, golden argan oil. There was another one tugging on his sleeve. Sorry, he hadn’t any money today. That flatwoven carpet is indeed a beauty, but he didn’t want to buy one, thank you anyway.
Harding was drenched with sweat by the time he got all the way across the bazaar to its southeast corner, where a delapidated shanty was built against a larger stone building. A beggar, who seemed at least ninety years old, sat cross-legged on the dirt in front of the door, which was simply an open space in the wood covered by a cloth hanging from an eave. There was a bent metal dish next to the beggar.
Harding knew he had to do something specific. He reached into his pocket and found ten dirhams in coins and dropped them into the tin. The old man mumbled something and gestured to the cloth. Harding turned to make sure no one was watching, then he ducked under the drape and went inside the shack.
It stank like a toilet. Harding was forced to take a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and hold it over his mouth. Other than the rancid smell, the room was empty. Harding immediately went to the stone wall and put his hand out to touch it. He felt the ridges along a crack, searching for a catch that couldn’t be seen. He found it, then pushed it with the requisite force. The secret door slid open, revealing a passage lined in steel. Harding stepped through, and the door closed behind him.
At last! Air-conditioning! And his ticket out of this dreary place. The hard work was over. He had come to claim his reward and move on to the next phase of his life, which would resemble nothing of what he had left behind in England. He hoped that Le Gérant wouldn’t create a problem about Lee Ming’s plane being hijacked. He had done his job and that part of the operation was completely out of his hands. Harding had delivered Skin 17 in precisely the manner that the Union wanted him to. They had better not renege on the five million U.S. dollars he was being paid!
Harding knew, however, that Le Gérant was capable of anything. He would consider himself lucky to get out of Morocco alive.
An Arab dresse
d in fatigues appeared and gestured for Harding to follow him. It was unnerving, especially when the clank-clank of the man’s boots on the metal floor echoed throughout the tunnel. The corridor took a right turn, and they went down eight steps to a wider, open area with a table, computer terminals, banks of video surveillance screens, and other sophisticated, high-tech equipment. Two more guards were waiting there.
“Spread your legs and arms,” one of them said.
Harding did so while the other one ran a metal detector around his body.
“Look into here,” the first man said. He pointed to a device that resembled a microscope. Harding stepped to it and looked in. He knew that this would identify the tattoo that had been burned into the back of his retina when he initially joined the Union. He often wondered what an optometrist might say about the tattoo during an examination. Luckily, it looked more like scar tissue than any recognizable symbol.
It was discernible only to members of the Union.
Harding felt the beam of light pass over his eye. He straightened up and looked at the guards, one of whom studied a computer terminal on the table. The other one stared at him with a look of distaste.
“All right, he checks,” said the man at the computer. Harding’s escort tapped his shoulder and led him around the table to a door. The guards pressed a button and released a lock. The escort pushed the door open and held it for Harding.
“Le Gérant is waiting,” he said.
Harding nodded and grinned nervously, then went through the door.
The room was dark, long, and had a very low ceiling. The only illumination was provided by lamps hung over the seven men and three women who sat at a conference table, each with a legal pad in front of them. However, there was no light hanging over the man at the head of the table, the one sitting in shadow.
Le Gérant. The Manager.
Harding had never met him face-to-face. Very few Union members had. The inner circle, those sitting around this table, were the only individuals who were so entitled. Nevertheless, it was still difficult to discern what Le Gérant looked like. His silhouette disclosed that he was tall and broad-shouldered, but thin and fit. The face and hands were in shadow, but there was just enough illumination to reveal him to be Caucasian. He was more likely a Berber, a descendant of an ancient race that has inhabited Morocco since Neolithic times. Berbers characteristically had light skin, blue eyes, and often blond or red hair. Harding knew that they were famous throughout history as warriors and notoriously resistant to being controlled by any system beyond the tribe.
Le Gérant wore a beret and was dressed in dark clothing. His face was further shielded by dark glasses that completely hid his eyes. Harding had once heard a rumor that Le Gérant was blind. Perhaps he really was .…
As the doctor stepped into the room, conversation halted abruptly and everyone turned to look at him.
“Come in, Dr. Harding,” Le Gérant said. His voice was educated and smooth, and its deep timbre sounded vaguely French. If the man was indeed a Berber, he didn’t sound like one. “Sit down there at the end of the table. We have saved a seat for you.”
Harding took the chair and swallowed. Now he was nervous as hell.
“It is good to meet you at last, doctor,” the leader said. “We have been following your progress on the Skin 17 project with great interest. I must congratulate you on everything you’ve done on behalf of the Union. It must not have been easy to find the courage to betray your country and steal the specification right out from under the noses of the DERA.”
“Thank you, sir,” Harding said.
“You also did a splendid job getting the formula to Belgium and into our client’s pacemaker. Was that your idea, planting it there?”
“Yes, sir,” Harding said. He felt a thrill that perhaps the meeting was going to go well after all.
“You also acted responsibly with regard to the physician who was caught in Brussels. Having him eliminated was the right thing to do. I’m still a little confused as to how he was caught in the first place, but nothing ever goes perfectly, does it?”
“No, sir,” Harding said, swallowing and managing a smile.
Le Gérant took a moment to extract a cigarette from a gunmetal case that he removed from the inside of his jacket. He kept his head straight, staring ahead at a spot on the wall just behind Harding. The man was blind! the doctor thought. How extraordinary! The head of the Union couldn’t see a damn thing.
Le Gérant lit the cigarette with a gold-plated Dunhill lighter, took a deep drag, exhaled, and spoke again.
“That brings us to the problem of what has happened to Skin 17.” Harding involuntarily closed his eyes with dread.
Le Gérant continued. “As I understand it, Lee Ming was in Kathmandu, awaiting instructions for his transfer to Tibet. However, precisely one day earlier than scheduled, he was kidnapped from his hotel and taken to the airport. There, he was shoved aboard a tourist Himalayan sight-seeing flight that was hijacked by his kidnappers and flown into the mountains, where a storm knocked it down. Do I have the facts right?”
Harding cleared his throat. “That’s what I understand happened, sir, yes, I think that’s what happened.”
Le Gérant took another drag on the cigarette and shifted slightly in his chair.
“This is highly embarrassing for the Union, you understand that, Dr. Harding? We’ve let down our Chinese clients. They want their money back. After all, the Skin 17 specification wasn’t delivered as promised.”
“We did our part, sir,” Harding protested. “Our obligation was to get him to Kathmandu. We did that. Our people in Nepal didn’t keep a close watch on Lee. Apparently the Union weren’t the only ones that wanted that spec. Someone got to him first.”
“But how did anyone else know he had it?”
“Perhaps the British agent who tracked me to Belgium … ?” Harding mused.
“Oh, yes. The British agent. What’s his name? Oh, I remember now. Bond. James Bond. I think you were a bit careless leaving England, Dr. Harding. One of our first rules is to cover your tracks in such a way that no one can follow you. Unfortunately, this man did.”
“It was unavoidable, sir,” Harding said. He was beginning to sweat despite the cool temperature in the room. His heart was pounding and his stomach cramped.
“What about the RAF officer who helped you steal the formula? Could he have betrayed you?”
“I don’t think so,” Harding said. How did Le Gérant know about Roland Marquis? Harding had been given free rein to pick and choose his team. No one was privy to the information.
“How much was he paid?” the leader asked.
“Fifteen thousand pounds sterling,” Harding replied.
“Do you believe that’s enough to persuade him to keep his mouth shut?”
“Yes.”
For the first time, Le Gérant raised his voice. There was such internal animosity in it that everyone in the room felt a chill run down their spine. “Then who hijacked that plane and took potentially one of the Union’s biggest moneymaking ventures away from us?”
Harding was speechless. The meeting had taken a turn for the worse.
“Well, Dr. Harding?”
“I … I have no idea. Sir.” Harding was shaking now.
“Shall I tell you, Dr. Harding?”
“Sir?”
The leader took another drag on the cigarette, then snuffed it out in an ashtray attached to the arm of his chair. He had lowered his voice and appeared to be calm once again. “Shall I tell you who foiled our plans to sell Skin 17 to the Chinese?”
“Please do, sir,” Harding stammered.
“It was someone trying to double-cross the Union. Someone on the inside. Someone who thought they were smarter than we. Not delivering Skin 17 as promised makes us look bad and damages our reputation. That makes me extremely unhappy. We may be losing two other prospective deals because of this mess. Do you know anyone in the Union who may be trying to outsmart us and get away with s
omething, Dr. Harding?”
Now there was a ringing in Harding’s ears. Had he been caught? “N-no, sir. How do you know? I mean, how do you know it’s someone on the inside?”
“I know much more than anyone in this room could ever dream,”
Le Gérant said. “I believe that whoever is responsible for kidnapping Lee Ming was planning to take Skin 17 for their own. Perhaps they were going to try to sell it back to us for a higher price. After all, we’re not the only ones in the extortion business. But no one can treat the Union that way.”
Le Gérant flicked a switch on the control panel in front of him and a bright photograph appeared on the back wall. It was a picture of the three Nepalese men who had abducted Lee Ming from the Everest Hotel and whisked him away in a potato sack.
“These are the three men who are responsible,” Le Gérant said. “They are Nepalese, but they do not reside in Nepal.”
He knows! Harding thought. My God, he knows!
“Now, help me understand something, Dr. Harding,” the boss said. “We know that Dr. Lindenbeek was caught in Brussels, and he probably talked a little before he was … uhm, put out of action. Right?”
“Possibly,” Harding said.
“How much did he know about the Union?”
“Virtually nothing. He knew that we were going to expose him if he didn’t perform the surgical procedure. He was killed so that he couldn’t identify me and Mr. Lee. I covered my tracks there.”
“Yes, you did,” LeGérant said. “What about our operative inside SIS?”
“In London?”
“Where else?”
“The operative there knows very little about the Union. We receive reports on the movements SIS are making to track down Skin 17. We stay one step ahead of them, so to speak.”
“And this Bond fellow. He’s the one they’ve sent?”
Harding nodded. “He was in Belgium. I have no idea if they’re sending him to Nepal. I’ve been traveling.”
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