Licence Renewed

by John Gardner

  The Saab now suited Bond's purposes, and was easily convertible from petrol to gas, if the fuel situation became even more critical; the consumption was low in relation to speed; while the turbo gave that extra dynamic thrust always needed in a tricky situation.

  Only a few people knew about the cottage, so there were no raised eyebrows or jokes about Bond having a country seat.

  The London Friday evening rush was almost over by the time he reached Roehampton; so the Saab was in Bond's personal parking slot, in the underground garage of the headquarters building, before seven-thirty.

  Bond would have put money on M having some inane and boring job waiting for him, and even made a mental wager with himself as the lift sped him silently to the ninth floor, at the top of the building, where M's suite of offices was located.

  Miss Moneypenny, M's P.A., looked up with a worried smile as Bond entered the outer office. This was the first sign that something important might be on the cards.

  'Hallo, Penny,' Bond greeted her breezily, shrugging off the slough of irritation over the lost week-end. 'Not out with one of your young men? It's wicked Friday night, you know.'

  Miss Moneypenny cocked her head towards the door of M's office as she spoke: 'And he's been wickedly waiting for you. Keeping me here into the bargain.' She smiled. 'Besides, the only man who could lure me out on the town seemed to be otherwise engaged.'

  'Oh Penny, if only…' Bond grinned. There had been a special bantering relationship between them for years, yet Bond had never fully realised how much the able and neat Moneypenny doted on him.

  'Tell Commander Bond to come straight in,' M's voice snapped metallically from the intercom box on Miss Moneypenny's desk.

  Bond lifted a quizzical eyebrow and moved towards the door. Lowering his voice, he said, 'Did anyone ever tell you that Janet Reger started her business with you in mind, Penny?'

  Miss Moneypenny was still blushing as Bond disappeared into M's office and closed the door. A red warning light blinked on above the door as it clicked shut. She stared into space for a moment, her head filled with the after-image of the man who had just entered M's inner sanctum: the bronzed good-looking face, with rather long dark eyebrows above the wide, level blue eyes; the three-inch scar which just showed down his right cheek; the long, very straight nose, and the fine, though cruel, mouth. Minute flecks of grey had just started to show in the dark hair, which still retained its boyish black comma above the right eye. As yet, no plumpness had appeared around the jowls, and the line of the jaw was as straight and firm as ever. It was the face of an attractive buccaneer, Miss Moneypenny thought, shaking herself out of a slightly improper reverie, and wondering if she should have warned James Bond that M was not alone in his office.

  As James Bond opened the door to M's office, another door was opening, some five hundred miles to the north of London.

  The man who had left Dublin so skilfully disguised, early that morning, looked up, rising from his chair and extending a hand in greeting.

  The room in which he had been waiting was a familiar place to him now, after so many visits: book-lined, with a large military desk, comfortable leather chairs, the impressive cabinet containing, literally, priceless antique weapons – a pair of chased silver flint-lock pistols, a matched set of American Kentucky hand guns, lavishly inlaid, a French wheel-lock with mother-of-pearl and gold wire stock decoration, a pair of cutlass pistols, and an Allen pepper-box with six revolving barrels. The artist of disguise knew the pieces and lusted after them on each viewing. The whole place had that air of solidity which comes with what is known as 'old money'.

  The person who entered the room was its owner, playing host now to the man from Dublin. They shook hands, almost gravely, the guest waiting in silence until his patron had moved to the large upright chair behind the desk. He did not speak until he was seated.

  'It's good to see you again, Franco.'

  'Good also to see you. But I enjoy working for you; this always makes a difference.' The man called Franco paused, searching for words. 'You know, after all this time, I never know how to address you – your title, or scientific…?' He made a small gesture with his hands.

  The other man chuckled, his bulldog face creasing into a smile. 'Why not Warlock?'

  They both laughed. 'Appropriate,' Franco nodded. 'Operation Meltdown, with you -its creative and directive force -Warlock.'

  The man behind the desk laid his hands flat on the leather top. 'So be it.' He nodded his head in a quick, birdlike, manner. 'You had no trouble?'

  'Nothing at all. Clean as your proverbial English whistle. The chopper was on time; there were no tails. By now you should know I always have care.'

  'Good.' The birdlike pecking nod again. 'Then I trust, my friend, that this will be your last visit here.' Franco gave a quirky little grin. 'Perhaps. But maybe not quite my last. There is the question of payment.'

  The man behind the desk opened his hands, fingers splayed, palms upward. Т mean, of course, your last visit until after Meltdown is completed. Yes, of course there is the question of picking up your share. But first, location and the small detail. That's one of the things we have to discuss; one of the reasons you will be here for a slightly longer period this time, Franco.'

  'Naturally.' Franco's voice took on a cold edge and the word came out in four syllables, spoken curiously like the slow, cautious footsteps of a man testing an ice bridge across a deep crevasse.

  'There is much to talk about. Europe, I presume, is completely arranged?'

  'Everyone ready, yes.'

  'And the States?'

  'Ready and waiting for the final instructions.'

  'The men…?'

  Franco leaned forward. 'These people, as I've already told you, have been waiting for a long time. They always were the least of my worries. Each of them is dedicated, ready to give his or her life for his separate cause. To all purposes, they consider themselves martyrs already. But the various organisations that have provided the personnel for your operation – organisations outlawed by most Western governments, and regarded as terrorists – are anxious. They want assurances that they will receive their share of the money.'

  'Which, I trust, you have given them, Franco.' From behind the desk the bulldog face had ceased to beam. 'Our commitment was clear. I seem to recall that we spoke of this, at great length, over a year ago. I provide the plan, the – how do you say it these days? – the know-how. I also arrange the means. You are the go-between, the contact man. Now, we have more interesting things to talk about.'

  3 THE OPPOSITION

  BOND BECAME MORE alert when he reached the far side of M's door. He was prepared for his old chief to be seated in his usual concentrated position behind the large glass-topped desk; but he was not expecting to find two extra men in the room.

  'Come in, Bond.' M addressed him with a small, economic, movement of the hand. 'Gentlemen,' he glanced towards his visitors, 'allow me to introduce Commander James Bond. I think he's the man to fit the bill.'

  Bond warily acknowledged the other men. He knew well enough who they were, though it would not do to show it openly.

  M allowed the pause to lie for just the right length of time, as though testing Bond's discretion, before completing the introductions. 'Commander, this is Sir Richard Duggan, Director-General of M.I.5; and Deputy Assistant Commissioner David Ross, head of the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police.'

  Bond reached out and, in turn, shook hands with the men, noting they both possessed firm dry handshakes. They also looked him straight in the eyes. These were two features Bond had long since come either to admire or guard against – depending on what side he suspected the owners of such attributes to be working.

  It was certainly a puzzling situation. M.I.5, and its executive arm, the Special Branch, constituted what was known officially as the British Security Service – responsible for counter-espionage and anti-terrorist activities on British sovereign territory.

  To Bond's service
they were always jokingly known as 'The Opposition', and there had always been a keen rivalry between the two organisations: a rivalry which had sometimes led to grave misunderstandings; even open hostility.

  It was certainly most unusual for the heads of 'The Opposition' to come calling on M, who saw them regularly anyway – at least once a week at the Joint Intelligence Committee meeting.

  M motioned Bond into a leather chair and looked – a shade too benignly, Bond thought – first at his two visitors, then at Bond. 'Our friends from M.I.5 have a small problem, Commander,' he began, and Bond noted with caution that M was treating him with almost military correctness. 'It is an interesting situation, and I feel you might be able to help; especially as it has all the marks of moving out of M.1.5's jurisdiction, and into our own area.' He tapped his pipe into the copper ashtray on the desk. For the first time, Bond noticed his chief had a file lying directly in front of him. It was thick and marked with the red Most Secret: Classified tags. Two small circles, on the top right hand corner of the white binding, denoted that the file concerned both European and Middle East connections; while a small sticker bore the words, which Bond could easily read upside down, 'Not for Brotherhood', which meant it contained information not to be circulated to the American service, the C.I.A.

  The fact of the file was enough to alert Bond. M would have had it photostated on a blow-up, direct from its stored microfilm, especially for this kind of meeting. It would be shredded once those instructed to read it had done so.

  'I think,' M said, looking at the Director-General of M.I.5, 'it would be best if the two of you put Commander Bond in the picture. Then we can take it on from there.'

  Sir Richard Duggan nodded, and leaned down to open his briefcase, removing a file and placing a matt ten-byeight photograph on the desk in front of Bond. 'Know the face?' he asked.

  Bond nodded. 'Franco – to the Press, public, and most of us. Code Foxtrot to those in the field – ourselves, G.S.G. 9, Gigene, Squad R, Blue Light, C.ll and C.13.' Bond was referring to the German, French, Italian and American anti-terrorist squads, together with C.1l and C.13, of Scotland Yard, who often worked closely with Special Branch (C.11 staffs the Anti-Terrorist Squad, in conjunction with C.1).

  The head of M.I.5 was not, however, going to let Bond get off so lightly. Did the Commander know anything else about Code Foxtrot – Franco?

  Again Bond nodded. 'Of course. International terrorist. Wanted in most European countries and some in the Middle East. There is a request for him to be held in the United States; though, as far as we know, he has not operated from, or in, that country. His full name is Franco Oliveiro Quesocriado; born Madrid 1948 of mixed parentage – Spanish father and an English mother. I believe her name was something quite ordinary, like Jones, Smith or Evans…'

  'Leonard actually,' said D.A.C. Ross quietly. 'Mary Leonard.'

  'Sorry,' Bond smiled at him, and the policeman returned the smile. He had the look of a modern copper, Bond thought. Almost certainly one of the university intake – quiet, with a watchfulness buried deep in his eyes, and the sense of a coiled spring held back by the retaining pin of both caution and calmness. A very tough and sharp baby if roused, was Bond's instant assessment.

  He turned back to Sir Richard Duggan, asking if they wanted him to continue.

  'Naturally.' Richard Duggan was a very different breed, and Bond already knew his pedigree – that was, after all, part of his job. Duggan was old school Home Office. Eton and Oxford, then a career in politics, which lasted only a short time before the Home Office snapped him up. Tall, slim and good-looking, with thick light-coloured hair, which his enemies claimed was tinted, Duggan looked the part-young and rich, authoritative and in control. The youthfulness, Bond also knew, was an illusion, and the luck of a good facial bone structure.

  As the head of M.I.5 drawled, 'Naturally,' Bond's eyes momentarily met those of M, and caught the tiny stir of humour. Sir Richard Duggan was not one of M's favourite people.

  Bond shrugged. 'Franco,' he continued, 'first came to our attention in connection with a hijacking of two British passenger jets-the airline was B.O.A.C. at the time -in the late 1960s. He appears to have no direct political affiliations, and has operated as a planner who sometimes takes part in terrorist actions, with groups like the former Baader-Meinhof gang, and is still connected with the so-called Red Army Faction. He has links with the P.L.O., I.R.A., and a whole network of terrorist groups.' Bond took out his gunmetal cigarette case, glancing at M for permission to smoke, and receiving a curt nod.

  'He would, I think, be best described as an anticapitalist.' Bond lit his cigarette and gave a small quick smile. 'The paradox has always been that, for an anticapitalist, he appears to be exceptionally well-off. There is evidence that he has personally paid for, and provided, arms for a number of terrorist acts. He has certainly committed murder, in connection with two political kidnap-pings – not to mention those who have died in bomb attacks inspired directly by him. A very dangerous and most wanted man, Sir Richard.'

  Both Duggan and Ross nodded in harmony, Ross muttering something about Bond knowing his man. Duggan voiced his opinion in a louder voice, saying Bond might well have to know his man even better. He then delved into his briefcase again, bringing out five more matt photographs, which he placed in a row on M's desk, in front of Bond. Each photograph carried a small sticker attached to the bottom right-hand corner. Each sticker bore a date.

  Bond immediately noted the dates, before looking at the photographs. The most recent was today's. The other four were marked April 4th and 23rd; May 12th and 25th. The pictures were obviously blow-ups from a videotape recording, and he studied each one with great care. The man portrayed was dressed differently in each photograph; and, indeed, looked different-plump, in jeans and denim jacket, with long hair and a moustache; clean-shaven, but with shoulder-length blond hair and dark glasses, wearing a rumpled roll-neck sweater and slacks; grey-haired and gaunt in loud check, hung around with cameras, and clutching an American passport as though he expected it to be torn from his hand at any moment; clean-shaven again, but with dark hair, fashionably cut, clad elegantly in slacks and an expensive, fur-collared wind-cheater.

  Today's photograph showed him with close-cropped hair, neat beard and spectacles. He wore a business suit. The disguises were all excellent, yet Bond had no hesitation. 'Franco,' he said aloud, like an order.

  'Of course.' Duggan sounded a little patronising, going on to point out that all the photographs had been taken at Heathrow.

  'Five times in the past three months, and he hasn't been picked up?' Bond's brow creased.

  Deputy Assistant Commissioner David Ross inhaled, and took over the explanation. At a meeting earlier in the year, it had been decided that certain major 'most wanted' terrorists like Franco should be kept under close surveil lance if they appeared to arrive alone in the country. 'Big fish, little fish,' he grinned, as though it explained every thing. 'When the surveillance teams at Heathrow spotted him in April – the first time – there was, naturally, a full-scale alert.'

  'Naturally,' Bond did a fair imitation of Sir Richard Duggan's condescending drawl. M busied himself loading his pipe, gently kneading the tobacco into the bowl, and keeping his eyes well down.

  Ross looked a little shamefaced. 'Afraid we lost him the first time. Not ready for him. Lost him in London.'

  Something stirred in Bond's memory. There had been an increase in police activity early in April, and he recalled signals coming in with instructions about being more than normally alert: watching for packages and letters, stepping up embassy security – the usual stuff on a Terrorist Red, as the police and security services called it.

  Ross was still talking. 'We checked all his possible contacts, and waited. He wasn't detected leaving the country.'

  'But, of course, he did,' Duggan chimed in.

  Ross nodded. 'As you can all see, he was back again, entering through Heathrow, later in the month. That time we established he
moved straight out of London, almost certainly heading north.'

  'You lost him again,' Bond stated. Ross gave a sharp affirmative before saying they had better luck during the first May visit.

  'Followed him as far as Glasgow. Then he slipped the leash. But on the last trip we kept him in our sights all the way. He ended up in a village called Murcaldy, inland from Applecross, at the foot of the north-west Highlands.'

  'And we're sure who it was he visited there,' Duggan smiled. 'Just as we're certain he's gone to the same place this time. I have two officers breathing down his neck. He came in from Dublin this morning – and we were tipped off from there. He went straight to King's Cross and took the first train to Edinburgh – rings the changes, you know. He'll have reached his destination by now. We expect further reports any time.'

  A silence fell over the four men, broken only by the scraping of M's match as he lit his pipe. Bond was the first to speak. 'And he's visiting…?' allowing the question to hang in the air like M's pipe smoke.

  Duggan cleared his throat. 'Most of the land, including the village of Murcaldy, is owned by one family -th e Muriks. For at least three centuries, possibly longer, the Lairds of Murcaldy have been Muriks. It's almost a feudal set-up. Murik Castle, which dates back to the sixteenth century, has had many modernisations over the years; and there is the Murik estate-farms; hunting and fishing rights. The present Laird is also a celebrity in other fields -Dr Anton Murik, director of many companies, and a nuclear physicist of both renown and eccentricity.'