Licence Renewed

by John Gardner

  It was to happen sooner than he expected. They were within a few paces of the office doors when, from around the corner, in a flurry of conversation and laughter, there appeared a small group of men – four in the dark blue uniforms of a commercial air line. They were close enough for Bond to make out the letters E.A.S. entwined in gold on their caps. European Air Services. A fragment of English floated from the conversation, then a quick response in French, for the aircrew were accompanied by two young French customs officers – the whole group strolling lazily towards the Britannias.

  Murik and Mary-Jane were almost at the office door, accompanied by one of the guards; behind them, Lavender was being led firmly by her minder, and Caber walked alone between her and Bond, still flanked by his two men.

  It would be one of his biggest gambles. The odds flashed through his mind: putting everything you owned on the turn of a card; on one number at the roulette table; on the nose of a horse. This time it would be everything he owned: life itself. If Murik's men could be so shocked into holding fire or chase, even for a few seconds, he might just do it. In this fraction of time, Bond weighed the chances. Would Murik wish to call attention to himself and his party? Would they risk other people being hurt, killed even? It was a matter of audacity and nerve.

  Later, Bond thought the appearance of the train probably made up his mind; the sound of a horn in the distance, and the sight of a long railway train snaking its way along the tracks, about a mile off.

  He slowed, dropping back a couple of paces, causing one of the guards to nudge him on. Angrily, Bond shoved the man. 'You can stop that,' he said very loudly. 'I'm not interested in your bloody meeting.' Then, looking towards the group of aircrew and customs men, he raised his voice and shouted 'Good grief, already taking one step away from the nearest guard, who moved a hand to grab him Bond was quick. The bet was laid. Le maximum: faites vos jeux.

  Bond had stepped away, and was moving in great long strides, his hand up, towards the group of uniformed men. 'Johnny,' he shouted. 'Johnny Manderson: what the hell are you doing here?' The uniformed men paused, turning towards him. One smiled broadly; the others looked puzzled. 'Get back here.' Caber tried to keep his voice low as he started forward; and Bond heard Murik hiss, 'Get him. For God's sake. Take care.' But, by this time, Bond had reached the group, his hand stretched out to one of the aircrew, who in turn put out his hand in a reflex action of cordiality, while beginning to say something about a mistake. 'It's good to see you, Johnny.' Bond pumped his hand wildly, still talking loudly. Then he pulled the man towards him, spinning around to put him, as a shield, between Murik's people and himself. Caber and two of the guards were advancing warily, hands inside their jackets and, doubtless, on the butts of their weapons. Behind them the others were moving slowly into the building, Murik glancing up, his face a mask. Bond dropped his voice. 'Terribly sorry,' he said, grinning. 'A little problem about non-payment of dues. I should watch out for those blokes. Hoods, the lot of them. Must dash.' Using the group of uniformed men for cover, he was off, going flat out in a low crouch, weaving towards one of the jagged gaps in the fence. There were shouts from behind him, but no shots. Only the sound of pounding feet, and г argument of sorts, between Caber's men and the aircrew and customs officers. Bond dived through the gap, sliding down the small embankment on to the railway track- the train now bearing down on him, its roar shaking the gravel, the sound covering everything else. If there was going to be shooting, it would happen in the next few seconds, before the train reached them.

  The big engine was coming from his right-from the direction of Perpignan, he thought. There was no time for further reflection. It was now or never, in front of the train looming above him. Bond chanced it, leaping in two long strides across the track, and doubling his body into a ball, rolling as he reached the far side; the engine almost brushing his back as it passed with a great parp of its horn.

  The horn sounded nothing like that unmistakabletoo-tootoo-too-toot of the hunting field; but, for a second, Bond was transported, hearing the noise of hooves heavy on grass, the baying of hounds and the huntsman's horn, 'Gone away'. He had never cared much for foxhunting, and now – casting himself in the role of the fox – he liked it even less. How the hell did you go to earth in a foreign country with Murik's hounds at your heels?

  In an instant Bond was on his feet running down the far bank towards the Route Nationale, his thumb already up in the hitch-hiker's position. But luck was still with him. As he reached the edge of the road he saw a small, battered pickup truck pulled into the side. Two men were being dropped off, and there were four others in the back, shouting farewells to their comrades. They looked like farm-workers going home after a long backbreaking day in the vineyards.

  'Going into Perpignan?' Bond shouted in French.

  The driver, a cigarette stuck unlit in the corner of his mouth, nodded from the window. 'A lift?' Bond asked. The driver shrugged, and one of the men in the back called for him to jump up. Within seconds they were edging into the traffic, Bond crouched down with the other men -thanking providence for his own facility with the French language. He sneaked a peep towards the airport side of the railway tracks. There was no sign of Caber or the others.

  No, Bond thought, they would be running for cars-Murik would be well organised here-his men would already be taking short cuts into Perpignan to head Bond off.

  Cars already had their headlights on, as the dusk gathered quickly around them. Bond asked the time, and one of the workmen told him it was after nine, holding out his wrist with pride, to show off a brand new digital watch, explaining it was a gift from his son. 'On my saint's day,' he said. The digits showed four minutes past nine, and Bond realised that they were in a different time zone, an hour later than British time. 'We'll have to move if we're going to see the fun,' the man said.

  Fun? Bond shrugged, explaining he had just come in on a flight, 'with freight'. He was very late, and had to meet a man in Perpignan.

  'All men are in Perpignan tonight. If you can find them,' laughed one of the workers.

  Bond scowled, asking why. 'Something special?'

  'Special?' the man laughed. It was Perpignan 's night of nights. 'Fête,' one explained. 'Vieux Saint Jean,' said another. A third gave a bellow, lifting his arms histrionically, ' La Flamme arrive en Perpignan.'

  They all laughed. Bond suddenly remembered that he had been here before for the fete. Every town in the Mediterranean had its own rituals, its battle of flowers, processions, carnivals – usually religious. In Perpignan it was the great feast of St John; when the whole town was crammed to the gills, and there was dancing in the streets singing, fireworks, spectacle. The festivities started when bonfires were lit by a flame, brought, with Olympian ceremony, by runners from a high point in the Canigou mountain itself. He could not have arrived in this ancient place at better time. There would be crowd cover until the early hours; and with luck, enough breathing space to find a way of making contact with London and M.

  16 FÊTE AND FATE

  THEY DROPPED HIM off on the corner of the Place de la Résistance, which was already full of people standing shoulder to shoulder, pushing along the pavements. There were plenty of police in evidence, directing traffic, closing off streets, and – presumably – keeping an eye open for troublemakers.

  Bond stepped back into the crowd. It was some years since he had been here, and first he had to get his bearings. In the middle of the crush of people, Bond realised, with a sudden stab of fear, that his legs were shaking. Directly in front of him there were three great bonfires ready to be lit. To the left he saw a bridge spanning the well-kept canal, banked here by green lawns and flowers, which runs, above and below ground, through the town: a tributary of the river Têt.

  A platform had been built over the bridge and was even now crowded with musicians. A master of ceremonies spoke into an uncertain microphone, telling the crowds about the next sardana they would be playing, keeping things going until the flame arrived to igni
te both bonfires and excitement. The musicians burst into that music, known to anyone who has passed even briefly through either the French or Spanish Catalan lands: the steady bray of pipe, drum and brass in 6/8 time to which the sardana is danced. The groups of dancers, some in traditional costume, others in business suits or jeans and shirts, formed their circles, clasping hands held high, and launched into the light, intricate, foot movements: a dance of peace and joy; a symbol of Catalonia.

  On the far side of the bridge, other circles had taken up the dance in front of the towering red Castillet – the old city gateway, still intact, glowing russet in the light from the street lamps; its circular tower and battlements topped by what looked like a minaret.

  The crowds began to thicken, and the music thumped on with its hypnotic beat and lilting melodies, the circles of dancers growing wider, or reforming into smaller groups young and old, impeccable in their timing, and dancing as though in a trance. It was as if these people were reaching back through the years, linking hands with their past.

  Bond thought that if there were to be any future for them – or at least a chance of one – he had better move fast. Telephone London. Which was the best way? Call from a telephone box on the direct dialling international system? For that he would need money. It would have to be quick, for telephone booths – particularly on the Continent – are highly unsafe, and Bond had no desire to be trapped in a glass coffin, or one of those smaller, triangular affairs which would preclude keeping an eye on his rear.

  The first move was to lose himself in the swelling throng, which rose and fell like a sea. Above all else, he had to be watchful, for Murik's men could be already among the crowds, their eyes peeled for him; and if they saw him Bond knew what he could expect. Most likely they would use dirks, sliding the instruments of death through his ribs, covered by the crowd, in the middle of the celebrations. There was no point in going to the police – not on a night like this, without identification. They would simply lock him up and perhaps tomorrow, when it was too late, telephone the British Consul.

  Bond took a deep breath and began to move through the crowd. It would be best to keep to the fringes, then disappear into a side street.

  He had just started to move when a large black Mercedes swept into the Place, only to be halted by a gendarme, who signalled that it should turn back. The road was about to be closed. The driver spoke to the policeman in French, then turned to the occupants of the car. Bond's heart missed a beat. Next to the driver sat Caber, while the three other big Scotsmen were crammed into the rear.

  Caber got out, two of the men joining him, while the gendarme made noises suggesting they get the car out of the way as soon as possible.

  Bond tried to shrink back into the crowd as he watched Caber giving orders. The men dispersed – Caber and two of them crossing the Place, the last diving into the crowd a little to Bond's right. The hounds were there, trying to spot him or sniff him into the open. Bond watched the big lad shouldering himself away. Then he moved, taking his time, along the fringe of the crowd, going slowly out of necessity, and because of the density of the shouting, laughing, chattering people. Bond kept looking back and then scanning the way ahead and across the road. The band had stopped and the master of ceremonies was saying that the Flame, carried from near the summit of the Canigou by teams of young people, was now only a few minutes from its destination. A few minutes, James Bond knew, could mean anything up to half an hour. The band started up again and the dancers responded. Bond kept to the edge of the crowd, slowly making his way across the now sealed-off road, towards the towering Castillet. He was looking for a street he recalled from previous visits: an ancient square almost entirely covered by tables from the cafes. They should be doing a roaring trade tonight. He reached the Castillet and saw another bonfire ready and waiting to be lit. A great circle of dancers around it was going through the intricate patterns, slightly out of time to the music, which was distorted on the night air. On the far side of the circle he spotted one of Caber's men turning constantly and searching faces in the throng. Bond held back, waiting until he was certain the man was looking away from him; then he dodged nimbly through the crowd, sidestepping and pushing, until he found a clear path through the archway of the Castillet itself. He had just passed the cafe on the far side, and was about to cross the road, when he had to leap into a shop doorway. There, walking slowly, scanning both sides of the street, head tilted, as though trying to catch his quarry's scent, was the giant Caber. Bond shrank back into the doorway, holding his breath, willing the Scot not to see him.

  After what seemed an age, the giant walked on, still constantly scanning faces with his eyes. Bond edged out of the doorway and continued up the street. He could already see the intersection for which he was searching, marked by the bronze statue of a nude woman who looked unseeing down the wide road to his right. Crossing over through the thinning crowd, Bond arrived at his goal – Perpignan 's Loge de Mer, once the great financial centre of the town: its Rialto. Indeed, many people felt the street contained many an echo of the glories of Venice – particularly the old Bourse with its grey stone walls, high arched windows and intricate carving. Right on the corner of this building the original weathervane – a beautifully executed galleon still swung gently, but the Bourse itself, like the buildings opposite, had been given over to a different kind of financial transaction, for it was now a cafe. Here it was hard cash for hard liquor, coffee, soft drinks or beer. The old marble pavement was a litter of tables and chairs and people taking refreshment before joining in the festivities.

  Bond walked straight into the corner Bar Tabac and asked for the toilette. The bartender, busy filling orders and being harassed by waiters, nodded to the back of the bar where Bond found the door marked with the small male symbol. It was empty, and he went into the first cabinet, locking the door behind him and starting work almost before the bolt slid home.

  Quickly his hands moved to his belt clasp – a solid, wide U-shaped buckle with a single thick brass spike, normal enough until you twisted hard. The spike moved on a metal screw thread. Six turns released it, revealing a small steel knife blade, razor sharp, within the sheath of the spike Bond removed the blade, handling it with care, and inserted the cutting edge into an almost invisible hairline crack in the wide U-buckle. With hard downwards pressure the buckle came apart, opening on a pair of tiny hinges set at the points where it joined the leather. This was also a casing-for a tiny handle, complete with a thread into which the blade could be screwed. Equipped with this small but finely honed weapon, Bond pulled the belt from his waistband and began to measure the length. Each section of the double-stitched leather contained a small amount of emergency foreign currency in notes. German in the first two inches, Italian in the next, Dutch in the third-the whole belt containing most currencies he might need in Europe. The fourth section was what Bond needed: French francs.

  The small toughened steel blade went through the stitching like a hot knife laid against butter, opening up the two-inch section to reveal a couple of thousand francs in various denominations. Not a fortune-just under two hundred pounds sterling, the way the market was running- but ample for Bond's needs.

  He dismantled the knife, fitted it away again, and reassembled the buckle, thrusting the money into his pocket. In the bar he bought a packet of Disque Bleu and a book of matches, for change; then sauntered out into the Place, back along the way he had already come. His target was the post office, where he knew there would be telephone booths. A fast alert to M, then on with the other business as quickly as possible.

  Music still thumped out from the other side of the Castillet. He continued to mingle with the crowd, keeping to the right of the circling sardana dancers. He crouched slightly) for Murik's man was still in place, his head and eyes roving, pausing from time, to take in every face in the ever-changing pattern. Bond prepared to push himself into the middle of a group heading in his direction. Then, suddenly, the music stopped. The crowd stilled in anticipat
ion and the amplifier system crackled into life, the voice of the French announcer coming clear and loud from the horn-like speakers, bunched in little trios on the sides of buildings and in trees.

  'My friend' – the announcer could not disguise the great emotion which already cut in waves through the gathered crowds – 'the Flame, carried by the brave young people of Perpignan, has arrived. The Flame has arrived in Perpignan.'

  A great cheer rose from the crowds. Bond looked in the direction of the watcher by the Castillet, who was now searching wildly for signs, not of Bond, but of this great Flame. The fever pitch of excitement had got to everyone.

  The loudspeakers rumbled again, and with that odd mixture of farce and sense of occasion which besets local feasts-from the Mediterranean to English country villages – the opening bars of Richard Strauss's Also sprach Zarathustra climbed into the air, shattering and brilliant, associated as it was with the great events of the conquest of space.

  As the opening bars died away, so another cheer went up. A group of young girls in short white skirts came running, the crowds parting at their approach. About eight of them, each with an unlit brand held aloft, flanked the girl who carried a great blazing torch. Taking up their positions, the girls waited until the torch was set to a spot in the middle of the bonfire. The tinder took hold, and flames began to shoot from the fire, rising on the mild breeze. The girls lowered their own torches, to take flame from the fire before jogging away in the direction of the Castillet entrance.

  The crowd started to move, backing off to get a better view. Bond moved with them. It was only a matter of turning to his left and he would be at the post office within minutes.