Young Bond

by Steve Cole

  ‘He never did, though,’ James murmured; the keepsake had stayed buried and Max Bond had died two years ago. ‘Thing is, Father was back for at least a day before he and Mother put me on the train and left for Chamonix. Why didn’t he give this to me then?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, James. It’s strange that he didn’t post this, either, since there’s a stamp on it.’ From a buttoned sidepocket Charmian had produced an envelope addressed to Max. ‘Especially since I recall he sent a postcard to Max from Chamonix dated the day they got there . . .’

  ‘And within twenty-four hours he was dead.’ Looking at the letter, James felt a stab of fire deep inside. Both sender and recipient were gone from the world. It wasn’t fair. ‘Can . . . can we read what he said?’

  Charmian smiled. ‘Of course. I just wanted to wait until you were here with me.’

  Anticipation built quickly. James could hardly credit it: a chance to snatch a few moments of his father’s company, lost across the years! But the message, written in a hurried hand, seemed to refer back to a past conversation and read strangely.

  ‘Max, what you’ll find in Moscow will have great effect on London,’ Charmian read slowly. ‘Talpid Henson speaks of rebuilding the mill. You must visit. All can be brought down with one blow.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ James broke in. ‘And who is Talpid Henson?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve come across that name before. A shared acquaintance, perhaps.’ Charmian shook her head, the memory lost to her. ‘I don’t think Talpid’s his proper first name though. Family Talpidae is the Latin classification for moles.’ She smiled. ‘A talpid is small, dark and furry with a tubular snout. Presumably your father’s nickname for this unfortunate Henson fellow.’

  ‘May I see what else he wrote?’ James plucked the letter from her grasp. He glanced through some trivia about a fabled fishing trip back in ’97 where the Bond men had apparently waited years for a bite, and then a thrill went through him to see his name mentioned in the last line: Read to K, play with James to get more out of the French memory for a start. Sincerely, Andrew. There was no other comment, and James was baffled. Get more out of the French memory?

  ‘There’d be no end of those, given how many visits we all made to Chamonix.’ Charmian shook her head. ‘Strangely put, isn’t it . . .?’

  James nodded, brooding. ‘Read to K: who is this “K”, then?’

  ‘I can’t think who Max would be reading aloud to.’ Charmian studied the letter and smiled. ‘But, oh my, I remember that blessed fishing trip. Why he thought to write about it here, I don’t know, particularly since it happened in 1901, not 1897. I remember, because Edward VII was to be crowned King. Andrew and Max were dispatched by your grandmother to fish the lochs at Auchindrain for brown trout, ready to feed the hordes at the street party. They came home dejected with half a dozen perch, having missed the whole thing!’

  James nodded. Very much a Scottish memory, it seemed, rather than one from France.

  The day dragged on, as did the train; the landscape stretched past the window. By the time they had reached London, changed trains and arrived in Pett Bottom, night had swallowed the world and Charmian suggested they turn in.

  James complied, but couldn’t sleep, thinking about his father and how little he’d really known him. He’d always imagined that one day he would travel the globe with Andrew Bond, become a part of his world. Now, of course, it was all too late, and the contents of the pack and the unsent letter kept scattering through his thoughts. Talpid . . . ninety-seven . . . read to K . . . the mill . . .

  Then, in the very small hours, James remembered what Charmian had said about Max receiving a postcard from Chamonix.

  He knew Charmian had kept her brothers’ old correspondence (‘It’s the voice that brings people back to you, James, not their belongings’); it was all packed away neatly in the attic, and so, around five a.m., it was there that James made for, quietly padding about between the battered trunks full of weighty books and papers, and files with dated letters arranged by recipient. He began to sort through them as quietly as he could, but Charmian, a scarlet robe wrapped around her and her hair in disarray, soon appeared through the hatch in the floor.

  ‘Inevitably, you’re looking for this.’ She held up a postcard. ‘I remembered Max saying at the funeral how this must have been the last thing your father wrote, and how poor an epitaph it made. And I knew I’d seen “Talpid Henson” somewhere before. Shall we?’

  They repaired to the kitchen for cocoa by the light of an oil lamp. It didn’t take long to fully decipher the scrawled message on the postcard:

  Max,

  Returned from business. Talpid Henson speaks of rebuilding the bank for when you visit. Foundations dangerous? See also further correspondence and polish instrument in James’s case to bring it all down.

  Hope the broken note in the major key finds you well, or you it.

  Andrew

  ‘Polish what?’ James muttered. ‘I’ve never played an instrument.’

  ‘Cryptic and confounding, isn’t it?’ Charmian smiled faintly. ‘You know, to me this whiffs of a kind of overgrown-schoolboy code.’

  ‘And to crack that code, you’d need a different kind of “major key”.’ James frowned. ‘See also further correspondence – does that mean the letter in the rucksack that Uncle Max never got?’

  ‘Perhaps the two are meant to be taken together,’ Charmian agreed. ‘Our talpid friend sounds very busy, doesn’t he? Rebuilding the mill in one letter and rebuilding the bank in the other.’ She paused. ‘Rebuilding Millbank, perhaps?’

  ‘Millbank in London, you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. But your father says that his work in Moscow will affect London.’

  James remembered why the name rang a bell. ‘Millbank was mostly pulled down after the great Thames flood of 1928, wasn’t it? By 1932 rebuilding would have been well underway . . .’ He frowned, a quiet thrill travelling down his spine. ‘Uncle Max was still working for the Secret Intelligence Service back then – could this code be linked to his work?’

  ‘Your father was a salesman for Vickers, not a spy.’

  ‘He travelled the world selling weapons,’ James argued. ‘He must’ve come into contact with the sorts of people Uncle Max was spying on.’

  ‘Perhaps. But whatever the mystery here, we’re three years too late to do anything about it.’ Charmian put the postcard picture-side up on the table; the monochrome mountains glimmered in the oil lamp’s glow until she lowered the wick and blew hard to put out the light. ‘I declare night to be restored. Let’s go back to our beds and salvage what sleep we can.’

  James dutifully trailed off to his room, but his mind was turning too fast for him to contemplate sleep. Any mystery he found tantalizing, but this – unfinished business between his father and his uncle? It couldn’t be more personal!

  To meekly accept that the mystery was done with was unthinkable.

  If the truth can be found, James thought, I’ll find it.

  3

  Tall Buildings and

  Their Secrets

  HE’D PLANNED TO pass the summer making his own diving equipment, ready to test it at St Margaret’s Bay, but now James had a new purpose: to learn what it was his father had been trying to tell his brother, the spy.

  If the postcard and the letter were two parts of a cryptic puzzle, what was the solution? Play with James, Andrew Bond had told his brother. Polish instrument in James’s case. And yet James had never owned or kept a musical instrument, so he couldn’t see how that might fit – not yet, at least. If Aunt Charmian was right – if the mole-like Henson’s actions with a mill and a bank were linked to the rebuilding of Millbank – perhaps the fishing trip with the wrong year ascribed was another clue. Max would surely know the correct date, after all! And he’d said they’d waited years for a fish to bite, drawing attention to that number: ‘97’ . . .

  Could that be part of an address – number 97, Millbank?

&
nbsp; It sounded fanciful to James, but with no other leads, the itch of possibility needed scratching.

  Charmian had decided to pass on the cryptic messages to a friend of Uncle Max’s at the Secret Intelligence Service, in case they were of any interest, so James offered to act as courier. It would give him time and opportunity to conduct his own investigations.

  The SIS headquarters were situated near St James’s Park station on Broadway. It was a nondescript office building, of which SIS occupied the third and fourth floors – in secret, of course. The sign on the front door was in the name of a fire-extinguisher company. The general public weren’t supposed to know of the office’s real purpose. James had been instructed to bring his passport for inspection before he’d be allowed in.

  He rang the bell, and before long the door was opened by a young man with slicked-back hair and skin the same shade of grey as his suit. James produced his identity papers, the man checked them, then showed James into a drab and dowdy hallway with not an iota of glamour about it.

  ‘You have something for us,’ the man said, without enthusiasm.

  Reluctantly James handed over the envelope with the correspondence inside. He’d carefully transcribed the words for his own reference, but to surrender the originals was difficult.

  The young man took the envelope in silence.

  ‘Is . . . Adam Elmhirst here?’ James asked. When he’d got caught up in danger in Los Angeles last year, Elmhirst, an SIS officer, had saved his life. James had hoped to ask him for help now. ‘I met him once—’

  ‘You’re out of luck today,’ the young man broke in. ‘I’ll tell him you asked after him. Goodbye.’

  Before James could argue he was shown brusquely back outside. The door clicked shut and he stood smarting in the sunlight, dismissed.

  So much for my errand for the day, he thought. Now it’s time to take care of my own business.

  Consulting Charmian’s battered A.B.C. Pocket Atlas-Guide to London, James walked along Broadway, down Strutton Ground and Horseferry Road before turning right onto Regency Street. Ninety-seven Millbank was less than a twenty-minute walk away.

  James saw that a new building now stood on the site, just beside the Thames’s north bank: an international school, the Mechta Academy for the Performing Arts.

  Since the catastrophic flood that had left Millbank in dank destruction, the whole area had been razed so that smarter, safer modern buildings could be built. The Mechta Academy stood out: a kind of white concrete cascade of enormous blocks arranged around an oval central tower. Foundations dangerous, his father had written four years ago. Well, the buttressing around the base of this building looked hefty enough to protect it from further flooding.

  The building stood behind black wrought-iron gates, and James could see children in red and yellow uniforms exercising with teachers in the landscaped grounds.

  So school hasn’t broken up for summer? James frowned. What are they doing in there?

  Perhaps international schools had different rules.

  As one proficient in breaking rules of any sort, James resolved to learn more.

  The next week saw James back in London, keeping a newly made appointment at the grand Public Record Office off Chancery Lane, to try and learn more about the Academy. He was asked for identification and was relieved he’d not removed his passport from his jacket since his last visit to the capital.

  Dangerous foundations . . . did it refer to the basics of the children’s learning at the Academy?

  It was possible, James supposed, although his father would have had no direct knowledge of it. Construction of number 97, Millbank had begun in 1931, and was still underway when Andrew Bond had died in ’32. The name on the architect’s plans was one Ivan Kalashnikov – a Russian national perhaps. James knew that diplomatic relations between Britain and the Soviet Union had been tense and difficult for years, each side accusing the other of spying and sabotage and worse. High-profile work by a Russian architect in the heart of Westminster must have raised some eyebrows in high places.

  Max, Andrew Bond had written, my work in Moscow will have great effect on London . . .

  Records showed that Kalashnikov had been the architect of three other buildings near the River Thames – office blocks with a kind of brutal, functional grace that stood out in their environs. James studied the plans carefully, noting a few key features, but they failed to show the foundations.

  What did you expect to find? James wondered sullenly. And yet an instinct, some gut feeling, told him to continue the search, to learn more. James had learned to trust that inner voice.

  If the plans couldn’t help him, he’d have to gain some first-hand intelligence. The Academy was clearly still open for its pupils, regardless of the summer break. Let’s see if it will open its doors to me, James thought.

  Having caught a bus to Millbank from Chancery Lane, James decided that the best way to gain entrance to the Academy was to make a damned nuisance of himself. With his father’s old, rust-stained backpack over one shoulder, he marched up to the gates and repeatedly rang the bell.

  Eventually a large man in his twenties, with high cheekbones and a dark demeanour, strode intimidatingly from the main building. Despite his sombre grey suit he looked more like a soldier than a teacher, and said nothing as he approached, interrogating with his eyes alone.

  ‘I am here for the tour I arranged with your head of admissions,’ James said boldly and, true to the spirit of his covert mission, decided to assume a false identity. ‘The name is . . . Grande. Hugo Grande. My father believes I should board here. If I like what I see, I could be your latest and greatest pupil.’

  The man glared and pointed past James, indicating he should leave.

  James shook his head and checked his watch, which showed the time to be almost half past three. ‘The tour was booked for three thirty. I’d show you the letter I received, but Father has it, and he’s not collecting me till six. Perhaps you could check with whoever’s in charge?’

  Turning on his heel, the man stalked away.

  ‘I’m not leaving!’ James called after him. ‘Not until I’ve been seen!’ Why wait for trouble for find me, he thought, when I can go looking? So he stayed put, ringing the bell continuously for ten minutes. Finally the Slavic soldier returned and unlocked the gate, escorting James in the same stolid silence.

  I’m in! James felt a familiar frisson of excitement. What next?

  He was led into the cool of the school reception, where floorboards of sprung oak met pale wallpaper in tasteful neutrality. Another man was there, and this one could talk as well as glower. Towering and paunchy, he spoke with the air of one who mistrusts all things on principle. ‘You say your name is Grande?’

  ‘Hugo Grande, yes.’ James was actually borrowing the name of his old schoolfriend, a dwarf; he thought Hugo would enjoy the irony of inspiring a tall tale. ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘I am Andrei Karachan.’ His Russian accent was as heavy as he looked. ‘The Director of Operations.’

  So – the Soviet link ran further! James surveyed this ‘Director’: a wild crown of thick black hair danced around the bald spot in the middle of the big man’s head, mirrored by a greying beard below. In the heavily pockmarked face, penetrating eyes shifted in suspicion.

  ‘There is no record of a tour for a prospective pupil named Grande scheduled for this or any other day.’ Karachan nodded to the escort then looked back at James. ‘Having come here in error, you will now leave the premises.’

  ‘Wait!’ James took a step closer to Karachan, keeping poker-faced as he began his bluff. ‘Do you really want to throw me out? My father is extremely high up in the Diplomatic Service, and a personal friend of the Head.’

  The escort moved towards James, but Karachan barked something in Russian, held up a hand, and the man refrained from propelling James out through the door.

  ‘Perhaps I could just watch the other pupils at work . . . or is it play?’ James smiled as openly as he
could. ‘Are there lessons right through the summer?’

  ‘No. They practise – for the big show.’ Karachan eyed the battered backpack on James’s shoulder with disapproval. ‘Wait here. I will find someone willing to speak to you.’ He muttered some more Russian to his colleague; the Slav nodded, folded his arms and fixed James with a baleful gaze. Karachan headed for an inner doorway. As the door swung open, James saw a slender, dark-skinned boy in a loose cotton-drill suit with a shaved head and large brown eyes, looking in curiously. Remembering it was an international school, James supposed he was one of the older pupils. Karachan shooed the boy away as he swept through and the door clicked shut behind him. James was left alone in reception with his minder.

  As the minutes passed, James began to sweat. What if Karachan was talking to the Headmaster right now and realizing James’s deception?

  He looked up as the inner door swung open again. This time a woman entered – lean and aristocratic. With her poise and graceful step she might once have danced professionally. The way she wore her hair, like a young 1920s flapper despite her age – her dark blunt bob cut just below her ears was now flecked with silver – suggested she found those days hard to leave behind.

  ‘Well, well, what have we here?’ Her pince-nez edged down the sharp slope of her nose as her grey eyes fixed on James with fascination. ‘Hugo Grande, is this so?’

  ‘That’s right,’ James began.

  ‘A fine French name. I am Madame Gaiana Radek, the Assistant Principal here.’ Her careful English was spoken a little eccentrically, the French undertones turning the th sounds into zs. ‘I regret most strongly that there is no record of your application.’