One area contained dozens of pressurized soft drink canisters, the type used in bars and restaurants.
Mathis noticed a caged area full of debris—probably rubbish waiting to be hauled away and destroyed. There were, however, many empty crates and boxes with shipping labels and markings still intact. He slowly made his way over to it. When the men weren’t looking, he crouched to his knees to get a better look at what might have been contained in the crates and boxes inside the rubbish cage. He moved around to the other side of the cage to get a better view.
“What are you doing?” boomed a voice behind him. Mathis stood and was confronted by a huge, burly man with no shirt. His chest bulged with muscles and his skin was shiny with sweat.
“I’m an inspector,” Mathis said confidently. He flashed the man his badge. “Do you have the key to this cage?”
The man was astounded at the question. “What? Yeah, I have it. Who the hell are you?” Mathis sized him up as the slow-but-strong type.
“I told you, I’m an inspector,” Mathis said as he walked away. “I’m finished now, I was just leaving. Thank you very much.”
Mathis walked away and shot around an eight-foot-high stack of cargo before the lumbering giant had time to react. “Hey you!” the man called, starting after him. Mathis pulled his weapon and flattened himself against the cargo. As the worker came around, Mathis swung the butt of his Smith & Wesson at the man’s face. There was a huge crunch as the metal collided with flesh and bone. The giant fell backward like a brick, out cold.
Mathis peered around the cargo stack to make sure no one had heard. He then searched the man’s pockets and found a set of keys. He quickly went back to the cage, examined the lock, and determined which key would be most likely to do the trick. He inserted it into the lock—and it worked.
Mathis squatted to examine the crates more closely. He pried off the top of one and found that it was empty, as expected. He rummaged through the boxes and came across a group of four ordinary wooden crates that were painted with a familiar French military green. And that’s when he noticed it. On the corner of a crate, barely visible, was a marking that stated “Propriété de l’Armée de l’Air.”
Solenzara? It had to be!
Mathis left the cage and locked it behind him. Instead of putting the keys back, though, he decided to throw them in a dustbin. He calmly walked past the still unconscious big man, smiled at the receptionist as he went past, and left through the front door.
Mathis chose to stay at the Hotel Corsica, on the road between Calvi and the airport. It was a secluded, recently renovated three star hotel.
When he got to his room, he took some hotel notepaper from the desk and sat down to write. Using a code that he had devised with Bond, Mathis wrote a short but direct message. He folded the paper, put it inside an envelope, and then addressed it to Bond at SIS in London. The next thing he did was pack and prepare to leave.
He went back downstairs to the lobby and checked out. He asked the receptionist where the nearest post office was. She replied that she could post a letter for him, so he left the envelope with her and went outside with his bag to his car.
Mathis drove into Calvi, past the looming citadel containing the old town, and parked his car a short distance from the marina. He got out and walked to the docks to look for his friend. He found the Sailor on a yacht, scrubbing the floor.
“Bonjour, my friend!” he said.
“Bonjour,” Mathis said. “If an Englishman comes here looking for me, please help him out. I’m going down south to see if I can find this Pierre Rodiac.”
“No problem. I hope he likes Corsican wine as much as you and I do. By the way, I asked around about this Rodiac. I got some funny reactions from a few people. They told me not to stick my nose into his business. Apparently he comes from a very traditional Corsican family, one that abides by vendetta.”
Indeed, Corsica was the birthplace of the vendetta. Every gift shop on the island sold a selection of knives, for these were the weapons of choice among Corsicans. There was even a style with a long narrow blade and a thin wooden handle called Vendetta Corse, named after the centuries-old tradition.
“Rodiac supposedly lives near Sartène, but not in the village,” the Sailor continued. “He goes there often enough for one to think that he lives nearby, maybe on a farm or something between villages. I would ask about him at restaurants and bars, I think.”
“That’s good advice, Sailor, merci.”
“So you’re really going to Sartène, eh?” the Sailor whispered. “Be careful who you talk to. The people in that town take their heritage very seriously.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Mathis said. He shook hands with the Sailor, wished him luck, and left Calvi.
SEVEN
THE ASSIGNMENT
M HAD RETRACTED HER THREAT TO TAKE BOND OFF THE UNION CASE AFTER he had obtained information about the retinal tattoo and, furthermore, she had given him another three weeks to find something more concrete about it and its relationship to Union membership. In the meantime, details of this bizarre Union “signature” went out to all the major intelligence and law enforcement agencies in the world. M was confounded by the Ministry’s decision not to provide the information to ophthalmologists. Without them, she thought, there was little hope in identifying Union members.
Bond put in another call to René Mathis but learned from his assistant that his colleague was still away on leave. Christ, Bond thought, how long a leave was he allowed to take? Frustrated, Bond sat at his desk at SIS and wondered what the hell he should do now.
“Have you tried working with the Paris station on finding him?” Nigel Smith asked him.
“I never liked working with the Paris station,” Bond said, grumbling.
“Do you know the new station head?”
“No,” Bond said.
“He was assigned to the post during the last year. The entire operation is under new management, so to speak. Bertrand Collette’s his name.”
“I’ve never met him.”
“Well, I know him,” Nigel said. “We studied together at Oxford.”
“He’s French?”
“That’s right. He spent a year at Oxford. Smart fellow. Very good with computers, the internet, that sort of thing. Why don’t I give him a call and see if he can find out anything about Mathis?”
“Be my guest,” Bond said, but he was skeptical. When Bond arrived for work the following morning, Nigel stopped him.
“I heard from Bertrand in Paris,” he said. “He dug around the DGSE, collecting on some old favors. Mathis walked out of his job two months ago. This story that he’s ‘on leave’ isn’t true. He more or less resigned; I suppose the official line is that he’s on ‘indefinite’ leave. He was on a case involving a possible Union-related theft of a new highly explosive material from a French air force base in Corsica. Some stuff the Americans cooked up, called CL-20. However, according to his last report to his chief, he thought he may have found a lead regarding the whereabouts of none other than Le Gérant.”
Bond asked, “Where is he now?”
“That’s the problem. No one really knows. He was last seen in Monte Carlo.”
“Monte Carlo?” Bond rubbed his chin. “Good work, Nigel. Keep working on tracking him down.”
“I will.”
Bond stepped into his office and noticed the blinking red light on his phone. He picked up the receiver, pressed the message button and heard Miss Moneypenny’s voice.
“M wants you as soon as you get in, James.”
Bond punched the buttons and got her on the phone. “I’m on my way up, Penny.”
He found M with Bill Tanner in her office.
“Morning, Double-O Seven,” she said.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
“Stroke of luck, I think,” she began. “I’ve had a call from my opposite number at the DGSE. It seems that they were contacted by an ophthalmologist in Paris who was once in the French secret servic
e, but has since retired. When he was an agent, his cover was an eye doctor, so when he retired from the service he simply went back to private medical practice.” She nodded at Tanner, who continued the briefing.
“It seems that due to a bureaucratic error, this French doctor still receives reports sent to him by the DGSE so he read all about the tattoo. It interested him a great deal because he had seen the tattoo on one of his patients. He reported it right away.”
“Who’s the patient?”
“We don’t know,” Tanner said. “They won’t tell us. I think after the débâcle in Nice a few months ago, they’re not too interested in having us around.”
“Whose side are they on, anyway?” Bond asked, shaking his head.
“I want you to go to Paris,” M said. “You’re to get in touch with our new Paris Branch head and work with him. You’re to conduct the investigation with discretion. We don’t want to upset our French friends … too much. But as far as I’m concerned, Double-O Seven, this is a war and we have to conduct it like one. Find out who this patient is and follow it through to wherever it leads you.”
Bond told her what he’d learned about Mathis. She agreed that the information was important. “Keep on it,” she said. “Who knows, maybe the two paths will cross at some point. Please make your arrangements with Miss Moneypenny and stop by Q Branch on your way out. Major Boothroyd has something for you.”
“Ah, there you are, Double-O Seven,” Boothroyd said as Bond walked into his office in Q Branch. He closed the door to keep out the noise from the workshop.
“You wanted to see me, Major?” Bond asked.
“I did, Double-O Seven, I did. Come in.” Boothroyd got up from behind his workbench, went over to a table, picked up something inside a cloth bag, and brought it back to Bond.
“When this business with the retinal tattoos began, M asked me if I could come up with something that intelligence agencies could use to aid non-doctors in searching for these things. You’re going to test the prototype. Go ahead, open it.”
The bag contained an object that was small enough to fit in Bond’s palm. Boothroyd’s latest invention was heavier than he had expected.
“A camera?” Bond asked, turning it over to examine all sides.
Boothroyd seemed insulted. “It’s not—oh, well, I suppose, it is a camera, it’s a camera as well, and it takes damned good pictures, too, if I do say so myself … but that’s not what it is, Double-O Seven.”
“It’s not?”
“No, it’s an ophthalmoscope.”
Bond looked at him blankly.
“You know,” Boothroyd continued, “what eye doctors use to look through your pupils and examine the inside of your eye.”
“But it’s a nice camera,” Bond insisted.
“Would you pay attention, Double-O Seven?” Boothroyd huffed. “Yes, it’s an ordinary camera except when you depress this button …” He pointed to a tiny one located on the bottom of the device. Bond pressed it and the camera shot a thin bright beam of light from its lens.
“Do you know how to examine someone’s eye, Double-O Seven?” Boothroyd asked.
“I’m afraid not, Major,” Bond said, looking through the camera viewer at a blurry room. “I read your tutorial about it, though.”
“Well that would have given you a rudimentary overview of how it’s done. I’m pleased to hear that you bothered to look at it. Come closer to me with the device, Double-O Seven,” Boothroyd said.
As the major’s face came into view, the highly magnified images of flesh and hair surprised Bond.
“Focus on my eye, would you?” Bond got closer and found the major’s eye. “The device inside is a Welch Allyn Coaxial-Plus ophthalmoscope with all the usual features such as superior optics for easy entry into undilated pupils, opacity settings, and twenty-eight lenses. Just be careful that you don’t flick it over into the red zone.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s the laser. It’s not terribly powerful, but at very close range, say, two to three feet, it will cut through thin metal. At a distance you might be able to blind someone temporarily by pointing the beam at his eyes.”
Bond instinctively found the correct dials to change lenses. As he advanced the selections in single dioptre steps, the major’s eye began to exhibit remarkable clarity. Bond went into the pupil, and into the inside of the eye.
Boothroyd continued, “The camera is also equipped with a handy listening device. You pull out the earpieces from the sides and there’s a suction cup—”
“Don’t move, Major,” Bond said as he pointed the light at the back of Boothroyd’s eye, turning it into a strange, organic cavern. The blood vessels carved into the orange retinal walls were dark and red.
Boothroyd obliged him but continued talking. “The device is equipped with a Halogen bulb. Should last a long time. I also threw in a bonus—a UV filter that allows you to look at fingerprints!”
“Major, when was the last time you had your eyes checked?” Bond asked, focusing on an odd blood vessel.
“Why?”
“You have a blockage of a small vein. It’s not too near the light sensitive area on the retina, but if the obstruction grows you might have a problem like retinal vein occlusion.”
“Thank you, Double-O Seven, but yes, I know about that little vein. It’s been like that forever.”
Bond shut it off and said, “In that case, Major, then I’d say you have the eyes of a child.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Boothroyd said, taking the camera away from him. “Look here, if you release this mechanism, the ophthalmoscope separates from the camera housing.” He pressed it and a cylindrical metal object the size of a lipstick ejected from the bottom. Boothroyd held it to his eye and turned on the beam.
“I see, so that you can use it as a legitimate ophthalmoscope instead of a camera,” Bond said.
Boothroyd lowered the scope and said, “I don’t believe you’ve ever used any of our equipment legitimately, Double-O Seven.”
EIGHT
THE ALLY
BOND EMERGED FROM THE EUROTUNNEL IN HIS ASTON MARTIN DB5, THE one he had purchased from SIS when the company had auctioned off some of the company cars a few years ago. The extras had been removed and the cars were sold to the highest bidders and Bond had outbid Bill Tanner on this classic favorite. It still ran smoothly.
Bond had his eye on the new Aston Martin DB7 Vantage and was hoping that Q Branch would purchase one for use as a company car. But for now, the reliable DB5 was good enough. It still provoked the occasional stare from other drivers and could impress a girl or two.
He had made the crossing from Folkestone and entered the French traffic at Coquelles, some five kilometers southwest of Calais. Deciding to take the coastal road, Bond pulled into moderately heavy traffic on the A16 and drove toward Boulogne-sur-Mer. He eventually went through Amiens and headed south toward Paris.
Bond loved France, but he wasn’t particularly fond of Paris. He found the French countryside gorgeous, its greener-than-green fields and hills—marked here and there with farms and villages—never failed to give him a sense of uncommon tranquility. He occasionally chose to visit Royale-les-Eaux on the north coast when he wanted to get away from England for a weekend without having to fly all the way to Jamaica to Shamelady, his winter retreat. He also enjoyed parts of the south of France, simply because he adored the Mediterranean.
Paris, on the other hand, he had never warmed to. His attitude probably harked back to his first visit to the city at the age of sixteen, when he had lost his virginity and his notecase in one evening. Although the sex had been explosive, the experience of discovering that he’d been taken for a ride had left a permanent bad taste in his mouth. As he grew older, Bond refused to buy into the myth that Paris was “the most romantic city in the world.” No, his feelings for Paris hadn’t changed with maturity. He still felt that the city had sold its soul to the tourists. Traffic was horrendous (he wouldn’t have
driven had he not thought that he might need the car later) and the women, while certainly beautiful, tended to be more aloof and haughty than in other European countries. They were almost as bad as the girls in London!
Bond smiled as he admonished himself for that one.
He got into the city by midday and drove deep into the center. As he made his way to the 9th arrondissement, where the belle époque splendor was thankfully only partially dominated by the busy traffic and pedestrians, he noticed a large billboard featuring an astonishingly attractive girl. It was an advertisement for a new line of women’s clothing called Indecent Exposure, which seemed to flaunt the fact that whoever wore the clothes was actually wearing very little. The girl on the billboard was dressed in nothing more than a drape that ingeniously fastened onto a collar, swept around behind her back and under the right arm, across her breasts, flowed around her waist and back to the front where it ended, tied at the side of her left hip. What she may have had on underneath was left to the imagination. But it wasn’t what she was wearing that struck Bond. It was her stunningly beautiful face. She had dark brown hair cut short and layered, amazing brown eyes that penetrated his solar plexus even from this distance, a sensuous mouth with full, red lips, a fresh complexion, and an attitude that dared anyone to look at her and not be mesmerized.
Perhaps there were some French girls worth pursuing! he thought.
Bond had never had a taste for fashion models. While many were extraordinarily gorgeous, he found that they lacked a certain presence of mind that was a prerequisite for him. Good sex was one thing and was fine for one night, but he also liked someone he could talk to if there was going to be any kind of longevity.
He quickly forgot about the billboard girl as he drove past the magnificent Opéra Garnier in the Place de l’Opéra, the setting for Gaston Leroux’s famous horror story, made a sharp right onto rue Scribe, then pulled into the drive of his hotel.
Bertrand Collette at Station P had arranged for Bond to stay at the elegant Grand Hotel Inter-continental, certainly one of the finest hotels in Paris and probably in Europe. It was convenient since Station P, the Paris branch of Britain’s secret service, was located close by.
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