by John Gardner
‘No. Not exactly.’
‘Well, even if I had the authority, I couldn’t let you apply. Application is by invitation, and I’m told that only people who belong to the Society of the Meek Ones, or are charter members of the Meek Ones Charity Trust are being invited – to begin with anyway.’ She added the last quickly, as though wanting to make certain she did not turn away a potential future customer. ‘Where did you hear about our card in the first place, sir?’
Bond shrugged. ‘An old friend of mine has one.’ He paused, wondering what impact it would make now the details had been released to the press. ‘A Miss Emma Dupré. She’s got one.’
‘But . . .’ the girl started, her eyes widening a fraction. Then she remembered herself. ‘Well, she must be one of the privileged number. Could I, perhaps, take down your details so that we can get in touch should the membership open up?’
Bond smiled at her, aiming smack into her face, and was pleased to see her give an uncomfortable little blush. ‘Boldman,’ he said. ‘James Boldman.’ He added an address that would cover him should the name be followed up.
‘All I can do is make a note, Mr Boldman. You see . . .’ She paused again, as though weighing her words. ‘You see, I’m really as much in the dark as you are.’ She took a pace back towards the door, as though expecting him to follow, which he did.
As she spoke, they moved into the work room. ‘To tell you the truth, you’re the first person to come into the office. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, and, as far as I can make out, I’m the only hired help.’
‘You’re in charge?’ Bond tried to make it sound offhand.
She nodded.
‘Monarch of all you survey? In charge, and responsible for all this?’ His hand traced a half-circle, taking in all the smart little workstations with the VDUs and telephones and the great mainframe databanks behind the sterile glass.
‘Yep,’ she nodded again. ‘Scary, isn’t it? There must be a million pounds’ worth of IBM hardware in here.’
‘Didn’t they interview you?’
‘Oh yes. Two very nice young men took me through my paces.’
‘When?’
‘About a month ago. One long interview – there were several applicants. They wrote to me saying I’d got the job and would I start on Monday. That was two weeks ago. Salary in advance, a couple of telephone calls telling me to stand by, that I was to interview applicants for work – good knowledge of advanced IBM software; at least a year’s hands-on experience; good character refs. You know the kind of thing.’
Bond nodded. ‘Where did you find the job advertised?’
She mentioned a couple of business magazines – Fortune, Business Life – and three daily newspapers: The Times, the Guardian and the Financial Times.
‘And they interviewed you here?’
‘Yes.’ She looked up at him and he thought he could detect concern flecking the grey eyes. As if to mirror the look, she said, ‘To be honest, I’m a little worried. They have all this layout: a lot of money invested, yet they don’t seem to be doing anything about it. The whole thing’s crazy.’
‘What’s your name?’ The question sounded casual enough, but Bond wanted to check this girl out on the magic machines back in the Regent’s Park HQ.
‘Horner. Harriett Horner.’
It sounded like an alias, but Bond had enough varied experience to know that real names were often like that.
‘Harriett Irene Horner, if you’re worried by the alliteration,’ she added, as though reading his thoughts.
‘Well, Harriett, if I were in your shoes, I reckon I’d be worried. It’s a very weird set-up.’
‘You’ve got reason to be worried, both of you!’ The voice, unpleasant, menacing, came from the doorway.
They both turned towards the voice. It came from a muscular young man, dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit that looked possibly Aquascutum. Behind him, stood two more men. They were bigger, broader, taller, and looked as though they dressed courtesy of Soldier of Fortune magazine. Both had those mean, brutal faces one associates with the SS torturers in more extravagant war movies.
‘Mr Hathaway?’ Harriett gave a small gasp of surprise.
‘You know him?’ Bond half whispered.
‘Mr Hathaway’s my immediate boss. He gave me the job.’
The smart young man smiled, and it was obvious that smiles did not come easily to him. ‘Mr Hathaway gave you the job, Ms Horner. Mr Hathaway giveth, and Mr Hathaway taketh away. We know about you. We have a fair knowledge of your friend Mr Bond here, as well.’
‘His name’s Boldman. James Boldman. That’s what he told me.’
‘I lied,’ Bond said easily. ‘Mr Hathaway’s got it right.’
‘But . . . !’ She was obviously nervous.
Bond caught the tension in her coming off in waves. He looked straight at Hathaway. ‘You going to introduce us to your friends, Mr Hathaway? Who are they, Mr Shakespeare and Mr Marlowe?’
Hathaway motioned to the thugs as a dog-handler will gesture to a pair of wolfhounds. They began to move forward. They made three paces before Bond moved, leaping to his right, the ASP automatic up and in both hands.
He did not see Hathaway move. The man was very fast, and he cursed himself for concentrating on the hoodlums more than their master. One minute, Hathaway was standing in the doorway looking elegant in his £500 suit, the next he was crouching, something appearing from nowhere – an unexpected and very loud explosion followed, and around ten IBM computer workstations became useless piles of plastic, glass and silicon chips.
‘Drop the catapult, Bond, or the next one’s on you.’ The smoke cleared and Bond could see that Hathaway was holding a short, wicked-looking combat shotgun. He did not dwell on the type, though the name SPAS Model 12 crossed his mind – a weapon of awesome power, for it is semi-automatic and can fire off its seven twelve-gauge cartridges in under sixteen seconds. Depending on the load and scatter selector, the shot will do a great deal of damage. Bond only had to glance at the devastated IBM hardware for proof. Reluctantly he dropped the pistol, placing his hands on his head.
By this time one of the hoods had the girl in a neck hold, pushing her in front of him, towards Bond.
‘That’s better.’ Hathaway was not smiling any more. He gestured for the spare thug to take Bond in a similar manner. The man turned Bond around, like an unarmed combat instructor doing a demonstration with a dummy. In a second there was a forearm around Bond’s neck and a large hand on the back of his head. He knew that a quick, sharp pressure would cause a broken neck at the least, instant death more probably. The man smelled of something Bond had not sniffed for years – bay rum – that oldest standby of long-gone hairdressers.
‘So what do we do now?’ He found speaking difficult, for his captor had a tendency to increase the pressure on his windpipe.
‘We go and visit friends, and we go very carefully and quietly.’ Hathaway had moved closer to them, facing Bond and the girl, who were to his left and right, respectively, with the toughs behind them.
‘We go down to the foyer, where we all walk out looking like friends. If anyone tries to be clever, well . . .’ He hefted the lethal combat shotgun in his hand – it had a pistol grip at one end and measured no more than thirty inches, if that. Hathaway could easily conceal it under his well-cut jacket. ‘You’ll behave, right?’ He looked from one to the other.
Bond tried to nod. Finally he muttered, ‘Yes,’ and heard a similar noise from the girl called Harriett.
Hathaway nodded to the men. The pressure relaxed, but the thugs stayed in position behind their victims.
‘I would suggest that you go first, Ms Horner and Mr Bond. My associates will be behind me, but I shall be directly behind you, and I can tell you that this thing will make a very nasty mess of you both. Now . . .’ He did not finish the sentence, for something amazing happened. For the second time that day, Bond did not fully appreciate the moves, though he knew who was performing them.
The man behind Harriett gave a squeal of pain. Bond was aware of Harriett doubling up, and of the hoodlum suddenly catapulting over her head, straight towards Hathaway.
In a reflex action, Hathaway loosed off another cartridge, but his own man was almost on top of him as he fired – a spray of blood and clothing seemed to fill the air, and by that time, Harriett had stepped behind the other thug.
Bond saw her grasp the man’s wrist, then the big hoodlum appeared to be whirling around, as though Harriett was swinging a small child in a circle. Finally she let go and, with a shriek the man went head on into the other bank of IBMs. There was an awful crashing and splintering sound, followed by the popping of fuses and flashes as small electric fires began in the terminals. But, by then, Bond was diving for his own automatic.
Hathaway was sprawled on the floor trying to disentangle himself from the body of his henchman and grab at the shotgun.
‘Don’t even consider it.’ Bond had his pistol up and pointing at the man who called himself Hathaway. But Hathaway took no notice and finally threw the body from him, one hand already on the shotgun.
He was bringing it up when Harriett seemed to materialise behind him. Her hands moved like sharp-bladed lawn edgers, down very hard on the sides of the man’s neck.
Hathaway gave a grunt and collapsed, his head lolling like that of a rag doll.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Bond could not conceal his admiration.
‘Probably in a similar place to you. I was better positioned, though.’ She was straightening her skirt and blouse, checking the seams in her stockings.
‘Harriett, I really think I should make one telephone call, then we should get out of here. I’ve no doubt that Mr Hathaway has friends.’
She nodded and glanced around at the thousands of pounds’ worth of destruction. A dangerous little electric fire was starting to get hold of the carpet. ‘Damn,’ Harriett said. ‘This is going to take a lot of explaining. Your name really is Bond?’
‘Bond,’ he acknowledged. ‘James Bond. And yours?’
‘I told the truth, but that hasn’t helped me much. If you’re what I think you are, then your superiors are going to get very cross with me.’
‘Not half as cross as Mr Hathaway’s superiors.’
She agreed, and Bond picked up the nearest telephone. One quick call to Regent’s Park and the so-called ‘Disposal Unit’ could be here in no time, clearing up the mess – or at least the dead and injured. But the telephone was dead, and he realised they had probably blown most of the electricity in the building.
‘I think we’d better go very quickly.’ He saw her grab at a handbag and jacket, which matched her black skirt.
‘I think you’re right,’ she nodded.
At the doorway, they paused and Bond looked back. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘There’s an awful lot of incompatible hardware in here now.’
They moved to the lift which was, miraculously, still working.
‘Never did take to that man Hathaway,’ Harriett said as they reached the main foyer, both of them looking as though they were on their way out to lunch.
‘Wasn’t happy about his associates either,’ Bond smiled. ‘Remind me to thank you sometime, Ms Horner.’
‘Certainly will.’ She grinned back.
The smoke detectors on the fourth floor triggered the fire alarms just as they left the building. The white van was still there, but the man waiting for his date had gone. Bond hustled the girl to the left, and then down towards Oxford Street, his head swivelling in search of a taxi. He kept one hand firmly on her elbow. He could not afford to lose this one.
‘James, what do you do?’ she asked as a taxi with its light on came into view.
‘Sort of civil servant.’ Bond gave the cabbie an address in Kilburn.
‘An armed civil servant?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Security Service?’
‘You’re getting warm, Harriett, but I’d like to know your job. And I’d like the truth, please. No fibs.’
Her eyes were a warm grey, not that cold seascape kind. ‘Well,’ she began. Then she took a deep breath. ‘Truth is, I’m an undercover investigator for the United States Internal Revenue Service.’
‘I wouldn’t like to underpay my taxes with someone like you around.’
‘No? James, I have a small problem.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m working in Britain under cover, and nobody’s asked your authorities for permission. You’ve sort of caught me on the hop.’
Bond raised an eyebrow. ‘And you hop with great agility, and exceptional talent,’ he said with a warm smile.
8
THE BLOOD OF THE FATHERS
‘I’ll flay Wolkovsky alive for this!’ M brought his fist down onto the desk, an action which seemed to make the pictures of his predecessors shake on the walls of his office.
Bond thought he had seldom seen his chief this angry. ‘I really don’t think David Wolkovsky knew anything about this.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of placation.
‘Don’t be silly, Bond. Wolkovsky knows everything the Americans are up to, and I for one won’t have their people trampling around our turf without even as much as a by your leave.’ He snatched at the intercom phone and began issuing instructions to the indefatigable Miss Moneypenny. ‘First, my compliments to Mr Wolkovsky at the US Embassy. I would like to see him here at five o’clock this afternoon. Next . . .’ he continued forcefully.
Bond’s mind slipped back to the events of the morning. He believed that, in situations such as the current one, it was often better to take action first, then ask permission later. He had taken Harriett Horner to the safe house which the Service kept in Kilburn – usually for debriefings, or field agents just back from an operation and in transit to the so-called convalescent home in Hampshire.
On arrival, he discovered the place was empty, but for a pair of very heavy minders, armed to the teeth. The first priority was to telephone the Disposal Unit, putting them on to the mayhem in the Avante Carte offices, alerting them to the possibility that fire services and police might well be already there. Once this was done, he gave the minders instructions concerning Harriett. ‘Don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll get a female officer down here as quickly as I can. In the meantime, treat her as though she was a sister in grave danger.’
‘I’ve got a sister in grave danger if I ever catch up with her,’ one of the minders said grittily.
But they took instructions from Bond who then told Harriett he would soon be back. ‘Just stay here, out of sight. I’ll fix our authorities. You’ll be okay. Just don’t worry.’
‘It’s all very well for you to say that, but I’m as illegal as a Russian agent in place.’
She was certainly right on that count, but Bond thought he could probably talk his way around it by using charm and logic with M. They had managed a brief conversation in the taxi and, once Bond had shown her his ID, and she had produced her own bona fides, Harriett spoke of the operation she was running. ‘The Charity Trust, so-called, run by the Meek Ones is a front. Their leader, Father Valentine, has millions salted away, and the Society itself originated in the United States. We have a team of six people trying to unravel dummy companies all over the world. Valentine owes Uncle Sam billions of dollars, and there are other agencies out to get him. I don’t believe you just turned up out of the blue to apply for an Avante Carte. You mentioned Emma Dupré. Well, her card was stopped this morning. It’s one of the few things I’ve had to do.’
‘Ms Dupré’s dead,’ Bond said quietly. ‘That’s how our people found out about the card in the first place. Yes, we’ve had an idea that this Valentine character isn’t all he appears to be. How long have you been working on this?’
‘It’s taken me two months to get this close, and now the whole thing’s blown.’
‘Not altogether. We’re working on it, and I’ll see to the matter of your deniable status.’ He gave her a t
hin smile. ‘My superior’s a pushover for a pretty face and an even prettier figure. Leave it to me.’
She looked uncertain, then leaned forward as though there was something else she wanted to say.
‘I’m taking you to a safe place until I can put my people in the picture.’ Bond laid his hand lightly on her shoulder. ‘If there’s anything else – any further information – best tell me now. We have quite a file on the Meek Ones and their guru.’
‘Well.’ She was undecided. Then, ‘There is one other thing. Have you ever heard of someone called Vladimir Scorpius?’
‘Who hasn’t, in my line of work?’
‘There’s a link – and it’s a very tenuous link – between Valentine and his Meek Ones, and Vladimir Scorpius.’
‘Really? What kind of link?’
‘Letters. Some cables. A couple of telephone conversations one of the other agencies monitored. Scorpius is a criminal, and nobody’s ever been able to bring proof against him. I don’t know all the details.’
‘That’s okay.’ Bond was not going to give anything away. ‘We also want Scorpius.’
‘They put our section of the IRS in because that’s often the only way to get these people. They did it way back in the 1920s with Al Capone. Now we’re at it again with Valentine and Scorpius. You know they call him the King of Terror?’
‘I didn’t, but it’s as good a name as any.’
Unless Harriett was, like Bond, holding back information, she had obviously not been briefed about the possibility of Scorpius and Father Valentine being one and the same person, but her current target was certainly the Meek Ones. ‘My chief will deal with any problems about your operation.’ He kissed her, lightly on the cheek, and gave her what was supposed to be a consoling squeeze.
M’s present outburst was the result of Bond’s laying the news on him about Harriett – an illegal American IRS undercover agent operating in England with no clearance from Home or Foreign Offices, and no note to M’s Service. The old man treated it as an outrage.