by John Gardner
"What kind of special program?"
"I've heard the name only - they call it the Balloon Game, and there seem to be specialists involved." Bond was concentrating, writing back the protect program on to the hijack simulation original. "They're all specialists, Cindy."
"No, I've seen some of these guys. They're not all hoods and heavies.
Some are like . . . are like pilots and parsons.
"Parsons?"
"Well, not exactly. Doctors and dentists, if you like.
Upright. Professional."
"The Balloon Game?"
"I heard Tigerbalm use the expression, and one of the others - talking to Old Bald Eagle.
Will you report it, please? I think it's something nasty." Bond said he would be getting the copies of these two programs to London quickly.
He'd mention the Balloon Game at the same time.
"You think they're using it now? Training on it?"
"Positive."
"If we could get a copy.
"Not a chance. Not yet, anyway.
He fell silent, finishing off the job in hand. Presently he rattled off a description of RollingJoe Zwingli. "Ever see anyone like him around Endor?" he asked.
"General Zwingli. I recognise the description, and the answer's no. I had some garbled message from Percy that he's alive." She paused, adding that this seemed incredible.
Bond completed his tasks and returned the original disks to Cindy and asked about the routine at the house.
Did Jason and Dazzle ever go out? Or away? How many security people did they have around?
Yes, he went away for a couple of days about once a month. Always left and returned at night. Never left the house during the day, never showed his face in the village. Cindy invariably referred to Jay Autem as the Target, or Old Bald Eagle.
"Very cagey, our Target. Dazzle's out and about a great deal - in the village, over to Oxford, London, taking trips abroad. I suspect she's the liaison officer."
"Where abroad?"
"Middle East, Europe. All over. Percy's got the list. I try to keep a track, mainly from hotel book matches or flight labels. But she's cagey as well. Gets rid of a lot of stuff before she comes home." As for the household, there was one Filipino boy and four security men. "He has six genuine sales reps who wouldn't suspect a thing. But they're on the outside. The four security men double as reps and staff. It's very good cover. Would have had me fooled if I hadn't known better. They're all quiet, efficient guys - two cars between them, out and about a lot, managing the telephones, taking orders, distributing the genuine Gunfire Simulations packages. But two of them never leave the house. They work on the security in a strict rota. The electronics are highly sophisticated. Breakable, but clever. I mean, you have to know the system to fiddle it.
What's more, as I've already told you, they alter the codings for every shift. You can only get in and out if you know the numbers for a particular six-hour period. Even then, the machines have to know your voice-print."
"Visual?" Bond asked.
"Quite a lot - the main gates, large areas of the walls, front and rear of the house. You can only dodge the closed-circuit stuff at the back, and then only if you know the pattern. They change that with the lock codings, so you really do need to know your six-hour period to get in or out without being detected. An intruder wouldn't last three minutes."
"Ever had any?"
"Intruders? Only a tramp, and one false alarm - at least they presume it was a false alarm."
"Weapons?"
"I was around when the false alarm was triggered. Yes, one of the guys on duty had a hand gun. So I've seen one.
There are probably more. James, can I get going? I can't afford to get caught with these disks on me. There are blanks in the cabinets .
"On your way, Cindy, and good luck. I'll see you tonight. I'm coming for a little tournament with our Target. By the way, your friend Peter tipped me off about Jason's style of play "He doesn't like to lose,' she said with a grin. "Almost pathological, like a child.
It's a matter of honour with him." Bond did not smile. "And me,' he said softly. "It's a matter of honour with me." It was past three-thirty in the morning. Bond packed up the equipment and took it down to the car, locking it away in the boot. Back in his room, he put the cloned programs in a FloppiPak disk mailer, smiling wryly at the frightful nomenclature of the trade. He addressed the label to himself at a Post Office box number, then weighed the small, flat package in his hand, making an intelligent guess as to weight. He stuck on what he estimated to be sufficient postage from a folder of stamps in his briefcase. He would have liked to deliver the package in person, but he was not going to leave anything to chance.
Sitting at the small dressing table, Bond next wrote a short note to Freddie on hotel paper.
Gone to Oxford for the morning. Didn't want to wake you, but will be back for lunch. How about a return match this afternoon?
Stripping off, he ran a cold shower and stepped under it, holding his face against the stinging needle spray and gasping at the initial shock. After a minute or so, he added some warm water, soaped himself, then rubbed himself down, towelling his body briskly. Before shaving he climbed into his underwear, a pair of black Ted Lapidus cords and a black cotton rollneck. He strapped the ASP automatic, in its holster, so that it lay hard against his right hip. Last, he put on a light suede jacket and pushed his feet into the old favourite moccasins.
It was just getting light, the dark sky changing to grey and then that cold-washed pearl which heralds unsettled weather. With the detested FloppiPak in his briefcase Bond went downstairs, left his key and the note for Freddie at the deserted reception and went out to the car.
The Bentley's engine growled into life at the first turn of the key, and he allowed it to settle to its normal, gentle purr, fastening the seatbelt and watching the red warning lights flick off one by one.
Releasing the foot brake, he slid the selector into Drive and let the car roll forward. If he took the Oxford road, turned on to the ring road, and then headed for the M40 he could be in London in ninety minutes.
It began to rain as he reached the big roundabout on the periphery of the ring road and took the dual carriageway, heading towards London.
He was a mile or so along this stretch when the white Mercedes of the day before appeared in his mirror.
Bond cursed silently, tightened his seatbelt and moved his foot smoothly down on the accelerator. The car slid forward, gathering power, the speedometer rising to 100, then 120 miles per hour.
There was little traffic as he slid neatly in and out of the stray cars and lorries, mainly keeping to the fast lane.
The white Mercedes held back, but even at speed, Bond could not throw it off altogether. Ahead the signs came up for an exit.
Flicking the indicator at the last moment, he left the dual carriageway still well in excess of the 100 miles per hour mark, the Bentley responding to his light control, holding the road during the turn. The Mercedes seemed to have disappeared. He hoped that the driver had not been able to reduce speed in time to get off the main highway.
Ahead the road narrowed, fir trees shadowing either side. A lumbering heavy transporter grumbled along at fifty behind a petrol tanker. The Bentley's speed dropped. As he rounded the next bend, Bond caught a flash of headlights, blinking on and off from a lay-by.
The next time he looked there was another Mercedes hooking itself on to his tail.
They had radio contact, he thought, and probably five or six cars covering him. Taking the next left turn, he picked up the telephone and, without allowing his eyes to leave the road, punched out the numbers that would raise the Duty Officer at the Regent's Park Headquarters on a scrambled radio line.
The road narrowed. The second Mercedes was still there when he negotiated the next turn just as the Duty Officer answered.
"Gamesman flash for Dungeonmaster." Bond spoke rapidly. "Am being followed, south of Oxford. Important package for Dungeonm
aster. Will attempt mail.
Addressed myself. The Programmer is definitely involved all illegal actions as thought. Investigate Balloon Game. Speak to the Goddess."
"Understood,' the Duty Officer said, and the line was closed.
As he took the next bend, Bond saw a village coming up and realised he had outdistanced the Mercedes. He pumped the footbrake, slowing the Bentley dramatically, looking ahead and to the left. The car was almost out of the village before he spotted the welcome brilliant red of a post box. The Bentley slid to a halt beside it, and Bond had his seatbelt off before the car had stopped rolling.
It took less than twenty seconds to slip the package into the box and return to the driving seat. He did not rebuckle the belt until the Bentley was already gathering speed and the Mercedes had appeared again in his driving mirror. He passed an electric milk float doing the early rounds, then he was once more in open country. As he reached a wooded stretch, Bond caught a glimpse of a picnic area sign, then saw two other cars emerge from the trees, their bonnets coming together to form a V, blocking his path.
"They're playing for keeps,' he muttered, ramming the footbrake, and hauling on the wheel with his left arm.
As the Bentley began to slew, broadside on, he was conscious of the white Mercedes close behind him.
The speedometer was touching sixty as the Bentley left the road, plunging in among the trees. Bond desperately guided the big car past the trunks, over bracken, zigzagging wildly and trying to negotiate a path that would bring him back to the road.
The first bullet made a grating, gouging sound on the root, and Bond could think only of the damage it would do to the coach work. The second hit his rear offside tyre, sending over 5000 lb of custom-built motor car side on into a tangle of bushes.
Slammed against the seatbelt, Bond reached simultaneously for the automatic pistol and the electric window button.
THE ASP 9mm is a small, very lethal weapon. Essentially a scaled-down version of the Smith & Weston Model 39, it has been in use with United States Intelligence Agencies for over a decade. With a recoil no greater than a Walther 22, it has the look of a target automatic rather than the deadly customised hand gun it really is.
Armaments Systems and Procedures, the organisation which carried out the conversion, produced the weapon to exacting specifications: ease of concealment, a minimum eight-round capacity; reliability; an ammunition indicator using Lexon see-through butt grips, and an acceptance of all known 9mm ammunition.
The rounds in Bond's magazine were particularly unpleasant Glaser Safety Slugs. A Glaser is a prefragmented bullet that contains several hundred No. 12 shot suspended in liquid Teflon. The velocity of these slugs, fired from the ASP, is over 1700 feet per second.
They will penetrate body armour before blowing, and a hit from a Glaser on any vital area of the body is usually fatal.
Bond fired two rounds from the lowered window almost before the car had come to a halt. He kept both eyes open, looking down the revolutionary backmounted Guttersnipe sight, its triangular yellow walls giving instant target recognition.
Through the trees and bracken he could see several men leaving the cars. Others were trying to get the vehicles off the road. Bond's rapid shots were aimed at the clear outline of a tall man in a dirty-white raincoat who was making for the Bentley. He did not stop to find out what happened to the target, but opened the door and rolled into the undergrowth.
Twigs and branches caught on his clothing and scratched his face, but Bond kept moving, determined to get as far away as possible from the Mulsanne Turbo. He rolled to the right, putting about twenty yards between himself and the car. Twisting round, flat on his belly, he brought the gun up and ready, his eyes constantly moving to cover a wide sweeping sight-line.
The other cars had been backed off the road and he guessed they now contained only their drivers. Two figures were visible, but almost by intuition he reckoned there had to be at least four others fanning out, moving low and trying to encircle him.
Bond lay quite still, allowing his breathing to settle. If his pursuers were methodical - and they probably were they must eventually find him. It was even possible they could call up reinforcements.
Certainly there had to be more men available. How could they have been certain of picking him up on the road, unless the Bentley had a location homer stuck on to it? Who were they? Some of Jay Autem Holy's men? There had to be a connection, yet Holy would have had a better opportunity to deal with him that evening, at Endor. Unless .. . unless Cindy had set him up, or been caught. If the latter, a watch had been put on him very quickly. At all events, Bond decided they would find him later rather than sooner. What he needed was time to make good his escape.
It had begun raining quite hard and you could hear the steady pattering from the branches. To attempt a move now would be suicidal.
He was at least a hundred and fifty yards from the road, and even if he reached the other cars without being intercepted which was unlikely he would still be outnumbered three to one. He must wait, try to follow their search, and make sure nobody bounced him from behind.
He moved his head continually, looking from far left to far right, then gently turning to watch the rear, all the time straining to catch any sound. The two men originally visible to his front had disappeared, and the sounds of movement would now be successfully blotted out by the rainfall.
Bond had been lying in cover for the best part of fifteen minutes before he got a positive fix on any of his assailants. The sharp crack of a dead branch and a flicker of movement on the far left caught his ear and eye at the same moment. Slowly he turned his head. There, not more than twenty paces away, a man crouched against a tree, looking to the right of where Bond lay.
From the economical, alert manner, the way he kept low, using the bottom of the tree trunk for cover, the small revolver held steady in the right hand against left shoulder, the man looked like a professional, a well trained soldier. He was searching in the calm, cautious manner of a hunter, examining every square foot of ground within a specified arc. That meant there was probably another like him to his left, or right, or both.
What was more, it could only be a matter of time before his eyes came to rest on the ground where Bond lay.
The searcher wore olive green denim trousers and shirt, and a military-style jacket. Moving each limb about half an inch at a time, Bond began to turn. He wanted to get at least one shot in before anyone closed on him.
There was another movement, this time to the right.
Bond's reflexes and intuition warned of danger, and he brought the ASP up in the direction of this new threat.
The triple yellow walls, which angle to form the Guttersnipe sight, fell automatically into their pattern, right on target, showing another figure running low between the trees, and much too close for comfort. From the corner of his eye, he saw the first man bringing his revolver up in a two-handed grip. Then he heard the unmistakable click of a revolver hammer being drawn back, very close behind him. The sharp burning cold of a muzzle touched the side of his neck gently.
"Drop it, Mr. Bond. Please don't try anything silly. Just drop the gun.
Bond had no desire to get himself killed at this point in his career. He tossed the ASP on to the ground.
"Good." The voice was soft, slightly lilting. "Now, hands on the head, please." The two men who had been in Bond's sights were now standing, coming forward, the one to his left with arms outstretched, holding a snub-nosed revolver in the two handed grip, the arms steady as iron bars. His eyes never left the captive. Bond was in no doubt that two bullets would reach him fast if he made any wrong move. The other came in quickly, scooping up the fallen ASP like a predatory bird swooping on to its prey.
"Right, now get to your feet very slowly,' the voice continued, the gun muzzle detaching itself from just behind Bond's ear. There was the sound of feet shuffling as the man stepped back. "That manoeuvre was rather good, wasn't it? We knew roughly where you had gone
to ground, so it was just a matter of showing you someone with stealth and another with speed. The lads went through that little farce three times before they found the right place. It's the kind of fieldcraft we teach. Please turn around."
"Who teaches?" Bond demanded as he turned and faced a tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties with tight, curly hair, dark above matching jet eyes, a square face, a large nose and full lips. Women would find him attractive, Bond thought. The dark complexion was overlaid with a hard, sunbaked tan. It was the eyes that really gave him away. They had that particular look, as it, for years, they had searched horizons for the telltale sign of dust, or the sky for a speck, or an outcrop of rock for movement, or doorways and windows for muzzle flashes.
Those eyes had probably been doing that kind of thing since childhood. Nationality? Who could tell? One of the Middle Eastern countries, but whether he came from Jerusalem, Beirut or Cairo was impossible to tell. Possibly a hybrid, Bond thought.
"Who teaches?" he asked again.
The young man lifted an eyebrow. "You might get to find out, Mr. Bond. Who knows?" The smile was not unfriendly. "Now,' he said, "we have to move you, and I cannot be certain you'll sit still." He gave a short laugh.
"I rather think my superiors want you alive and in one piece, so would you take off your jacket and roll up your sleeve?" Two more figures rose from the bushes as the senior man holstered his weapon, reaching into a hip pocket to bring out a hard oblong box.
One of the newcomers helped remove Bond's jacket while the other's hands rested firmly on his shoulders.
Unresisting, Bond allowed them to roll up his sleeve while the leader filled a hypodermic syringe, lifting it so that the needle pointed upwards. A tiny squirt of colourless liquid arched into the air. Bond felt a damp swab on the upper part of his arm.
"It's okay,' the leader said with a smile. "We do want you in one piece, I assure you. As the actress said to the bishop, just a little . . . er . . . a little jab." Somebody gave a loud laugh, and Bond heard another say something in a language he did not recognise. He did not even feel the needle slide home.