Bond - 18 - Role of Honor

by John Gardner

  At first he thought he was in a helicopter, lying flat on his back with the machine bucking under him. He could hear the chug of the engine turning the rotor blades.

  Then, far away, came the rip of automatic firing. For a time, Bond drifted away again, then the helicopter sensation returned, accompanied by a series of loud explosions near at hand.

  Opening his eyes, he saw an electric fan turning slowly above his head, and became aware of white walls and the simple metal bedframe on which he lay, fully dressed.

  He propped himself on one arm. Physically he felt fine: no nausea, no headache, eyes focused properly. He held out his right hand, fingers splayed. There was no tremor.

  The room, bare of furniture apart from the bed, had just one door and a window covered with mesh inside and bars on the outside.

  Sunlight appeared dimly through the aperture.

  As he swung his feet on to the floor he heard another distant explosion. He stood up and found his legs steady.

  Halfway to the door, there came the sound of more machine-gun fire - again at a distance. The door was locked, and he could make out little through the window.

  The mesh on the inside was a thick papery adhesive substance, which had been applied to the panes of glass, making it impossible to get any clear view. It would also prevent fragmentation from blast.

  Bond was convinced he was not in England. The temperature inside the little white room, even with the fan turning round and round, was not induced by the kind of heat you ever got in England, even in the most brilliant of summers.

  The sounds of small arms fire, punctuated by the occasional explosion, suggested he was in some war zone.

  He tried the door again, then had a look at the lock. It was solid, well-made, and more than efficient. There would almost certainly be bolts on the outside too.

  Methodically he went through his pockets but found nothing. They had cleaned him out. Even his watch was missing, and the metal bedframe appeared to be a one-piece affair. Given time, and some kind of lever, he might be able to force a piece of thick wire from the springs, but it would be an arduous business and he had no way of knowing how long he would be left alone.

  When in doubt, do nothing, Bond thought.

  He went back to the bed and stretched out, going over the events still fresh in his mind. The attempt to get away with the computer programs. Posting them. The trailing cars. The wood and his capture.

  The needle. He was the only one to have fired a shot. Almost certainly he had hit - probably killed - one of them. Yet, apart from their natural caution, they had been careful to make sure that he was unharmed. A connection between his visit to Jay Autem Holy and the current situation was probable, though not certain. Take nothing for granted. Wait for revelations. Expect the worst.

  Bond lay there, mentally prepared, for the best part of twenty minutes. At last there came footsteps - muffled, as though boots crunched over earth, but the tread had a decidedly military sound.

  Bolts were drawn back and the door to Bond's room was unlocked and opened.

  He caught a glimpse of sand, low white buildings and two armed men dressed in drab olive uniforms. A third person stepped into the room.

  He was the one who had administered the knock-out injection in the Oxfordshire wood. Now he wore uniform - a simple olive drab battledress, smart with no insignia or badges of rank. He had on desert boots and a revolver of high calibre holstered on the right of his webbing belt. A long sheathed knife hung from the belt on the left. His head was covered by a light brown, almost makeshift, kafflyeh held in place by a red band. One of the men outside reached in and closed the door.

  "Had a good sleep, Mr. Bond?" The man's smile was almost infectious. As he looked up, Bond remembered his feelings about the eyes.

  "I'd rather have been awake."

  "You're all right, though? No ill effects?" Bond shook his head.

  "Right. My name's Simon." The man was crisp and businesslike, extending a hand which Bond did not take.

  "We hold no grudge over our man,' he said after a slight pause.

  "You killed him, by the way. But he was being paid to risk his life." He shrugged. "We underestimated you, I fear. My fault. Nobody thought you'd be carrying a gun. After all, you're not in the trade any more. I guessed that, if you were armed, it would be for old time's sake, and nothing as lethal as that thing. It's unfamiliar to us, incidentally. What is it exactly?"

  "My name is James Bond, formerly Commander, Royal Navy. Formerly Foreign Service. Now retired." Simon's face creased into a puzzled look for a moment.

  "Oh, yes. I see. Name and rank." He gave a one-note laugh.

  "Sorry to disappoint you, Commander Bond, but you're not a prisoner of war. When you outran us in that beautiful motor car there was no way to let you know we came as emissaries. In friendship. A possible job."

  "You could have shouted. In the wood, you could have shouted, if that was the truth."

  "And would you have believed us?" There was silence.

  "Quite. No, I think not, Commander Bond. So we had to bring you in, alive and well, using only minimal force." Bond thought for a moment. "I demand to know where I am and who you people are."

  "In good time. All in "Where am I?" Bond snapped.

  "Erewhon." Simon gave a low chuckle. "We go in for code names, cryptonyms. For safety, security, and our peace of mind - just in case you turn down the job, or even prove to be not quite the man we want.

  This place is called Erewhon. Now sir, the Officer Commanding would like a word." Bond slowly got off the bed, reached out and grasped Simon's left wrist, aware of the man's other hand moving swiftly to the revolver butt.

  "Commander, I wouldn't advise "Okay, I'm not going to attack you.

  I just don't recall having applied for a job. Not with anybody."

  "Oh, really? No, I suppose you haven't." There was mocking ingenuousness in Simon's voice. "But you're out of work, Commander Bond. That's true, surely?"

  "Yes."

  "And, by nature, you're not an idle man. We wanted to - how would you say it? We wanted to put something your way.

  Bond eyed the man intently. "Wouldn't it have been more civilised to make your offer by invitation in England instead of this abduction?" "The Officer Commanding Erewhon wishes to talk to you,' Simon said with a winning smile, as if that explained everything.

  Bond appeared to think for a moment, then he nodded. "I'll see your O.C. then."

  "Good." Simon rapped on the door and one of the men outside opened up. As they stepped out, the two guards took station either side of Bond. He sniffed the air. It was warm, but clear.

  Rare. They must be fairly high above sea level. They were also in a small depression, the flat bed of a hollow, surrounded by hills.

  On one side the hills were low, a curving double mound, like a woman S breasts, but pitted with rock among the dry, sandy earth.

  The rest of the circle was more rugged, crests and peaks, running up several hundred feet, with outcrops of forbidding rock. The sun was high, almost directly above them.

  Along the flat sand bottom of the hollow was a series of low white buildings - one long rank with divisions, and another terrace with three shorter ranks at right angles, like a large letter E. Hard under the high ground there were other, similar buildings, though not so regimented.

  Simon led them across the five or six hundred yards towards one of these latter blocks.

  Smoke drifted up from some of the smaller buildings.

  To Bond's left there was a firing range, with a group in uniform preparing to use it. Towards the round-topped hills, the sound of heavy explosions and small arms fire suddenly erupted from a clutter of gutted brick houses, which looked almost European. Figures dashed between these houses as though fighting a street battle.

  As he turned at the noise, Bond also caught sight of some kind of bunker dug into the rock towards the top of one of the hills. A defensive position, he thought, almost impossible to attack from th
e air, though helicopter borne landings presumably would be feasible.

  "You like our Erewhon?" Simon asked cheerfully.

  "Depends what you do here. You run package tours?"

  "Almost." Simon sounded quite amused.

  They reached a building about the size of a modest bungalow.

  There was a notice, neatly executed, to the right of the entrance.

  OFFICER COMMANDING it said in several languages, including Hebrew and Arabic. The front door opened into a small, empty ante-room.

  Simon crossed to the one door at the far end, and knocked. A voice called out "Come', and Simon gestured, smartly barking out, "Commander James Bond, sir." With everything that had been going on, and with a myriad of questions unanswered, Bond would not have been shaken to find General Zwingli on the other side of the door, but the identity of the man seated behind the folding table which dominated the large office made him catch his breath with surprise. There was certainly some connection between this man and Zwingli, for the last time Bond had seen him was in the Salles Prive'es at Monte Carlo.

  "Come in, Commander Bond. Come in. Welcome to Erewbon,' said Tamil Rahani. "Do sit down. Get the Commander a chair, Simon.

  TERROR FOR HIRE

  THE ROOM was functionally furnished: the folding table, four chairs and filing cabinet could have been found in the quartermaster's stores of any army in the world.

  The furnishings also appeared to reflect the character of Tamil Rahani. From a distance, when Bond had seen him briefly in Monte Carlo, Rahani had looked like any other successful businessman - sleek, well-dressed, needle-sharp and confident. At close quarters, the confidence was certainly there, but that sleekness was clearly superficial. What stood out was a kind of dynamism harnessed, and controlled. It was the air of self-discipline found in most good military leaders, a kind of quiet calm, and behind it an immense, unflinching resolve. Rahani certainly exhibited authority and a firm belief in his own ability.

  As Simon brought the chair, and took one for himself, Bond quickly glanced around the office. The walls were lined with maps, charts, large posters displaying the silhouettes of aircraft, ships, tanks and other armoured vehicles. There were also year- and month-planners, their red, green and blue markers the only splashes of colour in the austere room.

  "Don't I know you, sir?" Bond was careful to observe military courtesy. An aura of power and danger enveloped Rahani.

  Rahani laughed, throwing his head back a little. "You may have seen photographs of me in the newspapers,' Commander,' he said with a smile. "We may speak about that later. At the moment I'd rather talk about you. You have been highly recommended to us."

  "Really?" Rahani tapped his teeth with a pencil. The teeth were perfect - white and regular, the mustache above them neatly trimmed.

  "Let me be completely frank with you, Commander.

  Nobody knows whether you can be trusted or not.

  Everyone - and by that I mean most of the major intelligence communities of the world - knows that you have been an active officer of the British Secret Intelligence Service for a long time. You ceased to be either a member or active a short time ago. It is said that you resigned in a fit of bitterness. He made a small questioning noise, like a hum, in the back of his throat. "It is also said that nobody ever goes private from the S.I.S the C.I.A Mossad or the K.G.B. Is that the correct term?

  Going private?"

  "So the spy writers tell us. Bond maintained his attitude of indifference.

  "Well,' Rahani continued, "quite a few people wanted to find out the truth. A number of agencies would have liked to approach you. One very nearly did. But they got cold feet. They decided that you would probably rediscover your loyalty once put to the test, no matter how disaffected you felt." There was a pause, during which Bond remained poker-faced, until the Officer Commanding spoke again.

  "You're either an exceptional actor, Commander, working under professional instructions, or you are genuine. What is undisputed is that you're a man of uncommon ability in your field. And you're out of work.

  If there is truth in the rumours surrounding your resignation, then it seems a pity to allow you to remain unemployed. The purpose of bringing you here is to test the story, and possibly to offer you a job.

  You would like to work? In intelligence, of course?"

  "Depends." Bond's voice was flat.

  "On what?" Rahani said sharply, the man of authority showing through.

  "On the job." Bond's face relaxed a fraction. "Look, sir.

  I don't wish to appear rude, but I was brought here against my will. Also, my previous career is nobody else's business but mine and, I suppose, the people's I used to work for. To be honest, I'm so fed up with the trade that I'm not at all sure I want to get mixed up in it again."

  "Not even as an adviser? Not even with a very high salary?

  With little to do, and less danger in doing it?"

  "I just don't know."

  "Then would you consider a proposition?"

  "I'm always open to propositions." Rahani took a long breath through his nose.

  "An income in excess of a quarter of a million pounds sterling a year. The occasional trip at short notice to advise in another country. One week in every two months giving a series of lectures here."

  "Where's here?" For the first time, Rahani's brow puckered with displeasure. "In good time,Commander. As I've said, in good time." "Advise on what? "Lecture on what?"

  "Lecture on the structure and methods of the British Secret Intelligence Service, and the Security Service.

  Advise on the intelligence, and security aspects of certain operations."

  "Operations carried out by whom?" Rahani spread his hands.

  "That would depend. It would also alter from operation to operation.

  You see, the organisation I command bears no allegiance to any one country, group of people or ideal. We are - a much-used word, but the only one - we are apolitical.

  Bond waited, as though not yet prepared to commit himself.

  Rahani finally gave in. "I am a soldier. I have been a mercenary in my time. I am also a highly successful businessman. We have certain things in common, I think, one of them being a liking for money. Some time ago, in cooperation with one or two like-minded people, I saw the possibility of earning some very profitable returns by going into the mercenary business. Being apolitical myself, owing nothing to ideologies or beliefs, it was easy. Plenty of countries and revolutionary groups need specialists. A particular man or a group of men even a planning group, and the soldiery to carry out the plan." "Rent-a-Terrorist,' Bond said, with a touch of distaste.

  "Who does not dare, hires someone else to dare for them.

  A truly mercenary activity, in every sense.

  "Well put. But you'd be surprised, Commander Bond.

  The terrorist organisations are not our only customers.

  Bona fide governments have approached us too. Anyway, as a former intelligence officer you cannot allow yourself the luxury of politics or ideals."

  "I can allow myself the luxury of opposing certain ideals.

  Of disagreeing, and intensely disliking them,' Bond put in.

  "And, if our information is to be believed, you have an intense dislike for the British and American method of intelligence - yes?"

  "Let's just say I'm disappointed that an official organisation can call me to question after so many years of loyal service.

  "Don't you ever feel that revenge could be sweet?"

  "I'd be a liar if I said it hadn't crossed my mind, but it's never been an obsession.

  I don't harbour grudges."

  "We shall need your cooperation, and your decision.

  Terror for Hire I'll You understand what I mean?" Rahani made the querying, humming noise again.

  Bond nodded, and said he was no fool: having disclosed the existence and purpose of his organisation, Tamil Rahani was committed to making a decision about Bond. If he offered a job, and if Bond accepted,
there would be no problem. If, however, he decided Bond was a risk, or his motives were in doubt, there could be only one answer.

  Rahani heard him out.

  "You won't mind if I ask a few pertinent questions, then?"

  "What do you call pertinent?"

  "I'd like to know the things you would not discuss with the Press. The real reason for your resignation, Commander Bond. An inter-department disagreement, I believe you said.

  Accusations, which were withdrawn, but taken most seriously by yourself."

  "If I don't choose to tell you?"

  "Then we have to conclude that you are not trustworthy, my friend. A conclusion which may have unpleasant consequences." Rahani smiled.

  Bond went through the process of looking as though he was giving the situation some thought. With M and Bill Tanner he had put together a story that would hold water up to a point. To prove or disprove it would mean getting classified information from the Judicial Branch, which comprised a number of experienced barristers retained by the Service; also from three individuals working in the Registry, and from someone who had easy access to the documents held by S Department.

  After a few moments' silence Bond gave a short nod. "Right. If you want the truth "Good. Tell us then, Commander Bond." Rahani's voice and manner were equally bland.

  He told the story, just as they had concocted it in M's office.

  Over a period of some six months it had been discovered that several highly sensitive files had been taken from the Service HQ and kept out overnight. It was an old story, and one that was technically plausible, even allowing for the stringent security spot checks, and signing in and out of files. However, the system was double-checked by an electronic bar code, appended to each file, which was scanned every time the file was taken out or returned. The files went through a machine that read the code and stored the information in the Registry databank, which was examined at the end of each month. It was impossible to alter the bar codes on the files or to duplicate them.

  But because the information stored away on the big computer tapes was read out only at the end of each month, anyone could return a dummy file each night, putting back the original the following night. By alternating dummy and original you could examine around twenty files in a month before the tampering would be discovered. This, Bond maintained, was what had happened, though Registry had spent so much time cross.checking and looking at the data because they imagined it to be a program error in the computer, that a further week had passed before a report went up to Head of Service.