No Deals, Mr. Bond

  ‘Is there a secure telephone at this place you have at the airport, Norm?’

  ‘I told you not to be calling me Norm.’ Murray sounded annoyed.

  ‘Well, is there?’

  ‘It’s as safe as you can get.’ He glanced towards Bond with a large smile. ‘We may even let you use it if you’ve decided where you want to go.’

  ‘Can you get me into France, as near Paris as possible?’

  Murray laughed loudly. ‘You’re asking for miracles, so. You know what the DST is like. Non bloody co-operative.’

  ‘You live in a country of miracles, Norman. Me, I’d rather be going back across the water to the good life. You know, the click of willow against a villain’s head, the roar of the riot, the scent of new-mown grass snakes.’

  ‘Lord love you, but you’re turning poetical, Jacko. Thank heaven the blessed St Patrick rid us of snakes.’

  ‘Did he?’ Bond returned the grin, knowing he was about to have all his requests fulfilled.

  The secure quarters were inside the airport itself, in a small walled compound, which hid the car and its passengers from any possibility of being watched. Ostensibly, Dublin has one of the most open airports in Europe. In fact, it boasts discreet and powerful security, mostly hidden from public view. When they reached the approach road, Bond realised there were more than the usual number of Garda patrols around.

  Inside there was a comfortable waiting room with armchairs and magazines. There were also a couple of plain clothes men who showed some deference to Norman Murray.

  ‘There’s a soundproof booth over there with one of the most secure telephones in Ireland,’ said Murray, pointing. ‘Use it now while I set up your flight.’

  ‘Not until I’m certain you can get me into Paris by tonight,’ said Bond coolly.

  ‘It’s as good as done, Jacko. You do your telephoning. You’ll be on your way with nobody the wiser within the hour.’

  Bond nodded. Norman Murray was a very convincing officer.

  Inside the booth he dialled a London number. The woman who answered asked straight away if they were scrambled, and he said probably, but that the line was secure in any case. Q’ute had offered help when he last saw her. Bond had known then that it was no idle remark. Just before he left she had said,

  ‘If you need anything from here, just call and I’ll bring it to you myself.’

  He was calling now, with a long shopping list and an almost impossible delivery time and place but Q’ute took it in her stride.

  She merely said, ‘It’ll be there. Good luck,’ and rang off.

  Murray was waiting for him, a set of white overalls in his hand. ‘Put these on,’ he said to Bond, ‘and listen carefully.’

  As Bond complied, Murray continued, ‘The passage through that door leads to the flying club. You’re going on a spot of cross-country with an instructor. The flight plan is filed. Permission has been given for you to overfly northern France; they do it all the time from here. This time you’ll have a little engine trouble near Rennes, which is your turning point. You won’t be able to make an airfield, so your instructor will put out a Mayday and you’ll glide into a field: not any old field, but a particular one. There’ll be a car and someone to take your place in the aircraft for when the gendarmes and customs arrive. It’s got to go like clockwork. Do as you’re told and it should be okay. But if you’re asked, I had nothing to do with this. You follow?’

  Bond nodded. ‘Thanks, Norman.’

  ‘The aircraft’s directly in front of the building, with the engine running and cleared to taxi. She’s a nice little Cessna 182. She would take four at a pinch. Good luck, Jacko.’

  Bond shook Murray’s hand warmly, knowing that somehow M was still with him, for a reason best known to the old man himself.

  The aircraft was drawn up close to the building, and Bond kept his head well down as he walked quickly towards it. He ducked his head under the wing and climbed up beside the instructor, a young, happy-looking Irishman who grinned at him, shouting that it was about time.

  He had hardly strapped himself into the pupil’s position to the instructor’s left before the Cessna was taxiing towards the short runway on the far side of the field. They waited for a few minutes as an Aer Lingus 737 came in from London, then the instructor opened up the engine and the light aeroplane took to the air almost of her own accord. They turned out to sea and began to climb. At two thousand feet the instructor levelled out.

  ‘There we are,’ he shouted, ‘all set for the fun and games. I’ll be turning on course in five minutes.’ He moved his head. ‘Are you okay back there?

  ‘Fine,’ replied Bond.

  He looked around and saw Ebbie’s face peering over the back of his seat, where she had been hiding.

  ‘Hallo, James. Are you pleased to see me?’

  She planted a kiss on his cheek.

  14

  DINNER IN PARIS

  Every field agent worth his salt has his special fall-backs away from home: a bank account in Berlin; a cache of weapons in Rome; passport blanks in a strong box in Madrid. James Bond’s was a safe house in Paris; or rather a small apartment owned by good friends who were willing to leave their home at a moment’s notice and no questions asked. The apartment was on the fourth floor of one of those buildings off the Boulevard Saint Michel on the Rive Gauche.

  They arrived just after six in the evening, following a journey that had gone almost too smoothly for Bond’s peace of mind. The instructor had piloted the Cessna all the way and Bond noticed that, once over France, he allowed their altitude to fluctuate to a point where the Paris ATC were constantly calling him up to remind him of his allotted position. The rendezvous itself had been well picked, a lonely spot west of Rennes. They circled above it for fifteen minutes, gradually losing height until the pilot was certain his contact was in place.

  He’s done this before, Bond thought, wondering when and in what circumstances. Maybe Murray had something on the man – smuggling, or even a tricksy business concerning the lads, as the Provos are always referred to in the Republic. Whatever his previous experience, this went like clockwork. Air Traffic Control called up once more, anxious about the loss of height. The pilot waited for around four minutes as he turned, bleeping his engine and positioning himself for a landing. Then he began his Mayday call, giving a heading and fix that was around ten miles out so that the authorities would take longer to reach them.

  ‘When we’re down, you’ve got about five minutes to get going,’ he shouted to Bond. He cut the engine, then gave it another burst: ‘A bit of realism for the customers,’ he said with a grin.

  They drifted over some flat farmland with no sign of life for five or six miles then touched down and taxied towards a clump of trees and a ribbon-straight road lined with poplars. A battered elderly Volkswagen was parked near the trees, almost out of sight from the road. Just as the Cessna’s engine stopped, a figure wearing a white overall identical to Bond’s broke free from the trees and came towards them.

  ‘Go! God be with you,’ said the pilot, already starting to climb out.

  Bond helped Ebbie down into the field, stripped off the overall and looked at the man who had joined them. Bond’s replacement simply nodded and inclined his head towards the Volkswagen. He handed over the keys and said there were maps in the car. Taking Ebbie by the hand, Bond set off at a trot. The last they saw of the two intrepid flyers was from the car. They had part of the cowling off and were fiddling with the engine. But by this time the Volkswagen was already on the road, heading for Paris. Bond allowed himself time to get used to the car before he spoke.

  ‘Right, young lady. How and why did you turn up again?’

  It had been impossible to carry on any detailed conversation on the aircraft, and he was now very suspicious of Ebbie’s dramatic reappearance, even if it did have Norman Murray’s blessing.

  ‘That nice policeman thought it would be a pleasant surprise for you, James darling.’

  ‘Yes,
but what happened to you in Kilkenny?’

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Inspector. Murray.’

  ‘Not a word. What happened?’

  ‘At the hotel?’

  ‘Well, I’m not talking about your daring escape from Germany, Ebbie,’ he replied with a certain crustiness.

  ‘I woke up,’ she said, as though that explained it all.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was early, very early, and you weren’t there, James.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was frightened. I got out of bed and went into the passage. There was nobody there so I went along to the stairs. You were using the telephone down in the lobby. I heard your voice, then people started coming in at the other end of the passage. I was very embarrassed.’

  ‘Embarrassed?’

  ‘I only had . . . only little . . .’ She indicated what she had been wearing. ‘And nothing up here at all. So, there was a cupboard – a closet where they keep cleaning things.’

  Bond nodded and she continued, ‘I hid. It was dark and not nice. But I hid for a long time. I heard other voices and people walking along the passage. When it was silent I came out again. You had disappeared.’

  He nodded again. It could just be true, and she was convincing enough.

  ‘I dressed,’ she said, giving him a small, uncomfortable look. ‘Then the policemen came and I told them. They used the radio in their car and told me there were orders. Then they brought me to the airport. James, I have no clothes, only what I stand up in, and my shoulder bag.’

  ‘Did Inspector Murray tell you what would be happening?’

  ‘It was a risk, he said, for me to remain in Ireland. He said I should go with you, but to give you a surprise. He has a sense of humour. He’s a very funny man, the Inspector.’

  ‘Yes, exceptionally droll. Hilarious.’

  He still had no way of knowing whether to believe her or not. In the circumstances there was only one course he could take. He must stick with her but keep her in the dark as much as possible, arousing no suspicion in her.

  They arrived at his safe apartment, Bond having telephoned ahead from a service area on the A11 Autoroute. There was food in the large refrigerator, two bottles of a good vintage Krug and clean linen on the double bed; no notes or messages. That was always the way. A quick telephone call giving his arrival time and probable duration of stay and his friends would be gone by the time Bond arrived. He did not ask where they went, neither did they question him. The husband was an old Service hand but the trade had never been mentioned by either side. In eight years the routine rarely changed. Everything was invariably ready and this occasion, in spite of the very short notice, was no exception.

  ‘James, what a beautiful little apartment!’ Ebbie appeared genuinely enthusiastic. ‘Is this all yours?’

  ‘It is when I’m in Paris and when my friend is away.’ He went to the desk in the main room, opened the top drawer and removed the false interior. Underneath he always kept a float of around a thousand francs.

  ‘Look, there is steak.’ Ebbie was exploring the kitchen. ‘Shall I cook us a meal?’

  ‘Later.’ Bond looked at the stainless steel Rolex. It would take him the best part of half an hour, given a favourable wind, to get to the rendezvous arranged with Ann Reilly. ‘Thank heaven there are shops that stay open late in Paris. Ebbie, I want you to make a list of the essential clothing you need and give me your sizes.’

  ‘We are going shopping?’ She gave a little jump, like a small child looking forward to a sudden treat.

  ‘I am going shopping,’ he said with great firmness.

  ‘Oh. But, James, there are some things you cannot get. Personal items . . .’

  ‘Just make the list, Ebbie. A lady will get the personal things.’

  ‘What lady?’ She bridled. Ebbie Heritage was either one hell of a good actress or a really jealous woman. Bond would have sworn the latter, for her cheeks had gone scarlet and her eyes were brimming.

  With a small stamp of her foot she said, ‘You are seeing another woman?’

  ‘We haven’t known one another for long, Ebbie.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with it. You have been with me. We are lovers. Yet as soon as we come to France . . .’

  ‘Hold on. Yes, I am going to see another lady. But I’m seeing her strictly for business reasons.’

  ‘Ja – Yes, I know. The funny business reasons.’

  ‘Nothing like that. Now, calm down, Ebbie. I want you to listen to me.’ He realised he was talking to her as he would speak to a child. ‘This is very important. I must go out. I shall take your list with me. You must on no account answer the door or the telephone. Keep the door locked until I return. I shall give a special knock, like so.’ He demonstrated: three quick raps, pause, another three, pause, then two harder raps. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was almost sullen.

  ‘Then show me.’

  She gave a small shrug and repeated the pattern of knocks.

  ‘Right. Now the telephone. Do not touch it unless it rings three times, goes silent and then starts ringing again.’

  The codes were as simple as lovers’ signals, but they were equally easy to remember. Bond went through it again, then sat her down at the table with pen and paper while he went round the apartment closing shutters and drawing curtains. By the time he had finished, she held up the completed list.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’ she asked in a very small voice.

  ‘With luck, about two hours. Not much longer.’

  She pulled herself up very straight. ‘Two hours, and I shall smell this other woman’s scent on you if you are making love with her. You be on time, James. Dinner will be here, on this table, in two hours exactly. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said with a winning smile, ‘and don’t forget what I told you about the door and the telephone. You understand?’

  She lifted her face, hands behind her back, raising herself on tiptoe, and turning her cheek towards him.

  ‘Don’t I rate a proper kiss?’

  ‘When you come back in time for dinner we’ll see.’

  He nodded, kissed her cheek and let himself out, walking down the four flights of stone stairs to street level. He always avoided elevators in Paris. Nine times out of ten in these old apartment blocks the lifts were out of order.

  He took a taxi to Les Invalides, then walked back to the Quai D’Orsay, across the Seine and in the direction of the Tuileries gardens. Only when he was certain he had not picked up a tail did Bond flag down another cab, which he ordered back to the Boulevard Saint Michel.

  Ann Reilly was sitting in the corner of the small crowded cafe he had named, only ten minutes’ walk from the apartment where Ebbie was cooking dinner. Bond went straight to the bar, ordered a fine and crossed to Q’ute’s table. It did not look as though they were being watched, but he spoke low.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Everything you ordered. In the briefcase. It’s just by your right foot and it’s safe. Nothing will show on the x-ray machines but I’d unpack and put the whole lot in your suitcase.’

  Bond nodded. ‘How are things back at the building?’

  ‘Hectic. There’s some kind of flap on. M’s been closeted in his office for three days now. He’s like a general under siege. The grapevine says he’s sleeping there and they’re taking crates full of microfilm to him. The main computer’s been barred to everyone else and the Chief-of-Staff’s been with him all the time. Moneypenny hasn’t been out either. I think she’s lying across his door with a shotgun.’

  ‘That figures,’ he muttered. ‘Look, love, I’ve a favour to ask.’ He passed over Ebbie’s list. ‘There’s a supermarket one block down on the corner. Just do your best, eh?’

  ‘I use my own money?’

  ‘Put it on expenses. When I get back I’ll square it.’

  Q’ute looked at the list and smiled. ‘What’s her taste i
n . . .’ she began.

  ‘Sophisticated,’ Bond cut in quickly.

  ‘I’ll do my best, being a plain and simple girl myself.’

  ‘That’ll be the day. I’ll set up a drink for you. Oh, and get a cheap case, will you?’

  ‘Sophisticated and cheap?’

  Ann Reilly left the cafe, her hips swaying almost suggestively. Bond made a mental note to buy her dinner once this was over and he was back in London. In just under half an hour she returned with a flurry.

  ‘I’ve got a cab waiting outside. I can catch the last Air France flight back to Heathrow if I get a shift on. The case is in the cab. Can I give you a lift?’

  Bond was on his feet, following her to the door. He told her to drop him off a couple of blocks away. She kissed him full on the mouth, whispering ‘Good luck’ as he left with the suitcase and briefcase.

  He spent forty minutes back doubling, riding the Metro, walking and using another cab, before he returned to the apartment, within ten minutes of Ebbie’s deadline. Ebbie sniffed him suspiciously, but could smell only the brandy and so softened slightly – particularly when he gave her the suitcase and told her to open it. Once more there were gasps of delight as she examined Q’ute’s purchases. Bond meanwhile was able to check his own clothes, which were always kept for him in one part of the bedroom wardrobe. There was also a spare case in the flat, so he could pack his clothes and the items from the briefcase later, at leisure.

  ‘The dinner will be ready in five minutes,’ Ebbie sang from the kitchen.

  ‘I have to make one telephone call and I’ll be with you.’

  He used the extension in the bedroom to dial the Cathay Pacific desk at Orly. Yes, they had two first-class seats on their flight to Hong Kong tomorrow. Certainly they would reserve them in the name of Boldman. He quoted his Amex number.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Boldman, that’ll be fine. Just pick the tickets up at the desk by ten-fifteen. Have a nice flight.’

  He looked inside the briefcase to check that Q’ute had not forgotten the small rubber stamp for doctoring their passports. A sudden horror struck him.