‘The object of spending this time with you was to hear how your thoughts were shaping up – regarding your part in the operation. Tell me, if you happen to know the man on duty, how do you propose to get the frequency from him?’
Bond was amazed to see from his watch that it was eight in the evening. He began to tell Holy of the method he had prepared. When he had finished, silence stretched out – the hush in the aftermath of a battle fought with counters instead of men, and on a board and map instead of ground. As the seconds ticked by, Bond thought perhaps there had been a miscalculation. Word perfect, he sifted through his mind. Was there any really weak point? Anything that Jay Autem Holy could grab at to prove the whole idea an insubstantial fiction – which, certainly, it was.
Then the silence ended, and a laugh began to rise from the tall man’s throat, the head nodding in great beaky movements, as if preparing to tear his prey apart, savaging it with that sharp bill.
‘Oh yes, James Bond. I told them you were the only possible choice. If you can pull that off we’ll all be happy.’ He appeared to pull himself together, eyes darting around, as though he had been on the brink of an indiscretion.
The laughter subsided, and Bond was aware of movement, noises off. People were entering the main laboratory area.
‘We have been down here too long,’ Holy snapped. ‘I took the trouble to ask Cindy to make up a tray for you. In your room. I shall eat later.’
Superman, thought Bond. He’s telling me that he’s a survivor. Go without food and drink for long periods.
‘In the desert,’ Bond said softly, ‘when you were with Zwingli – after you jumped from that aeroplane – did you have to go long without food and drink?’
The green eyes went bitterly cold, all sign of normal human life ebbing from them.
‘Clever, Mr Bond. How long have you known?’
Realising that he might have overplayed his hand, and not certain why he had done it, Bond said he had not been sure, but had suspected the truth from their first meeting. ‘It just happened that I’d read the old file: they resurrect it from time to time, you know. I thought I knew your face the moment we met – when I came here with Freddie. During the evening, I became more convinced, but still not absolutely certain. After all, if you are Jay Autem Holy, you’ve been dead a long time.’
‘And what if you had still been on active service, Mr Bond? Would you have gone running to your superiors? And why, incidentally, is the file resurrected regularly?’
‘You know what the Colonial Militia is like,’ Bond tried to inject humour into his voice. ‘Your Colonial Militia. They jump at ghosts. Spooks.’
Holy made a growling noise. ‘Tamil was right. It’s a pity we didn’t pull you in sooner. His people tried, against my advice. You see, I did not wish to deal with yet another hostage, another woman. You had some woman with you, didn’t you? Anyway, the job was bungled; you were quick and cunning.’ The tense atmosphere changed yet again. There were no warnings with Holy. ‘Well, I have work to do. You stand by, James. I’m glad we have you now.’
Everyone was assembling in the main laboratory, all the young bronzed soldiers from Erewhon. Bond saw that Zwingli was still in deep conversation with Tamil Rahani, as though they had not stopped since lunch.
‘Just see Mr Bond up the stairs,’ Holy said to Tigerbalm, giving Bond a small pat on the shoulder, as if reassuring himself that all was well.
Tigerbalm went as far as the landing, and watched as Bond walked to his room. He remembered being told that Jay Autem Holy was a genius of sorts. Was it Percy who had told him? The man obviously lived in that odd world of unreality. If he said he was dead, then that was exactly what the world should believe. Holy had been genuinely shaken by the idea that others may not be convinced. Then there was the question of Percy: ‘You had some woman with you, didn’t you?’ Well, everyone said that Holy would not even recognise his own wife.
He opened the door, and there, for the second time since the whole intrigue had started, was Cindy Chalmer, a hard computer disk clutched in one hand, a finger to her lips. Bond closed the door. ‘More greetings from Percy?’ he asked softly.
15
THE BALLOON GAME
‘No, this one’s on me.’ She saw the look in Bond’s eye, and followed his gaze, for he had suddenly fallen silent, moving quietly around the room, examining every inch.
Softly she spoke again. ‘It’s okay, James. They have visual surveillance and all the military detection gear, but this lot don’t seem to have caught up with the deadly little bug.’
‘You certain?’ he mouthed.
‘Swept the place myself. In my first week. And I’ve kept abreast of all the security developments since. If they’ve put any sound in, I’ll turn back into a virgin.’
The cruel lips didn’t tilt into amusement. There was nothing to be amused about now. Even though he appeared satisfied, throughout the time they were together in the room all conversation was conducted in a low murmur. Foolish, he thought, for that would be as audible as yelling should Cindy be proved wrong.
‘The Balloon Game.’ She held out the hard disk to him, a small flat square, encased in plastic.
So she had got it, the program which would provide a clue – no, more than a clue – to what SPECTRE had proposed to Rahani and Holy. Stored away on the wafer-thin magnetic disk was the answer to all Bond’s questions. Yet he did not move to take it from her.
‘Well, don’t just stand there. At least say thank you.’
He remained silent, wishing to draw her out. The trick was as old as the trade itself, practised constantly by case officers and agent handlers the world over. Remain silent and let them come to you, tell you all there is to tell. Only then should you try to fill in the gaps.
‘They’ve got four back-up copies,’ she said at last, ‘and I just hope to heaven the Old Bald Eagle doesn’t need to run the fourth, because this is it.’
Bond remained silent. He did not smile.
‘I thought they’d buried it, locked it behind steel and sprinkled man-eating spiders in the vault.’
She stared back at Bond, who did not move.
‘All five disks have been kept in the chief’s safe – the one in his office that does have everything except the man-eating spiders.’ Once more she held it out. ‘But today it’s all systems go, and they’re using it all the time. As often happens Peter and I have been banished from the lab. But the guards have got used to us going up and down. I guess you beat him at his own game?’
‘Yes,’ Bond said flatly, as though there had been no pleasure in it.
‘Heard some of it. Now perhaps you’ll believe he’s insane. Had one of his tantrums. I heard that as well.’
‘How did you get down?’
‘Looked as though I belonged. Clip-board under one arm. I just walked past the young thugs on the door. They’ve seen me before. You were with Bald Eagle. Like a lot of people who become paranoid about security, he has a blind spot. The safe was left open. I did a swift switch and tucked this up my shirt.’
It was all he was going to get. ‘You haven’t seen it run, then?’
She shook her head. Her negative gestures, he noticed, were always performed with the head tilted slightly to the right – a distinctive mannerism, a flourish, like the way some people curl the last letter of their signature, underlining the name to give it more importance. It was a habit they should have caught during training, where the mohair-suited psychiatrists note and eradicate idiosyncracies. He waited again.
‘There’s been no way, James. Only the inner circle have seen it, played with it – if that’s the right word.’
At last Bond took the disk. ‘Trained on it,’ he corrected her. ‘And there’s little chance of us having a look-see. Where’s my gear?’
‘In the garage, under a pile of rubbish – tyres, old tins, tools: odds and ends. In one corner. I had to improvise, and it was better to hide it there than let them find it in the car. It’s not safe by a
ny means, so we just have to hope nobody goes rooting around.’
He seemed to give the situation a lot of thought.
‘Well, I don’t fancy trying to unlock this,’ he touched the disk. ‘What’s on it is big, and I suspect dangerous. I just hope you’re right – that the disk isn’t missed, and that nobody goes rooting through the garage and tumbles over my hoard of electronics.’
‘So what good’s it going to do? You want me to try and get it out?’
Bond went over to the window, where the chintz curtains had been drawn. The promised supper tray was on a table near by, and he noticed it had been set for two – prawns in little glasses, cold chicken and tongue, salads, bread rolls, a bottle of wine. Did anybody get hot food at Endor when the heat was on? he wondered. He still clutched the disk in his hand. Better if he kept it close. Yet there were so few hiding places. In the end, he banked on there being no search, walked over to the wardrobe and pushed it among his clothes. The whole process seemed to take several minutes of silence.
‘There are friends,’ he confided at last. ‘Quite near. I would have thought that by now . . . No, you don’t move from the house. Nobody tries to get out except me.’ Bond turned, and dropped quietly into a chair, signalling she should also sit. He nodded towards the wardrobe. ‘We’re not taking any risks, not with that. It’s like a time bomb.’
‘We just sit, and wait until the cavalry arrive?’ Cindy was perched on the end of the bed, her skirt riding up to show a slice of smooth, tantalising thigh.
‘Something like that.’ Bond was trying to reckon how much time they might have; whether the team with their cameras, log books and directional microphones had advised M that something important was happening at Endor. Would M let them sweat it out? Possibly. The cautious, diplomatic intriguer had waited before, almost until the last moment.
‘I want an educated guess from you, Cindy. You’ve been here before – I mean when they’ve prepared for some caper.’
She had been at Endor before, when the hard men had come and spent hours training down in the converted cellars.
‘This is the biggest gathering yet?’
Since she had been here, it was.
‘In your estimation, Cindy, what’s the timing? How long have we got before things start to roll?’ In his mind the question was really, how long have I got before they ask me to filch the EPOC frequency?
‘It can only be a guess, but I’d say forty-eight hours maximum.’
‘And your little playmate, Peter?’
She sprang to Peter’s defence like a sister, often at loggerheads with her brother, but always ready to stand up for him. ‘Peter’s okay. He’s a brilliant worker, dedicated . . .’
‘Would you trust him? Really trust him, when the chips are down, as they say?’
She gnawed her upper lip. ‘Only in a real emergency. Nothing against him. He can’t stand St John-Finnes or Dazzle. He’s been looking for a different job. Says this place is too claustrophobic for him.’
‘I expect it’ll be even more claustrophobic soon,’ Bond said. ‘I’d say you, Peter and myself are destined for oblivion – particularly you and Peter. Anybody who isn’t completely in their confidence.’
Once more he fell silent, his mind slicing through every morsel of information. Jay Autem Holy had indicated that SPECTRE’S current ploy was destined to change history. Afterwards, they would not want anybody around who could name names or draw faces. Certainly not in the immediate wake of whatever they planned.
‘My car,’ he snapped suddenly.
‘The Bentley? Yes?’
‘You took my gear from the boot. How?’
‘It was just before the present crowd arrived. I had been through the kitchens and spotted a whole lot of food being loaded into the two big deep freezes. I also heard Old Bald Eagle on the telephone. I knew they were bringing you back. What did happen by the way? They said you were in hospital . . .’
Bond brusquely told her to get on with it.
She knew the car had been driven back and put into the garage, and she wondered about the micro and drives he had used in the hotel. The Bentley’s keys were left in a security cabinet where they kept all the car keys. She had been in and out of that one since she first arrived – and she chose her moment.
‘It was a risk, but I only had the keys out for five minutes. Everyone was busy, so I took the keys, unloaded the boot, and stashed the stuff in the garage. It’s not really safe, but it seemed to be the only way. Bad enough doing that, and far too risky to attempt getting it any further away.’
‘And the car itself? Have they done anything with it? Gone over it?’
She gave her angled negative head shake. ‘No time. Not enough troops either. Everyone’s been up to their eyes here.’
‘The keys?’
‘Jason will have them.’
‘And it’s still there? In the garage?’
‘Far as I know. Why?’
‘Can we . . . ?’
‘Forget it, James. There’s no way we can drive out of here in one piece.’
‘I hope to be going officially. But if they haven’t messed about with it, I wouldn’t mind spending fifteen minutes in that car now. Possible?’
‘The keys? How? Lord, I don’t . . .’
‘Don’t worry about keys. Just tell me, Cindy, can we get into the garage?’
‘Well, I can.’ She explained that her room had a window looking out on the garage roof. ‘You just drop down, and there’s a skylight. Opens upwards. No problem.’
‘And security?’
‘Damn. Yes, they’ve got a couple of young guys out front.’
She explained the layout. The garage itself held four cars, and was, in effect, an extension to the north end of the house. Her room was on the corner, just above the flat roof, one window looking down on the garage, two more to the front.
‘And these guards? They’re out front? Specifically watching the garage?’
‘Just general duties. Keeping an eye on the north end. If we could . . . Wait a minute. If my curtains aren’t drawn they can see straight up into my room. I caught one lot at it last night. They just move a shade further down the drive and they have a good view. How would it be if I gave them a peep show?’
Bond smiled for the first time. ‘Well, I’d appreciate it.’
Cindy leaned back on the bed. ‘You, James, you male chauvinist pig, have the opportunity to appreciate it any time you want. That’s an offer.’
‘I’d love to take you up on it, Cindy. But we have work to do. Let’s see how good they’ve been with my luggage.’
He went over to the weekend case and dumped it on the bed beside the girl, then knelt to examine the locks. After a few seconds he nodded and took out the black gunmetal pen clipped inside his pullover, unscrewing the wrong end to reveal a tiny set of miniature screwdriver heads. These were threaded at their blunt ends, the threads matching a small hole in the pen’s cap.
‘No traveller should be without one,’ Bond said. He smiled and selected one of the drivers, screwing it into place.
Carefully he began to remove the tiny screws around the right lock of his case. They turned easily, the lock coming off in one piece to reveal a small oblong cavity containing one spare set of keys for the Mulsanne Turbo, which he slipped into his pocket before replacing the lock and putting away the miniature tool kit.
The plans for Cindy’s diversion and Bond’s crawl from her window were quickly arranged.
‘The diversion’s no problem,’ she said, lowering her eyelids. ‘I’ve got exceptional quality tart’s stuff on under the skirt.’ She gave a little pout. ‘I thought I might even turn you on.’
She described her room, suggesting that she should enter in the dark, open the side window and pull those curtains before switching the light on. ‘I’ll be able to see exactly where the guards have placed themselves. You’ll have to crawl to the side window on your belly.’
‘How long can you . . . well, tantalise
them?’
If she performed the full act, Cindy said, putting on a throaty voice, she could keep them more or less happy for about half an hour. ‘To be on the safe side, I guess you’d better reckon on ten minutes, give or take five.’
He gave her a look usually reserved for the more cheeky jumper and pearls set at the Regent’s Park Headquarters, checked the ASP, and said the sooner they got on with it the better. Bond knew that, if Holy’s men had not yet tampered with the car, it would certainly be given a going over before they let him out – if they let him out.
Nobody appeared to be stirring in the house. While tiptoeing across the landing, they saw men still lounging in the hall, but the rest was quiet, and the corridor leading to Cindy’s room at the far end of the house was in darkness. Her smooth palm touched his, their fingers interlocking for a moment as she guided him towards her door.
She was young, supple, very attractive and obviously available – to him at least. For a second he wondered, not for the first time, how genuine she was. But the chance to doubt had long since passed. There was nobody else to trust.
Cindy opened her door, whispering, ‘Okay, down boy.’ He dropped on to his stomach, beginning to wriggle his way across the floor. Cindy was humming to herself and interspersing the low, tuneful, bluesy sound with soft comments.
‘Nobody at the side . . . I’m closing the curtains . . . okay, going to the front windows . . . Yes, they’re down there . . . Right, James, get cracking, I’m putting the lights on . . .’ And on they flooded, with Bond halfway across the floor, moving fast towards the window, where the curtains billowed and sighed like a sail.
As he reached it, he saw her out of the corner of his eye, standing near the far front window, hands to her shirt, swaying slightly as she sang softly:
He shakes my ashes, freezes my griddle,
Churns my butter, stokes my pillow
My man is such a handyman
He threads my needle, gleans my wheat,
Heats my heater, chops my meat,
My man is such a handyman.
The last words were barely distinguishable to Bond, who was already out of the window, dropping silently on to the garage roof. He had a copy of ‘Queen’ Victoria Spivey’s Handyman, recorded in the 1920s, so he knew what that was all about.