‘Right. Well, 007, all we have to do now is sew up the remainder of this unpleasant lot. Any ideas?’
Bond had one idea, and one only.
‘You give me the EPOC frequency, sir – the real one, just in case they already have it, because I wouldn’t put anything past SPECTRE and this crowd who are doing their dirty work for them.’
‘Oh yes, the EPOC frequency. That was mentioned in your message. Made us think. Tell me about that, 007.’
Bond went through the essentials of the story, from start to finish, leaving out nothing.
‘They claimed to have the Russian equivalent, sir, and the emergency ciphers for both Russia and the USA. I’m inclined to believe them.’
M nodded. ‘Yes, SPECTRE’S never been backward in acquiring information. Good job we’ve got the Goodyear field under wraps, Chief-of-Staff. Chivvy the Swiss, would you, and keep in contact with the Goodyear people.’
M fiddled with his pipe as he began to expand on his own theory. If they did have the emergency ciphers of the United States and Russia, together with the frequencies, and if SPECTRE’S agents were able to get near either of the leaders, they could activate that country’s cipher.
‘The way to do it,’ Bond cut in, ‘would be to hijack the airship and load enough shortwave hardware. Then take the Europa right over the very spot where heads of state are gathered together . . .’
‘That’s it, 007! Directly overhead would be enough for the United States’ communications satellite to recognise the cipher, and, I presume, the Russian one as well.’
There were two possibilities: full nuclear strikes by one of the superpowers, or a simultaneous strike by both, knocking each of them out, leaving nothing but desolation on the two great continents for years to come. It was unthinkable. M said so, loudly. Bond pointed out that Jay Autem Holy had talked only of peace.
‘There would be the danger of their using a reserve plan if I failed to return with the EPOC frequency.’
‘There’s one alternative. Ploughshare.’ M said it as though this were the answer to everyone’s dreams. ‘Ploughshare, and whatever the Russian equivalent is.’
Percy asked what Ploughshare was, and M told her with a smile that it was a way of consigning all nuclear weapons – the bulk of them anyway – to the scrap heap. Quietly he informed the assembly of the cipher which could be sent over the EPOC frequency that would set in motion the destruction of all arming codes, and the disarming of all nuclear weapons, strategic and tactical.
‘It’s been reckoned that the process would take around twenty-four hours in the USA. I should imagine it would be a little longer in the Soviet Union. Just as there’s always been a Doomsday Machine, we’ve had a Swords to Ploughshare Machine for the last three decades.’
M pursed his lips and waited for this to sink in before continuing.
‘It’s there in case of some catastrophe, like a 67 per cent paralysis of the armed forces by nerve gas, or a genuine stalemate. Of course it’s always been hoped that if the Ploughshare option were taken, it would be by mutual understanding. But it’s there. And it’s just as potentially dangerous as blowing two great nations to pieces, because using it would be the easiest way to destabilise the two superpowers, by removing their nuclear balance at a stroke. Do that, and the stage is set for real revolution, economic disaster and chaos.’
Bond was right. Let him be supplied with the EPOC frequency, and a homing device, one or two of the Armourer’s more fancy pieces of equipment, and a good surveillance team. ‘You can then go back from whence you came, 007. Somewhere along the way, they’ll pick you up, and we’ll track you – safe enough if the team stays well back.’
Without further ado the meeting broke up and they took Bond off into a side room, where Major Boothroyd wired three homing devices into his clothes, and one for luck into the heel of his right shoe. The Armourer then handed Bond a couple of small weapons, and they gave him five minutes with Percy.
She clung to him, kissed him and told him to take care. There would be time enough once this was over, Bond said, there was no doubt about it, and the haymaking season would last all summer. Percy smiled the knowing smile women the world over smile when they’ve got what they really want.
Back in the conference room, they gave him the EPOC frequency that had come into effect at midnight. It was now one in the morning, and Bill Tanner gave the final hasty briefing.
‘We’ve already got your homers on two scanners,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, James, they’ve a range of almost ten miles. The car behind will stay only a mile or so away. The one riding point is already on his way. We know the route, so as soon as you go astray, we’ll be in action. One SAS team standing by. They’ll be anywhere you want in a matter of minutes, in a straight line, as the chopper flies. Good luck.’
Even the centre of London was beginning to slow down. Bond had the Bentley on the Hammersmith Flyover, heading towards the M4, in less than twelve minutes. They had calculated that Holy and Rahani wouldn’t try anything until he was well off the motorway.
It happened just after the Heathrow Airport turnoff.
First, a pair of cars, travelling very fast, forced the Bentley to give up the outside lane. Bond cursed them for a couple of fools and pulled into the middle lane. Before he realised what was happening the two cars reduced speed, riding beside him, keeping him in the centre, while two heavy goods lorries came up in the slow lane.
Bond increased speed, trying to slip away in the centre lane, but both cars and lorries were well tuned, and, too late, he realised the way ahead was blocked by a big, slow-moving refrigerated truck.
He braked and saw incredulously the rear doors open and a ramp slide out, its end riding on buffered wheels, fishtailing to the road surface, the whole contraption being driven with great precision.
The cars to the right and lorries on the left crowded him, like sheep dogs working together until he had no option left. With a slight jerk, the Bentley’s front wheels touched the ramp. With the steering wheel bucking in his hands, Bond gave the engine a tweak and glided into the great white moving garage.
The doors clanged shut behind him. Lights came on, and the door was opened. Simon stood beside the car, an Uzi tucked under one arm.
‘Well done, James. Sorry we couldn’t give you any warning. Now, there’s not much time. Out of those clothes. We’ve brought the rest of your gear. Everything off, shoes as well, just in case they smelled a rat and bugged you.’
Hands grasped at his clothing, tearing it from him, handing over other things – socks, underwear, grey slacks, white shirt, tie, blazer, and soft leather moccasins.
When he turned round, Simon was behind him, now dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, and the van seemed to be slowing down and taking one of the exits. The ASP was handed back to him – a sign of good faith? He wondered if it was loaded.
The team had worked with such speed and proficiency that Bond hardly had time to take in what was going on. As the truck shuddered to a halt, Simon opened the Bentley’s rear door, half pushing Bond into the back, and in a second the truck’s doors were again open, and they were reversing out. Simon was in the driving seat.
‘Well done, James. You got the frequency, I presume?’ Jay Autem Holy said from beside him.
‘Yes.’ His voice sounded numb.
‘I knew it. Good. Give it to me now.’
Bond parroted the figures, and the decimal point.
‘Where are we going?’
Holy repeated the frequency, asking Bond for confirmation. By now they were moving smoothly back on to the motorway.
‘Where are we going, James? Don’t worry. We’re going to live through an important moment in history. First, Heathrow Airport. All the formalities have been taken care of. As we’re just a little late, we’re cleared to drive straight up to our private jet. We’re going to Switzerland. Be there in a couple of hours. Then we have another short journey. Then yet another kind of flight. I shall explain it all later. You s
ee, yesterday morning, long before you woke for breakfast, while it was still dark, the team from Erewhon carried out a very successful raid. They stole a small landing strip and an airship. In the morning, James, we’re all going for an airship ride. To change history.’
A mile or so back down the road, the observer in the trail car had noted that their target seemed to pull off the motorway for a few minutes. ‘We’re closing on him. Can’t make it out. You want me to call in?’
‘Give it a couple of minutes.’ The driver shifted in his seat.
‘Ah. No.’ The observer stared at the moving blip which was Bond’s homer. ‘No, it’s okay. Looks as though they were right. He’s still heading west. Lay you odds on them picking him up between Oxford and Banbury.’
But the Bentley had, in fact, just passed them, going in the opposite direction, hurling itself back towards Heathrow and a waiting executive jet.
18
THE MAGIC CARPET
The executive jet had Goodyear symbols all over it – a smart livery, with the words Good Year flanking the winged sandal. It also had a British registration.
Bond resisted the temptation to make a run for it, try to attract attention, or cause a commotion. The realisation that he was outnumbered, outgunned and at an extreme disadvantage held him back. Whoever had laid out the ground plan of this operation, Holy, Rahani, or the inner council of SPECTRE itself, had done so with admirable attention to detail. For all he knew, the whole gang on board could have a genuine affiliation to Goodyear. In any case, he did not even know whether the ASP was loaded. So far there was at least a small amount of trust between him and the main protagonists. Exploit that trust to the full, he told himself, and just go along for the ride.
After takeoff, an attractive girl served drinks and coffee. Bond took the coffee, not wishing to dull any of his senses. He then excused himself and went to the pocket-sized lavatory at the rear of the aircraft.
The ever-watchful Simon sat near the door, eyeing him with wary amusement. But there was no attempt at restraint.
Inside he took out the ASP and slipped the magazine from the butt. It was, as he had thought, empty. Whatever else happened, ammunition or another weapon was a priority.
Back in his seat, Bond took stock. The takeover of the Goodyear base, together with the airship Europa, had already taken place hours before Bill Tanner had checked. True, the Swiss police were now alerted, but they would only make SPECTRE’S task easier by keeping out any unwanted meddlers. The only possibility of the Service suspecting anything amiss would be the discovery that the surveillance cars had lost him – but heaven knew when they would find out. These people had taken no chances. By stripping him, they had effectively cut off any possible pursuit. The surveillance teams could be led a pretty dance, all over the country, following the constant bleeps of the homers coming from a pile of clothes in a lorry or car.
Not for the first time in his career, Bond was truly alone, with no way of warning anyone in authority. On the face of it, there was very little he could do to stop the airship’s scheduled flight over Geneva, or prevent use of the Russian and American ciphers. Even the high-security classification of these ciphers would work against them. If M was correct and the SPECTRE plan turned on the operation of the American Ploughshare cipher or its Russian equivalent, there would be no worldwide alert while Russian and American leaders were locked in their Summit talks. The damage would already have been done before they knew there was a crisis.
Sitting next to Jay Autem Holy, he reflected on the ingenuity of the plan, which would denude the two superpowers of their one true weapon in the power balance. It was, of course, what many people had dreamed of, protested for, talked and argued about for years. M had stressed this at the meeting in the house off Northumberland Avenue. He was convinced that a phased run-down of both sides’ nuclear armouries was a reasonable solution. For the two superpowers to be stripped overnight of their major weapons would destroy the tenuous stability that had prevailed since the Second World War. Operation Down Escalator was, Bond thought, an appropriate name, borrowing from that clumsy term, de-escalation, bandied about by politicians and protesters alike.
He dozed, not asleep, but conserving his energies for the time when ingenuity and strength might be needed. Yet in that state, pictures of the aftermath of Down Escalator, as described by his chief, churned over and over in his mind. There would be a worldwide economic crisis, with a market crash of enormous proportions, all confidence lost in the two superpowers. M had said that any economist or social historian could map out the events which would follow the undercutting of financial stability. The United States and the Soviet Union would be at the mercy of any other nation, however small, which possessed its own nuclear capability. As he took in the pictures M had drawn, Bond became even more determined to prevent Operation Down Escalator, no matter what the cost to himself. ‘Anarchy will rule,’ M had said. ‘The world will divide into uncertain alliances and the man in the street, no matter what his birthright, nationality, or politics, will be forced to accept a way of life which will drop him into a dark and bitter well of misery. Freedom, even the compromise freedom which exists now, will be erased from our existence,’ M had declaimed in a rare burst of almost Churchillian oratory.
‘Seatbelt, James.’ He opened his eyes. Jay Autem Holy was shaking his shoulder. ‘We’re coming in to land.’
Bond smiled back, sheepishly, as though he had really been deeply asleep.
‘Landing? Where?’
Perhaps in Geneva, at the airport, he could get away, raise the alarm.
‘Berne, Switzerland. You remember we’re flying into Switzerland?’
Of course. They wouldn’t do anything like trying to go into Geneva, which would be bristling with security. Berne! Bond smiled inwardly. These people had the whole business tied up. Berne, cars, a swift drive over to the Lake of Geneva and the Goodyear airstrip. All formalities would be already dealt with under the auspices of the huge international company they appeared to represent.
He glanced at his watch. It was already four in the morning. As the aircraft banked on its final approach he saw out of the cabin window that the sky was beginning to brighten, a dark grey colourwash streaked with light.
No, he had to go all the way. Try to spike the plan from the inside as it got under way.
‘Nice place, Berne,’ he observed casually, and Holy nodded.
‘We go on by car. It’ll take us an hour – an hour and a half. There’ll be plenty of time. Our job does not start until eleven.’
They came in with engines throttled back, then there was a final short burst of power to lift them over the threshold, and hardly a bump as the wheels touched down, before the final fiery roar of reverse thrust.
As he had suspected, the transfer was swift and accomplished with the combined efficiency of Swiss bureaucracy and SPECTRE’S cunning. The aircraft was parked well away from the main terminal. Two Audi Quattros and a police car were drawn up alongside.
From the window, Bond saw the transaction take place – the small pile of passports handed over, inspected and returned, with a salute. There would be no customs inspection, he thought. The Goodyear jet must have been running in and out of Berne and Geneva for a month or so now. They would have the formalities cut down to the fine art of mutual trust.
Then General Zwingli eased his bulk down the aisle first, giving Bond a friendly nod as he passed. They left the aircraft in single file, with Bond hemmed in neatly by the Arab boy and Simon. Nobody threatened him, but it was implicit in their looks that any false move would be countered. The police car, with its immigration officers on board, was already slowly disappearing back towards the terminal.
The Audis had Goodyear VIP stickers on the windscreens and rear windows. Bond recognised both drivers, in their grey uniforms, as men he had seen in Erewhon.
Within minutes, he was sitting next to Holy in the rear of the second car as they swept away from the airport in the half light of
dawn. The houses on Berne’s outskirts still slept, while others appeared to be just waking – lights coming on, green shutters open. Always, in Switzerland, Bond thought, you knew you were in a small, rich country, for all the buildings looked as though they had been assembled in some sterile room from a plastic kit, complete with small details of greenery and flowers.
They took the most direct route – straight to Lausanne, then along the lake road, following the line of the toy-like railway. Holy was quiet for most of the journey, but Simon, sitting in the front passenger seat, occasionally turned back to make small talk.
‘You know this part of the world, James? Fairytale country, isn’t it?’
Bond remembered, for no apparent reason, that the first time he had visited the Lake of Geneva was when he was sixteen. He had spent a week with friends in Montreux, had had a youthful holiday affair with a waitress from a lakeside café, and had developed a taste for Campari-soda.
Between Lausanne and Morges the cars stopped at a lighted lakeside restaurant. Simon and the Arab boy, in turns, brought out coffee and rolls to the cars. The sheer normality of their actions grated on Bond’s nerves, like a probe on a raw tooth. Half of his mind and body urged him to take drastic action now: the other more professional half told him to wait; bide his time and use the moment when it came.
‘Where are we heading?’ he asked Holy soon after the breakfast break.
‘A few kilometres this side of Geneva.’ Holy remained relaxed and confident. ‘We turn off the lake road. There’s a small valley and an airstrip. The team from Erewhon will be waiting for us. Have you ever flown in an airship, James?’
‘No.’
‘Then it will be a new experience for us both. I’m told it’s rather fantastic.’ He peered from the windows. ‘And it looks as though we’ll have a clear day for it. The view should be wonderful.’