The most disturbing points were the dying terrorist’s words and the fact that Treiben had once been an associate of the infamous Ernst Stavro Blofeld, founder and leader of the original, multinational SPECTRE.
Further investigation increased their worries. From all the hijacks there was now positive ID on six men. Two were known hoodlums on the payroll of Michael Mascro, Los Angeles’ ranking criminal; one could be linked to Kranko Stewart and Dover Richardson, New York ‘fixers’ and gangsters; two worked exclusively for Bjorn Junten, the Swedish-born freelance intelligence expert, whose private espionage service was always open to the highest bidder; while the sixth identified man was tied in to the Banquette brothers from Marseille – a pair of villains upon whom both the French police, and the French intelligence service (Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionage) had been trying to pin evidence for the past twenty years.
Like the German, Treiben, the principals in these identifications – Mascro, Stewart, Richardson, Junten and the Banquette brothers – had their own personal connections with Ernst Stavro Blofeld and SPECTRE.
There could be but one conclusion: SPECTRE was alive and operating again.
Bond quietly lit one of his special low-tar cigarettes, originally made for him by Morelands of Grosvenor Street and now produced – after much discussion and bending of rules – by H. Simmons of Burlington Arcade: the earliest known cigarette manufacturers in London. This firm even agreed to retain the distinctive three gold rings – together with their own silhouette trademark – on each of the specially produced cigarettes, and Bond felt not a little honoured that he was the only customer who could coax personalised cigarettes from Simmons.
Blowing smoke at the ceiling, conscious of Q’ute in deep and satisfied sleep beside him, Bond thought of the other women who had played such a decisive role in his Service career: Vesper Lynd, who, in death, had seemed moulded like a stone effigy; Gala Brand, now Mrs Vivian, with three kids and a nice house in Richmond (they exchanged Christmas cards but he had never seen her again after the Drax business); Honey Rider; Tiffany Case; Domino Vitale; Solitaire; Pussy Galore; the exquisite Kissy Suzuki; his latest conquest, Lavender Peacock, now managing her Scottish estate with great success. In spite of the warmth and genuine affection which flowed, even in sleep, from Ann Reilly, Bond’s mind ran riot. Again and again his thoughts turned to Tracy di Vicenzo – Tracy Bond.
There had been a time when Bond’s memory had been lost for a considerable period; but experts had brought him back from the darkness of unknowing, and the final moments of Ernst Stavro Blofeld now lived clearly and vividly in his mind – Blofeld in his grotesque Japanese Castle of Death, with the poisoned garden: the last battle, when Bond was ill-equipped to deal with the big man wielding his deadly samurai sword. Yet he had done it, with the greatest lust for another man’s blood he had ever experienced. Even now, when he thought long of Blofeld, Bond felt an ache in his thumbs: he had choked the man to death with his bare hands.
Yes, Blofeld was dead; but SPECTRE lived on.
Bond stubbed out the cigarette, turned on his side and tried to sleep. When, at last, blessed darkness swallowed his consciousness, James Bond still did not rest. He dreamed; and his dreams were of his beloved lost Tracy.
He woke with a start. A glimmer of light showed through the curtains. Turning to look at the Rolex on the night table, Bond saw it was almost five-forty-five.
‘Late to bed, early to rise,’ Q’ute giggled, her hand moving under the bedclothes to add point to her humour.
Bond gazed down at her, breaking into a winning smile. She reached up, kissed him, and they began just where they had left off the night before, until the deep-deep-deep of Bond’s pocket pager interrupted them.
‘Damn,’ breathed Q’ute. ‘Can’t they ever leave you alone?’
Reaching for the telephone Bond caustically reminded her that she had personally paged him, on matters of business, three times in the past week. ‘No time’s the right time,’ he said, smiling wearily as he dialled the headquarters’ number.
‘Transworld Export,’ said the voice of the duty switchboard operator.
Bond identified himself. There was a pause, then Bill Tanner’s voice: ‘You’re needed. He’s been here half the night and wants to see you soonest. Something very big’s afoot.’
Bond glanced back towards Q’ute. ‘On my way,’ he said into the instrument. Then, cradling the phone, he told her what Bill Tanner had just said.
She pushed him out of the bed, telling him to stop boasting.
Grumbling, mainly because he would get no proper breakfast, Bond shaved and dressed, while Ann Reilly made coffee.
The Saab, gleaming silver, stood outside the block of flats. It had only recently been returned to him, completely refurbished by both Saab and the security firm which provided Bond, privately, with the special technology built into the turbo-charged vehicle. In seconds, the car was picking up speed effortlessly.
There was little traffic, and it took only ten minutes of relaxed driving – the car answering Bond’s feet and hands like the thoroughbred it was – to get to the tall building overlooking Regent’s Park. There, Bond took the lift up to the ninth floor and walked straight to M’s ante-room where Miss Moneypenny sat dejectedly at her desk.
‘Morning, Penny.’ Bond, though feeling jaded, put on a show for his old flirting partner’s benefit.
‘Maybe good for you, James. But I’ve been up half the night.’
‘Who hasn’t?’ A look of sublime innocence.
Moneypenny gave a wan smile. ‘According to the powder vine, James, it would be with a cute little girl from Q Branch. So, I suppose, I can just eat my heart out.’
‘Penny,’ Bond walked towards M’s door, ‘I have but one heart. It’s always been yours. Nibble away at it whenever you desire.’
‘In a pig’s eye,’ Moneypenny retorted with more than a hint of acid. ‘You’d better get in there, James. He told me to fire you through his door – his words – as soon as you arrived.’
Bond winked, straightened his RN tie, and knocking at M’s door, walked in.
M looked tired. It was the first thing Bond noticed. The second was the girl – short, well-proportioned, athletic, but with an undoubtedly feminine smile and dark hair cut into a mass of tight curls.
Her large brown eyes did not waver as they met Bond’s gaze. There was something familiar about the eyes, as though he had seen, or met, the girl before.
‘Come in, 007,’ M was saying, his voice edgy. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever met this lady, but she’s the daughter of an old friend of yours. Commander James Bond – Miss Cedar Leiter.’
5
CEDAR
Later Bond felt that he must have looked like a ninny, standing there in M’s office, jaw dropped, staring at the girl. She was something to stare at, even dressed in the casual denim skirt and shirt. Her face, like her brown eyes, showed a tranquillity which, Bond sensed, belied a fast-working mind – accurate and deadly as the body. The girl was an expert. Indeed she should be, when one considered her father.
‘Well,’ was all Bond could muster.
Cedar’s face blossomed into a smile that reminded him, almost painfully, of his old friend Felix. It was a devil-may-care look, one eyebrow raised as if to say, get it right or go to hell.
M grunted. ‘You’ve not met Miss Leiter before, then, 007?’ M still spoke of Bond as 007, even though the famous Double-O Section with its licence to kill had long been disbanded.
Bond had known Felix was married, but when they had worked together, his old CIA friend – later turned private investigator – had never spoken of his wife or children.
‘No,’ Bond replied somewhat tersely, for the full implication had just hit him. ‘How is Felix?’
Cedar’s eyes clouded slightly, as though she had suffered a quick physical pain. When she spoke, the voice was low, husky and without a hint of what the British think of as an American accent. Mid-Atlantic,
they would call it.
‘Daddy’s fine. They’ve fixed him up with the latest thing in artificial limbs.’ Her momentary sadness disappeared, and the smile returned. ‘He’s got an incredible new hand, says it can do anything. Spends a lot of time shooting and practising quick-draw techniques. I’m sure he’d want me to say hello.’
In a split second, Bond relived that time in his life he would rather banish into oblivion – the time when Felix had lost an arm and half a leg, as well as suffering other damage which called for years of work by plastic surgeons. James Bond often blamed himself for Felix Leiter’s predicament, though they had both been after a black gangster whose sadistic madness was almost unique. Buonaparte Ignace Gallia: Mr Big. In any case, as Felix would have been the first to admit, he was lucky to be alive at all after the shark attack engineered by Mr Big; while Bond took consolation in the fact that, in the end, he had put the gangster away for good – and in the most unpleasant way possible, letting the punishment fit the crime.
Quickly, Bond came out of his reverie, catching up on Cedar Leiter’s last sentence: ‘. . . he’d want me to say hello.’ She cocked her head. ‘If he knew I was here,’
M grunted once more. ‘I think we’d better get down to business, 007. Miss Leiter is a sleeper, just brought to life. She arrived in the early hours.’ He hesitated, with a slight frown of displeasure. ‘On my doorstep. I’ve listened to what she had to tell me: Chief-of-Staff’s just checking her out now, with a cipher through the US Embassy.’
Bond asked if he could sit, and received a tense nod from M.
‘I’ve already been through it. Miss Leiter will put you in the picture,’ M continued.
‘Oh, please call me Cedar, sir . . .’ She broke off at M’s withering look, realising that she had made the gaffe of all time. M strongly disapproved of easy familiarity, particularly in Service matters.
‘Start, Miss Leiter,’ M snapped.
Cedar’s career had begun, when she was eighteen, as a secretary in the State Department. Within a year she was approached by the Central Intelligence Agency. ‘I suppose it was because of my father.’ She did not smile this time. ‘But I was warned that he was never to know.’ She kept her job at State, but went through a comprehensive course during vacations, weekends, and on certain evenings.
‘They didn’t want me active. That was made clear from the start. I was to be trained and take regular refresher courses, but to keep my job at State. They specifically told me that I’d eventually be called.
‘Well, the call came last week. I suppose they keep tabs on you. I was planning a short trip to Europe. As it’s turned out, it’s an official trip, and I’ve been used because I’m not what you call a “face”.’ Cedar meant that she was unknown to any of the world’s intelligence communities. ‘There’s one key word that M has to relay to Langley, and a key word in response, to show I’m on the level – I guess that’s what we’re waiting to clear now.’
M nodded, adding that he had no doubt Miss Leiter was ‘on the level’, as she put it. Certainly the documents, and the request she had brought made sense.
‘I’m putting you on to this, 007, as it is a question of working in harmony with Miss Leiter in the United States . . .’
‘But SPE . . . ?’ Bond began.
‘That matter will make itself clear in a moment. I’m putting you on Special Duty. Special Services to the US Government.’ M picked up several sheets of paper from his desk, and Bond could not help seeing that the first was a short, typewritten note bearing the Presidential Seal. There was no further point arguing with his chief.
‘What’s the story then, sir?’ Bond asked.
‘Briefly,’ M began, ‘it concerns a gentleman by the name of Markus Bismaquer.’
M glanced at the papers in his hand and rattled off the details of Bismaquer’s life and background: Born 1919, New York City. Only son of mixed parentage, German and English. Both American citizens. Made his first million before the age of twenty, multi-millionaire within three years. Avoided military service during the Second World War by nature of being classified ‘undesirable’ – ‘He was, apparently, a firm and convinced member of the American Nazi Party. Something he has since tried to keep quiet, but with little success.’ M made a noise which could only be interpreted as a sign of disgust. ‘Sold out all his business interests, at great profit, in the early 1950s and has lived like a Renaissance prince ever since. Rarely seen away from his own principality, as it were . . .’
‘His own what?’ Bond frowned.
‘Figure of speech, 007. Miss Leiter will explain.’
Cedar Leiter took a deep breath.
‘Bismaquer owns 150 square miles of what was once desert, about eighty miles southwest of Amarillo, Texas; and M is right to call it his principality. He’s irrigated the area, built on it, and virtually sealed it off. No roads run into Rancho Bismaquer. You get in by one of two ways: there’s a small airstrip, and he has his own private mono-rail system. There’s a closed station fifteen miles out of town – Amarillo, that is – and you have to be very well connected with Mr Bismaquer to take a ride on the mono-rail. If you’re really desirable you can take your own car – they have car transporters on the rail system, and there are roads out at the ranch; but within the compound. It’s a hell of a place – huge house; auxiliary buildings; automobile race track; horses; fishing; everything your heart desires.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘No, but I’ve seen all the pictures – from the satellites, and the high-fly reconnaissance. Langley has a 3-D mock-up. They showed it to me as part of my briefing. I have photographs with me. The whole area – all hundred and fifty square miles – is heavily fenced off, and Bismaquer has his own security outfit.’
‘So what’s he done wrong?’ Bond took out his gunmetal cigarette case, looking at M for approval. M just nodded and began to load his pipe. Cedar refused a cigarette. ‘What’s he done wrong? Apart from making a mint of money.’
‘That’s the problem.’ Cedar looked uncertainly at M.
‘Oh, you can go ahead, Miss Leiter. 007’s got to know it all before we finish.’
‘Until a few months ago it was all very vague,’ Cedar continued, folding her legs under her on the leather buttoned chair. M looked towards the ceiling as though appealing to the deities for good manners, and posture, in the girl. ‘Politically, Bismaquer’s always been suspect, but nobody’s apparently worried too much, because he stays so far from the action. There is very firm evidence that he’s – how do you put it? – run with the hare and hunted with the hounds?’
Bond nodded.
‘That’s how Bismaquer’s operated over the years – looking for an “in” – a way to be accepted for political office. Nobody’s ever taken him up.’ She laughed, and Bond was reminded again of Felix. ‘They’ve taken his money, but not him. In the Watergate backlash, it came out that money from Bismaquer went into the famous slush fund. Not peanuts, either. But successive administrations have kept him at bay.’
‘Reasons?’
She gave a little shrug, as though to say it was obvious. ‘There is also evidence that Bismaquer has been searching for a way into any administration, with a view to making a takeover bid.’
It was Bond’s turn to laugh. ‘Take over what? The United States Government?’
‘I know it must sound far-fetched, but that’s exactly what the feeling has been.’ Cedar looked at him coolly. ‘You think some of those Arabs, and their retinues, are wealthy? Well, there are families in Texas who do live like royalty. There are a few – like in any country – who live with dangerous fantasy. When you combine fantasy with immense wealth . . .’
Both Bond and M nodded, taking her point.
‘The Nazi ideology still in him?’ Bond blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.
‘That’s what the Agency thinks.’
‘But a nutter like that can’t be really dangerous unless . . .’
‘Unless he’s doing someth
ing. Yes?’ Cedar looked directly at Bond. ‘Yes, I agree, but there has been trouble – or a hint of it. Bismaquer’s received a large number of very odd visitors at the ranch over the last year. He’s also increased security, and enlarged his staff.’
Bond sighed, looking at M for help – ‘This is crazy. A fellow living out his own fantasies . . .’
‘Hear her out, 007,’ M said quietly.
‘He’s up to something, all right. The FBI, were monitoring him, checking on the visitors and the equipment that went to the ranch. They decided to pass some of their findings on to the Internal Revenue Service. They in turn came up with some possible tax dodges. That gave the IRS, and the FBI, something to work on. Last January, four agents – two from each branch – went in to try and talk with Bismaquer. They disappeared. The FBI sent in two more. They did not come back. So the cops in Amarillo called on him and carried out an investigation. Friend Bismaquer knew nothing, could tell them nothing. No evidence. So the cops came out, and the Agency sent a girl in. They did not hear from her again.
‘Then, a week or so back, a body turned up in some marshland near Baton Rouge, Louisiana. It was kept quiet – not a whisper from the media. Apparently the corpse was in a bad state, but they ID’d it as the Company girl. Since then, all the bodies have turned up, near the same place. Two can’t be identified, but the others have been – by their teeth mostly. Every officer who set out to nail something on Markus Bismaquer, in Texas, has turned up dead in Louisiana.’
‘And that’s our business?’ Bond did not like the sound of it. Bismaquer seemed like a psychopathic maniac, with money to burn, a private army, and a king-sized case of folie de grandeur.
‘Very much so.’ Cedar Leiter looked at M. ‘Will you show him, sir?’
M delved among the papers neatly stacked in front of him, extracted one, and passed it over to Bond.
It was a clear photostat of a torn fragment of paper, the typewritten words plainly visible. Bond’s face darkened as he read: