"Oh.
A simple group of digits. Data, I suppose. The orders that can be given through the EPOC frequency are very limited. It's rarely used you know."
"Quite." Holy gave what could only be described as a knowing smile. "Rarely used, and very limited - but with the most far-reaching consequences?" Bond agreed. "The President would use the EPOC frequency only on strong recommendation from his military advisers.
The messages are usually concerned with rapid deployment of conventional troops and weapons..
"The alteration in the Readiness State of nuclear strike capacity?"
"That's a priority, yes."
"And tell me, would the instructions be obeyed? Immediately, I mean. Suppose the President were, for the sake of argument, in Venice and wished both to put NATO forces on the alert and prepare his nuclear strike forces for action.
Would it be done? Without consultation?"
"Quite possibly. The code for that kind of action is, in effect, a computer program. Once it's fed into the system it works. In the scenario you're suggesting, the British Prime Minister and the Commander-in-Chief NATO would consult back. But the Readiness State would continue.
"And if the British Prime Minister and the C-in-C NATO forces were known to be with the President at the moment of transmission?" It was very dangerous ground. Bond frit his stomach turn over. Then he remembered Rahani's words - "No blackmail . . . no plots to kidnap the President, or hold the world to ransom "In those circumstances the instructions would go to all local commanders automatically. They would be fed into the mainframe computers, the program would begin to run, globally, straight away. No question." This was something more devious, more ingenious than some harebrained revolutionary plan to override the system and transmit presidential orders to raise the level of tension between the superpowers. "But surely you know all of this."
"Indeed I do." There was an almost insane tranquillity in the way in which Holy answered. "Oh, I know the minutiae. Just as I know who has access to the daily ciphers for use through the EPOC frequency, and who also has access to that frequency.
"Tell me." Bond gave the impression of not knowing the small print.
"Come, Mr. Bond. You know as well as I do.
"I'd rather hear it from you, sir."
"There are only eleven ciphers that are capable of being sent via EPOC. These are seldom altered, for, as you say, they are programs, designed to be automatically set in motion while the President is out of the country. The eleventh is, incidentally, a countermand program to stop an order, returning things to the status quo. But that can be used only on a limited time scale.
The frequency itself is altered at midnight every two days. Right?"
"I believe so.
"The ciphers are carried by that omnipresent, and somewhat frightening official known as the Bag Man.
Correct?"
"The system has been found reliable,' Bond agreed.
"There was a Bag Man present in J.F.K. "s entourage in Dallas.
It's never been changed. He's always around - in the United States as well as when the President travels abroad. It's the penalty for having your head of state as C-in-C Armed Forces."
"The Bag Man can part with the ciphers and EPOC frequency only to the President, or the Vice-President, should anything happen,' Holy went on. "Should the President meet with a fatal accident overseas, the ciphers would be immediately null and void, unless the Vice-President were with him."
"Yes."
"So, if someone - anyone - were in possession of the EPOC frequency, and the eleven ciphers, it would be possible to relay a command which would automatically begin to run?" For the first time since they had started talking, Bond smiled, slowly shaking his head.
"No. There is a fail safe.
The EPOC frequency is a beamed satellite signal. It goes directly through one of the Defense Communications Satellite Systems, and they are very tricky little beggars.
The program will run only if the satellite confirms that the signal has come directly from the area where it knows - because it has been told - the President is. You would have to be very close to him before you could beat the system.
"Good." To Bond's surprise, Jay Autem Holy looked quite happy.
"Would you be surprised to learn that we already have the eleven ciphers, the programs?"
"Nothing surprises me any more. But if you're playing games with an Emergency Presidential Order you still have to get hold of the frequency for the forty-eight hours when you plan to operate. Then you have to get close to the President, and be able to use the frequency. I'd say the last two were the hardest parts getting near the President with the equipment needed to transmit, and obtaining the necessary frequency.
"So who else knows the EPOC frequency - always? I'll tell you, Mr. Bond. The Duty Intelligence Officer at the NATO C-in-C's Headquarters, the Duty Communications Officer at the C.I.A. HQ Langley, the Duty Communications Officer at N.S.A the corresponding senior communications officers of the U.S. armed forces - and, Mr. Bond, the senior monitoring officer at G.C.H.Q. Cheltenham. The Duty Security Officer at the British Foreign Office - who is always a member of the Secret Intelligence Service - is also in possession of the frequency.
It's quite a list, when you consider that the President himself doesn't know the EPOC frequency until he has occasion to use it."
"They're so very rarely used. Yes, as I remember it, you've got the list right but for one other person.
"Who?"
"The officer who controls the ciphers and frequency at the outset. Normally a communications security officer with the National Security Agency.
"Who usually, Mr. Bond, has forgotten the details within five minutes. What we shall need from you is the precise EPOC frequency on a particular day, which means we need it twenty-four hours in advance.
All other details are taken care of."
"And how do you expect me to give you the EPOC frequency?" Jay Autem Holy gave a throaty laugh. "You have done service as Duty Security Officer at the Foreign Office.
You know the system and the routine. Someone with your background and your expertise should have no difficulty in obtaining what we require. Just put your mind to it. This is why you were the obvious candidate, Bond. Providing you're as straight as we believe you to be.
There is an old proverb: when you want something from the lions, send a lion, not a man.
"I've never heard that before."
"No? You are the lion going to the lions. You are trusted, but if you should fail us . . . Well, we are not forgiving people, I'm afraid. Incidentally, I'm not surprised you didn't recognise the proverb. I just invented it." Jay Autem Holy threw back his head in a guffaw of laughter. James Bond did not think it was at all funny.
"You'll get the frequency for us, won't you, Bond?" The query came out through a series of deep breaths, as he gained control of himself.
"Think of it as your revenge. I promise you it will be used for good, and not to create havoc and disaster.
He had no option. "Yes, I'll do it. It's only a few numbers you want, after all."
"That's right. You're in the numbers racket now. A few simple digits, Mr. Bond." He paused, the vivid green eyes boring into Bond's skull. "Did you know the Soviets use almost an identical method when the General Secretary and Chairman of the Central Committee is abroad?
They call it the Panic frequency - but in Russian of course.
"You need access to this Panic frequency as well?" Bond asked, his nerves on edge.
"Oh, we already have it. You're not the only person in the numbers racket, Mr. Bond. Our principals in this operation have little money to spare but they certainly have contacts. Light on cash but heavy on information.
They do not trust your judgment as we do - or have I already told you that?"
"Ah, your principals, yes." Bond turned down the corners of his mouth. "Even though my part in all this is vital - essential - I am not allowed to know . . .
"
The name of our principals? I should have thought a man like you would have guessed already. A once powerful and very rich organisation, which has fallen on bad times - mainly because they lost their last two leaders in tragic circumstances. Our principals are a group who call themselves SPECTRE. The Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion. I rather like the revenge bit, don't you?"
BUNKER'S HILL
TIGERBALM AND HAPPY, the strong-arm men in residence, cheerfully took Bond back to his room and left him, keeping up their good humoured banter the whole time.
Yet something was different, Bond knew. In his present bemused state, he could not work out what it was.
Stretching out on the bed, he looked up at the ceiling and put his mind to the current problem. It all seemed so unreal, particularly in this pleasant room with its white gloss paint and flowered wallpaper.
Yet here he was, with the knowledge that downstairs a scientist had already run simulations for criminal activities and was now training people for some other, more dangerous mission using microcomputer games techniques and his own particular skills.
It was even more difficult to believe, as Jay Autem Holy had suggested, that, packaged to SPECTRE'S requirements, the plan concerned military orders transmitted by the United States President. It had not surprised him to learn that SPECTRE, as principals in the matter, did not approve of Bond's recruitment. After all, they had carried on a death feud for more years than either party cared to remember.
But that was neither here nor there at this moment.
Jay Autem Holy had disclosed the reason for Bond being on the payroll. Now it was up to him to be convincing.
M had been clear about the way this kind of situation should be handled. "If they take you in - if any organisation takes you in then you will have to split yourself in two,' he had counselled.
First, Bond should not think of any recruitment as either serious or long-term; second, he had to believe it was serious. The ultimate paradox.
"If they want you for a specialist job, you must at all costs treat it as a reality. Work it out, as they would expect of you, like a professional." So now, lying on the bed, with part of his mind treating the situation with grave suspicion, James Bond began to tackle the problem of how to get hold of the EPOC frequency for these people.
There was one small ray of hope. To secure that set of numbers he would have to get in touch with the outside world. It would mean communication with the Service and it was probable that contact would eventually be physical - which meant escape. What he now had to do was plot a plausible method of making the right contact to get hold of the special frequency. At the same time, he must devise a way to do this with full knowledge and cooperation from his own Service.
It took half an hour for him to concoct two possible methods, though both presupposed he would be allowed to work alone. The first plan needed Cindy Chalmer's undercover assistance, and a method of getting to his Bentley. If this were not possible, then the second plan would have to suffice, though it contained a number of imponderables, some of which could come unbuttoned with worrying ease.
He was still working out this reserve plan when he realised what was different. Once Tigerbalm and Happy left, there had been no click of key in lock.
Sliding quietly off the bed, he went over to the door and tried the handle. It opened without resistance. Was it an error or a message from the Master of Endor telling him he was free to go wherever he liked? If the latter, then Bond would have put money on it being a very limited rein. Why not put it to the test? There were plenty of reasons for trying. He had no idea what had been going on in the world lately.
The corridor took him out to a landing, the landing to the main staircase, which brought him into the hall.
There, all possibility of real freedom ended. Seated near the door, dressed in jeans and a rollneck, was a young man he recognised from Erewhon. Another graduate from that alma mater lounged near the door to the laboratory stairs.
Giving each guard a friendly nod of recognition, which was returned with only a hint of suspicion in their eyes, he strolled through to the main drawing room where he had last sat with Freddie, Peter, Cindy and their hosts before dinner on the night which now seemed a hundred years ago.
The room was empty. He looked around, in the hope of spotting some newspapers. None - not even the television guides. There was a television set, however, and he strode quickly to it. The set was dead. Plugged in, switched on at the mains, but dead as a stone. The same applied to the radio tuner on the stereo system.
Nothing was coming into Endor through normal channels. Bond was sure that any other television or radio would also be inoperable, and that meant he and possibly others, had to be separated from world events.
Cut off. In isolation.
He stayed downstairs for five minutes or so then returned to his room.
About an hour later Tigerbalm came to tell him they were going to have a meal shortly. "The chief says you can join us." He showed no feelings towards Bond, either friendly or hostile. Somewhere along the road Tigerbalm's bouncy bonhomie had been removed.
The dining room was bare of its good furniture. In place of the Jacobean table, a series of functional, military trestle tables had been set up, while the food was collected from a cloth-covered table at the side. There were soups, bread, cheese and several salad dishes.
All very simple, with only mineral water to drink.
The room, however, was crowded and Bond recognised most of the faces from Erewhon. Only Tigerbalm and Happy appeared out of their depth, heavy and sly among the sunburned, soldierly young men.
"James, great to see you." Simon stood at his elbow.
"Wondered where you'd got to." Bond studied the face carefully.
The openness, so noticeable at Erewhon, had become artificial. Simon's pretence told Bond far more about the situation than all the double-talk in the world. Whatever the plot set in motion by SPECTRE through these people, it was already running. D minus two, three, four or five, he reckoned.
Then he drastically reduced the odds as he spotted Tamil Rahani, seated on one side of St. John-Finnes, with General Zwingli on the other.
The three men sat apart from everyone else at a smaller table, and were being served with food by a pair of younger soldiers. Like the others, they were dressed in uniform olive slacks and drab green pullovers, their heads bent in deep conversation.
For a second Bond's mind drifted off to M's surveillance team in the village. Had they noted the comings and goings? Were they aware of the dangerous powers gathered together in this place?
"I said, did you rest well?" Simon was repeating.
"Rest? Oh, rest, yes." Bond managed a smile. "I had no alternative, Simon. You saw to that."
"Come on, have some food." He began piling salads and cheese on to a plate until Bond had to stop him with a gesture of his hand.
They sat together at the end of one of the longer tables, Simon seeing to it that Bond had his back to the three leaders.
"Security, said Simon with a grin, in answer to Bond's last remark. "You know all about security, James. Perchance to dream, and a ride on the magic carpet. You go to sleep in a hot dusty climate, and wake up in a quiet English village. Would that all travel were so easy."
"I prefer to know where I've been, and where I'm going. I like to be aware."
"Sure." He took a mouthful of bread and cheese, chewing on it, sucking the juices back into his throat.
Simon, Bond thought, was every inch a trained soldier.
His face was the face of millions of men who marched from the Battle of Kadesh to the urban horrors of the present day.
"Hallo, the Professor's coming your way,James. Looks as if he's got orders for you.
St. John-Finnes leant over them. "James,' his voice had a quiet, confiding tone, as though trying to calm a wayward child, "can you spare an hour or two?" Bond just checked himself from making a famous remark, nodded and rose,
winking at Simon as he followed the Master of Endor, as he now thought of him, from the room. He could feel the eyes of Rahani and Zwingli on his back as they left.
There was a young man guarding the stairs down to the laboratory.
He did not even signify that he had seen them, almost ostentatiously looking the other way.
"I thought I'd give you a chance to lose the American Revolution to me,' Jay Autem said as they began the descent. "It's an easy enough simulation at this level, so we can, perhaps, talk about your plans as we fight. Yes?"
"Whatever you say." Bond appeared noncommittal, but ran his plan for getting the EPOC frequency through his mind.
Neither Cindy nor Peter was in the main laboratory, and there had been a radical rearrangement. The largest area was now filled with collapsible wooden chairs, arranged in rows like a school assembly hall. At the far end, facing the chairs, were a large television projection screen and Jay Autem Holy's version of the Terror Twelve on a movable table.
Bond noticed two modern typing chairs and the big, chunky joystick controllers near by. A training session had obviously been going on earlier that day. The Balloon Game? Almost certainly.
They passed through into the long room with its map of the Eastern seaboard of eighteenth-century America; Boston with Bunker's Hill and Breed's Hill to the north, Dorchester Heights jutting out to enclose the harbour, and the townships of Lexington and Concord inland. For no apparent reason, Bond recalled hearing Americans pronounce Concord with a shortened second syllable so that it sounded like Conquered. Jay Autem Holy was smiling down at the board, with its movable open rectangle, and all the games paraphernalia set at the players' places.
Bond noticed the smile and the look, and in that second saw, for all the man's brilliance, the chink in his armour revealed. His interest in strategy and tactics had become an obsession - an obsession with winning. Holy was interested only in winning. To lose was the ultimate failure. Like an over-indulged child, to win was necessary, otherwise he could not live with himself. Had he lost some internal Pentagon battle when he disappeared all those years ago? Bond wondered, steeling himself.