Bond felt his stomach churn as he reached for the webbing-belt with the big holster hanging from it. Then, buckling it on, he nodded, following the marine and First Officer Pennington into the VIP area. The belt, with the heavy pistol bouncing against his side, made him feel like a Western gun-slinger. Unreal. But it was not every day of the week you get an American Secret Service bodyguard murdered aboard one of Her Majesty’s ships.
11
DEATH’S HEADS
Bond paused for a second before the bulkhead, with its fire-door bolted open. Below decks there was always a familiar smell, difficult to describe, dry, filtered air, a little oil, tiny mixed scents of machinery and humans. The paintwork was light-grey and a mass of piping ran high along each side of the passageway, with electrical ducts carrying wiring down to the deck itself. The air-conditioning, plumbing and electronics hummed. This was what always assaulted the senses, when the ship was alive and at sea.
Ahead of him there were the other cabin doors, usually used by executive officers, who were now forced to double-up on messdecks and in other areas of the ship. Beyond, there was a further bulkhead where another marine stood on duty. Through there, he knew were the cabins occupied by the Wren detachment, who had ousted the junior officers.
Before stepping over the first bulkhead, Bond gave rapid orders to the flushed marine who had banged on his door – ‘I don’t care who it is, admirals or special duty staff who came aboard with them, you are to check who is in each of these cabins, and also have a list ready for me. I want to know who was where over the past hour at least. And get one of the doctors as quickly as you can. You’d best get your sergeant down here to give you a hand. My authority. You know who I am?’
The young marine nodded, and Bond turned to Clover, ‘Right, the body’s where? In the heads used for your Wrens?’
She gave him a sickly, ‘Yes,’ and Bond brushed past her and started to run down the passageway. Behind him he heard the young marine banging on the first cabin door with his rifle butt.
At the second bulkhead he told the marine on duty to stay alert and asked him if any of the officers, or their men, had gone past him into the prohibited area where the Wrens were.
‘I’ve only been here for fifteen minutes, sir. We had to reorganise the guard duties when the Captain called all hands to close up.’
‘So how long was the area unguarded?’
‘Not sure, sir. Fifteen minutes at the most.’
Clover led him through the passageway adjacent to the cabins occupied by the Wrens. A rather startled girl in pyjamas poked her head out of one of the doors. ‘Back inside, Deeley,’ Clover snapped sharply, and the figure disappeared.
There was a trail of bloody footprints, ending abruptly in a spatter of blood, around twelve feet from the closed bulkhead door which led to the heads. For some reason a query ran through Bond’s mind. The ablutions and lavatories on Royal Navy ships were always known as the ‘heads’ – plural – while the US Navy called them ‘head’ – singular. It was the other way around with the HUD in fighter aircraft. The Americans called it the Heads-up-Display; the Brits translated it as Head-up-Display. Any odd thoughts on British and American semantics were cleared from his mind as he opened the bulkhead door.
Clover had been right, the place was like an abattoir, awash with blood, and the body on the tiled floor rolled with the ship, giving the horrific illusion that the blood was still pumping from it.
‘You touch him?’
Clover shook her head, lips closed tightly as though she was fighting the urge to vomit.
‘Better get out. Go back and tell one of those marines that the Doc should bring down a couple of Sick Bay ratings to help clean up the mess.’
‘I’ll do that from the nearest ’phone.’ A tall, grey-haired figure stood behind them. ‘Surgeon Commander Grant. Let’s take a look at the cadaver.’
Bond had met Grant for a few seconds in the ward-room on his arrival aboard. The Doc appeared to be a no-nonsense man, of few words. He was in uniform but with his trousers tucked into green surgeon’s boots. ‘Leave him to me, then I’ll get one of my boys down with a spare set of wellies for you, Captain Bond. Blood’s the very devil to get off.’
Bond nodded and stood at the door as Grant splashed across the gore-swilled tiled deck. He bent over to examine the body, giving a little grunt of disgust. He shook his head, plodded back and picked up the telephone intercom on the wall in the passageway, dialling the Sick Bay number. ‘Barnes? Right, get down to 406. Wellies and rubber aprons. One spare pair of wellies, and rustle up a couple of lads with strong stomachs, squeegees and buckets. Quick as you can.’
He turned to Bond, ‘Whoever did it wasn’t taking any chances, Captain Bond. They’ve nearly taken his head off. Neat slit. Ear to ear. By the look of it, someone took him from behind, grabbed his hair and reached over with something very sharp. Who is he?’
‘One of the American security. Head boy, I think. Nasty.’
‘It would be stupid to ask if he had any enemies, because he obviously had at least one . . .’ He trailed off as his two Sick Bay attendants arrived, followed by a pair of Ordinary Seamen carrying mopping-up gear.
‘Oh, hell!’ One of the Sick Bay attendants looked into the heads, then backed away.
‘Just give Captain Bond the boots,’ the Surgeon Commander said quietly. ‘Keep the cleaning up people away until he’s finished. Best get a gurney while you’re at it, we’ll have to put this one in the freezer.’
Bond kicked off his shoes, pulled on the boots and made his way towards the body. It was Ed, no doubt about it, and he had died atrociously. Bond was even concerned about moving the body: afraid the head would part from the neck, for the slash across the throat had been long, hard and deep.
Pulling back the sleeves of his own navy blue RN issue pullover, Bond turned the body onto its side. His hands were wet with blood, but he reached into the dead man’s pockets, removing a wallet and two other pieces of ID. He was about to let the body drop back in place when he heard a minute scraping sound coming, it seemed, from under the Secret Service man’s right shoulder. Blood up to his elbow, Bond searched with his hand which connected with metal. He pulled, bringing out a small, battery-operated dictating-machine.
At the door again, arms held away from his body, Bond told the surgeon commander that he could get the place cleared up. One of the Sick Bay attendants thoughtfully came forward to wipe the blood from his arms. He nodded thanks and set off back towards his own quarters.
There was some uproar in the section of passageway where the admirals and their respective staffs were quartered. A marine sergeant raised his eyebrows as Bond approached. ‘Captain Bond, sir . . .’ then he saw the blood, and the dripping miniature dictating-machine, ‘You all right, sir? Blimey, that genuine claret, sir?’
‘Freshly bottled, Sergeant, I’m afraid. We have a murder on our hands. What’s the situation here?’
‘All playing up nasty, sir. All three Admirals are on the bridge with the Captain. Admiral Gould has one of his Flag Officers with him, a Lieutenant Brinkley; Lieutenant Camm wants permission to leave his quarters . . .’
‘Nobody leaves . . .’ It was like a whipcrack command.
‘That’s what I’ve told them, sir. Posted extra sentries.’
‘Good. What other problems have we got?’
‘Admiral Gudeon has one of his security people with him on the bridge, the other two, Mr Stanley Hare and Mr Bruce Trimble, the black gentleman – they’re playing merry hell. They say they should be with their man at the whiff of any incident.’
‘But they’re in their cabin?’
‘Sir,’ the sergeant acknowledged.
‘Okay, keep them there. Tell them I’ll see them in due course. The Russians?’
The sergeant sighed. ‘Very difficult, sir. All speak English, but they’re not being helpful.’
‘The lady?’
‘Miss Ratnikov? She seems a bit distraught. Seems as how s
he walked into the Wrens’ heads just after the body was . . .’
‘Did she now. You will inform all of them that I’ll see them, independently, in my cabin within the hour.’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’
‘Just keep them quiet, sarge, and put one of your men on my cabin. I’ll be going up to the bridge soon. Nobody goes into my quarters, and I mean nobody, not even your Captain of Marines, without my saying so. Particularly while I’m seeing the Captain on the bridge.’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Good as done, sir.’
Bond washed the blood off himself, then cleaned the dictating-machine, and took a quick look at the victim’s ID. His name had been Edgar Morgan, and it was clear that he was the senior officer of the Secret Service team. He shuffled through the wallet, and found a second laminated ID card, tucked deep into a zippered pocket, so he looked at the photograph of Morgan and read the magic words. Mr Morgan was not regular Secret Service. He was only on attachment from other duties in Naval Intelligence, where he held the rank of Commander.
He dried off the dictating-machine and saw that the one small cassette had run all the way through. He checked the batteries, then operated the rewind. The tiny tape scrolled back and he pressed the Play button, saw the red light come on, and then adjusted the volume. The dead Ed Morgan’s voice came out clear from the tiny speaker.
‘Report Four. To be translated in plain cipher and squirted at first opportunity via HMS Invincible. Number 23X5. Request all detailed background on following names. First, Russian officers, possible KGB or GRU. Nikola Ratnikov, assigned as Russian Naval Attaché; Yevgeny Stura, Gennady Novikov and Ivan Tiblashin. Also request further information on the following members of the British Royal Navy . . .’ Bond’s eyes widened as he listened to this particular roll of honour. ‘If all cleared and genuine,’ the voice continued, ‘I suggest Dancer cleared for RV as arranged. If not cleared, will definitely advise abort Stewards’ Meeting. Repeat . . .’ Then came the other sounds: the cry, the thump as the small metal recorder hit the floor, the final horrible sounds of Morgan’s death, followed by the muffled tape still running, and behind it other noises. A woman’s voice, then another. They were unclear, but he also thought he could hear a noise, as though someone were trying to move the body. There was the muffled sound of footsteps on the tiles. Then silence.
The problem that concerned James Bond was the list of Royal Navy personnel that the late Ed Morgan was trying to have cleared with Washington. It was quite obvious that there was some communications arrangement with Invincible – probably an American cipher machine had been installed. The whole thing would have been automatic: the dictating-machine’s tape would be fed onto a cipher tape which would translate it into whatever random jumble they were using, and the entire message would be squirted to Washington in a fraction of a second. That was a secondary business, though. The real worry lay in the list of people Morgan wanted checked out.
Bond picked up the ’phone and dialled the bridge. A young midshipman came on, and, in a few seconds, following some urgent instructions, Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley spoke, ‘Be quick about it, Bond. I’m trying to get this force through the Channel without Blue Side’s submarines blowing us all to hell.’
Bond took less than a minute. There was a long silence, then Walmsley said, ‘Get up here. You’d best break the bad news to Admiral Gudeon himself. Get up here now.’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’ Bond stowed away the late Ed Morgan’s ID and the dictating-machine, grabbed his cap and left the cabin at a run.
‘I am not pulling out of this exercise, Bond. Not for you, not for anyone. It’s all far too important. Particularly what’s due to happen tomorrow night when we should be in the Bay of Biscay. That’s too important, politically.’ Sir John Walmsley’s bearded jaw stuck forward, giving him an awesomely stubborn look. They were in the Rear-Admiral’s night cabin.
Bond shrugged. ‘At least the Stewards’ Meeting team has to be informed.’
‘As security liaison are you telling me to do this? Or is it merely a suggestion?’
‘I think you should do it, sir.’
‘I wouldn’t need to make any fuss if you nailed whoever did this.’
‘And, with respect, sir, I’m not Sherlock Holmes.’
‘I thought you people could be all things to all men – and women.’
‘Then I’ll try to be a Sherlock, sir. I suppose I’d better break the news to Admiral Gudeon, and his man . . .’
‘Mr Israel . . .’ the Rear-Admiral filled in for him.
‘Yes. Joe Israel. Both of them together, I think, sir.’
Walmsley paused by the door. ‘Cantankerous old bugger, Gudeon. Even tried to tell me how to run my own ship.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me in the least, sir.’ Bond gave him a bland smile, and Walmsley did not catch on to the fact that he had been mildly insulted by this officer who was a ‘funny’.
Five minutes later, Admiral Gudeon and Joe Israel arrived at Bond’s cabin. Israel was tall, somewhere around six-four, Bond guessed. He had a shock of greying hair and that lazy, cultivated walk and stance so often used by bullet-catchers to disguise their constant alertness. When he came in, leading the way for Admiral Gudeon, he gave one of his special smiles. Joe Israel smiled a lot; a kind of overbite smile which lit up his eyes. He also had a spontaneous laugh: loud, open-mouthed and infectious. Joe Israel did not laugh during the first part of the interview.
‘John Walmsley said you needed to see both of us, Bond.’ Gudeon sounded disgruntled, like a child called away from playing with his train set – which in some ways he had been as all hell was breaking loose on the bridge as Invincible went through fast turns and changes of course. The submarines were still positioning themselves around the Task Force, warning but not firing.
‘I suggest you sit down, sir. I have some pretty serious, and bad, news for both of you.’
‘Oh?’ Gudeon sounded as though all news to him was bad news.
‘The senior officer in your bodyguard . . .’
‘Morgan?’ Gudeon dropped into a chair. Joe Israel stood directly behind him.
‘Ed Morgan,’ Bond nodded, ‘I’m afraid Ed Morgan is dead.’
He noted that Joe Israel looked shocked. Gudeon’s mouth opened. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said, this time sounding genuinely concerned. ‘How, in heaven’s name?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ They both spoke together, Israel a touch before his boss. Then Gudeon spoke alone. ‘How murdered? People don’t get murdered on one of Her Majesty’s capital ships.’
‘This one did.’
‘How?’
‘He got his throat cut. In the Wrens’ heads. Very unpleasant.’
Gudeon just stared ahead. Israel made a sound like the word ‘But!’
‘I have a couple of questions for Mr Israel, here. Then I’d like to talk alone with you, sir.’
The Admiral just nodded an okay. He suddenly looked older and shocked.
‘Joe? I can call you Joe?’
‘Sure, sir.’
‘Okay. Had you ever worked with Ed Morgan before?’
‘Never. He was very new to me. Never even met him before this assignment. But he was sharp.’ The way he said it, Israel sounded as though he meant Ed Morgan was too sharp.
‘And he came to a sharp end, I fear.’
Israel shook his head. There was just a mite of sadness, or shock. ‘It’s tough.’ Then he looked down at the Admiral, ‘Who takes charge, sir?’
Gudeon cleared his throat. ‘Well. Well, you’re senior aren’t you?’
‘It’s why I asked, sir.’
‘Okay, you take over until we clear it all with Dancer’s people.’ His eyes flicked up to Bond, as though he had said something wrong.
‘It’s okay, Admiral Gudeon. I am in overall charge of security. I know who Dancer is, and I know he’s not one of Santa’s reindeer. Now, I just want to check times with Mr Israel.’ He looked up at the big man. ‘You were mindi
ng the Admiral tonight.’
‘Yep.’
‘With him all the time?’
‘Had dinner with him, sir. Yes. Then we both changed and I accompanied him to the bridge.’
‘What time was that?’
‘23.40, around twenty minutes before the war started.’
‘And you’ve been with him all the time, since then?’
‘Up there until we were asked to get down here.’
‘Is there anything we should do about getting details back to Washington? You have special procedures?’
‘Yes. I’ll deal with all that.’
‘Okay.’ Bond pretended to be lost in thought for a couple of seconds. ‘Not straight away, though, if you don’t mind. I want you to wait outside with the marine guard. I need a little time with the Admiral. Then we’ll get the whole of this done officially. Excuse me.’ This last to Gudeon as Bond went to the cabin door and spoke to the marine guard, telling him that Mr Israel would wait outside, and go nowhere else until the Admiral came out.
‘Ed Morgan?’ Bond phrased it as a question, back again behind his desk. Gudeon looked worried, and he did not seem to be the kind of man who got worried easily.
‘What about him?’
‘I need some answers, sir. I’m entitled to answers, particularly as I’m going to be handling all this security for Stewards’ Meeting. I’m not altogether happy about dealing with personal bodyguards on an international scale. Now, Ed Morgan wasn’t a Secret Service bodyguard in the true sense of the word, was he?’
‘How in hell do you know that?’
‘It’s my job to know it, sir.’
‘Nobody was supposed to have wind of it.’
‘I’ve been in the business some time. You like to tell me about him?’
Gudeon sighed. ‘Guess so.’ He now looked truly older and greyer. If it were not for the uniform he could have been just right for some guy sitting in a rocker on the stoop of a house in a Norman Rockwell illustration.
‘Ed was my nominee. We’d worked together before, and I figured him as the best man for the job. He was a Commander, by the way. Navy Intelligence – which included some field work.’