If she managed it, the next knife stroke would come fast, and from another direction. For a second her eyes, blazing with a fanatical anger, locked with Bond’s. She pushed in hard, then stepped away, leaving herself free for the second stroke: it was the old close-combat trick, using her opponent’s body for leverage, and Bond should not have fallen for it. This time she had turned the blade, so that the knife protruded from the thumb end of her fist, ready to come from below in the classic knife-fighting manner.
She came slowly, weaving in the confined space of the cabin, side-stepping and whipping in from Bond’s open left flank.
He blocked her again, with his left forearm, bringing his right hand across to grasp her wrist, pushing down, twisting the wrist, in an attempt to force her to drop the weapon, but she pulled down on his thumb, her strength so great that his right hand slipped away as though it had been smeared with butter.
Now she was weaving again. Two steps back, a feint with a third step, changing to a jump to her right, then another feint to the left and straight in, bending her knees and springing up.
Bond saw the knife coming in from below and he turned his body to the left – right around, like a matador performing a rebolera. The blade must have missed by inches, Deeley’s hand slamming the point against the steel cabin wall.
But the girl whirled back before Bond even had a chance to grab, and she was coming for him again, the knife still low in her strong balled fist. Once more Bond blocked, and, this time caught her firmly by the wrist with his right hand, pushing solidly with his left forearm.
With every ounce of strength he could muster he pulled up, and then down, felt her arm move and heard the gasp of pain as he slammed her hand into the metal wall. The knife dropped, but she was still panting and fighting: her knee coming up to his groin.
He felt the crushing flash of pure pain as she connected, and heard himself cry out, doubling over, grabbing at himself and seeing her hand snake down, fingers reaching for the knife on the cabin floor.
His cry must have been loud, and sharp enough to save him. The cabin door was flung open and the young marine, dropping his rifle, threw himself on the Wren’s back, taking her in an arm-lock around her neck. A split second later, a pair of burly sailors had the spitting and struggling girl by both arms and were leading her out.
‘You okay, sir?’ The young marine helped Bond into his chair. He was still bent double and the area around his manhood seemed to be on fire.
‘I think I’ll have a short word with the quack,’ he breathed heavily, then looked up and saw the Master-at-Arms standing in the doorway.
‘You’ll have to restrain her,’ Bond panted. ‘Just put her in the cells, under restraint.’ The Royal Navy did not use the term ‘brig’, so popular with the United States Navy. ‘Get the Chief Regulating Officer to charge her.’
‘With attacking a senior officer sir?’ The Master-at-Arms raised his eyebrows at the end of the query, in a manner that suggested this was a facial expression he used habitually when asking questions.
‘Murder,’ Bond corrected. His voice seemed a long way off, for the pain in his groin seemed to take precedence over everything else.
‘Murder, sir? The American?’
Bond nodded. ‘Just keep her well under restraint. I think she’s some kind of psycho, and well-trained at that. A killer, who would obey orders and take out someone with about as much emotion as any of us would feel in treading on a bug. I’ll be down to see her shortly. The murder charge will, eventually, be a police criminal matter.’ As the Master-at-Arms departed, Bond suddenly thought of his own words, just uttered – ‘a killer, who would obey orders . . .’ Whose orders? he wondered. ‘Orders from outside, or some given to her on board?’
Someone had called Surgeon Commander Grant, who seemed quite amused at Bond’s pain. ‘There’ll probably be some swelling,’ he said examining the damaged area. ‘I’ll give you some pills to reduce the pain . . .’
‘As long as they don’t make me dopey.’ In spite of the small agony, Bond put his job first.
‘You’ll get no side effects. I have a salve as well. It’ll deaden the area and you won’t feel like playing with the ladies for an hour or so, but maybe that’s not a bad thing.’
Bond realised that he felt a little embarrassed about the whole business.
‘You’d be surprised,’ the doctor continued, ‘really surprised how many cases of this I have to deal with these days. Lads go ashore, won’t take no for an answer and get a hefty knee in the gonads. Serve ’em right. Bloody MCPs.’
‘I got this defending myself,’ Bond muttered grudgingly, trying to sort his mind out, deciding what had to be done next.
Half an hour later he stood in front of the entire section of personal bodyguards for the three Admirals. They were gathered in the small messdeck that had been put aside for their use and relaxation – the one in which Moggy Camm, two of the Russians and Bruce Trimble had joined in a drink before turning in on the previous night. Now the place seemed crowded. Nikki Ratnikov sat apart from her colleagues, Ivan, Yevgeny and Gennady; Brinkley and Camm sat together, still in their fancy dress, among Joe Israel, Bruce Trimble and Stan Hare. Their three VIP charges were in the cabins set aside for them, each with an armed marine at the door.
‘Right,’ Bond began. ‘We all know what this is about. Our Captain, the Rear-Admiral, is determined to carry on with Stewards’ Meeting. My job is to co-ordinate security, and I want to get your feelings on the matter before I make a recommendation to Sir John – not that he’ll take my advice, but I’d rather we worked as a team, and a team has to be one hundred per cent in accord on a business like this. We’ve had one death, and we don’t want any more.’
Nikki spoke up for the Russians. ‘James, you must advise us. We have a sacred duty here. The strain will be on us as from tonight. Do you think that the killing of the American agent should make us fear for the lives of those we have to guard?’
‘It certainly means that this little terrorist outfit – if it is them – has managed to penetrate Invincible with at least one person. If there is one, can there be others? I must reveal to all of you that Edgar Morgan was a worried man. As far as I can tell, he slipped into the Wrens’ heads to record a series of names – names of people in this ship. He wanted a security check run on them. Well, I ran the check through London. The only one that came out badly was the girl we arrested this morning.’
Joe Israel looked up, with interest. ‘This is the first any of us have heard of Ed having doubts. Can you be sure he was not just doing a random test? A sampling? Or was he in possession of intelligence not revealed to any of us?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ There was no point in Bond not being open and candid. ‘I still have to talk with the girl we arrested. She was what some people would call a “Stone Killer”. It’s not an expression I’m fond of. But that’s what she was, and is.’
‘Can you give us the other names Morgan had on his list?’ Ted Brinkley asked.
‘I don’t think that would be fair at this stage. They all came out ultra-clean from London.’
Brinkley conferred with his partner for a minute, in urgent whispers. Then Brinkley said that, as far as they were concerned, things could go ahead. ‘It would have been very difficult for any terrorist organisation to infiltrate a Royal Navy ship. That they got one in is a kind of miracle. Barring any outside attack, we consider it ninety-nine per cent safe. We vote that things go ahead as planned.’
Bond nodded. In his head he still remained unhappy. They had thought of BAST as a bit of a tinpot outfit, yet they certainly had resources, and even one penetration worried him. He looked over at Joe Israel, ‘What about our United States contingent?’
‘I guess we go along with you Brits. Sure there’s danger, but that comes with the job. We vote in.’
‘You’re one man short.’
‘I gather that’s being taken care of. Admiral Gudeon’s been active and we’ve got another guy on the way.?
??
Bond made a mental note that he should speak with the Captain about this turn of events. Now he looked at Nikki. ‘You’re senior officer of our Russian comrades, Nikki. What do you say?’
‘Our people are the best in the world. We say go ahead.’
‘Then we’re all agreed?’
Around the little messdeck there were murmurs of consent.
So be it, Bond thought. They all seemed to be good, tried and tested people. Now, he had to speak with Sir John Walmsley. After that there was the girl, Deeley, though he did not have any high hopes of breaking her down.
‘So, you’ve decided not to fight me on this?’ Sir John Walmsley looked pleased, like a man who had won a great battle.
‘It’s not a question of fighting you, sir.’ Bond spoke with almost exaggerated calmness. ‘We weighed up the chances of this being a one-off incident. We’re not entirely convinced, but everyone here in the three bodyguard sections seems to think the risk is even.’
‘A sensible decision,’ growled Walmsley, who knew he would have overridden any attempt to abort Stewards’ Meeting.
‘I need answers to a couple of questions before I talk to the girl, Deeley . . .’ Bond began.
‘Yes?’ the Rear-Admiral snapped. ‘If I’m allowed to answer, I’ll co-operate. Go ahead.’
‘First, there’s one thing I have to know about Edgar Morgan.’
‘He wasn’t US Secret Service, but I presume you know that already.’
‘Yes, I realise he wasn’t just part of the normal bodyguard service. I’m pretty certain he was Naval Intelligence, and came aboard with a special brief.’ Bond had not shown all his cards.
‘That’s true.’
‘Can you tell me anything about the special brief?’
Walmsley pretended to think for a moment. ‘Well, he had authority to go through the records of everyone aboard this ship.’
‘Was there time for him to do that?’
‘Mmmm.’ It was non-committal, but the Rear-Admiral was playing Bond. Walmsley was the kind of man who liked showing his authority and, had the truth been known, he looked forward to a very rapid promotion if the operation called Stewards’ Meeting went off without a hitch. Finally, he decided it would be safer to tell the truth. ‘He came aboard two days before Landsea ’89 started.’
‘Two days?’
Walmsley nodded. ‘He left the ship shortly before you arrived. Then came on with Gudeon and the others. But, in those two days, he went through all the files. He was very interested in you, Captain Bond. Very interested.’
‘And he carried on looking through the individual dossiers on his return?’
‘He did. Now, anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve been told that the Americans are sending a replacement. True or false?’
‘True. He’ll be here before Stewards’ Meeting.’
‘We have a name?’
‘Dan Woodward. US Naval Intelligence. As you would expect, he’s known to his friends and colleagues as Desperate Dan. Now, Captain Bond, anything else?’
‘Only a minor point. The Wren detachment aboard.’
‘Damned women in the ship, I didn’t approve of it.’
‘Sir, we both know why they’re here. We know it’ll make things easier when Stewards’ Meeting gets under way. Until then, could I ask you, sir, what duties have been assigned to them?’
‘This because one of them turned out to be a dummy?’
‘Partly.’
‘Why not ask their officer, what’s her name? First Officer Pennington?’
‘Because I’d rather have an independent source.’
Rear-Admiral Walmsley sucked his teeth. ‘You know they’re all cleared at a very high security level?’
‘I do, sir, and it worries me. The one intruder came in through them. I know London says they’re all cleared, but I want to check it out again.’
‘Right. We’re making good use of them, Bond. They’re doing everything they’ve been trained to do. We’ve allotted them shifts in Communications; in writers’ departments; and, just to keep their domestic hands in, some are daily assigned to galley duties. I made that a condition of the draft coming aboard. Now, anything else?’
Bond shook his head. So, the Wrens were all over the place. In the galleys, communications, and writers. A writer is Royal Navy for clerk or secretarial duties.
‘Good, because we’re still very much a part of Landsea ’89, and we’ve still got three nuclear subs shadowing us. I have to get back to work. Can’t leave it all to Jimmy the One.’
After leaving the Rear-Admiral, Bond sought out Joe Israel, who was resting in the cabin occupied by the three US Secret Service men. Bruce Trimble was with him, while Stan Hare had taken over normal bodyguard duties to Admiral Gudeon.
‘You know who’s taking Ed Morgan’s place?’ he asked the pair of them.
‘Another guy from Naval Int,’ Israel said, sounding none too pleased.
‘Name of Woodward. Dan Woodward.’ Trimble grinned. ‘They call him Desperate Dan, we hear.’
‘You hear?’
‘The Admiral sent a signal to Washington last night – after Ed’s death. The reply was very fast, I guess Desperate Dan must be in London. He’s close by anyhow, because they’re expecting him by early evening.’
‘You know him?’ Bond asked.
‘The name only. Never worked with him,’ from Israel.
‘You?’ to Trimble who shook his head.
‘What about Stan?’
‘What about Stan?’ Israel laughed.
‘Does he know the Woodward fellow?’
‘No. None of us know him.’
‘Okay,’ Bond pinched the top of his nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘I would suggest, when he does come aboard, that you do a little verbal check on him. Usual kind of things. Americana; people in Washington; people any of you know in Naval Intelligence.’
‘You don’t think he’s clean?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Bond shrugged. ‘I just think we should take precautions, that’s all.’
In his room at The Rock Hotel, Gibraltar, Bassam Baradj was receiving blow-by-blow accounts of what was going on in Invincible. His short-wave radio, with a recording device attached, picked up signals from his main source aboard the ship, though the final news, which had come through in the early hours of the morning, made him wonder if this flow of intelligence would last out much longer. He knew of the death of the American NI officer, and of the possible consequences. He also knew that the Americans had signalled to Washington and that Washington’s return signal referred them to the Embassy in London. Since then there had been no other signal and he feared the worst. The only other source connected with BAST was one Engineer Petty Officer, and Baradj knew that everything really lay with this one blackmailed man.
Immediately he had listened in to the message concerning the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, London, Baradj had taken the only course of action available to him. A long telephone call to London was followed by a lengthy meeting with his colleague, Abou Hamarik. Together they decided the risk was worth the final reward, even though Hamarik had no idea that Baradj had no plans to cut him, or any other member of BAST, in on the eventual riches.
It would not have mattered either way, for Baradj had already set the plan in motion, and it was essential for him to use Hamarik. He thought it was a lucky decision that had made him choose ‘The Man’ – Abou Hamarik – for the work in Gibraltar. Ali Al Adwan, his only other possible choice, had been seen already by the man Bond, at the camp they had called Northanger. In all, Baradj was happy. The two men he had in London were both good, and well equipped to carry out what had to be done.
Daniel Woodward had a pleasant flat in Knightsbridge. Nothing luxurious, but, with his pay as Assistant Naval Attaché (Intelligence) to the Embassy, he could afford it. He also found it was an address which stood well with the ladies he dated regularly. It was as though they felt quite safe going back with hi
m to the Knightsbridge address.
The one beside him in bed at three in the morning, only grumbled in her sleep when the telephone rang. She grumbled even more when he woke her to say he had to report to the Embassy immediately.
‘Oh, God, what’s the time, darling.’ She was a stunning redhead who worked in the Embassy Secretariat.
‘It’s fifteen after three. I’m sorry, honey, but I’m gonna have to take you home. I don’t know how long I’m gonna be away. They said I should bring a bag with me, which means I’m probably going Stateside. Sorry, but I just can’t leave you here. You know what Embassy instructions’re like about people leaving their property with all the alarms on if they’re out of the country.’ He was dashing about, filling a small case with clothes.
She was still half asleep when he drove her back to her own flat off Great Russell Street. The whole business meant that, though he had been alerted at three-fifteen in the morning, he did not get to the Embassy until almost four-thirty.
The Naval Attaché (Intelligence) was already waiting for him, and that gentleman did not like being kept waiting so he expected a full broadside when he walked into the office. Instead, the Attaché was mild. ‘It’s okay, Dan.’ The Naval Intelligence Attaché was a ramrod straight, tall and silver-grey man. ‘You’ve plenty of time. We’ve already dealt with the documents. All I have to do is brief you. Your flight doesn’t leave London Gatwick until ten o’clock, so we have time.’
The slow response Dan Woodward had been forced into, by the presence of the redhead at his apartment, had caused troubles nobody else knew about. A taxi, with its For Hire sign unlit, had already been in one of the parking slots, which run around the centre of Grosvenor Square, for fifteen minutes by the time Woodward arrived. The driver appeared to be taking a quiet nap. Nobody was visible in the back.
‘That must be him. Unless his boss is going with him. Got a case and all,’ the driver said.