11
CALL ME HARRY
The buzz-saw of the radio alarm cut into the deep cocoon of sleep like a vandal’s knife. James Bond’s eyes snapped open, every sense alert to the start of a new day. He could hear his housekeeper, May, already bustling in the kitchen. There was a temptation to lie there for an extra few minutes, even if only to sort facts and intuition into a well-filed order in his mind. But he could do that just as easily during his early morning routine. The time was seven thirty.
As always when he was at his own flat, Bond’s morning ritual rarely changed. Once out of bed he went through the twenty slow push-ups, then, rolling onto his back, began the series of leg-lifts which continued until – as someone once wrote in a confidential dossier – ‘his stomach screamed’. On his feet again, this time to touch his toes twenty times, before heading for the shower – as hot as he could stand, followed by turning the control lever to cold, so that the icy spray took his breath away.
May knew his moods, and could tell, instinctively, that today was not a talking day. She served him his De Bry coffee, together with the precisely boiled three-and-one-third-minute egg in the dark blue egg cup with its single gold ring around the top. The usual deep yellow Jersey butter and the pots of Tiptree ‘Little Scarlet’ Cooper’s Vintage Oxford marmalade and the Norwegian Heather Honey stood by the toast rack. Breakfast, as ever, was his favourite meal of the day, an immovable and set feast when he was at home. Apart from a brief acknowledgement of her presence, Bond took little notice of May, who went back into the kitchen clucking to herself about his bad habits of coming in late at night, then acting like a ‘Wee bear wi’ a sore heed!’ the next morning.
Indeed, he had arrived home late. After watching the shocking video of Lord Mills’ assassination he had outlined the first steps he would take to track down the Meek Ones and their guru. Then there was Wolkovsky to see, and M insisted on Bond being present – always a difficult situation. Bond got on very well with David Wolkovsky, while the CIA resident was anathema to M.
The meeting was frosty with M making a formal complaint concerning Ms Horner, undercover agent for the US Internal Revenue, being involved in an unsanctioned operation on British territory. M was starchy, while Wolkovsky tried to act in a very composed and relaxed manner.
‘Sir, let me tell you, I have nothing to do with any operation mounted by the IRS in this country. You’re beating on the wrong melon. If there’s a serious complaint, then it should go through the Ambassador to the Court of St James, not through me.’
‘I think we can avoid that.’ M remained unconvinced.
‘That’s good, sir. Saves an awful lot of paperwork.’
‘To hell with the paperwork, Wolkovsky. I know you people, and I know you could get the ear of the United States IRS in two minutes flat if we made it worth your while.’
Wolkovsky spread his hands. ‘That what you want me to do?’
After a long pause, M answered, ‘Yes.’ Another silence. ‘This ghastly terrorist attack . . .’
‘Sam Mills? I heard. Ghastly’s the right word.’
‘There’s some evidence that an American’s involved!’
‘Jesus!’
‘No. An American.’ M stared at the CIA officer. His face would have made a fifth at Mount Rushmore. ‘I have evidence of this involvement which I intend to put in front of COBRA which has been convened for midnight tonight. I also intend to ask that you, as the CIA’s Head of Station in this country, are co-opted onto COBRA.’
‘Well . . .’
‘You’re willing to be co-opted? I have to ask. Nobody has any right to push you. I should add it is our opinion that the Glastonbury business is only the opening shot in something pretty desperate.’
Quietly, Wolkovsky said he would help in any way possible. They allowed him access to a private, secure telephone so that he could talk at length with Washington and obtain permission, first to serve with COBRA, second to allow Harriett Horner to become involved in a British covert operation. M would give no precise details, but left Wolkovsky in no doubt that the operation would be a joint affair, using the SB, the Metropolitan Police, SAS, MI5, the IRS girl, and M’s own Service.
‘I’ve refrained from telling him that you are to be at the starting gate before anyone else,’ M said rather smugly while the American was making his call. ‘COBRA – if I know the way those people work – will be up all night, and come to some decision by late tomorrow. By then I would expect you to have made considerable progress.’
Bond did not say that he needed considerable sleep as well, though he did push things along as soon as Wolkovsky returned, bringing with him the news that everything had been accepted in Washington. ‘There’ll be a coded telex on the line by now giving the okay for the Horner girl to work with you.’ He turned to Bond. ‘Lucky devil; she’s a stunner.’
‘I said you knew about it, and I was right.’ M’s look spoke of Siberian wastes, or preferably, Camp No. 19 at Lesnoy on the so-called Dubrovlag which has facilities for foreigners.
‘Okay.’ Wolkovsky sank into a chair and stretched out his long legs. Bond thought to himself that the man must be very attractive to women, with his tall, deceptively lazy manner, the tanned face, sun-bleached hair, startling blue eyes very like Bond’s own, and lips in an almost permanent smile. Nothing ever seemed to faze David Wolkovsky. ‘You win,’ he said, raising both hands. ‘I wasn’t party to it, though the damned thing went across my desk. If you want the truth, I advised IRS to get your sanction. Obviously they didn’t. But I saw the Horner girl’s file when she came into the country. You want me to talk with the Ambassador?’
‘We’ll let it pass.’ M now fixed Bond with his most authoritarian look. ‘It matters not that Wolkovsky’s present, but the cipher for your operation is HARVESTER. I expect a good crop. Now, you’d better take Mr Wolkovsky down to see Ms Horner.’ His eyes flicked towards David. ‘And you had better come straight back here; we’ll be going on to COBRA in the hope they’ll agree to your being co-opted straight away.’
They rose – Wolkovsky giving a little mock bow – and, as they left, M called Bond back to the desk. ‘Don’t forget, James, you can have whatever you need. I’m circulating the cipher HARVESTER to all sections. They will know you’re in command. For God’s sake, wrap them up, if possible before anything else happens.’
The meeting between Harriett Horner and Wolkovsky was brief. Bond excused himself after five minutes to ‘go and see somebody about security’. Harriett had done all the necessary talking and was free to leave, so, when he came back, Bond suggested that Wolkovsky should return upstairs. ‘I’m going to see you home, Harriett. I want you to get plenty of rest, and I’ve already arranged a good watch on your flat. Nobody’s going to get near you during the night, that I can promise.’
‘Oh!’ She gave a little mock pout. ‘I was hoping maybe you might try, James.’
He smiled, placing a hand on her left shoulder. ‘Thank you for your confidence, Harriett, but I need rest.’
He drove her back to the old, rather gracious, apartment block off Abingdon Road in Kensington, and went up with her, mainly to check that there was nobody lurking inside either building or flat.
It was clean – nobody in sight, while the flat turned out to be small and pleasant. Even though she rented it, Harriett had managed to put the stamp of her own taste and personality on the interior. There were jokey little things like a set of drinking beakers with the KGB crest on them, a poster proclaiming BE CAREFUL. DO NOT DISCUSS NAVAL, MILITARY OR AIR MATTERS. Side by side with these amusing items – which were mainly in the kitchen area – he saw two good prints which must have belonged to her, for no landlord would ever have left Hockney’s The Panama Hat etching or Frink’s The Spinning Man VII in a rented apartment.
He strolled from room to room – all four of them – on the pretext of checking for any signs of entry. True, he was doing just that, but Bond also believed you could read a woman by the way she lived. Harriet
t Horner appeared to be neat, quirky, tasteful and, almost certainly, very good at her job as an undercover IRS agent. The bedroom proved femininity, from the unfussy sheets and pink pillowcases, the broderie anglaise nightdress draped over the bed’s foot to the pile of freshly laundered Reger underwear folded on a chair ready to be stored away, and the sets of Clinique cosmetics and varied scents on the dressing table. One of the closet doors was open, so he swept the clothes to one side, making certain that was all the cupboard contained. He thought that her salary – or the expenses provided for cover – must be exceptional judging by the quality and designer names on the clothes. Earlier in the day, Bond had not missed the attractively severe black suit she wore, and the Kutchinsky watch on her left wrist.
Leaving the bedroom, he caught a glimpse of Eric Ambler’s Doctor Frigo on top of the unfortunate and dull Spycatcher, and considered she had got them in the right order. He also glanced at the telephone and saw that she had carefully covered the number with a white sticker.
‘Seems okay,’ he said finally.
‘Drink? Coffee?’ she asked in a voice indicating that she could slip into something loose while he prepared the nightcaps.
He shook his head. ‘Big day tomorrow, Harriett. I want us both fresh and raring to go.’
‘And where are we going, James?’ She moved close to him so that he smelled her hair again. The scent of cordite had gone, replaced by something more fragrant. He questioned silently where she had got it from.
‘First, I suppose we’d better get the man we’ll be working with to take us on a guided tour around the last place these Meek Ones used as home – in Berkshire, somewhere near Pangbourne.’
‘Right.’ There was a choke in her voice, and, suddenly, the seemingly poised Ms Horner thrust her face into his shoulder and began to weep, holding on tightly.
Almost automatically, Bond held her close and, against his will, felt his body react to the pressure of her own breasts and thighs. He made gentle patting motions against her back, and murmured into her ear, ‘Harriett, come on, what’s wrong? Harriett, what is it?’
Still sobbing she pulled him towards the burgundy-coloured leather settee. She still clung to him, and continued sobbing while he felt foolish, making soothing noises.
Eventually, after ten or fifteen minutes, she appeared to pull herself together, releasing him and swallowing hard, using the back of her hand to wipe her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, James,’ she said in a little voice. Either she was very upset or a damned good actress, he thought. Her face was red and blotchy, the make-up around her eyes ran black in straggling deltas down her cheeks, and her nose had begun to run, reddening like her eyes. She got up, went into the bedroom, returned with a box of tissues, and began to tidy herself up.
Bond felt embarrassed. As a rule, he disliked women who cried, but somehow this seemed different. Once more he asked what was the matter.
Two bright spots appeared on her cheeks, and through the moisture her eyes flashed with a kind of anger – ‘What do you think’s wrong, James?’ It came out with another sob. ‘What in hell’s name do you think’s the matter?’
‘It’s been a rough day, I really . . .’
She gave a mocking little laugh which disintegrated into a sob. ‘That has to be the understatement of all time. Sure, sure, I’m a trained undercover operator. It’s taken weeks, months, to set me up with the Meek Ones. Then, in a day, for the first time in my life I face real violence – real death – not once, but twice. Don’t you see what that can do . . . ?’
‘I’m not being callous, Harriett, but it’s something . . .’
‘I’ve got to learn to live with! Yes, that’s what they tell you in training, and I honestly don’t know if I can live with it.’ She took a deep, shuddering, breath. ‘That man – Hathaway. Did I . . . James, did I kill him?’
‘You’ve been very well trained, Harriett. It was you or him – or me, come to that. You did exactly what anyone of your training would have done.’
‘Did I kill him?’ The tears were being replaced by something else: anger? conscience? Bond had seen it before, but only in men, not women.
‘Yes.’ He spoke with firmness, his voice almost etched in cruelty. ‘You killed him, Harriett, just as anyone else would have done – anyone in our kind of trade anyway. You killed him, and, to live with it, you have to put it away, close it from your mind, otherwise the next time it will be you, stretched out on a morgue slab. Get it out of mind.’
‘How?’ she almost shouted.
He thought for a second. Then – ‘Earlier today you mentioned the way the IRS once trapped Al Capone. Well, there’s a story from that era which might help. Okay, so they were ruthless killers, the old mob, but in our kind of business it’s ruthlessness that counts. The famous “Bugsy” Malone – killer, gambling boss, you name it – once turned to somebody who upset him in public and said the two most chilling words I can think of. He said, “Be missing.” The man concerned was never seen again. Harriett, you have got to be that cold about things like today. You have to say to Hathaway, “Be missing.” Missing from your mind.’
She looked at him, her face blotched and unattractive following the tears. Minutes seemed to tick away, then she took another deep breath. ‘You’re right, James. Of course you’re right. It’s just . . . Well, facing it for the first time, it’s shaken me up.’
‘You must unshake it, Harriett, otherwise I’m going to have you kept in the office, or returned to Washington. I can’t afford that kind of uncertainty and sentiment, if we’re to work together.’
She gave a small nod. ‘I’ll be okay. Thanks, James,’ and she reached forward and kissed him, hard on the mouth, with her tiny wet tongue licking his lips and sliding around his gums. Once more, he pulled away. Again he thought it would be all too easy to become deeply involved with this woman, but, until he was completely certain of her, it was too much of a risk. ‘Harriett, I’m sorry, but I must go.’
She nodded and gave him a tearful smile. ‘I’ll be fine now. Sorry. Oh, and by the way, my friends call me Harry.’
He gave her a look meant to convey trust, confidence and warmth. ‘The sun, the moon and Harry, eh? It’s very tempting.’
‘Stay, James. Please.’
‘Work. You need rest. Let’s see what happens when we get a little further down the road, Harry, eh?’
She gave a little pout, then smiled up at him.
He arranged to pick her up in the morning, ten minutes after the time he had fixed with Pearlman. Then he took her in his arms, gave her a big, consoling squeeze, and kissed her lightly on both cheeks. ‘Okay, Harry. Goodnight. Sleep well, and banish the nightmares.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘It’s another day, and the trip to Pangbourne’ll be like a picnic after the past twenty-four hours. See you, James.’ Leaving the building he spotted the lone van at the end of the street, while one of the foot patrol stepped from a doorway to be seen. His security was there, in place.
As he started the car, Bond thought he trusted Ms Harriett Horner just about as much as he trusted Pearly Pearlman, which was not a lot. He also smiled at the thought that their first call tomorrow would not be at Manderson Hall, Pangbourne. He had much more devious plans, and it would be interesting to see if any news of the Pangbourne trip had leaked.
Now, as he prepared for the day, safe within the small kingdom of his own apartment, he began to sort out the whys and wherefores of the situation.
On getting in, after one in the morning, he knew it was best to put everything out of mind and allow that complex computer, the subconscious, to work away while he slept. Often he found this the ideal way of solving a problem, or putting his finger on some small inconsistency that had raised its head during the waking hours. But on this occasion, sleep had not brought any answers.
During his morning routine he began to assemble the threads logically, in the hope that they would provide the truth, and possibly some clu
es or answers.
Emma Dupré had died by drowning. His telephone number was the only one in her Filofax. What if that had been intentional? Certainly somebody was on to him the moment M had instructed his return to London. He wondered, now, if the Dupré death had, in some way, been an elaborate set-up. She would never have known if the number had been planted on her. What if? What if? What if?
What if Trilby Shrivenham had been let loose in a dazed, drug-infested state, her mind filled with prophetic clues? Why, though? Why should a man like Father Valentine – or Vladimir Scorpius as he really was – wish to lure someone like Bond, or even his Service? Could it be that he was boasting? – ‘Look, I’ve given you fair warning. Now, see what I’ve been able to do. Kill when I’ve already told you in riddles. Listen out. Listen out for more riddles.’
It might well be like that; particularly if Scorpius was the complex intellectual villain his dossier claimed. Yet, however it was, someone had known Bond would be summoned, just as someone had known he would be at the Avante Carte offices.
Then, once more, they had known Harriett – Harry, he kept reminding himself – was at the Kilburn safe house. Had they come there to dispose of her, or rescue her? After all, life did not appear sacred to them. Sacrifice? He wondered, just as he wondered who had done all the tipping off. Pearlman? Harry? Or someone else? Wolkovsky? Bond’s mind wandered around in circles.
He pondered on the Kilburn Priory safe house situation. Todd Sweeney had been adamant that Harry had made no calls out of Kilburn, but did he really know? After all, there had been a short period of time while poor old Danny was out, and Todd had been in the control room. Bond knew there were ways of using an external line in that house without being seen on the monitors, or picked up by the sound-stealing bugs. He then began to wonder about Todd, making a mental note to pull his file. One thing was sure. He could trust nobody. Not even himself, he thought, his mind wandering back to the previous night, the smell and feel of Harry in his arms. A desirable lady. Certainly he could easily let that situation get out of control if he did not watch out.