‘What was all that about?’ Harriett gasped, in the corridor outside Joseph’s room.
‘This guy’s a loony, boss.’ Pearly was laughing. ‘All that old bunny about death-names, and death-tasks and our Father, Valentine, knowing where everybody is.’
‘Think about it, Pearly.’ Bond sounded, and looked, grim. ‘Both of you, think about the implications of what that man said. Think about what happened in Glastonbury last evening, and put it in context. It should wipe any smile from your face.’
Molony joined them in the corridor. ‘I’ve sent for a nurse, James. I suppose, after that, we double all security.’ He looked as grave as Bond.
‘But what . . . ?’ Harriett began.
‘We might even have to move him again.’ Bond overrode the girl, then rounded on both of them. ‘Can’t you begin to understand? That man, in there, really believes that Father Valentine is a kind of all-knowing god; and we know who he really is. Valentine is Vladimir Scorpius who was dangerous enough when he was a supplier of arms to more than half the world’s terrorist organisations. That man,’ he jerked his thumb towards the door, ‘and hundreds like him – members of the Society of Meek Ones – have swallowed a crock of mumbo-jumbo. He, and the others, believe it.’
‘Believe what? Death-names, tasks? What do they believe, boss?’
‘I don’t believe you can’t really see it, Pearly. Or are you just playing dumb, for my benefit?’ He gave a massive shrug, and an irritated kind of sigh. ‘Well, we’re going to have to get back to London. I want a quick look at Sir James’s other patient and her visitors. Just wait for me in the car. I’ll be along in a moment.’ He tossed the car keys to Pearly, knowing the chance he was taking, but willing to risk Harry or Pearly – or even the two of them – making a run for it. He still found it very hard to believe that neither of them had followed the obscene logic of the man who called himself Ahmed el Kadar – death-name, Joseph. But – in front of Harriett and Pearly – he had shown his own understanding of the terrible, and evil, basics behind the Society of Meek Ones.
Pearly caught the keys. ‘Beyond me, boss.’ He grinned. ‘Unless you’re saying that these people’re motivated by some religious fervour to act as rent-a-killers.’
‘That’s exactly what I am saying, Pearly, and you know it. Just as you know these people are not just hired killers. The Meek Ones expect to die for the beliefs Scorpius has implanted in them. Heaven knows how he’s done it – he can’t just have chosen exceptionally gullible proselytes. Anyway, I’ll be up in a minute. Go ahead.’
Harriett still looked angry, while Pearly was a picture of bland disbelief. They nodded and went along the corridor, climbing the stairs that would eventually lead them to the clinic’s reception area.
‘A pretty terrifying picture.’ Sir James Molony spoke in almost a whisper. ‘Tell me if I have it right. This man is a typical member of the Meek Ones. He believes everything that Valentine tells him. He’s convinced that the world must be changed through revolution; that those who have been chosen will gladly die for that revolution, for they will attain some kind of paradise.’
Bond nodded in assent. He suddenly felt very weary. ‘Yes, that’s it as I see it. They believe all that and more. The same thing is there in many religions – as you well know, Sir James. If taken to its logical conclusion, as Valentine – I should say Scorpius – has managed to do, we’re now up against a small army of kamikazes. People who’ll die just as Scorpius orders them. It’s a self-perpetuating death-machine. Thinking of the man’s previous career, I wonder if this is but a horrible extension. Lease terror. Sell a particular kind of murder, or mass murder. He provides not only the weapons, but the whole service. If you want a certain type of terrorist campaign, or just one act of violence, Scorpius will give you the entire thing – gift-wrapped – for a fee.’
Molony laid a hand on Bond’s shoulder. ‘The whole conception is hideous. I’ll get on to M. Double the security.’
‘I’d better tell you now.’ Bond lowered his own voice. ‘There’s something lurking around my brain concerning Trilby Shrivenham’s brother. I’d like to see him, and the uncles.’ He almost went on to share his worries over Harriett and Pearly, but there was already enough to cause anxiety to the consultant.
To give maximum security to the man who called himself Ahmed el Kadar, his room had been on the deepest level of the clinic. Bypassing the lifts, they walked up two sets of stairs to get onto the second floor below ground where Trilby Shrivenham was located.
There was nobody on duty outside her door, no guards in the passageway itself. Bond’s stomach turned over, and he began to walk more quickly, the walk turning into a trot, with the elderly Molony puffing to keep up with him, but obviously equally concerned.
Bond pushed the door open and stopped, for a second, standing horrified in the doorway. The nurse who had stayed on duty now lay sprawled on the floor, her head skewed at an unnatural angle. The room was in a shambles, with Trilby Shrivenham half out of the bed, terribly still, her long hair hanging like a waterfall brushing the floor. The drip had been ripped from her arm, shattered.
‘Damn. My fault,’ Bond breathed, as Molony pushed past him. ‘I shouldn’t have let the others come up here alone.’ He reached for the automatic inside his jacket, turning, ready to dash up the stairs.
He heard Molony – by the girl’s side – say she was still alive, his hand going out to press the bell to summon assistance. ‘I’ll get someone.’ Bond began to run towards the stairs. At the same time a uniformed nursing sister appeared at the top. ‘Down there!’ Bond shouted at her. ‘The Shrivenham girl’s room! Sir James needs you!’
But as the sister gathered momentum, coming down the stairs at a lickety-split pace, he saw her face was parchment grey, the eyes glazed as though in shock. ‘Upstairs . . . !’ She paused as they met, and her voice drew a photographic image of terror. ‘Up there! The security people! I think they’re all . . . They’re all gone! Dead! Please, quickly. One of them’s my husband!’
‘Get down to Sir James,’ Bond commanded. ‘I’ll handle everything else,’ and he lunged upwards.
With the pistol at the ready, Bond reached the passage off which the security room lay. The sliding steel door was open. He stopped for a moment, to take in the scene. Both the guards were dead. It was a small room and his first thought was that he had never seen so much blood in such a confined space.
There was nothing he could do for the two men, so he carried on to the main level, hugged his back to the wall and peered into reception. The carnage there appeared wanton, and he wondered how they had managed it without making a great deal of noise.
He stepped forward, the pistol still raised, and, as he did so, remembered the truth which had been niggling in his mind. Trilby Shrivenham did have a brother, but the accent was on did. The Hon. Marcus Shrivenham had died five years ago in a mountaineering accident. Switzerland – Mont Blanc – he thought, as though it mattered now.
13
SCATTER
The former member of 42 Commando, Royal Marines, looked as though he had caught the full blast of a heavy-calibre bullet in the face. Bond could only recognise him from his build and the uniform. As in the small operations room, there appeared to be blood everywhere. It could not have come simply from the security man on reception.
Then he saw the other horrors – the two nurses, one on her back, the other spread-eagled, as though she had been thrown against the wall, then dumped without ceremony, or thought for her dignity: for her uniform skirt had flown upwards, leaving her in an almost naked state.
Both girls had been gunned down – why no noise, he kept asking – and the bullets had severed arteries. When this occurs, blood travels, jets, sometimes over considerable distances.
All Bond could think of was finding out if Pearly and Harriett had assisted in this. Whoever had posed as Trilby’s brother, and uncles, were certainly to blame. Had the SAS man and – or – the American IRS girl helped?
/> Then he saw the other body, outside, face-down on the clinic’s steps, small rivers of blood forming a crimson tracery down the stone. A big man, dark-haired and dressed well, in a conservative black pin-striped suit. One of the ‘uncles’? Or even Trilby’s ‘brother’? It was certainly not Pearly.
From here he could see the little security booth and its barber-pole checkpoint. The pole was up, and the glass around the booth shattered.
With automatic still at the ready, Bond ran down the steps, straight across the forecourt to the booth. There was nothing he could now do for the occupants. They were both dead, one still seated behind the smashed glass checking window, his uniform front soaked dark brown. There was a look of incredible surprise on his face.
Turning, he began to walk back to the clinic. There were things that had to be done fast. As he walked he saw, almost with incredulity, the racing-green Mulsanne Turbo still in the place in which he had parked it. Only the ambulance had gone.
Inside again he wiped some of the blood away from one of the Reception telephones and dialled the usual emergency number. In all Service establishments there was a system for emergencies, like the public 999 call for the ambulance, police or fire services. Dialling the number from here meant that it would ring in the nearest Secret Intelligence Service-related office. Maybe a substation of the Special Branch, or the Military Intelligence Office of some Army, Naval or Air Force base. In this case it was the latter: the Air Intelligence Office at Farnborough – that show place for the world’s aircraft which doubles under many guises: accident investigation to aircraft testing. There is always a Royal Air Force presence at Farnborough, and, naturally, an Intelligence Office.
Bond identified himself under his normal contact name, Predator. He then gave the cipher for the clinic – which was Hospice – and the signal for a top-level emergency – Flash Red. This ensured that, within a short time there would be a ‘Disposal Unit’ plus a heavy security section at the clinic.
In effect, this lifted any burden from Bond. He did not need to stay at the site. In the time it took him to walk from the telephone to the main doors, London would be informed. He went outside again and looked down at the body on the steps. A pistol lay on the ground a few paces away, and he could see, without picking it up that the weapon was a clumsy-looking Walther P4 – a normal Walther P1 fitted with a long suppressor, or noise-reduction unit: an ungainly cylinder jutting from the barrel, making the weapon around three times its normal length.
It was efficient enough, and accounted for the silent manner in which the assault had been carried out.
Thinking it best to speak to Sir James before leaving, Bond quickly went inside again. As the car was still there he could get away – a set of spare keys always rested, in a magnetic box, welded to the rear underside of the chassis. In any case, he could always fall back on the remote control.
Molony and the nursing sister had been joined by a male nurse, and were working on Trilby. Sir James, in his shirtsleeves, glanced up as Bond appeared in the doorway.
‘She’s going to be alright.’ He was in the act of putting the needle into the girl’s arm for a new drip. ‘I presume our security people did not check the visitors thoroughly enough.’
‘They’ve paid dearly for it.’ Bond looked towards the nursing sister whose husband had been one of the security personnel. A shadow crossed her face but she went on working. ‘I would suggest,’ he continued, ‘that you have a roll-call of all your staff.’
‘Being done already,’ said the male nurse.
Molony added that two of their regular surgeons were on the way over.
‘I fear they can be of little help now.’ Bond moved forward a pace. ‘You’ll have new security people here any minute. I don’t suppose any of you know the number of the ambulance that was outside?’
The male nurse rattled off the registration number, and Bond thanked him. ‘I don’t know which way they went, but I’ll circulate the number. I think they used it as a fast getaway vehicle. I’m on my way now, Sir James. I’d advise you to keep that other fellow as close as you can. This could well have been an attempt to release him and do away with Trilby at the same time.’
Molony nodded. ‘From the look of things, your colleagues surprised them.’
Could be, Bond thought. Could be, if they did not help the bogus relatives who had to be members of the Meek Ones.
Two lorries, three cars and an ambulance drew into the forecourt as Bond left the building. A red-faced RAF regiment officer, with drawn pistol, challenged him, only clearing him when he had both inspected his ID and made a telephone call to the priority number of the HQ in Regent’s Park.
The cleaning-up went on as Bond walked to his Bentley. Already he had given the number of the ambulance to the senior plain-clothes policeman who arrived, somewhat full of himself, while the RAF Regiment Squadron Leader had been finally clearing 007.
He thought of the ambulance now, and took a moment to inspect the ground around the white-marked place where it had been parked. As he approached, his foot hit something on the ground – the keys to the Bentley. There was something attached to the key ring. He picked it up to see a small stick-pin had been pushed into the ring. The pin bore a small black marker at the blunt end. On the marker, neatly engraved and almost too small for the naked eye to read, were three letters. IRS.
So, he considered, Harriett could well have been trying to leave some kind of message. He still took no chances, opening the doors, and starting the Bentley with the remote-control unit always kept in his back pocket, and making sure nothing odd was fitted to the underside of the car.
Bond only climbed into the driving seat when he was quite satisfied that all was safe, and he did not attempt to use the radio until he had gone a good three miles. Only then did he call up the Regent’s Park HQ control.
He passed on the important information first – details of the ambulance, which he was now certain had been used for the getaway; then a quick rundown on the number of casualties, and his opinion on what should be provided at the clinic in the way of a new official Service security. He asked for any information regarding the ambulance to be patched through to him, then made a final request.
‘With respect, I ask permission to use Scatter immediately.’
There was a long silence at the distant end, and he knew the duty controller would be running a finger down the long list of special ciphers. He also knew that under the word Scatter the man would find eleven words – Permission for use of Scatter to obtained from CSS only. Which meant nobody in the radio control room would know what Scatter was – even once M had given, or withheld, permission.
Only M, his Chief of Staff and half a dozen senior officers, with need-to-know, could identify Scatter, for it was the deepest hiding place the Service kept in London. So secret that it was used mainly for highly furtive meetings between M and officers working undercover. By requesting its use, Bond knew he would be safe from the Meek Ones – who would certainly be after him – for a breathing space. He also knew that, by nightfall, M would visit him, and he had much to talk about with his chief.
Bond wound his way across country until he reached the M4 – which would provide him easiest access to Scatter. Somewhere east of the Heathrow Airport exit, the radio crackled into life again.
‘Oddball to Predator. Come in Predator.’
Bond went through his normal radio routine, and back came the answer. ‘Predator, ambulance about which you passed information earlier has been found abandoned near Byfleet, on a remote stretch of road. Marks indicate that car was waiting for changeover. Also there are signs of a struggle. Out.’
He acknowledged. Perhaps he had been too hard, after all, on Harriett and Pearly – or at least one of them. The rising hot blood in his body left him in no doubt that he hoped it was Harriett who could be vindicated. Then the chill thought struck him – if she was still alive. The Meek Ones, should they run true to form, were unlikely to let anyone live who had shown
themselves to be active enemies.
He came in past Olympia, heading for Scatter.
At the Kensington High Street end of the Earls Court Road, there is a narrow cul-de-sac which leads into a small, beautiful square. A large laburnum bush stands in the centre, and three sides of the square are lined by rows of narrow, three-storey Georgian terraced houses. The safe house known as Scatter is the last house at the south-western corner. It is painted cream, with a grey door and similar coloured window frames. There are window boxes outside the two windows on the second and top floors which become a blaze of colour by midsummer. Only when you get close do you notice the metal grilles built into the windows, but these are not out of place. It is mainly people of means who live in the square, and there are elaborate security precautions taken with all the houses – large red alarm boxes are visible on most, and burglar-proof devices litter the window frames at ground level.
He parked the car in the space provided by the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, switched off the radio, activated the car’s alarm and climbed out.
Scatter’s house-minder is a Mrs Madeleine Findlay, the daughter of an old colleague of M’s, and one of the few attractive women Bond found oblivious to his charm – which he had tried, to no avail, many times. She was, to use M’s words, ‘More silent than the grave. I doubt if she will even have a headstone carved in her own name.’
She opened up immediately and ushered him in.
‘There’s trouble,’ she began.
‘Don’t I know it.’ Bond sank into a chair, set so that he could view the entire little square through the thick net curtains.