‘I doubt if you do, sir.’ Already she had a light raincoat on and was preparing to leave. Mrs Findlay was always ready to leave when Scatter was in use. Only M appeared to know where she went, and how to get her back.
‘Oh?’
‘He says will you call him immediately. On the scrambler. The keys are on the table, as you can see, the alarms are deactivated, as are the son et lumière devices,’ by which she meant the facilities installed to steal both conversation and video recordings. ‘I’ll be off now.’ She gave him a tiny flash of a smile, and was gone, walking across the square with long, attractive strides – all woman.
There were two telephones on the ledge of a bookcase near the window. They looked identical, but the few people who had access to Scatter knew that the right-hand instrument was a direct scrambler line to M. James Bond dialled.
The distant instrument rang twice before M answered, and they both went through the routine establishing codes.
‘Glad you got in.’ M sounded subdued.
‘The clinic’s like an abattoir.’
‘Not the only place, I fear.’
‘Oh, no?’
‘I’m afraid it’s “Oh, yes”.’
‘Where?’
‘Chichester. Near the cathedral. Local Labour Party candidate had a former Labour Prime Minister there.’ M gave the name.
‘Killed?’ Bond felt the shock even more, coming on top of what he had seen and heard in the last hours.
‘Both of them, and over thirty people in the crowd. Another forty injured.’
‘Same MO?’
‘We think so. Bailey’s here with me now. Watch the television, get some rest. I shall be over shortly.’
The line was closed abruptly, and Bond crossed to the big colour television on the far side of the room. All four channels had live broadcasts coming from the scene of this latest disaster. He could make out the cathedral, seemingly in the background amid the desolation, very similar to that in Glastonbury the evening before. The Meek Ones had struck again. If it went on, people would stay clear of the hustings. The General Election would become a farce, which was just what the Meek Ones wanted – or, perhaps, whoever had paid for their work had demanded.
The cameras roamed over the scene of destruction, only too familiar in these days when terror stalked in many guises. Then, one camera picked up the police helping to get traffic through a particularly badly congested area.
A large Audi was being held up while a truck passed through, its sides nearly scraping debris. The camera held, for a moment, on the Audi.
At first, Bond did not see it, then his eyes caught the face of the passenger in the front seat. There was no doubt as to who it was, for he had studied the photographs with care. There, smiling at his own handiwork, was Father Valentine himself, and in the back, squashed between two heavy-set men, he caught a glimpse of a chalk-white frightened face. Harriett Horner was being held in Scorpius’s own car.
He was just able to catch enough of the registration number to memorise it, and even with his almost legendary ability to hold numbers in his head for years, Bond found himself repeating it over and over as he reached for the telephone and started to dial.
14
LURES AND SMART CARDS
M arrived after dark. Bond did not even look at the clock – time had lost its meaning with the horror played, almost constantly, on the television. He kept having to remind himself that this was real, not something imagined by a scriptwriter.
M looked old and haggard. Bond could not recall a time when his old chief moved and talked like this – a man suddenly bereft of vigour, so that he appeared to have pain in every joint, and difficulty with each word he spoke.
He said he had not come alone. ‘I thought it better to be watched. There’s one team in the High Street and another in the Earls Court Road, but none of them know exactly where I am. Bailey is on the corner of the square. I thought it safe to let him come.’
‘Is anyone safe, now?’ Bond took M’s coat and poured him a stiff whisky, which he tossed back in one and then put his glass forward for another. This time, Bond made it a smaller measure.
When they were settled, Bond began to talk – setting out his theory built from the strange drug-assisted interrogation of the man who called himself Ahmed el Kadar – and Joseph in death.
M became very silent, and when the explanation was over he looked up at Bond with eyes that seemed to mirror every Arctic waste, cold sea, or ice-pack in the world. ‘And you believe this?’
‘It seems to be the only explanation.’
‘That a man would hire out people, willing to die at his say-so, acting as human bombs?’
‘I presume that’s what happened in Chichester, and it certainly occurred in Glastonbury. We all saw it.’
M nodded. ‘Yes. Chichester was the same. A young woman. The attacks take place in the open, so there’s no way of screening the crowd. Bailey’s been with the Head of Branch and the Metropolitan Commissioner. They’ve all agreed on an attempt at some form of crowd control during election walkabouts, but that can never be one hundred per cent safe. James, how in the name of heaven do we end it?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir. Scorpius, or Valentine or whatever we’re going to call him, appears to have set in motion a complete, self-perpetuating killing machine. Reading between the lines on the interrogation of el Kadar, the Meek Ones live in purity for Scorpius’s own satisfaction. The whole basis of a pure, unsullied, moral line is to avoid any sexually transmitted diseases, and to form close unions, one man to one woman. Thinking back, that’s another of the Meek One’s dogmas – no divorce, and that makes admirable sense. Once a couple have produced a child, one of the parents, at least, can offer themselves to this revolutionary zeal and kill themselves for the cause, knowing they will have left behind another child who, in due course, can do the same thing.’
‘Death without end, Amen.’
‘Quite, sir. They believe they’re dying for some great and higher purpose. They will attain paradise and in the end the world will become a paradise of its own. If Scorpius has this knack – this charisma – this fervour and ability to make people believe him, then he’s home and dry. There are plenty of bidders in the world of terrorism who can raise funds, and pay huge amounts of money for one act or a whole campaign of terror.’
‘Unless he’s stopped now – and quickly – Lord knows what will happen.’ M looked as though the load was too heavy for him to carry. He sighed, and continued. His weariness was that of a man near the end of his tether. ‘For one thing, we’ll be forced to take unpleasant restrictive measures to limit a campaign. No public meetings without a close inspection of every single person who attends; theatres; restaurants; football matches. A whole way of life and freedom ending.’
‘Then you do believe it’s a campaign, sir?’
‘Oh, it’s a campaign without doubt. Terror, and things you don’t know about as yet. Either the Meek Ones are mounting their own campaign to demoralise the Election, or their leader is being paid handsomely to do it on behalf of others.’
‘Nobody’s yet put me in the picture regarding Earthquake.’
‘Earthquake?’ as though he did not even understand.
‘It was the signal I received on the way to the Surrey clinic, sir. Remember, you put a team over at Manderson Hall, Pangbourne, to duplicate what I was supposed to do.’
‘Oh, that. Yes, it is one of the facts you don’t know about as yet. We’ve got six members of the Meek Ones. They’re being held in custody on drugs charges. Gives us a chance to interrogate them.’
‘Meek Ones on drugs charges?’
M gave a long series of little nods. ‘I put a team of watchers, and a couple of Bill Tanner’s hoods, to eyeball the place from four in the morning. Bailey lent me a pair of his plain-clothes men as well. They saw this little group approach at first light. Four men and two women. They were armed, and ready to die. A couple of shots were fired when the team went in – abou
t nine o’clock. It looked as if they were ready for somebody, though they denied it. Said they’d come back for things left behind.’
‘Pearlman was supposed to have gone through the place with a fine toothcomb!’
‘Well, he missed out. There are a dozen attics at the top of the house – old servants’ quarters, but converted into bedrooms. Under one of the beds the team found a trapdoor. It led to a treasure trove for the drugs squad – heroin, coke, you name it, they had it.’
‘Part of the Meek Ones’ dogma is no alcohol and no drugs.’
‘The impression we’re getting is that it was not for personal consumption. One of the girls admits to having brought in loads of the muck. The theory is that it was to be used later – a back-up to be distributed free of charge to members of the Armed Services. Like the VC did to the US personnel in Nam.’
‘What else don’t I know about?’
M paused for a few seconds, and looked at his wristwatch. ‘All in good time, James. Someone else is being brought here. We have a second – maybe a third – lead.’
‘Nothing on the Audi in which I saw him? Saw Scorpius, and the IRS girl?’
‘We have the police on alert. You got the number right, we ran through the tape ourselves. I should imagine every copper in the country has his eyes skinned for that vehicle. But, James,’ M seemed to have become avuncular, usually he only called Bond by his first name when a deniable instruction was coming up. This time, the telltale brusqueness was not there in his voice. ‘James,’ he repeated, ‘even if we get this man Scorpius, how can we be certain we will destroy the whole evil nest he’s created?’
‘We can’t. Not until every last one of them – every man, woman and child – is brought to book. Death is too good for Scorpius – anyway I don’t believe this eye for an eye business. You know that. I’ve been in the game too long, and there’s something particularly vile about snuffing out life, if there’s another way.’
‘Often there is no other way.’ M appeared more calm and in control now. ‘I would say there’s probably no other way as far as Scorpius is concerned. His followers? Well, they’re a different matter.’
‘You realise, sir, that even if we can get Scorpius – and get him alive – there might be no way to stop his present operation. By now most of the major public appearances of all target politicians during this Election are set. Every newspaper in the country’ll have lists. Anyone can get their hands on the itineraries . . .’
‘We’ve forestalled some of it,’ M cut in quickly. ‘The most important public functions have been shifted around. Heads of C13, C7, D11 – the whole shooting match, if you’ll pardon the pun – were called in to COBRA. Alterations have been made across the board. The two major political parties have agreed. Different places on different days, and at different times. It’s a start, but only a start. Anyone already rolling, on Scorpius’s orders, will follow through, I should imagine. The Meek Ones aren’t idiots, but they all fall into a particularly vulnerable psychological pattern.’
‘Such as?’ Bond had already thought about this. It fascinated him.
‘Such as people with political or religious ambivalence – those not satisfied with the norm. People who want more from religion. The have-nots who believe it’s either the current political ideologies – left and right – that have caused their plight, or the ones who blame it on God. A new ideal, and a new God, gives them a fresh hope. The business about actually being in at the beginning of it all. Dying for the cause that will do away with their previous predicaments – well, that’s heady stuff for folk with chips on their shoulders.’
True enough, Bond thought. So that was what COBRA had been up to – reorganising the election schedule, and getting a lecture from some tame Whitehall shrink. The silence grew between them.
After some three minutes, M spoke again – ‘I would presume that you consider Scorpius is a sane man?’
‘Without doubt.’ What was he after now, Bond wondered? ‘Evil. A skilled illegal arms dealer. A man with incredible personal magnetism, and a huge financial motive, yes. Sane, yes.’
‘Mmm.’ M nodded agreement. ‘Taking yourself as a sane man, Bond,’ he had dropped the ‘James’ and was holding out his glass, tapping it for a refill, ‘Taking yourself as a sane man, put yourself in Scorpius’s shoes. You’ve proved this great power. You’ve got one massive contract – to completely disrupt the British General Election, possibly even more than that – and the promise of an even larger job if this one works. Say, a similar disruption in the United States, during their next Presidential Election. What would you do? If you’d set things in motion; given all the instructions; what would you do?’
Bond had no hesitation. ‘Get out,’ he said, quietly. ‘Get out, and as far away from the British Isles as I could. Then sit and wait.’
‘Precisely. That’s COBRA’s reading as well. We’ve had alerts out at every port and airport – though I think me lad-o is too clever to go out via a normal route. He’s probably got some nice safe exit already arranged.’
‘Just as he’s got someone in a prime position to inform him of exactly what we’re up to.’
‘You still believe that?’
‘It’s obvious, sir. More obvious than ever when you consider the sleight of hand we’ve tried to get away with. My prime suspects have always been the SAS man, Pearlman, and the American IRS girl. But there could be more than one. Somebody – whichever way you look at it – is one step in front of us.’ He ticked the already well-worn items off on his fingers. ‘One, somebody knew as soon as I was called down from Hereford after Emma Dupré’s body was found. Two, Trilby Shrivenham turns up with all that muddled riddle, yet we still don’t know what the score is. Three, they know exactly where we’ve put the IRS girl. Four, I tell both Pearlman and the girl that we’re going off to Manderson Hall, last refuge of the Meek Ones in this country, when we were really going down to Surrey to interrogate their man caught in the Kilburn thing. I could swear that it put Pearlman and Harriett on edge, but what happens? Massacre. A foiled attempt at killing the Shrivenham girl, and pulling their own man out. Somehow they managed to cover both ends – the business at Manderson Hall, where everyone thought we were going – the Earthquake team – and the massacre at the Surrey Clinic. Someone had to know. Someone had to inform on us. We should be out searching for him now.’
‘Witch-hunts rarely help. But, yes, I should imagine you’re right – in a limited sense. Pearlman seems the most probable suspect. You say nobody followed you to the Kilburn house; you’re also sure Pearlman showed surprise at the change of plans. But what if he was simply the stalking horse? The odd clandestine call from him and they get some information; a really good team working on his back. You would all have been followed to Surrey. Or, better still, the trio visiting the Shrivenham girl get a message. You thought of that?’
‘Can we check?’
M reached for the telephone, dialled, and started a long, low conversation, during which Bond tried to readjust, to reassemble the logic of the thing.
At last M put the telephone down and stared at Bond. ‘Should’ve thought of that sooner. The one posing as the Shrivenham girl’s brother took a private call about fifteen minutes before you arrived. The poor fellow on reception logged it, and nobody thought of filleting the record.’
Bond had just about crystallised his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, when the telephone rang again. Three times, then stop. Another twice, and stop. On the third set of rings, M picked up. There was another low-key conversation. When he put the instrument down this time, M glared at Bond. ‘They’ve found the Audi,’ he said without either exuberance or enthusiasm. ‘In a ditch, covered with bits of tree and leaves. Just off a B road in Kent. Really out of the way. Only it’s five miles from an old landing field.’
‘When?’ Bond asked, meaning when had the car been found.
‘Accidentally, about an hour ago. Shouldn’t really have been discovered for a day or two. Road’s not
much used, but some farmer with too much drink in him was on auto-pilot, sneaking home. Went a shade too far to the left and dented his nice Range Rover. Not badly, but enough to get the local garage out to pull him from the ditch. Pure good luck. The local bobby was filling up his Panda when the call came in. He went along.’
‘And the airfield?’
M nodded sadly. ‘You’ve got it, 007. A plane in the night. Unusual around there. Place is just a single airstrip. No buildings. No control. No night flying, though the runway’s in reasonable condition. Wartime, of course. Used to be a satellite field for Manston. Still is, in a way. Some local flying school uses it for their pupils to practise rollers.’ He meant roller landings, what in wartime the Royal Air Force referred to as ‘circuits and bumps’.
‘And something went out of there tonight?’
M nodded. ‘Again convenient. Member of the local club lives just the other side of the place. Late afternoon a nice little Piper Comanche – twin engined . . .’
‘Seats six at a pinch.’
‘This one did. Anyway, getting dusk and it comes in with one engine out. Our flying club man trots out to see if he can give a hand. Says the pilot’s a nice guy. Off to France. Engine problem. Needs some spare. Borrows the club man’s phone. Calls somebody to bring over a spare first thing, and refuses food and shelter. “Have to stay with the aircraft,” all that kind of thing. Then, tonight, off she goes. Flying club fellow almost has a heart attack. Must have taken off blind.’
‘So he’s gone.’
‘That’s what I’d say. You?’
‘Quite likely.’ Bond continued. He had thought the whole thing through, and his conclusions were worrying. ‘What if Emma Dupré was allowed to get away?’ he asked. ‘And what if my telephone number was planted?’
M cocked an eyebrow, as though he had already made up his mind that Bond’s theory – whatever it was – consisted of garbage. ‘Go on,’ he said, though behind the instruction you could hear that he was dubious.