‘Happily, your own people in Q Branch had already got their eyes on that one.’ Wolkovsky knew Q’ute on a professional basis. Now he said that she had revealed the more sinister secrets of the card. ‘It seems they could do more with it than just push money around different accounts. There was a microchip in that thing which gave them access to the Stock Market. Would’ve thrown everyone into a panic. The world’s markets would have reacted. The Avante Carte could actually buy and sell stock. Your people reckon the idea was to cause a massive run on sterling in the middle of the election campaign.’ Now they had the names and addresses of card holders the police would be hard at it tracking down every card in Britain. ‘I think they’ll contain that one.’ Wolkovsky shrugged. ‘I have a more immediate worry on my hands. Just hang on until Charlie gets Washington’s reaction.’
Bond nodded, wandering through into the bare, book-lined study. Pearly went with him. ‘Why d’you think Scorpius really put my life at risk earlier on, Pearly? The car business? Hereford?’
‘I really think that was an accident, boss. Thought they were being bloody clever by keeping you under surveillance. Making certain you were the one assigned to the job. Didn’t imagine they’d get rumbled.’ He looked a little shame-faced. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve known better than to get involved. It really was only because of Ruth, and I had no idea . . .’ he floundered for words, ‘no idea it’d end up like this. People getting blown away by human bombs. The whole business stinks. It was bad enough a couple of years ago, when that guy put his girlfriend on a commercial jet loaded to the gills with explosives, but these people were really made to believe they were serving future generations by decimating themselves together with innocent folk.’
‘Not your fault, Pearly. Any man would have done the same if his son or daughter was mixed up in it.’
Pearlman was silent for a minute, shuffling his feet. ‘Really should’ve reported it to someone, though. Think I’ll go down to the Prayer Hall. Find Ruth and have a word.’
‘You do that.’ He was aware of two other people seated at Scorpius’s desk. One was another colleague – John Parkinson, short, ebullient and a good ‘creative’ interrogator. Parkinson sat opposite a red-eyed, nervous Trilby Shrivenham.
‘He said he’d have me thrown into the swamp alive if I didn’t go along with him,’ Trilby was saying. ‘Truly, when I realised what was happening – the death-task business and all that – I got out, or tried to, just like poor Emma Dupré. Only I can’t remember much about it. Scorpius had already filled me with dope. I’d an idea that he was planning to use me on a particularly sensitive target – even though I was not married, and hadn’t given birth. That was the only true way of getting a death-name and a death-task.’ She looked up, saw Bond and said, ‘You believe me, Mr Bond, don’t you? I could never have married that . . . that . . . living Satan.’
‘I believe you, Trilby.’ He gave her a steady, warning look. ‘I didn’t really fall for it when Vladi brought you in to that odd little dinner party. Nothing rang true. But you have to convince this gentleman.’ He turned to Parkinson. ‘Sorry, John. Your job. I shouldn’t stick my oar in.’
‘Right,’ the interrogator agreed, icing Bond out.
‘James?’ Wolkovsky was beckoning from the dining-room door. The CIA man called Charlie stood behind him. They both looked as though they had received bad news.
‘Proof that the world is to end today?’ Bond asked, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Just about.’ Wolkovsky sounded as though his nerves were stretched like piano wire. ‘Here’s your first clue.’ He threw down a copy of the New York Times, front page upwards. The headline was in bold type and shouted – BRITISH PREMIER PLAYS HOOKY FROM ELECTION CAMPAIGN. ONE-DAY VISIT FOR TALKS WITH THE PRESIDENT.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ Bond muttered under his breath. Then he told them what Scorpius had said when he had commented on the Prime Minister not being on the death-list. ‘He told me he had special plans for the PM.’ His stomach turned over as he realised what Scorpius had actually said. ‘The words he used were, “Oh, no, James Bond. The Prime Minister is not forgotten. Certainly not. But I have a very special role for the Prime Minister that does not show on this map.” ’ Bond inclined his head towards the map of the British Isles, which was twinkling away with all its lights winking on the wall. One of his colleagues was rechecking the targets shown by the pinpoints of light, making sure nothing had been left to chance. ‘Later,’ Bond continued, ‘Scorpius stopped himself from elaborating. I would say you’re right. The Prime Minister and the President, both!’
‘Bet your ass we’re right,’ Wolkovsky said through his teeth. ‘There are indications here, in this place, that a similar campaign – against this country – was in the early stages of planning.’
‘Then there are no doubts. There’s a death-task running against the PM during this visit. What’s the schedule?’
‘At the moment, the schedule doesn’t matter much.’ Charlie, Wolkovsky’s man, sounded as disenchanted as a priest who has lost his faith.
‘Why? Of course the schedule matters. This could be set for the Prime Minister and your President – both of them. Two great world leaders in one blow!’
‘Exactly how we see it.’ Wolkovsky looked ready to spit violently. ‘Unhappily, it’s not the way our Secret Service – who, as you know, are the VIP bodyguard service – sees it. Nor is it the way your Prime Minister looks at it either.’
‘What?’ Genuine disbelief from Bond.
Wolkovsky gave one of his characteristic shrugs. ‘The Secret Service say they are the best bodyguard unit in the world.’ He raised his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Even though you can pick them out a mile away by their little unobtrusive lapel pins, the dark shades, walkie-talkies that crackle from hidden holsters, or the fact that some of them wear long raincoats when it’s a hundred and ten in the shade.’ He put on a mock-tough face. ‘ “It’s okay, Mr President, by the time we go out that door we’ll own the goddamned street.” I actually heard one of them say that.’
‘You have pointed out the real danger, I presume?’ Bond’s voice remained full of shock and disbelief. ‘If there’s a death-task out on the PM and possibly the President as well, then there’s little they can do about it.’
‘I’ve told them all ways.’ Charlie imitated Wolkovsky’s shrug. ‘It appears that your Prime Minister’s also oblivious to the true danger. Apparently the PM’s got extra Special Branch people in tow, and the Secret Service say nobody’s going to get within fifteen or twenty yards of either of them.’
‘Twenty yards!’ Bond gave a gesture of despair, clenching his fists and shaking them at shoulder level. ‘Twenty yards could just as well be twenty inches.’
‘We know that, James. So I’ve got a call in to Chief of Security at the White House. He’s an old buddy and I might at least get him to listen. Maybe he’ll even let us go up there and lend a hand.’
Behind them the telephone buzzed, and one of the spare FBI men answered, then called to Wolkovsky. ‘That’ll be him, now.’
Almost at the moment the CIA man turned to walk to the telephone, Pearlman reappeared through the door to Scorpius’s office. His face was the shade of old parchment, his eyes wide with concern.
‘Pearly . . . ?’ Bond began.
‘She’s gone,’ Pearlman said, stopping and looking around him as though in a daze. ‘Gone. Not here, and that wimp of a husband’s just kneeling there in a kind of trance.’
Bond shook him gently by the shoulder. ‘Do we know when she left?’
‘I talked to the people going through the records and information being offered by Scorpius’s disciples down there. Boss? Boss, I don’t like it.’ He sounded like a child frightened by some TV fairytale. ‘They say she went yesterday and that Rudolf – that’s my bloody son-in-law’s name. Rudolf, like the reindeer. Rudolf, I ask you boss, who gives a boy the name Rudolf?’
‘You were going to tell us what they’re saying about Rud
olf.’
‘Yes. Well, they say he’s behaving like the husband of someone who’s left to carry out a death-task. Scorpius apparently taught them this way of self-hypnosis. They kneel perfectly still until the business is over. It’s like willing their partner to succeed.’
Bond stayed as calm as possible. ‘Pearly, it might be too late for Ruth. But would you do us one favour . . . ?’
‘Anything.’
‘Get back down there. Try to talk with their experts. Their explosives people – or the kids who’ve been trained in the business. I want details of how they make the bombs, what detonates them, what safety factors they have. The lot, okay?’
‘Done, boss. They’re weeding the wheat from the chaff in the Prayer Hall. Those who have death-names for the future. Everything.’
‘Get the full SP on it, Pearl.’ Bond had no idea that he had even abbreviated Pearlman’s obvious nickname. He went over to where Wolkovsky was still talking, took out his notepad and scribbled – We know who the bomb is. It’s a girl. Tell him we have a man who can finger her.
Wolkovsky went on talking, picked up the paper while he spoke, read it, nodded to Bond and said into the telephone, ‘Walter, listen, we’ve got some positive proof here. It’s going to happen. This Meek Ones’ business in England, right? You’re definitely going to get it in Washington today. We now know who it is, and there’s a fella here who can make the ID.’ He listened, the silence punctuated with, ‘Yes . . . Okay, Walter, I know . . . Yes, of course it’s for real. Waddayou think it is, a video game? . . . Yes, Walter . . . Good . . . Good. Okay, you call me back when it’s fixed.’ He put down the telephone and turned to Bond. ‘Well?’ he asked.
Bond gave him a very brief résumé of the part Pearlman had played in the whole business, ending with the latest information about his daughter, Ruth. ‘I’ve got him working on how they operate the bombs now.’
‘Well, my friend seems to have bought the idea. You sure about this girl?’
‘About a hundred and fifty per cent sure.’
‘They’re going to do what they call a manual override on the Secret Service. He’s calling me back when it’s all arranged, but it looks like we’re going to be allowed a minimal armed presence – three at the most. They’re arranging for a military jet to go into Savannah to pick us up – that’s forty-five minutes’ car ride from here. The jet’ll take us into Andrews Airforce Base. Your Prime Minister arrives there at noon.’ Automatically Bond looked at his stainless steel Rolex. It was only eight thirty. He asked if he could have some coffee. Black. He did not, for once, insist on a brand. Some FBI gofer scurried away to get coffee.
Wolkovsky continued, ‘There’s a military honour guard at Andrews, and a helicopter to take the PM and party right onto the helipad at the White House.’ He glanced down at the notes he had taken. ‘No problems thus far. No press at Andrews except the long-range TV people – and I do mean long-range. There’ll be three helicopters – Number 1, the Presidential, for the Prime Minister and some of the party; Numbers 2 and 3 for Secret Service and three of us. ETA at White House twelve fifty-five. President greets Prime Minister. Six TV crews as usual. No other press. The expected length of lunch and the meeting is three hours. There’s a general press photocall, to last for ten – they’re saying strictly ten – minutes, at two o’clock in the Rose Garden. That’s to let all the newspapers get good pictures for late evening and tomorrow’s editions.
‘The Prime Minister’s expected to leave, from the helipad, at between five and six pm. Straight to Andrews. Up-up and away, back to election problems. Your press is screaming that the PM’s making election capital out of the meeting. The Prime Minister has frostily announced that the meeting was planned long before an election was called, and you know the PM. When something like a tête-à-tête with the Prez is on the menu not even a General Election is allowed to get in the way.’
Bond looked over Wolkovsky’s shoulder, pointing – ‘That seems to be the most dangerous time.’ His finger rested on the photocall arranged for two o’clock.
Wolkovsky nodded his assent, as Pearlman came back into the room.
‘Well?’ Bond asked.
‘Not really.’ Pearlman now looked haggard. ‘I have the details, though.’
‘Go on.’
‘They’ve been using this stuff that’s damned difficult to detect. The dogs haven’t latched on to it yet, and it’ll go through security screens with no problem.’ He paused, wiping his brow. ‘If you want to see how they go about it, there’s a complete do-it-yourself destruction outfit in the cellars, together with pounds and pounds of the explosive. It’s pushed into a sort of large waistcoat, layer upon layer of the stuff, with a master detonator, set into the back. The trigger is in a button, sort of mid-chest at the front. That’s operated manually, and can be done very quickly, but Scorpius thought of everything. You have to turn the damn thing and then give it a tug. It takes less than two seconds, but it’s safe enough. You can’t trigger it accidentally, or by falling or bumping into someone. It has to be a deliberate action, and it must be pulled off. Even a bullet through it wouldn’t blow the detonator.’ He mimed, thrusting his hand into his jacket, turning the hand and tugging hard. ‘That’s what it takes.’
‘And that’s what you think Ruth’s carrying.’
‘That’s what I know she’s carrying.’
Bond told him what they had learned, and, during the telling, the telephone buzzed again. Wolkovsky hurried to answer and returned with the news that everything had been agreed, if reluctantly, with the Secret Service.
‘Three of us,’ he said. ‘Permission to carry one handgun each. We’ll have to get ID at Savannah. The jet’s leaving in the next half-hour. We’ll only just make it in time for the Prime Minister’s arrival. So who’s it to be?’
Bond looked hard at Pearlman. ‘You, David; myself; and Pearly here. It’s his daughter who’s carrying the stuff. If things get really close, it’ll be Pearly who’ll have to take her out.’
Wolkovsky nodded sadly. ‘They’ve given us an operational crypto,’ he said. ‘Operation Last Enemy.’
‘Last Enemy?’ Bond queried.
‘Biblical.’ Pearlman sounded resigned to what lay ahead. ‘New Testament as well. “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.” ’
At Savannah they had their photographs taken in a private room set aside for official personnel. Within fifteen minutes each was provided with a laminated, clip-on ID, signifying that they were attached to White House Security, and should be allowed anywhere without question. There was also a rider saying they could carry weapons. The security officer, whom Bond suspected of being an Agency man, had travelled from Andrews Field in the little anonymous Lear Jet, and he issued all three with standard short-nosed Police Positives, which they carried in shoulder holsters. They signed for the weapons and the ammunition that came with them.
It was just after noon that they landed at Andrews Field, and there was not even enough time for introductions before the Prime Minister’s Royal Air Force VC10 touched down on 19 Right, the longest of the two runways.
Bond scanned the whole scene from a jeep moving quietly behind the band and honour guard. The aircraft steps were rolled into place, and the door opened to reveal the familiar figure of the Prime Minister who was closely surrounded by Diplomatic Protection and SB people. The remainder of the secretaries and advisers stayed in the background as the PM stood to attention on the aircraft steps, while the band played the British National Anthem, followed by the Star Spangled Banner. Only when this was over did the party start to come down the steps.
‘At least they’ve got a large team of bodyguards for once,’ Bond muttered, holding on to the metal bar as the jeep followed the PM’s party up towards the three SH-3DS waiting for them. ‘Could hardly see the PM for the heavies.’
They rode aboard the big choppers in silence, jinking across country to the White House, all three helicopters setting down, one after the other – disem
barking their passengers, then taking off for the next flight in – on the White House helipad. The blossom was out, and from the air the city looked spectacular – the Washington Monument, the Reflecting Pool and Lincoln Memorial set like dramatic jewels in the now pink and white parkscape of the Mall. Not for the first time, Bond thought how like Paris the city looked.
By the time the trio reached the ground, the Prime Minister had met with the President, and they had disappeared inside that relatively modest building at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Wolkovsky contacted the Head of White House Security who was, not unnaturally, slightly suspicious of the arrangements. He had agreed to them, but – as he said – with great misgivings. ‘These days, our security is the best in the world.’ He looked hard at Pearlman and Bond.
‘But we know what to look for in this situation,’ Bond said quietly. ‘I know you might not believe it, but, I promise you, an attempt is going to be made.’ He paused and then seemed to be taking overall control. ‘Now, when is the press corps going to be admitted?’
‘The TV people are already here. The others will be arriving any time between now and around one forty-five.’
‘Which entrance?’
‘They’ll all have to show White House press passes.’
‘Don’t worry. This person will have a press pass. You can bet on it.’
‘Then you must do what you think best.’ The Head of Security gave them a sober look, as if to say he thought they were making too much fuss. ‘They all come in by the East Gate.’
By mutual consent, they decided that Wolkovsky should stay up in the Rose Garden – where they all now gathered to take a quick look at the TV crews – while Pearlman and Bond should go to the East Gate. There they would see every person with access to the photocall.
‘If she goes through with it . . . if she really tries . . . ?’ Bond began as they strolled towards the entrance with its own stone and glass booth where passes could be checked. ‘Will you . . . ?’