Bond was still puzzling over it when they pulled up in Knightsbridge and changed places, Pearlman retrieving his own gear from the boot and thanking Bond for what he called, ‘An interesting ride home’.
‘You want my telephone number, boss? Just in case?’
Bond nodded from the driving seat, and the sergeant ran through the digits. ‘Any time I can be of help, it’d be a pleasure.’ Pearlman nodded and, closing the window, Bond put the car into drive and drew away from the kerb, heading in the direction of Regent’s Park and his Service’s headquarters.
4
AVANTE CARTE
‘Glad you made it so quickly.’ M’s sarcasm seemed to pass over Chief Superintendent Bailey’s head as the introductions were made.
‘Traffic, sir. Absolute murder on the motorways coming down.’ Bond was more than a little put out. He had expected to meet M alone. Even Moneypenny had not warned him of the police officer’s presence – a fact that was decidedly disturbing.
M grunted, waving Bond into a chair. ‘Probably best if Bailey here puts you in the picture.’ He looked both men square in the eyes, before adding, ‘Especially as we’ve become involved partly because of you, Bond.’
Bailey gave the bare outline – girl dragged from the Thames in the early hours. He left out the name of the victim until the end. ‘The deceased was twenty-three years old, and she carried your telephone number in her Filofax.’ He paused before adding, ‘Actually it was the only telephone number on her.’
Bond’s body ached from the hard march over the Brecon Beacons and the events during the journey into London. He was aware that unless he got all the salient facts quickly there was a good chance that his mind would begin to drift from the essentials of the case. Apart from that, a whole section of his tired brain still wrestled with the how and why of the surveillance and attack. He needed to spend time with M to make his report. At last he began to take in the seriousness of what the police officer was saying. ‘My telephone number?’ he queried. ‘Who is it? Who’s the victim?’
‘We’re not classing her as a victim,’ Bailey told him. ‘But the girl’s name is Emma Dupré.’ Both the Branch man and M watched for any signs of distress from Bond, who merely shook his head in disbelief. ‘Young Emma,’ he said, quietly. Then, ‘Emma Dupré. Poor girl. Why, in heaven’s name . . . ?’
‘You did know her, then?’ from Bailey.
‘Only very slightly.’ He sat calm and upright in his chair. ‘Haven’t seen her for a couple of years. Though I did get an odd telephone call from her last November.’
‘What do you mean by slightly?’ Bailey, like many police officers, had that blunt, suspicious tone, even when asking seemingly innocent questions.
‘Very slightly.’ Bond was firm, his voice acquiring a sharp cutting edge. ‘Two years ago I was invited to her twenty-first birthday party. I’ve known Peter and Liz Dupré for a long time. I think they asked me to the party as a kind of makeweight. As I recall it, somebody dropped out at the last minute.’
‘And you got on well with the girl?’
Bond took a deep breath, held it in, then slowly exhaled. ‘She’s a shade young for me. I don’t want to sound . . . well . . . she had a kind of crush on me. In the end it became embarrassing. I took her out to dinner a couple of times.’
‘You didn’t . . . ?’ The Branch man left the remainder of his question hanging in the air.
‘No, Mr Bailey, I certainly did not. In fact I did nothing at all to encourage her. It really was difficult. She never stopped telephoning me and writing notes.’ He paused for a moment, remembering Emma – dark, fine looks, grey-eyed. The eyes he could recall almost too well. They were large and very clear.
The final dinner with her came tiptoeing back into his mind, unbidden, but there in its entirety. Rather than store it up, he told them, keeping to the important points. ‘When it really got difficult I took her out to The Caprice, fed her and gave her the Dutch uncle routine. Told her I was already heavily involved with someone else . . .’
‘Were you?’ M asked, looking bland. ‘A couple of years ago, one forgets.’
‘Yes, there was someone at the time,’ Bond managed to stop himself from snapping at his chief. ‘I offered to be her friend – to be Emma’s friend, I mean. Told her that if she found herself in any spot of bother she could call me.’
M gave a long sigh. ‘Never understood women myself, Bond, but I would’ve thought that kind of talk would have encouraged her.’
‘It depends how you do it. I think I used some finesse. At the time I was due to be out of London for a while – on Service business, sir. The thing with Rahani, you might recall it?’ The last said with a heavy touch of sarcasm.
‘Yes, yes, yes.’ M made a sweeping movement with his right hand, as though trying to flick some unpleasant insect from the air.
‘And you didn’t hear from her again?’ Bailey asked.
‘Only the telephone call last November.’
‘You said that was odd.’
‘Yes.’
‘In what way, odd?’
‘I’d more or less forgotten about her – well, not forgotten, but put her out of mind. I still see Peter and Liz Dupré from time to time.’
‘You move in exalted circles, Bond,’ M muttered.
‘Not really. I was at school with Peter’s brother, years ago. He got himself killed in some damn-fool episode with a motorcycle. I met Peter at the funeral. He gave me pieces of advice now and again . . .’
‘Nothing under the counter, I hope,’ M snapped.
Bond frowned, looking at him, then – ‘Oh, you mean “insider dealing” and all that kind of thing. No, sir. Just common-sense advice. It was when I came into that little legacy.’
‘That’s alright then.’ M seemed to drift off into a semi-comatose state. The old boy was always at his most dangerous when he performed that trick, Bond thought to himself.
‘The telephone call?’ Bailey prompted.
‘Yes. She rambled on a bit. Said she was in some kind of hospital. Then asked me if I had been saved. Religious talk, you know.’
‘And you told her?’
‘What?’
‘Whether you’d been saved or not.’
‘I think I was a touch flippant. I said I thought I’d been saved, but it had been a damned close thing.’
‘How did she take that?’
‘She didn’t. She seemed not to notice, just talked some drivel, then suddenly put the phone down.’
‘That concern you?’
‘Thinking back, yes. Yes, it did. I remember feeling that she’d been interrupted, or that the phone had been snatched from her hand.’ He scowled, wondering why he had not followed through on his instinct at the time.
‘When you knew her – a couple of years ago – would you have said she was the kind who’d get mixed up with drugs?’
Bond looked at the Branch man, cold-eyed. ‘How can you tell these days? Was she?’
‘Mixed up in drugs? Yes, she was. Badly. Heroin. We know what happened about it. The family have been most cooperative. She wouldn’t accept help from them. They were worried stiff. Then poor drowned Emma got religion. Religion of a kind anyway. The Meek Ones. Heard of them?’
Bond nodded. ‘Who hasn’t? Do good, yet seem to do a great deal of bad at the same time. Anti-promiscuity, anti-drugs, but all for a new world. The world of equality, that’s their phrase, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve got them.’ The Branch man nodded. ‘On the surface these people appear to be ultra do-gooders: purity; sanctity of marriage; beware excess – they run a very successful detoxification unit, catering for drug and alcohol abuse. Great, but scratch the surface and there’s something a shade more sinister.’
‘For instance?’ Bond asked.
‘For instance they draw on the most extreme views of a number of religions – equal belief in the Bible, the Old Testament not the New, in particular the Torah. And they use the Koran as well.’ Bond nodded; he knew
enough about comparative religions to be aware that the Torah consisted of the first five books of the Old Testament which made up the strict Jewish Law.
Bailey continued. ‘They set great store by their religious ceremonies. Very theatrical and taken from Lord knows how many different liturgical traditions. You follow me?’
Bond nodded again. ‘You mean they have rituals and religious ceremonial stolen from many periods in history and belief.’
M looked at Bond with patent disbelief. The chief was always surprised when his agent revealed interests or information outside the normal business of their trade or his excellent knowledge of food, wine, women and fast cars – which was grossly unfair to Bond’s intellect.
‘That’s right.’ Bailey seemed to have settled himself, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees, hands together. ‘All this is combined with politics, of course. Their religion is really based on the ideal of a revolution. Very immature, of course, but for the young or impressionable mind, it’s heady stuff. The meek shall inherit: you know the kind of thing. All men are equal, and that equality must be attained, even if through the most bloody kind of revolution. A large number of wealthy young people’re members, and have donated their entire fortunes to the Society – that’s their full title, the Society of the Meek Ones.’
‘You’re telling me that Emma Dupré was a fully paid-up member?’ Bond frowned.
‘Exactly. She inherited a couple of million when she was twenty-one. Some of it went on an extravagant lifestyle and that nasty little habit she acquired. The rest was made over to the Society when they got her off the junk.’
‘When Father Valentine got her off it,’ M said sharply. ‘Let’s try to see things in their right proportions, Bailey – especially now we know Bond’s relationship with the dead girl was slight and quite proper. Y’see Bond, we’ve got a small problem here. Dead girl, daughter of a merchant banker – Chairman of Gomme-Keogh. She’d become a dedicated member of the Meek Ones. We – this Service – have a connection. Basil Shrivenham, Lord Shrivenham, is on the Foreign Office Special Audit panel. He does the books of this Service regularly. He also has a daughter – the Honourable Trilby Shrivenham. Trilby was an old chum of the deceased. Trilby is also a member of the Meek Ones. She’s handed over her birthright, a cool five million sterling. And who actually gets this wealth? The grand guru of the Meek Ones, who calls himself Father Valentine.’
‘Sounds like one of these American TV evangelists.’ Bond made a humourless grimace. ‘I understand our connection because Lord Shrivenham casts his eye over the books every few years, but surely this is a Police and Revenue job, sir?’
‘Under normal circumstances, yes. But we’ve got some abnormalities. Our brothers in Five have, it seems, also been keeping an eye on the Meek Ones. Matter of possible revolutionary activities, but now we’ve been invited to share in the product – in particular where it’s concerned with Father Valentine. So far the popular gutter press have had to confine any of their more sensational comments to the leader of the sect – Valentine. The Meek Ones themselves appear to be beyond reproach with the dogmas of morality, purity and the like. Valentine himself has a reasonable standing. He alone is responsible for getting a large number of people off drugs like heroin and even derivatives such as crack. We know from the Duprés that he had undoubtedly brought Emma back from the edge of death. So the only press attacks are with regard to his finances. Where does all the money go? One newspaper has said that Valentine’s worth several billion. The impression is that a large percentage of the revenue from the Meek Ones goes into Valentine’s personal coffers, giving him a pretty extravagant lifestyle which has been well hidden until now.’
M nodded towards Bailey before continuing. ‘Our friend here from the Branch came to me because your telephone number was found on the poor lass. He also told me that old Basil Shrivenham’s girl was mixed up in it. I sent for you, and while we waited something quite out of the ordinary occurred.’
‘Yes?’ Bond’s mind was needle-sharp now, even though his body still appeared to be preparing him for a lengthy period of unconsciousness.
M talked for some time. Two things had occurred between Bond being sent for and his arrival. The first was a request for a private interview by Lord Shrivenham. ‘Bailey here was good enough to step outside for a moment. I’ve known old Basil Shrivenham for years. Even so it took the poor fellow a lot of courage to come in here and bare his soul, so to speak.’
Lord Shrivenham had, according to M, been in a terrible state, having just heard, via the offices of Gomme-Keogh, of Emma Dupré’s fate.
‘Came in here almost blubbing.’ M’s granite face actually appeared to soften. ‘Never seen him like it, ever. Then the whole thing became a touch embarrassing. Fellow all but pleaded for help. All the stuff we already know: young Trilby – damned silly name that. Always felt it was Dorothea’s idea, Lady Shrivenham, you know. Old Basil married beneath himself. Trade, really. Her father was in some kind of patent medication, name of Porter, made a mint out of Porter’s Pick-Me-Up Pills. Supposed to give you vitality and keep you regular, that kind of thing. Not the right sort of background.
‘Anyhow, Basil admits to Trilby being recovered from the wretched addiction, but she has parted with her birthright, and he hasn’t had a word from her in over a month. He asked me – begged me – if I could use influence, within the Service, of course, to get her back. Even suggested some kind of kidnap. All a bit emotional really, but I must admit that he got to me. Old friend and all that.’
‘You promise him anything?’ Bond asked, and there was a long pause before M answered.
‘Not specifically. No. Just said I’d make some enquiries. Possibly do something unofficially.’ He gave Bond a sidelong look.
‘Such as having a word with our brothers in Five?’ Bond asked.
‘At that point, no, not exactly.’ This time M did not even look his agent in the eyes.
‘Ah. A deniable operation?’
‘Well. At the time I did think . . .’
‘The kind of thing that gets the Service a bad name. Sort of operation that comes out years later in the memoirs of a retired officer unhappy with his pension?’ Bond looked at his chief with a blandness learned only in the hard school of secret dissembling.
‘Well, maybe it crossed my mind. Possibly. For a moment. Anyway, not necessary any more. That’s the next thing that happened.’
Shrivenham had just left when David Wolkovsky arrived in reception. Wolkovsky was the CIA’s liaison officer at Grosvenor Square – which meant the American Embassy.
‘Too smooth by half,’ M said, biting each word as though he was a predator stripping the flesh from carrion. There was, Bond knew, a long-standing feud between M and Wolkovsky.
‘You saw him?’
M nodded. ‘Straight away. He said it was classified Cosmic, and needed setting up last week.’ Suddenly his demeanour changed and both Bailey and Bond were treated to a beam which lit up the whole of M’s face. ‘Our cousins in Grosvenor Square, and Langley, Virginia, are also interested in Father Valentine. So interested that they’ve managed to make it a priority Anglo-American operation. The DGSS came on the scrambler soon after Wolkovsky left.’ Another beam – by DGSS, M meant the Director General of the Security Service. In plain language the Head of MI5. ‘Files coming over in the morning, but, in essence, the US Internal Revenue Service want a word with Valentine who is suspected to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.’ He paused again, this time for effect. ‘A wolf called Vladimir Scorpius, would you believe?’
Bond heard himself suck in breath sharply through his teeth. ‘The Vladimir Scorpius?’ he asked.
‘None other. Scorpius, armourer – gun-runner – to just about every terrorist organisation known to man, and a few others nobody’s yet discovered.’
In his mind’s eye, Bond could see the Scorpius file now. It was as thick as the entire London Telephone Directory, and even then everyone knew it was incomplete.
> ‘I suggest,’ M continued, ‘that you, 007, reacquaint yourself with what we have on Scorpius. That’s what they’ll be doing over in Grosvenor Square, and at wherever Five are holing up, not to mention the Revenue in Bush House, the Chief Superintendent’s people and the US Internal Revenue Service who, I gather, have the power of God.’
Bailey coughed. ‘A word, sir, before we get deeply involved in any possible connection with Scorpius, who is not unknown to the Branch as an international arms dealer of almost unique and evil calibre.’
‘Yes?’ M was sharp. He obviously wanted to get on with what appeared to be a link of pressing importance.
‘It’s the other thing I wanted to talk about with you, and, possibly, Lord Shrivenham.’
‘Well?’
Bailey reached into his briefcase. ‘Miss Dupré carried only a little money on her, and, if she had passed on all her assets to the Society of the Meek Ones, none of us could understand why she also carried credit cards – which she did.’
He paused, his hand still inside the briefcase. ‘Her father and mother say they did not receive or pay any credit cards on her behalf. Yet we found these in the tote bag.’ He produced a small leather wallet from which he extracted an American Express Gold Card, a Barclays Premier Visa, a Mastercharge and a Carte Blanche. He dealt out the credit cards in a neat row on the desk, directly in front of M.
‘There is one more.’ Bailey sounded like a magician doing some complicated legerdemain. ‘This!’ – he put the small piece of plastic next to the other cards as though playing an ace on a king.
The card was of the same quality and texture as the others – white and gold with the name Emma Dupré in the left-hand bottom corner, followed by start and expiry dates. The card number was embossed along the centre, and to the right was a small silver square holding a hologrammatic logo, a Greek A and V intertwined. ‘Alpha and Omega.’ Bailey touched the hologram. ‘The Beginning and the End.’ Then his finger moved to the top half of the card. In gold embossed letters were the two words, AVANTE CARTE. ‘Not a credit card I’ve come across,’ the Branch officer said. ‘We’re having it run through the computers, of course, but it’s an oddity. I thought Lord Shrivenham might help us with it.’