So, he had lived like a luxurious hermit, travelling the world in Vladem I. People visited him – there were hundreds of photographs of men and women being shown up the yacht’s gangplank – dubious politicians and ambassadors, known terrorists, identifiable underworld figures, and, paradoxically, famous names from the worlds of theatre, opera, and, predictably, the leech-like glitterati.
Scorpius entertained on the yacht, and, on the occasions he ventured ashore into the real world, it was always with a retinue of guards and thugs who made certain nobody lurked in the shadows to watch or photograph the living enigma.
Where the press had failed to get near Scorpius, various security agencies had gained limited access, though, while they had evidence of his hedonistic tastes on tape and in transcript, they were never able to snatch a fragment of evidence concerning his arms dealing and the terrorist underworld which they were certain he inhabited.
The file contained dozens of sneaked photographs, all bad, giving no detail of clarity – except one, caught by a CIA surveillance unit who had suddenly got lucky in 1969 with an infrared camera outside a house in Portofino. The picture, blown up, occupied a whole page and Bond sat staring at it for several minutes.
It showed Scorpius as a sleek, slightly overweight man, going heavy at the jowls which spoiled his once obvious good, somewhat Italianate, looks – thick lips, a mane of greying hair, patrician nose, head tilted upwards in an arrogant manner. He was dressed for the evening in a white tuxedo, and with what looked like a heavy and expensive watch on his left wrist and a gold chain on the right. The man’s eyes were revealed, in the fast exposure of the film, as those of a man who reeked of ruthless power – though Bond knew, from experience, that the camera could, and often did, lie.
Below the photograph was a list of tiny details: the exact time and place; the estimated cost of the jewellery; details of the gold chain ID bracelet with the inscription Vladimir Scorpius, followed by some numbers which were lost to the camera. The watch was a pure gold, handmade digital timepiece with a normal set of hands which ticked off the minutes and hours by passing twelve small flawless diamonds. Taste, Bond considered, was not Vladimir Scorpius’s forte. Yet that wristwatch had cost a king’s ransom. Not only had the varied digital functions been installed long before their time on the international market, but also the object had an extra value, for it had been made by a Japanese craftsman whose name was later to become a legend. It was a one-off piece of intricate workmanship known as the Scorpius Chronometer.
He read on. In 1972 Emerald Scorpius had died, tragically, in an accident at sea. Almost immediately Vladimir went missing from his usual way of life. There were traces of him – mainly in connection with larger and larger arms supplies to terrorist groups in all parts of the world – but the great yacht lay, deserted, in a dry dock near Cannes in the South of France. There were occasional sightings of Scorpius, but most were insubstantial. One minute he seemed to be there – in Berlin, Tehran, Tel Aviv, Beirut, Belfast, Paris or London – then he had gone: a shadow; a wraith. In 1982, he disappeared completely. The secret watchers and listeners of every Western intelligence and security agency heard no sound, picked up no trace, sensed no whisper of this once and only uncaught king of the arms dealers.
Bond turned the page to find the new material, provided the night before by David Wolkovsky of the Central Intelligence Agency’s London desk. Bond could hardly believe his eyes. There were several pages of typed detail, but the photographs which littered the new section spoke rather more than the words.
Father Valentine, leader of the Society of the Meek Ones, had never been averse to having his photograph taken – in fact, there was an obvious vanity about the man. This, Bond immediately saw, could well be his downfall. The Americans, with their reliance on high technology, had stumbled over a gold ingot in the shape of their filched picture of Scorpius and the many photographs of Father Valentine. During the testing on pieces of new and sophisticated equipment, they had put the two together, and so spent their days examining, measuring and taking detailed digitised computer analysis. From these experiments they discovered several facts concerning the measurements of Father Valentine’s facial bone structure.
Even in close-up, Valentine bore absolutely no resemblance to Scorpius, for he was slim-faced, with an almost retroussé nose and thinning hair, dark and well kept, swept back from his forehead. Yet the analysts had placed photograph upon photograph, showing clearly how both men could quite easily be the same, for the basic bone structure matched perfectly. They had even managed, by enhanced computer images, to show exactly how Vladimir Scorpius’s face could have been cleverly altered by a skilled plastic surgeon.
There were, however, two clinchers: a pair of pointers which clearly confirmed the experts’ suspicions. The first piece of evidence – though inconclusive – filled two pages, consisting of blown-up photographs of the left wrist, from the one old Scorpius print; and the same left wrist from one of the many pictures of Father Valentine. In the entire world, the experts said, there was no duplicate of the fabulous Scorpius Chronometer. Yet here it was, on Scorpius himself, at seven thirty in the evening as he stepped swiftly into a car in Portofino in 1969; and again, on the wrist of Father Valentine, in London during the August of 1986.
The convincing evidence, though, lay in the ears. In his vanity, Scorpius had obviously – and probably arrogantly – refused to have his ears touched by the surgeons. Indeed, why not? He was ninety-nine per cent certain that nobody owned a photograph of the old Scorpius. Valentine’s and Scorpius’s ears were identical, and the proof ran across eight pages of medical notes, diagrams, photographs, and measurements. This was proof positive.
‘Vanity of vanities,’ Bond quoted under his breath. ‘All is vanity.’ In that moment he knew he was looking at one and the same man – the man responsible for Emma Dupré’s death, and the devilish voice which had come from Trilby Shrivenham.
God alone knew what other terrors Scorpius/Valentine had in store.
Slowly, Bond closed the file and stood up. M had more work for him. Deep down, he hoped the work would lead him face to face with this man of double identity. Scorpius/Valentine. Valentine/Scorpius.
7
MR HATHAWAY & COMPANY
‘You believe the American evidence?’ Bond studied M’s face as though he were trying to read the man’s future from the lines in his leathery skin.
‘Absolutely. One hundred per cent. To my mind, there’s no doubt that Father Valentine and Vladimir Scorpius are one and the same person. A fact which makes our task more urgent than ever.’
Bond raised his eyebrows.
‘Nobody’s ever proved a thing against Scorpius – nothing that would stick, anyway.’ M made it sound as though this was Bond’s personal fault. ‘Yet we know the man is responsible for thousands of deaths – mostly innocent victims. When terror strikes – a bomb in Ulster; a nightclub wrecked in Germany; an air terminal or train station shattered; a burst of machine-gun fire in a Paris street; a lad on a motorcycle loosing off a dozen shots into some politician’s or police chief’s car – they’re all down to Scorpius as the provider of the material.’ He began to thump the desk in a heartbeat rhythm. ‘The leopard never changes his spots. Scorpius knows everything there is to know about dealing in terror and not getting caught. He probably salves his conscience by telling himself that he is not responsible for what the end user does with the weapons or explosives. But he is responsible. And now he’s Father Valentine, running a sect which, on the surface, appears to dwell on purity, the sanctity of marriage, and the exclusion of all substances foreign to the human body – nicotine, alcohol and the other, more sinister, forms of drug. There has to be an angle, Bond, and the angle has to be connected somehow to terrorist forces and their supplies. It’s all the man knows. Weapons and women.’
‘No clues regarding specific aims and objects?’ Bond asked. ‘I agree that, knowing what we do about Scorpius, the Society of Meek Ones must have
a main objective – and an unpleasant one at that.’
‘I hope you’ll be the one to discover its direct aims.’ M looked at him, no trace of humour around mouth or eyes.
‘The credit card offices?’
M nodded, pushing a five-by-three filing card across the desk. In M’s neat hand, written in green ink, was the address of one of the many new office buildings that had risen in the streets that emptied into Oxford Street, once you got north of Oxford Circus. The telephone number had a matching 437 prefix. ‘It’s all legal,’ M said. ‘Cleared by the Bank of England. Avante Carte – though it does not appear to advertise, and has no services list as yet – is a fully blown, one hundred per cent legal credit company with assets of ten million pounds sterling.’
‘I suppose your connections in the City supplied all that?’
‘No,’ M allowed himself the ghost of a smile. ‘No, my connections with Q Branch, right here. The Assistant Armourer’s still working on the two pieces of plastic we gave her. They’re apparently “Smart Cards” – kind of thing we use here to get in and out of restricted areas, and to keep track of files. Little electronic brains embedded in the plastic. They’re trying to unscramble them now, but it’s going to take some time. They came up with the telephone number which was, apparently, simple. I followed that lead. You can see where it took me.’
‘I suppose I’m just expected to walk in there and apply for membership or something?’
‘That’s it.’ M was deadly serious. ‘No good ringing them up, Bond. Nothing like walking in and facing the beast head on. Might learn something . . .’
‘Might catch a nasty dose of what they used to call lead poisoning as well.’
‘Occupational hazard.’ M nodded towards his door. ‘Get out there and do your best.’
‘No back-up, sir?’
M shook his head. ‘I think not. Just play it as it comes. Walk in and say you want to sign on. I can’t imagine a better approach.’
Half an hour later, Bond paused at a point directly across the road from the front of the high anonymous office block, which stuck out like a tall sore finger among the terraced houses and shops between Oxford and Great Marlborough Streets.
He had taken a cab to Broadcasting House and walked back to Oxford Circus, then, by a circuitous route, to this place. All the time he had gone through those obvious, though necessary, routines to make certain nobody had – as they said in the trade – got a make on him.
He had been clear for the whole trip, yet now he had reached the building, Bond felt that sixth intuitive sense – born of long experience – telling him he was no longer alone. He did not loiter, just a pause and glance at the building, with its semicircular glass frontage through which a reception desk and several scattered chairs and settees were visible. He walked on, trying to find a good reflecting point, or a street crossing which would allow him to look back and make a quick scan of the entire façade. He knew someone had their eyes on him.
About thirty yards up the street he could cross and take a turning which he imagined would bring him back to Oxford Street. In his mind he decided this would be the best way. Go back and make a second approach.
He paused, as though checking for traffic, his eyes lingering slightly longer than usual on the street nearest the building. There was a small van parked illegally almost opposite. Nobody in the driver’s seat but that meant nothing as far as small vans went. The only thing that consoled him was that this one had no aerial or antennae visible. Aerials are dangerous for they can conceal a multitude of devices, including fibre-optic lenses transmitting a clear 360° picture onto an internal monitor.
In the swift glance he also spotted one man further down the street. He was pacing to and fro, occasionally looking at his watch, as though waiting for a date who was never going to show. There were other cars and pedestrians of course; it was only that Bond’s highly tuned senses reacted to these two. The van and the waiting man were obvious suspects.
He crossed and headed into the turning, only to find himself in a cul-de-sac. There was no other way than to play the game of looking for the right address. He drew an empty black notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, feeling the comforting hard butt of the 9mm ASP automatic in its holster.
Slowly he walked back into the main thoroughfare again, stopping, consulting the pages of his notebook as he went. A man uncertain of his whereabouts, looking for an address. He even stopped a harassed-looking young woman wheeling a pram to ask directions to the building now staring him in the face. She laughed, told him he was almost outside the place, and pointed.
Consulting the book again, Bond walked confidently towards the large glass doors. From the corner of his eye he could see the man was still waiting for his date to stand him up, and the van remained in position, still apparently unoccupied and illegally parked.
The semicircular lobby was light and airy; now inside, Bond was aware of large numbers of potted plants as well as the furnishings he had seen from outside. The place had style and elegance. It also had a reception desk with an elderly commissionaire sporting two rows of WWII medals on the left breast of his navy-blue uniform.
‘May I be of help, sir?’ the commissionaire asked with a brief welcoming smile.
‘Avante Carte,’ Bond exchanged smiles.
‘They’re fourth floor, sir.’ He indicated a double bank of lifts in a small passageway to the right of his desk.
Bond nodded his thanks, pressed the call button between the lifts, then began to study the board which listed a number of companies and businesses. Actiondata Services Ltd 1st Floor; The Burgho Press (Editorial) 2nd Floor; Adams Services Ltd 3rd Floor. There were seven floors altogether. A firm of solicitors appeared to occupy the fifth; what could only be an advertising company – AdShout Ltd – on the sixth; while the top floor seemed to be inhabited by one of those ambiguous companies which went under the name of Nightout Companions. There, opposite the fourth-floor marker was what he wanted – Avante Carte Inc and below it, in smaller letters, the words Avante Carte is part of the Society of the Meek Ones Charity Trust. The lift doors opened with a soft sigh and Bond stepped inside, pressing the button for the fourth floor.
At least the muzak was different – not the usual sickly strings playing romantic popular standards. This was very much Bond’s style. He could even date it – Gertrude ‘Ma’ Rainey, accompanied by a very rough unnamed jazz group, the 1927 rerecording of her 1924 ‘New Bo-Weavil Blues’. Bond had the recording on an old 78rpm in his own collection. This one had obviously been enhanced. ‘Ma’ Rainey still came out on top – wry humour combined with pathos. They could have known Bond was on his way by piping this kind of jazz through the system.
‘Don’t want no man puttin’ sugar in my tea,
’Fraid that old man might poison me.’
‘Ma’ Rainey sang, and the words hit him like a warning shot. He remembered the cars and surveillance during the return from Hereford. For a few seconds, the old good noise of traditional jazz had lulled him. Now Bond was as alert as ever. The indicator showed 4 and, as the doors slid open, so the muzak system cut off. He stepped out to find himself in another large, airy, semicircular reception area. This time nobody stood at the desk, but the whole of the wall behind it appeared to be made of toughened glass, through which he could see a long sterile room stretching back into what seemed infinity, but that, he knew, would be a trick of the glass and mirrors.
The room beyond was filled by a long row of computer workstations, while to left and right, behind these, were more sparkling glass screens, dividing rooms in which the huge databanks of a mainframe were visible. Nobody manned the workstations. Where, he wondered, were the men and women who should be answering credit queries, accessing the obviously large database, sifting information, entering in onto accounts, authorising credit, and doing all that work associated with a company such as this?
Cautiously, he approached the reception desk, his shoes seeming to sink into the deep-piled
claret carpet. At the desk, he coughed loudly. Then he saw a small bell push, set into the smooth acrylic surface. He pressed in two short, sharp jabs.
Seconds later there was movement at the far end of the long room behind. A young woman was making her way past the rank of empty desks.
It took the best part of a minute for the woman to reach the door between the working area and reception, giving Bond time to make a fair appraisal of her appearance – wearing a severe black skirt and white shirt, with a black ribbon tied at her throat, she had an elegant, long-legged stride which spoke of a sense of purpose. The slim figure was attractive, though with slightly large breasts. Her face was not handsome nor pretty in the accepted sense, but one that bespoke humour from mouth and eyes. Somehow the black hair, neatly cut fashionably short, seemed wrong. Bond wondered for a second, as she opened the door into the reception area, if it was a wig, or had been recently dyed, for its depth of darkness struck him as slightly unreal.
‘Good morning, sir. Can I help?’ She was American, the accent more Boston than the harder dialects. The mouth crinkled, and he saw he had been right about the humour – little laughter lines at the eyes and around the mouth. The eyes were light grey, and again he wondered about the hair.
‘I wonder if you can. I rather wanted to apply for an Avante Carte.’
‘Ah!’ she smiled. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.’
‘Oh?’ He let his eyes stray behind her, through the toughened glass into the deserted working area.
She glanced back in the direction of his look. ‘Yes.’ Another smile. ‘Yes, I know. No staff. I’m the only one, and I’m afraid I have as yet to receive instructions. Did you get an invitation to have a card?’