‘But she’s working on the Meek Ones’ case, and the Valentine/Scorpius business – even though she might not have all the facts. On top of that she’s very good, sir. Saved my life,’ Bond had pleaded. That was when M almost exploded.
Now, Bond sat and waited for his chief to complete lengthy instructions to Moneypenny. He had dictated a long memo to the American Embassy, and others to the Home and Foreign Secretaries, carefully covering his own back, just like any other cunning civil servant. M was in the middle of a further, Most Urgent: Secret, note to the head of the Security Service, MI5, when Bill Tanner – M’s Chief of Staff – came in through the private door that was the only other entrance to the office.
Bond raised a hand in greeting, and his eyebrows in a questioning manner, for Tanner clutched at a signal flimsy and looked a worried man. He held the flimsy so that Bond could read it.
THE SOCIETY OF THE MEEK ONES LEFT MANDERSON HALL, PANGBOURNE DURING THE NIGHT STOP PLACE IS CRAWLING WITH PRESS STOP THERE IS A BULLETIN PINNED TO MAIN GATES WHICH SAYS THE WHOLE SOCIETY HAS MOVED TO SECRET QUARTERS BECAUSE OF SENSATIONAL REPORTS TO THE MEDIA STOP I AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS. COWBOY.
‘Who’s Cowboy?’ Bond mouthed, glancing at M who was still giving his lengthy instructions to Moneypenny.
‘Your SAS Sergeant, Pearlman.’
‘He’s not my Sergeant. He drove me down from Hereford, that’s all. We had a spot of bother and he proved his worth.’
‘Try telling the chief that,’ Tanner muttered. ‘Pearlman’s temporarily on the strength with your name as his backer. If the effluent strikes the windmill, it’s you who’ll be at the receiving end.’
Bond used a well-known four-letter word not far removed from Tanner’s last statement.
At that moment, M put down the telephone, turned and glared at both Tanner and Bond. ‘So, what’s all the whispering about?’
‘Signal from Cowboy, sir.’ Tanner handed over the flimsy.
M read it and grunted. ‘Well! Bird’s flown, eh?’
‘Looks like it.’ Bond was anxious to get Harriett into the office. Once there she would probably convince M of her suitability for the job in hand. He asked if he could go and pick her up, receiving an immovable, ‘Certainly not!’ for his pains.
‘Sir, she’s had contact with some of these people already. The man Hathaway, for instance, and another one. She’d be well worth talking to.’
‘In good time. All in good time, 007. For now I want you to go down to the clinic and see how Sir James is faring with the Shrivenham girl.’ He gave a wicked smile. ‘At least that has kept her father out of Accounts today. Gives us a small breathing space during the wretched Audit.’
Gives you a chance to manipulate Lord Shrivenham as well, Bond thought. He would not put it past his wily chief to call in a favour or two if it helped with the Secret Vote. Aloud, he said he would obey orders and go to Guildford, adding, ‘What about Cowboy, sir?’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, he’s down at the Meek Ones’ old homestead. You going to send him off on a treasure hunt?’
‘I rather think that’s none of your business, Bond.’
‘I’m told that I’ve been named as his sponsor, sir, which means to some extent it is my business.’ In M’s current mood, Bond knew he was pushing his luck.
But M gave a short nod – ‘I’ll probably send him in to have a look-see and report.’
‘Burglary, sir. Tut tut. I thought we’d been in enough trouble over that activity.’
This time M allowed himself a short smile. ‘That was our sister service, 007. They can burgle and bug to their heart’s content, and I’ll be very happy if someone finds out it’s not been sanctioned. What Cowboy does will be sanctioned – from the highest level, I promise you.’
The clinic, a low white sprawling building, lay near the village of Puttenham, hard by the Hog’s Back, that long ridge of downland, now scarred by dual-carriageway roads, which runs west of the pleasant county town of Guildford.
In the Bentley, it took Bond less than ninety minutes to reach the clinic, which was bounded by high walls and a secure entrance staffed by retired Royal Marine Commando NCOs, who – together with former SAS personnel – acted as commissionaires, messengers and security guards at many of the Secret Intelligence Service’s main HQ and its outstations.
They were expecting Bond, and once inside the clinic, which felt and smelled like any other well-ordered private hospital, a hard-bitten, uniformed member of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry – that strange auxiliary women’s service which, over the years, has done more than nursing or mere administrative duties – had him signed in, then led him to the second floor. ‘Sir James is with the patient now,’ she said, in a manner which seemed to show her disapproval of any outsider being allowed into the clinic. ‘I understand permission has been granted for you to see him and the patient.’
Bond nodded. Charm or subtlety would never work with this dragon who looked as though she was made of steel, with hinges in the right places. ‘You’d better wait here.’ She indicated a small area furnished with the usual kind of chairs and low tables – covered with old copies of the National Geographic magazine and the Tatler – that one found in Harley Street consultants’ waiting rooms. ‘I’ll inform Sir James that you’re here.’ And she was off, her back ramrod straight, and manner suggesting that he was a very lucky man for her to even carry a message to Sir James Molony.
Five minutes or so later, Sir James appeared, calm yet his bright eyes dancing with humour. ‘James.’ He offered a warm hard handshake. ‘How nice to see you after all this time. You keeping well?’ Those same bright eyes seemed to appraise Bond, as though he could, by mere looking, detect any nervous or psychological problem.
For a moment, Bond felt uncomfortable. Sir James Molony probably knew more than any other man about his secret life – not his life of secrets within the Service, but the hidden areas of fear, the complexities of imagination which dwelt within him, motivated him, kept him happy and on an even keel, or came hurtling from his subconscious to plague him like demons in the night.
‘How is she?’ he asked, quickly sloughing off the discomfort of being with the great neurologist.
‘She’ll live.’ Molony made it sound as though that was just about all Trilby Shrivenham would ever do.
‘Only live?’
‘No, I think she’ll come back into the normal world again, but it’ll take time. She needs medical treatment, rest and a lot of love.’
‘She’s not said anything else, then?’
‘We’ve pulled her into a more stable state. Somebody – not herself – really took a chance. They filled her up with a cocktail of near death. As I think you suggested, it was a mix of hallucinogenics and hypnotics. Somebody took great pains to implant a lot of hellishly complex ideas in her mind while she was going under.’
Trilby’s condition, as described by Molony, was one of increasing stability. ‘But she’s not out of the wood yet.’ He placed a hand on Bond’s shoulder, guiding him along a passage towards the room where she lay. ‘She comes out of it completely sometimes. This morning, for instance, she was conscious for almost twenty minutes. Weak, but knew who she was and recognised her father – he’s taking a rest at the moment; you arrived at a good time.’ He went on to say that she could still be manipulated. ‘I can bring her into a twilight world. The world as she knew it when they put ideas into her head. I’ve done it once, and it would be dangerous to go on experimenting. When she speaks in that condition it’s like listening to what the Bible calls possession by an evil spirit. It’s a condition not unknown to me. I’ve heard it in others who haven’t had their minds tampered with. Even the voice is strange. Bit frightening the first time.’
‘Yes.’ Bond nodded. ‘I heard it, before she was brought down here. Made me go cold. I know what you mean by the evil spirits.’
The room was like any other hospital room – the faint clear odour of antiseptic, an oxygen cylinder wi
th its appurtenances in one corner, a wash basin, louvred blind covering the window, and there, in the small bed, the Hon. Trilby Shrivenham, her face pale even against the pillow. They still had a drip in her arm.
A nurse rose from where she had been sitting, near the bed. Molony nodded and asked her to get him 10cc of something Bond had never heard of. ‘I’ll bring her up a little, just for your benefit. She might answer questions. I don’t know though.’ The nurse returned and began to prepare a steel kidney basin with everything necessary for the injection. When she handed it to Sir James, he said she should wait outside. ‘If Lord Shrivenham returns, don’t let him come near. The old fool will break down and start blubbing or something.’ He looked at Bond, with eyes that seemed to be made of glass. ‘This is the last time I’m going to do this for anyone,’ he said. ‘As it is, this is a special favour to M. So, if there’s anything you want to drag out of her, do it now. She’ll probably have lost all memory of the subconscious stuff by the time I bring her back into the real world.’ He bent over the girl, going through the business of finding a vein in her forearm. ‘There she goes.’ He stood up, the injection over.
In his hip pocket, Bond was carrying a Sony Professional Walkman. He took it out, laid it on the bedside table, and undid the little felt bag containing the powerful microphone and booster which he plugged into the correct female jack. He checked the tape, and finally started the machine.
‘Trilby!’ Molony almost barked, ‘Come on. Trilby, there’s someone who wishes to talk to you. Trilby.’
She stirred, groaned, and began to move her head restlessly on the pillow, then quickly to and fro, like a child uncertain of itself, wrapped within a dream.
‘Trilby?’ Bond was softer in his approach.
‘You have to get tough.’ Molony looked across the bed at him.
‘Trilby!’
This time the groan grew louder and her eyelids flickered. Then the loathsome voice came, buried from whatever evil had been soaked into her brain.
‘The meek shall inherit the earth.’ There was no happiness in that promise. It sounded more like a threat.
‘How, Trilby? How will the meek inherit the earth?’
‘The – meek – SHALL – inherit – they SHALL – inherit!’ The word ‘shall’ was emphasised, the voice assuming a low growl, neither male nor female.
‘How shall the meek inherit, Trilby?’
‘The blood.’
‘Blood?’
Then, very slowly, as though the words were having to be dragged – each a great weight – from a deep pit. ‘The blood . . . The blood . . . The blood . . . of . . . the . . . fathers will fall . . . upon the . . . sons.’
‘Go on, Trilby.’
This time it was faster, as though all the slack had been taken up, and the words started to tumble out – ‘The blood of the fathers will fall upon the sons. The blood of the mothers will pass also. Thus an endless wheel of revenge will turn.’
‘More!’ Bond shouted. ‘Tell us more. The meek shall inherit the earth. The blood of the fathers will fall upon the sons . . .’
She took up the refrain, ‘The blood of the mothers will pass also. Thus an endless wheel of revenge will turn.’
‘Go on.’
She groaned again, head moving rapidly from side to side.
‘GO! ON! TRILBY!’ from Sir James Molony.
‘The meek shall inherit. The meek shall go to King Arthur!’ At these last words the revolting voice cracked into a great cackle of laughter. ‘Yes . . .’ Hysterical, other-worldly screeching laughter. ‘Yes. The meek shall go to King Arthur. King Arthur. King . . . Arthur.’ The voice began to trail away, the breathing becoming laboured, gasping.
‘That’s it.’ Molony was beside her with another injection. In minutes the breathing had become regular again, and the agitation ceased. ‘Mean anything to you?’ he asked.
‘Not a thing.’ Bond picked up the Sony and rewound the tape. He did a quick check that the voice had recorded, but switched off quickly. He had no desire to hear it again for the sound would have made even the most hardened person draw back with fear. ‘Not a thing,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll take it back to M and leave it to the experts – that is, unless it means anything to you, Sir James.’
The specialist shook his head. ‘Crazy talk,’ he muttered. ‘Crazy, but sinister.’
Bond used a telephone in one of the small private offices to call M’s personal number. He did not repeat what had been said. The line was certainly not secure enough for that, and the puzzle over the tail that had been on him between Hereford and London still nagged. On the way to the clinic, he had been very alert, yet spotted nothing.
‘Come on back, then,’ M told him. Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Cowboy’s on his way here. Better leave your radio tuned to the usual frequency in case we have something for you. Might want you to detour to Berkshire, who knows.’
It was a little after five in the afternoon when Bond bade farewell to Sir James, who still appeared to watch him with an eagle eye, and then, once back in the car, adjusted the shortwave receiver to the Service frequency.
Three-quarters of an hour later he was cruising gently into London on the M3 when the normal odd chatter on the radio frequency altered.
‘Predator. Come in Predator. Oddball to Predator. Come in.’
Bond, recognising his call signal, calmly felt under the fascia for the mike which was magnetically held in place. Pulling it out he spoke – relaxed, without the knowledge that was yet to come.
‘Predator. Predator to Oddball. Receiving strength six. Over.’
The anxiety was about to start. ‘Predator. Go to Tango Six. Urgent code one. Magnum. Three slabs and a pick-up. Blues on the way.’
Bond gave a sharp ‘Roger,’ and began to speed up, working out the fastest route to the Kilburn safe house where he had left Harriett Horner. Tango Six was the Kilburn safe house. Urgent code one equalled ‘serious incident’. Magnum signified that firearms had been used. Three slabs and a pick-up meant at least three deaths and one injury. Blues on the way was the most obvious – police, probably the Branch, were on the scene.
As he started to weave in and out of the traffic, Bond wondered if the lovely Harriett Horner was one of the bodies. One thing was certain, death had struck in Kilburn, on Service ground. The blood of the fathers, he thought. Then, the blood of the mothers will pass also. Somewhere there had been betrayal – first the watchers on him driving from Hereford; now a house which had always been very safe.
9
THE PICK-UP
Once upon a time, Kilburn, which is now part of north-west London, was a thriving area. Now, Kilburn High Road looks a shade worse for wear. Kilburn Priory was originally built in the fifteenth century, but all that remains of it, in Priory Road, is a small piece of brass portraying a nun. The present church was built in the mid-nineteenth century and occupies some of the site of the old Priory.
Turn right off Priory Road, and you will, eventually, come to Greville Mews which sounds much grander than it really is. The Mews contains no houses, instead there is a series of rented lock-up garages. The scene in this little cul-de-sac, on a normal afternoon, is reminiscent of times long gone. Some of the walls bear old enamelled signs advertising Castrol and Michelin, and a number of the cars being worked on by proud owners also have a mark of age on them.
What is not realised, even by those who rent these little garages, is that four of them are owned by one man, though those who come down to take cars in or out – even to work on them – are not often seen by local people. The four lock-ups are adjacent, one to another, and stand before the rear of a dilapidated Victorian villa. There are interconnecting doors inside the four lock-ups, and two small doors at the back of the two centre garages.
Those who have the right knowledge and access can operate small digital pads, which control a central lock, on the far side of these two doors – for the doors themselves lead into a small brick room. Once the correct sequence i
s keyed in, a metal door opens, leading into the rear of the Victorian villa. This is the main entrance to the Service’s safe house. The front door of the place is strengthened with steel on the inside, and the people who can be seen coming and going are the regular house minders. The interesting folk arrive through the rear, and are seldom, if ever, seen.
The inside of the Kilburn Priory house in no way matches the flaking stonework and rotting window frames visible from the front. No windows look out of the rear, for they were boarded up long ago. Locals say that the landlord lets off a couple of rooms by the month. The rest of the house, so the story goes, is falling apart.
Not so. The interior is reinforced, with at least four of the ten rooms soundproofed, and with electronic baffles running constantly. There are two ultra-modern bathrooms, a good kitchen with well-stocked fridge and freezer, and the remaining sitting and bedrooms are comfortable – not luxurious, but as good as any third-class hotel.
It was through the lock-up garages that Bond had taken Harriett Horner earlier in the day. The minders were a pair known to him from the debriefing of a defector, carried out in the Kilburn Priory house during the previous year – De Fretas and Sweeney. Known, rather like two favoured dogs, as Danny and ‘Todd’, the men were both fully trained members of 23 SAS of the Territorial Army – given a statutory month’s leave each year to keep their hands in as part-time soldiers. They had also completed the special bodyguard course, and, while very intelligent, they had that full measure of suspicion which made them ideal for the job.
They had taken to Harriett immediately. Bond had found out her private address, which was in a Kensington apartment block, making a mental note so that a female officer could be sent there if necessary to pick up clothes and any other things needed.
Once Bond had left, the minders treated Harriett with almost touching solicitude, always deferential, calling her Ms Horner, taking no liberties but making sure she was comfortable and had everything she needed.