Win, Lose or Die

by John Gardner

  ‘A robe. Towelling robe, most of the girls find those convenient.’

  ‘Carrying anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then there’s another problem. We haven’t recovered the murder weapon. Somewhere, someone’s got a very sharp knife. And there’s the other matter of you not having Deeley security cleared when they gave her to you at Yeovilton.’

  ‘She was Grade 3 cleared. On her documents. She’s been working on classified stuff at Fleet HQ, Northwood.’

  ‘It actually says that?’

  ‘You want to see it?’

  ‘Later. It’s all a forgery anyway.’

  ‘What . . . ?’

  He didn’t let her finish. ‘Leading Wren Sarah Deeley does not exist, Clover.’

  ‘What d’you . . .’

  Again he stopped her, by completing the question. ‘What do I mean? I mean what I say. No Leading Wren Deeley exists in your branch of the service. I’ve had it from London. She’s a plant, and I suspect that Ed Morgan knew it, or, at least suspected it. He had other suspicions as well.’

  ‘This is crazy!’

  ‘No, you’ve made a terrible mistake, Clover. You were in charge. You should have personally seen to it that all security clearances matched up and were for real.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ There was no denying the shock in her voice and on her face. ‘What do we do, James?’

  ‘You mean what do I do? I’ll tell you.’ He spoke for ten minutes, saying that he would feel safer if she was out of the way. ‘I’ll arrange a marine guard and have you kept somewhere out of sight. It’ll make matters easier. Then I want to talk to the Captain. After that, I’ll see Nikki Ratnikov. I want an independent identification of the Deeley girl. Then I’ll question her, and she’ll probably be taken into custody and held until it’s all over and we’re in Gib. I’m not going to bother my people as yet. More secure to do it directly from Gib. Okay?’

  ‘Whatever you say, James.’

  As he rose, so she came towards him, one hand reaching out and grasping his sleeve. ‘James, my career’s at risk. I’ve played everything by the book, even saved your life from that wretched girl who, I’m certain, was going to see you dead before Christmas Day was out. You owe me . . .’

  ‘And you, Clover, owe me now. I’ll do whatever I can for you.’

  She came closer, her young body thrusting against his.

  Bond pulled away, holding her at arm’s length. ‘Later, Clover. When it’s all over we’ll talk. Just wait.’ He went to the cabin door, opened it and spoke to the marine on duty. While they waited, the Tannoy blasted out – the Captain saying that they had now cleared the English Channel. ‘There are still submarines shadowing us,’ he boomed, ‘but they tell me they’ve been ordered not to attack. The political situation is that both sides are talking, in spite of the fact that seven NATO air bases on the European Continent were attacked, with varying degrees of damage and success, during the night. I’m going to stand down Red Watch for two hours, but you are all on an immediate response alert. I shall keep you informed of any change in the situation.’

  The click that ended the message coincided with the knock on his cabin door. It was the marine sergeant Harvey. The man was tired, like everyone else on board, and it showed. Bond lost no time asking questions and then issuing orders – ‘Have you anywhere we can stow First Officer Pennington while I make a couple of enquiries?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The duty marine sergeant’s cabin. I’m still there for the next hour or so.’

  ‘Right, take her there, and make sure she’s under guard. There’s the possibility she could be attacked, like our American friend last night – at least until I’ve finished my job.’

  ‘If you’ll come with me, Ma’am,’ Sergeant Harvey appeared to be very considerate. To Bond he said, ‘I’ll see she’s guarded every minute, sir.’

  Clover gave Bond a weak smile, the look of someone with a lot on her mind, and departed with the sergeant. Before he could close the cabin door, a young midshipman appeared in the corridor, which, like all the other passageways below the flight deck, was only wide enough for two people to pass by brushing against each other. In the US Navy, Bond remembered, they called them ‘knee-touchers’.

  ‘Captain’s compliments, sir. Could you join him in his day cabin as quickly as possible?’

  ‘Tell him I’m on my way. I wanted to see him in any case.’ Bond turned back into his cabin, opened up the little cupboard which stowed away a small handbasin and mirror. He looked unshaven, but that could be dealt with later. For now, he sloshed cold water over his face, cleaned his teeth and ran a comb through his hair.

  ‘You look dog-rough, Bond, if I may say so.’ Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley did not look too hot himself, but you don’t tell Rear-Admirals that kind of thing – unless you’re a Vice-Admiral or above. Walmsley was obviously in a foul mood. ‘Well, you got anything to tell me?’

  Bond wondered why a man of Walmsley’s station could so easily murder the English language. ‘Such as what, sir?’ He bordered on that armed forces’ crime called dumb insolence.

  ‘Such as your detective work; your gumshoeing. Such as whether we can all sleep safely in our bunks? Whether we have a band of Thugees aboard, or a crew of cut-throat pirates. Have you caught the bastard who cut the American’s throat?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. But it shouldn’t be too long. Within the next half-hour or so, unless I’m being led up the garden path.’

  ‘And, when you’ve caught this fellow, do you think it’s safe to continue with Stewards’ Meeting? Last night, early this morning anyhow, you were all for chucking it away.’

  ‘I needed to talk to you about that, sir. Might I ask you what arrangements were made with the US Navy about communications?’

  The Rear-Admiral nodded, and repeated, almost word for word, what Admiral Gudeon had told him.

  ‘And the Russians?’

  ‘Not quite as cryptic.’ Walmsley was down to giving shorthand answers.

  ‘Can you expand on that?’

  ‘Yes. They can use our main Communications Room, but not with much freedom. The Americans had their own gear on board, as you know. The Russians’ve been okayed to pass en clair signals through our transmitters. I suspect their signals aren’t quite as straightforward as they appear. I should tell you they’ve reported Morgan’s death.’

  ‘What I really need to know, sir, is how long have we got before there’s any question of an abort?’

  ‘At the moment we’re in a readiness state for Stewards’ Meeting, Bond. Things are going ahead exactly as planned. It all starts to happen at around ten tonight. If I recommend an abort after six, then I’ll get a right old rollicking from the powers that be. What’s worrying you? The threat by these BAST hooligans? There’s no way they can possibly have information on Stewards’ Meeting.’

  Bond took in a deep breath. ‘Surely, sir, you must know they have some intelligence. I was nearly taken out; there was some loose talk at the RNAS Yeovilton. We’ve had a very serious incident aboard. I really don’t know the security risks . . .’

  Walmsley ran a hand across his brow. ‘I let fly at you after the incident, Bond. I’m sorry about that, but I don’t want to abort. As I said to you before, this is of great political importance.’ He repeated himself with a stronger accent, ‘Of great political importance. Now, give me your Sunday punch. If you get the fellow who killed Morgan, do you reckon we’re in the clear?’

  ‘It might be just that little bit safer,’ Bond said, allowing his tone to take on a grave-side seriousness. ‘But we cannot be one hundred per cent sure.’

  ‘Give me the odds.’

  ‘That an attempt will be made to compromise Stewards’ Meeting?’

  Walmsley nodded.

  ‘Fifty-fifty. If I get the killer or not, sir, it’s always been fifty-fifty. We don’t know enough about this damned group BAST. We never have. The seriousness of a threat has always been high. I mean, if our people are right, BAST los
t men, and spent a great deal of money organising some form of assault. We’ve assumed it was aimed at Stewards’ Meeting, but we can’t be sure.’

  Sir John Walmsley waited for a minute or so. ‘If you get the person who killed Morgan, and if he can be interrogated, it will help?’

  ‘If it’s who I think, then I would imagine interrogation isn’t going to be of much assistance. If, as I suspect, it’s a BAST job, done to protect their own, on board this ship, then the culprit will be highly trained. Won’t break under any normal interrogation. And there will just not be time to bring in any specialists. In any case, sir, I would suspect that the killer knows very little. BAST appears to be well drilled. If so, they’ll work in the usual manner of terrorist groups: cells, cut-outs, all that kind of thing. It’ll all be very much need-to-know.’

  Walmsley stood up and paced the small cabin. ‘Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance? I’ll tell you, Bond. Unless something comes up – hard intelligence, I mean – I shall go ahead with Stewards’ Meeting once you have the killer under lock and key. I can’t afford to abort.’

  ‘As you say, sir. But, if I might suggest that all parties are given some kind of warning . . .’

  ‘They’ve already had the main warning, Bond. They already know these BAST clowns might just make some kind of attempt to compromise the operation. All three parties have stated that the risk is calculated. In other words, they all want Stewards’ Meeting to go ahead as arranged.’

  ‘They know about Morgan?’

  Walmsley gave an unspoken ‘No’, shaking his head and pursing his lips.

  ‘Then on their own heads be it.’

  ‘Easy to say, Bond. But people like that tend to lash out if something does happen. And if your worst fears are realised, then it will be our balls they’ll cut off. We both know that.’

  Bond grunted.

  ‘We’re on a hiding to nothing, Captain Bond. Whatever steps we take, they’ll have us for breakfast – fried, with a little tomato and bacon, I suspect.’

  ‘Then I’d best get on with putting my one suspect away; then doing some grilling of my own – without bacon and tomato.’

  ‘Let me know.’ Walmsley’s tone became belligerent again. ‘Just let me know the results. But, after five, local, this afternoon all bets are off. We go ahead.’

  ‘Aye-aye, sir.’ Bond left the cabin. Time to see the lovely Nikki Ratnikov, and the Wren who was not a Wren, Sarah Deeley.

  ‘James, can call you James, yes?’ Nikki Ratnikov shook her head. The shining ash-blonde hair swirled and settled naturally, with not a strand out of place. Bond could see why other women would take a natural dislike to Nikki.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, call me James.’

  ‘I am a little – détresse . . . distraite. Oh, that is French. How you say it in English?’

  ‘Distressed? Upset?’

  ‘Yes, this is so. I, James, have seen many bad things in my time. Many, you cannot do my kind of work and avoid these things. But this was like maniac. This was like your old English Jim the Ripper, is right?’

  ‘Jack,’ Bond corrected. ‘Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘Unnecessary violence. That poor man. He looked as though head had been removed, decapitalised? Yes?’

  ‘Decapitated.’

  ‘So. Decapitated. And the blood. It was all so sudden. Frightening.’

  ‘Right, Nikki. Tell me. Tell me exactly what happened.’

  In spite of the protestations of being upset and distressed, Nikki Ratnikov was very lucid: matter-of-fact. ‘So. Yes. I wake up. I do not look at the time. I just wake up. Not much sleep I am getting with the noise. But I wake up and realise I need to go to . . . I need the bathroom, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I put on my robe and leave my cabin. I am a little asleep still, James, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Nikki. Right, Nikki, I understand.’

  ‘I get to the bathrooms. I am looking at my feet to climb over the little step.’

  ‘To climb over the bulkhead, yes.’

  ‘My foot is lifted even, then I look up and there is red water on the floor. Then I see the Navy girl and the body. My God, it is shock. I move back and scream.’

  ‘You screamed a lot, Nikki.’

  ‘It was so sudden, the horrible wound and all the blood on the floor. Then the Navy girl start to also scream.’

  Bond had collected the clues as they were presented to him. ‘Tell me exactly what you saw, Nikki.’ The body had been face down when he had arrived with the marine and Clover Pennington. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘The Navy girl – what do you call them the Jenny Wren, yes?’

  ‘Wren will do.’

  ‘Okay. The Wren was leaning over this poor man. She had one hand on his shoulder pushing him back, as if she had just found him. His head was back and I could see the terrible gash. Red, and the throat slashed – is that so, slashed?’

  Bond nodded her on.

  ‘It was horrible. She saw me and let go of the man’s shoulder. He fell on his face, then I think she began screaming.’

  ‘What was she wearing, the Wren?’

  ‘She had the sleeping clothes on, and a white robe. Like made from towels, yes?’

  ‘Did she not get blood on the robe? If she was leaning . . . ?’

  ‘She was like, how you say, squatting. She had the robe pulled up so it would not get in the blood.’

  ‘And what happened next?’

  ‘We were both screaming, and a man came, then the Wren officer. She was telling me to go to my cabin, and the other girl to come out quickly.’

  ‘You saw her coming out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remember anything in particular?’

  ‘No. Then I left.’

  ‘Think, Nikki. Did you notice anything else at all? How did she come out? Did she lift up her robe so that it wouldn’t trail in the blood?’

  ‘Yes, that I remember. She came out with it lifted up, but it was strange . . . There was blood on it. She had blood on the chest. On the front of the robe. High up.’

  ‘Ah. Good. You would recognise this girl again, Nikki?’

  ‘Of course. Anywhere I would recognise her.’

  ‘Right. Just wait one moment, please.’

  ‘For you, James, much more than one moment.’

  He ignored the obvious pass, went over to the cabin door and beckoned the marine on duty outside.

  ‘I want you to take Miss Ratnikov into the passage. Then go and find Leading Wren Deeley.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Nikki,’ he turned back to the Russian girl. ‘Iý want you to wait outside until you see this marine coming back down the passage with the Wren. If it is the girl you saw last night, you will smile at her. If not, look away. You understand?’

  ‘Is not difficult. Smile if I recognise. Ignore if I don’t recognise?’

  ‘Right,’ he turned to the marine. ‘When you bring Leading Wren Deeley in here you either say “Yes” or “No”. “Yes” if Miss Ratnikov smiles. “No” if she doesn’t. Get it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. No difficulty.’

  ‘Go ahead, then.’

  Bond laid a hand on Nikki’s shoulder. ‘Go now, and please, Nikki, get it right.’

  ‘Is no problem. I smile or look away. Thank you, James.’ Before he could stop her, Nikki had reached up and kissed his cheek before leaving the cabin. For some reason he thought of Beatrice and the kiss she had first given him. How it had seemed to burn his cheek. A tiny black cloud of depression came into his mind, and he shook his head, as though trying to rid himself of the last picture he had of Beatrice da Ricci. The smoke, flash and explosion that had left very little of her alive.

  The picture would not go away, even when he picked up the telephone and asked for the Master-at-Arms – the ‘Jaundy’ as they called him: the senior non-commissioned officer who had almost the power of God over the ratings, for, in some ways, he was the ship’s chief of police. Bond
gave him some quick, crisp orders and put the telephone down.

  It was not until he heard the knock on his cabin door that Bond realised that he should really have had Clover present, but it was too late now.

  The marine opened the door to Bond’s ‘Come.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. So Nikki had identified the girl as being the Wren who was with the body in the heads.

  ‘Leading Wren Deeley, sir.’ The marine announced, and the girl came through the cabin door which closed behind her.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ She was on the short side. Stocky and obviously fit. Her face remained placid and her eyes centred on Bond in full contact. He took in the face, not pretty: slightly angular, oddly masculine.

  ‘Yes, Leading Wren Sarah Deeley.’ He paused. ‘That is your name and rank?’

  ‘Yes sir.’ She showed no trace of fear.

  ‘And your division and number?’

  ‘Plymouth. 762845, sir.’

  ‘Right. Can you tell me, Deeley, why there is no record of you as a member of the Women’s Royal Naval Service?’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘Well you’d best understand, and quickly, Deeley. There is no record of you. Further . . .’ He rose and began to walk around the small desk, ‘I have sent for the Master-at-Arms. You will regard yourself as under arrest.’

  Her face did not alter. ‘Under arrest for what, sir?’

  ‘For the murder of Edgar Morgan, a member of the United States Secret Service.’

  He did not even see her hand move. He was aware only of the quick glint, and the knife flicking upwards, raised above her. Even then, all that registered was the hatred in her eyes.

  13

  DESPERATE DAN

  For Bond it was pure instinct and training. Deeley’s movement had been so fast that the flash of the blade just registered. Then he moved automatically. The girl’s arm had passed across her body, the knife, blade outwards, ready to slash across his throat. As his left arm came up to block the stroke, he even registered that the knife was a US Marines K-Bar with a seven-inch razor-sharp blade.

  Who would have thought a small woman like this would have so much strength? Their forearms met as he blocked the slash, and it was like banging his own arm against a steel rod. She was closing now, stepping right forward into his body, twisting her arm to free herself.