by John Gardner
The other occupant, on the floor in the rear of the cab, muttered something about the passport photograph.
‘If we’re lucky we’ll have time to take care of that. First sign of movement in the Embassy lobby, my light goes on and we pick him up. If they’ve laid on a cab for him, we know his name and we’ll probably beat their cab. If it’s an Embassy car, then we’ll just have to do something embarrassingly naughty.’
Woodward, having been given the most exciting briefing of his career, came out onto the steps of the Embassy at six forty-five, clutching a suitcase and looking for the cab they had obviously called for him.
The cab that had been parked since the early hours backed out quickly and turned in front of the Embassy, its driver peering out and calling, ‘Mr Woodward?’
Dan Woodward responded with a wave and a smile and came hurrying down the steps. There were few people about, and nobody had seen the second man slide from the back of the cab, just as it pulled out, and make his way around the corner into Upper Grosvenor Street.
The driver was very fast, taking Dan Woodward’s bag and stowing it away in the front section. ‘Where’s it to, guv’?’ the cabbie asked. ‘Nobody tells me nothing.’
‘Gatwick. Departures. North Terminal.’
‘How long we got, then?’ The taxi moved away quickly, circling the Square, preparing to head along Upper Grosvenor Street.
‘My flight leaves at ten. So, nine-thirty at the latest.’
‘All the time in the world,’ said the cabbie, sashaying to the left, where his colleague was walking slowly up towards Park Lane. ‘ ’Scuse me, guv’nor.’ The cabbie leaned back with the little sliding window open. ‘There’s a mate of mine. I’d like to give him a message.’
‘Be my guest.’
The taxi pulled over in front of the pedestrian, and the cabbie leaned out and called, ‘Nobby, can you give Di a message for me. I’ve got to go out to Gatwick. I’ll give her a bell from there.’
The man came abreast of the cab, as though straining to hear the driver. Then, as he reached the passenger door, he yanked it open, and Dan Woodward found himself staring into the wrong end of a Heckler and Koch 9mm, modified to take a noise reduction assembly.
‘One wrong move and you’re dead,’ the pedestrian smiled and got into the cab next to the startled Woodward, and the cab drew smoothly away. By the time they reached the T-junction which led them onto Park Lane, Woodward was unconscious. He had not even felt the hypo go through his coat and into his arm.
The cab headed towards Notting Hill, where it would need to make a detour to get onto the M25 and on to Gatwick. In the Bayswater Road it turned right into a cul-de-sac, and pulled up in front of one of those quiet little mews houses that now cost an arm and two legs in London. The cab parked very close to the door and the driver and his companion got out. A woman in the uniform of a nurse was already waiting, the door of the house open. Within two minutes they had the unconscious Woodward inside, the driver coming out to get his case and carry it indoors.
They dumped the unconscious man on a sofa.
‘He’ll be out for twenty-four hours,’ the driver said to the woman, as he went through Woodward’s pockets, while his partner worked the locks on the case. ‘We’ll help you get him into the secure room. I need him quiet for around four or five days. Ah . . .’ He removed a bunch of papers which included a passport, and an official-looking batch of documents.
He sat down at the foot of the sofa and began going through the papers. Frowning, he got up, went to the telephone and dialled the Gibraltar code and The Rock Hotel, asking to be put through to Mr Underwood’s room. ‘Very urgent,’ he said.
In Gibraltar, both Baradj and Hamarik were waiting. ‘Okay,’ the man in London said. ‘You’ll need a United States Diplomatic Passport. Is that difficult?’
‘That, we can fix here. Just read off the details.’
The London man then went through the rest of the information. ‘We have one problem. They’re supposed to be meeting him off BA498 which gets in at local 13.45. They actually wrote down a contact procedure, which means they don’t know him at that end.’
‘Is there a contact number?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Give it to me.’
The London man rattled off the string of numbers, and Baradj replied, ‘Okay. Are the documents essential?’
‘Yes. They’re his orders, and there’s a paper he has to show to the guys meeting him.’
‘Right. Use your own passport, but check in as Woodward. They never know the difference there. As long as the number of passports tallies with the number of people: and it’s no offence to travel under an alias – unless you’re up to something criminal, which, of course, you’re not. You come through into the concourse, it’s small and usually busy. On the right side, when you come through you’ll find the Men’s Room. It’s poky and unpleasant, but my man will be waiting. He’ll have a Woodward passport. He’ll take the papers and case from you, come out and run through the contact procedure. Now, Bob, you do it. Nobody else. I trust you to go through all this. Now, you’ll have to get a move on. Go.’
Bond had been correct, the girl who called herself Sarah Deeley simply refused to answer any questions. She sat in the cell, restrained by what amounted to a strait-jacket, and looked Bond in the eyes, unflinching, as he poured question after question at her. She even smiled at him a couple of times. After an hour of this, he gave up. Best leave her to the professionals when they got to Gibraltar.
The Rear-Admiral was on the bridge when he reported his lack of success.
‘You people got any specialists in Gib?’ Walmsley asked.
‘Why, sir?’
‘I’ve got a Sea King going off to Gib in twenty minutes. It’ll just make it there and back, if they juice her up in Gib. They’re bringing in Morgan’s replacement.’
‘Desperate Dan?’
Walmsley seemed to have lost any humour that might have lurked behind his cold blue eyes. ‘I believe they call him that. You got anyone in Gib?’
‘Let me check it out sir. If the answer’s yes, I’ll see he’s brought back.’
‘Let me know before take-off. You only have twenty minutes.’
It took Bond fifteen minutes to make contact. Yes, they had an interrogation specialist with the unlikely name, for his skills, of Donald Speaker who would be delighted to have a go.
So it was that when Flight BA498 landed, slightly late, at two o’clock that afternoon, the Sea King from Invincible was sitting, juiced up, on the helipad away from the terminal building. Its crew of three were aboard, plus Donald Speaker, a red-bearded, casually-dressed little man with the sharp look of a bank inspector about him.
The Lieutenant Commander from Invincible’s Executive Officer’s staff waited in the arrivals’ terminal – which, in Gibraltar, is also the departure terminal. He did not notice that one passenger from BA498 came through the gates, lugging his flight-bag, and made straight for the Men’s Room; while a few seconds later another man came out, carrying the same flight-bag, and with his passport in his left hand, held over his breast pocket. To the Lieutenant Commander this was simply the man for whom he had been waiting, giving all the signals – bag in right hand, passport in left hand, held high just under his breast pocket where his boarding card stuck out almost a couple of inches.
The Lieutenant Commander smiled and approached the civilian. ‘Mr Woodward?’
‘Yes, I’m Dan Woodward,’ said Abou Hamarik. ‘Want to see the ID?’
‘Better take a quick shufti. My name’s Hallam, by the way,’ the Lieutenant Commander grinned. ‘Your diplomatic status stamp looks damned impressive. Well, welcome aboard, Mr Woodward.’
‘Just call me Dan.’
They crossed the metalled apron, walking quickly towards the Sea King. As they did so they saw the stop lights come on, and traffic grind to a halt on the road that ran straight across the runway. A Royal Air Force Tornado came hurtling in with its droops an
d spoilers fully extended. Their ears sang but cleared by the time they reached the Sea King. The crewman helped them up, and Hallam introduced him to everyone. Speaker just gave him a nod, as though he did not approve of Americans being given free rides on Royal Navy helicopters.
‘Great,’ Hallam said, just before the rotors began to turn. ‘We’ll be back in very good time for Stewards’ Meeting.’
‘What’s Stewards’ Meeting?’ Speaker asked. He had a slight, unidentifiable accent, and a suspicious nasal tone in his voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hallam turned to him with a smile. ‘If you don’t know what it is, you’re not cleared for it. Right, Dan?’
‘Most definitely right,’ Abou Hamarik said. Soon, he thought, the whole world will know about Stewards’ Meeting. And there will be things the whole world will not wish to know.
The Sea King rose from the pad, lowered its nose, turned away from the Spanish mainland, banked and set course out to sea and HMS Invincible.
14
STEWARDS’ MEETING
‘D’you hear there! D’you hear there! This is the Captain.’ Sir John Walmsley’s voice rang out through the ship’s Tannoy system, and, as ever, all ranks stopped what they were doing and raised their heads to listen.
Invincible had slowed down to a point where she was hardly moving in the light sea. Outside, at 22.00 hours, it was black as pitch, but the flight-deck was fully lit and an S and R Sea King hovered off the port side.
‘I want all ranks to listen out, and listen carefully. We still have the submarine wolf pack with us, though I am assured that they will in no way impede our progress to Gibraltar. Regarding Exercise Landsea ’89 there is a political stalemate, and talks between various countries will restart tomorrow morning. So far no further incidents have been reported within the boundaries of the European continent, though our forces – Red Side – are still known to be operating behind enemy lines. That is the report, and assessment, with regard to Landsea ’89.
‘Now I must talk seriously about the real world, and what is happening aboard Invincible tonight. I am standing down all watches at this moment, except for officers and ratings who have been given special instructions to be present on the main deck, Flight Operations, and the bridge. This is for security purposes, and anyone not ordered to be on the main deck, in Flight Operations, or on the bridge will meet with stiff penalties if found there. In fact they could well suffer injury. Marines have been posted on all companion-ways and bulkheads leading to the prohibited areas. They are armed and there is a password sequence known only to those authorised to work on the main deck.
‘You will hear helicopters landing and taking off. This is because the VIP officers we’ve had aboard, since Landsea ’89 began, will be taking their leave of us. However, other VIPs will be coming aboard, and this is now classified information. Until you’re informed of its declassification, no officer, Petty Officer, Warrant Officer, rating or marine will speak of anything seen aboard Invincible over the next few days. If anyone does talk, outside this ship, I should remind you that to do so will be regarded as a breach of the Official Secrets Act; punishable accordingly.
‘To underline the seriousness of this situation, you should know that, until we reach Gibraltar, there will be four Sea Harriers, fully armed and ready to fly, on and around the ski-ramp, for’ard. There will be two pilots from the Air Group at five minute readiness, twenty-four hours a day, starting now. That is all.’
In Flight Operations, Bond could see that was not all, for the first two Sea Harriers were not only in place but also had pilots in the cockpits and their engines on at idle. Apart from that, there was a sense of déjà vu in the lights flashing from three helicopters stacked, one behind the other, closing on the stern. The cloud cover was high so he could only see the red and green rotating lights against the darkness. But he knew, from the Commander (Air), that the first chopper was about one mile away, closing at a speed of around fifty knots; and the other two were stacked at one thousand feet intervals.
The Sea King was visible now, a shaft of light coming from its nose as the halogen spot came on. It closed, then hovered as the Flight-Deck Controller and his men signalled it in to land some hundred yards behind the pair of back-up Sea Harriers, parked together well behind the ski-ramp.
Nobody approached the Sea King as its rotors gently slowed down. They were still whisking the air as the US Navy helicopter rolled in behind it, followed by the big, twin-finned Kamov-25 which nosed onto the deck with its two huge contra-rotating rotors whirling fast and its turbines giving a final dying roar.
Bond just caught a glimpse of the three VIP officers, the British, American and Russian Admirals, being hustled towards their respective helicopters. Then the main deck lights went out, leaving only dim blue guiding lights leading from the helicopters to the main bulkhead doors in the island.
‘Time you joined the reception committee, Captain Bond.’ The Commander glanced towards him. Bond nodded and with a ‘Good luck!’ left Flight Ops, turning his body sideways, rattling down the companion-way, heading towards the section of cabins recently vacated by the trio of Admirals and their bodyguards.
In the hour that had passed since he had last been in this part of the ship, a great deal had taken place. The passageway floors were now covered in thick red carpeting, and three sections of the long corridor, which led from James Bond’s cabin to the turning into the Wrens’ quarters, had been separated by neat wooden doors, the jambs screwed into bulkhead cross-sections.
The doors were open, and he could see right down to the end, where the entire draft of Wrens were drawn up, with Clover Pennington pacing anxiously. In the middle portion, the new Naval Intelligence man, Woodward, was accompanied by two armed marines. Woodward gave Bond a wink, lifting his right hand and following with a thumbs-up, to which Bond replied in kind. Through the door nearest to him Nikki Ratnikov and Yevgeny Stura were also accompanied by two Royal Marines, while another pair, with Sergeant Harvey in tow, waited patiently to one side of Bond’s cabin door.
Bond nodded to the sergeant. ‘Any minute now,’ he said, and the words were hardly out of his mouth when he heard the sounds of feet on the uncarpeted section of the passageway leading to the spruced up VIP quarters.
They came at a brisk pace: Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley, Ted Brinkley and a civilian who could only be from one service, for he had all the smooth and tough, alert looks of an officer of the Special Branch Close Protection Squad. At the centre of this group, Bond saw the first of the VIPs who had come aboard from the helicopter which had picked up Sir Geoffrey Gould.
The Rear-Admiral stopped in front of Bond. ‘Prime Minister,’ he said to the almost regally dressed Mrs Margaret Hilda Thatcher. ‘I’d like to present Captain James Bond, who is in total charge of security for Stewards’ Meeting.’
The Prime Minister smiled and firmly shook Bond’s hand. ‘It’s nice to see you again, and congratulations on your promotion.’ She turned to Walmsley. ‘Captain Bond and I are already old friends,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t have better protection, and it’s not generally known that Captain Bond was instrumental in saving not only my life, but that of ex-President Reagan, some time ago.’ Then back to Bond. ‘I couldn’t be in better hands. Just see that we’re left alone for a full four days, Captain Bond. We shall need every minute of it, if we’re going to get through a tough agenda. And it is a very tough, and important agenda. I’m sure you are already aware of that.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister. I’ll do everything possible. If your people require anything, they should get in touch with me personally.’
‘Very kind of you, Captain Bond,’ and with her best electorial smile, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom marched away with her retinue.
Bond’s eyes followed her, and he ignored Sergeant Harvey’s muttered, ‘I wouldn’t like to be on her defaulters’ parade.’
From the far end of the passageway, he heard the Rear-Admiral introduce the PM to First Officer Pennington, a
nd then make his excuses.
He came striding back, glaring at Bond. ‘You said nothing about saving her life! Anything else I should know?’
‘She exaggerated,’ Bond did not smile. ‘The information’s restricted anyhow, so I shouldn’t let it go any further, sir.’
‘Hrrumph!’ Walmsley said – or something very like it – and went off to meet the next arrival.
President George Herbert Walker Bush, surrounded by his Secret Service men – Joe Israel, Stan Hare and Bruce Trimble – and with a small man carrying a briefcase chained to his wrist, had been met at the foot of the companion-way by Walmsley. The President was tall, smiling, greying and very open-faced.
‘Captain Bond,’ he acknowledged as the Rear-Admiral made the introduction, ‘I know I’m in good hands. A close friend of mine told me what a help you’d been to him, and I believe we have another friend in common.’
‘We probably have, sir.’
‘Yes, Felix served under me when I was DCIA. A good man. Hope to see more of you, Bond, but you’ll appreciate the schedule’s tight as a drumskin. Good to meet you.’
The President of the United States had a firm handshake, almost as firm as Mrs Thatcher’s, and, as he walked away, Sergeant Harvey muttered, ‘Nor his.’
‘Nor his what?’ Bond said out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Wouldn’t like to be on his defaulters’ parade either.’
‘If you were, they’d call it a masthead, Sergeant Harvey. That’s what the US Navy call defaulters – just as the Royal Navy did a long time ago.’
Sir John Walmsley gave Bond another dirty look as he hurried past, again heading for the companion-way and the final VIP.
Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev, General Secretary of the CPSU and President of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet was dressed in a camel-hair overcoat that he had not bought at GUM. He held a grey felt hat, which could have been purchased at Lock’s in Jermyn Street, and wore a broad smile. He was neat, burly, broad-shouldered and relaxed, thanks to all the goodwill that seemed to flow out of him.
