James Bond - 031 - Cold

by John Gardner

  They flew to Washington DC, arriving at National around four-thirty in the afternoon, Eastern Standard Time. Because M was travelling first class, Bond managed to get upgraded, so they had more privacy. Though M was always careful about talking in any public place, he unbent his rules slightly and Bond was able to quiz him regarding the kidnap.

  ‘As you know, it was dark, and, to be honest with you, I was a little tired,’ the Old Man began. ‘Actually, we all fell for the oldest trick in the book. Came around a bend in the road and there were two cars almost blocking the way. Looked as though they had been in a bit of a shunt, and there was one man hanging out of the open door. Looked as though he were injured.

  ‘My driver and the bodyguard reacted instantly and without thought. I should have told the bodyguard to stay with me, or told the driver to go around and then call police and rescue squad people. But I was, slow, bumbling and foolish.

  ‘They were on us like a pack of dogs. At least six of them. My driver got off one round but they took him out, then the bodyguard, without a second thought. It was obvious their orders were to kill anyone else, because they were very careful to shoot well clear of me. I’m not a fool, James, so I did not fight back. What’s the point? When you reach my age you can only get yourself into trouble. If they were after secrets – and who isn’t these days – they’d probably shoot me full of some damned chemical and I’d talk till the cows came home.

  ‘Anyway, they did inject me and I went into a nice quiet sleep. Woke up on an aircraft. We landed somewhere – I suspect Canada – near the Washington State border, for they took me for a long drive. Most uncomfortable because I was in the boot of some car. Heard them stop at a border crossing, but I was still pretty woozy from whatever they’d shot into me. Next thing I knew they had me in some big house, under lock and key. Managed to get a shufti of what was outside. Nice view. Mountains and a lot of pine forests. Could’ve been in Switzerland.

  ‘Then they started in on the question and answer game. They weren’t interested in any of our deep dark secrets in Europe or the Middle East. They wanted to know how much we had on this COLD outfit, and the Tempesta brothers.’

  ‘Who did the inquisition?’ Bond asked.

  ‘Military, or pseudo-military type, but they all had uniforms. Playing soldiers by the look of it. You know the kind of thing – “Yes, sir! No, sir! Three bags full, sir!” ’

  ‘What was he like – description, I mean – this military type?’

  ‘American, with all those lovely white teeth colonials seem to attract to themselves. In his late fifties, though that’s hard to tell. You see so many forty-year-old types over here who look sixty. Very tall. Six-two, six-three, something like that. Strikingly tall. Spent a lot of his life in the great outdoors. A bully-boy with a kind of madness in him. The sort of officer who demands obedience, but the kind you really don’t want to be in charge. I got the impression that he was a terrible risk-taker. Death or glory, that ilk. See it in his eyes, eh?’

  It was possibly a good description of General Brutus Clay. ‘What did you tell him?’ Bond asked.@cherbb

  ‘Not much to tell. I said the Tempestas were suspect in a lot of matters. As for these COLD people, I spun a bit of a line. Said we knew what the acronym stood for, but nobody took them seriously and we had no idea what their aims and objectives were. He got rather cross at that.’

  ‘He would,’ Bond smiled. ‘How long did they keep it up?’

  ‘Time? Doesn’t have much meaning when they’re trying to dry you out. I rather think they gave me a shot of soap at one point.’ Soap is intelligence speak for sodium pentathol. ‘Blacked out anyway and felt drunk when they brought me round. Had me wits about me, though. Didn’t give ’em anything to take home.’

  ‘How did you end up in the forward cockpit of that Cobra?’ he asked.

  ‘I recall they fed me quite well, then gave me another shot of something. Came round with that poor girl almost sitting on my lap, and the ground very unstable.’

  ‘You know that girl died saving your life, sir.’

  M nodded slowly, a brief shadow of pain passing across his eyes, like the sun going behind a cloud. ‘Yes, I thanked that fellow Rhabb. Strange people these FBI types. Hearts in the right place though.’

  ‘I’m sorry about the ride in the helicopter. Must’ve been a shade iffy for you.’

  ‘No worse than being on the deck of a destroyer in a Force Ten. I remember once in the North Atlantic . . .’ and he was off on some tale of escorting convoys when he was a very young sublieutenant. Bond knew he had had all he was likely to get out of his chief for one session.

  At Washington National, M announced that he would be staying at the Cosmos Club. ‘ ’Fraid I can’t invite you, James. Give you dinner if you like, and I’ve got to go out to Langley tomorrow. I suppose you’d better come along with me on that one. I’d rather like us to get back on the last flight from Dulles to Heathrow tomorrow night. I can arrange the tickets through London.’

  Bond used an airport courtesy telephone and called the nearest Marriott Hotel, which happened to be in an area called Crystal City where he booked a room for the night. ‘I’ll find it tomorrow,’ M said. ‘Pick you up at two in the afternoon.’ He gave him a telephone number where he could be reached, then disappeared into the crowd of people heading towards the taxi rank.

  Crystal City was so called because the many buildings appeared to be made out of glass. It sounded exotic but was, in fact, bizarre and ugly. Bond took a cab over and checked into a room which literally overlooked Washington National Airport. He unpacked only the things necessary for the rest of the afternoon and evening, then called FBI Headquarters in The J Edgar Hoover building to see if Eddie Rhabb had arrived back yet. The Special Agents had planned to make the journey from the Coeur d’Alene area on the previous evening but the call was a waste of time. Special Agent Rhabb was out of town on assignment, according to the secretary he managed to speak with.

  ‘I was with him last night. He was due back in DC today.’

  ‘Oh, he was in this morning,’ the somewhat crabby girl said. ‘But he was called away suddenly this afternoon.’

  He thought it more prudent not to ask questions, so he called Jack Pop Hughes at NTSB.

  ‘Hey, James. I thought all your people had gone back to Merry Old England.’

  ‘Most of us have. I took a little side trip, Pop. Wondered if you could have dinner with meIad dle tonight? I’m a lost soul in this great city of yours and I don’t want to get into trouble.’

  ‘Well, sure that’s easy enough to do here. Just take a long walk outside and trouble’ll find you. Where are you?’

  Bond told him.

  ‘I’ll be there about eight. Meet you in the lobby.’

  Bond went downstairs, bought a packet of cigarettes, then went back to the room to sit by the window, smoking and watching the aircraft land and take off. He had given up cigarettes some time ago, but the events of the past days seemed to have got under his skin. He took a few drags on the first cigarette and stubbed it out, watched a few more aircraft then went to the jacket he had hung in one of the closets and extracted the black notebook that he had recovered from the floor of the helicopter. Still sitting in the chair by the window, he began to go through the notebook.

  The first five pages were filled with telephone numbers. Next to each number there were neat initials, but the more he looked at them the less sense they made. Many, he thought, were numbers for the United States, but they were unfathomable as all the dialling codes were non-existent. Scrambled, he thought, as he started to look through the rest of the book.

  There were pages of what could well have been map references, only they were also scrambled. These were followed by pages of odd hieroglyphs and numbers which made no sense. For a long time he stared at groups such as—

  AM8753 ΣφΚΠΠ⊇ 14 ZOΨP 7654 ΔB*≅∃ 468H ΔΦΠΩA

  The entire book was filled with similar symbols, while the odd page cont
ained more scrambled telephone numbers, or map references. Several times he came across clear words, obviously cryptos, Madeleine, Corsica, Backstop, Pepper, Madman.

  The book would need careful going over by someone experienced in codes and ciphers. He thought for a while, then dialled the number that M had left him for the Cosmos Club, asking for Admiral Sir Miles Messervy. M’s name was never bandied about by members of the Service, though it was one of the best-kept open secrets in the trade.

  M came on the line with a rather sharp, ‘What do you want, Bond?’

  ‘Just one question, sir.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Are we bowing out of the COLD business?’

  ‘ ’Course we are, except if it ever has an effect on the United Kingdom. I trust our colonial friends will keep us informed, but as of now we’ll be at least distanced from it. Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘I’m having dinner with the IIC from the NTSB. I’m also trying to get hold of our Rhabbid friend from the FBI. This is simply a case of need-to-know, sir.’

  ‘Well, we’re still interested in the NTSB findings, of course. Anything to do with Bradbury. As for the chilly thing, just need-to-know and information only if it concerns our territories. Got it?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir. Thank you.’

  Pop Hughes turned up just before eight, and drove them out to Jo and Mo’s on Connecticut Avenue – ‘Steak, seafood and fashionable,’ Pop said. ‘The media moguls come here a lot, and where the media come politicians cannot be far behind. But the food is terrific.’

  They went for the steaks, and Bond then began a lengthy quiz regarding BD 299.

  ‘What can I tell you, James?’ Hughes thre@lkad dlew up his hands. ‘We’ll eventually publish our findings, though they’re already pretty well complete. You know where the bombs were planted. We’re still not absolutely certain how they were detonated, though the common wisdom seems to indicate a local button. Nobody’s claimed responsibility, poor old Harley Bradbury’s facing massive legal action, and the remains are all being put together at Farnborough. In fact, we’re looking to them to provide the true answers.’

  ‘Reasons, though, Pop? You must have some idea about the reasons.’

  Pop Hughes shrugged. ‘I’ve got several ideas, though they all seem nutty when you think of the loss of life.’

  ‘Nothing surprises me these days when it comes to killing innocent people. So try me.’

  Hughes gave a deep sigh. ‘Well, it could be purely financial. Someone might not have wanted Bradbury Airlines to continue under the same management – and indications are that some high-rollers might just take the airline off Harley’s hands and foot the bill on the legal action.’

  ‘Anyone I’d know about?’

  Hughes seemed to pause. Then— ‘Well, there are several conglomerates who invested. The Tempesta family from Rome . . .’

  ‘I certainly know them.’

  ‘They weren’t in as heavily as a French consortium; or a big American investment from yet another consortium. Wall Street. An outfit called Freezeways.’

  ‘Ah!’ Bond paused. ‘I’d take a good look at them if I were you, Pop.’

  ‘Already have, and it’s unlikely. They’re very respectable. Anyway, there are other, equally mad, possibilities.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A couple of FBI agents, Allen and Farmer, were bringing in a real sleazebag who was in the process of being extradited from London. Name of Dick “The Idiot” Kauffburger. Heavy mob ties, but had offended a lot of influential people. Believe me there are men and women in the pseudo-underworld who’d sacrifice a lot of other people to get at Kauffburger. On the whole, I think that was the reason, but don’t quote me.’

  ‘Any more? Fringe ideas?’

  ‘There could be a political angle. But that would be purely British, and I don’t see any of your Brit mobsters doing anything like this.’

  ‘Don’t believe it, Pop. Remember how the Iron Lady was sacrificed. The Conservative Party pulled a palace coup while she was abroad. But who knows?’

  ‘Well, we’re pretty certain about the folks who planted the bombs.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You remember that the aircraft spent the night in the Bradbury hangars in Birmingham on the night before it was brought down to Heathrow for the first London-Washington trip.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re now pretty certain that’s where the bombs went on board.’

  ‘How certain?’

  ‘One hundred and five per cent certain. Two men and one woman had access to the Bradbury aircraft on that night after the regular engineers had finished their maintenance checks. There’s indisputable evidence that all three were in the hangar, on their own, for the best part of ninety minutes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And then they went missing. A guy called Daniel Paul; another, older, man known as ‘Iffy’@cherbb – for Ivor – Bergman, and a girl who went by the name of Ruth Isaacs.’

  ‘They’ve been picked up?’

  ‘No, they disappeared. Didn’t report in for work on the following evening. Using fake ID. The last I heard, your Security Service were checking on real ID. They think the man Paul used to be a well-known bomb-maker from the Angry Brigade, name of Mallard – naturally ’Drake’ Mallard. Full name Winston Mallard: Jamaican by country. They also think the girl is formerly IRA. Nuala McBride. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Our Nuala certainly does. So, we have a mixture of ex-terrorists doing the making and planting. I’ll take a look when I get back to London, which is one of the reasons I wanted to see you, Pop. Keep in touch, will you? I’d like anything that surfaces.’ He pushed a card across the table. ‘Just call there and leave a number. I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘You want my number.’

  Bond shook his head. ‘I can get your number,’ he smiled.

  Back in the hotel he took another long look at the black notebook which had probably belonged to General Clay. He then went to bed and was in a deep sleep when the telephone began to ring.

  His watch said five-thirty in the morning and he grunted into the telephone.

  ‘You were trying to get hold of me last night,’ Eddie Rhabb’s voice sounded strong, as though he were well rested.

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘Important?’

  ‘Just a lot. When can we meet?’

  ‘I’ll join you at your hotel for breakfast – say eight o’clock.’

  ‘A more reasonable time to be awake. I’ll be waiting.’ He catnapped until it was time to get dressed and go down to meet the FBI man who was waiting in the lobby.

  ‘So?’ Eddie asked once they had ordered breakfast.

  ‘So, I have something for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Only after you’ve told me if they found the body of Brutus Brute Clay down among the dead men in the helicopter wreckage.’

  Eddie shook his head. ‘The pilots were the only bodies discovered. Back at the graveyard, they found indications that a jeep, or similar transport, had been offloaded from one of the “Hip-Fs”.’

  ‘So, Brutus Clay is alive and well and living lord knows where?’

  ‘Among his men in the mountains, we presume. So, what have you got for me?’

  ‘Clay’s little black book, all in cipher.’ He handed the notebook to Rhabb.

  ‘Shouldn’t you pass that through your people?’

  ‘I’m told we’re not going to be concerned in it. Not unless it suddenly involves us directly.’

  ‘If COLD pulls off its main agenda, it’ll involve everybody.’

  ‘I give that two more decades.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be too complacent, James. Anyway, we’ll keep in touch.’

  M, as he had promised, picked him up precisely at two that afternoon in a chauffeured limo in which they drove out to CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, where M was closeted for several hours with his opposite number, and Bond did the rounds of his contacts.

  ‘T
hey’re all worried stiff about this COLD thing,’ M spoke quietly as they drove out to Dulles International. ‘A bit panicky if you Iad dleask me.’

  ‘I saw the FBI this morning, got the same impression.’

  M grunted and made no further comment on the situation during the entire journey back to Heathrow where they both went straight into Headquarters.

  During the following year the newspapers were full of Harley Bradbury’s downfall and eventual bankruptcy. There were odd snippets of information from time to time – news from Eddie Rhabb that Clay had surfaced again, and that the Tempestas were still involved in a number of borderline financial dealings – including leading yet another new consortium which eventually took over the now defunct Bradbury Airlines, emerging as Triumph Airways, Inc., an organization that flourished and grew at an alarming pace.

  Winston Mallard and Nuala McBride were arrested by the Metropolitan Police as they were about to board a flight to Miami. They were not charged with anything and the police – according to the Press – released them within twelve hours. Privately, however, those who worked for the Secret Intelligence Service knew that the two former terrorists were quietly squirrelled away in a big safe house run by the Security Service in Acton. It was saideorge III.&rsq

  that they were undergoing a spectacular hostile interrogation.

  Later the same year, M called Bond in to brief him on the news received from both CIA and FBI sources. ‘Paranoid,’ he grumbled. ‘The whole lot of them. Absolutely paranoid.’ In fact 007 wondered if it was paranoia, because the latest figures collected by penetration agents showed a marked increase in the membership of COLD. Also, two agents had suddenly ’gone off the air’, a euphemismbelieved killed. Their bodies were, in fact, discovered on Christmas Eve. They had been badly mutilated.

  During an operation in Switzerland, James Bond met the lovely Fredericka von Grüsse, an officer of the Swiss Security Service. They worked together through that particular operation at the end of which Fräulein von Grüsse left the Swiss Service and was offered a permanent job by M.