by John Gardner
‘I know the dangers, so what’s new?’
He said that he would tell her once, and once only, then quickly ran through his suspicions concerning the assassination of the CIA assistant director in Washington – especially about the elderly man in the L. L. Bean shirt and the billed cap with the legend ‘Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more’, and of the walking stick with the brass duck’s head handle. ‘I’m on the restricted file list, and there aren’t many of us. The chances of two people using a similar weapon within forty-eight hours of each other must be pretty slim. I just want you to know about this in the event that we are really being taken off the case.’
‘But I don’t want to be taken off it, James. It’s the kind of puzzle that I like. I want to solve this business.’ For a moment, she sounded like a spoiled child.
‘We might not have any other option.’
‘Do you want to be taken off it?’
‘Of course not.’
‘What’re you going to do then?’
‘If I’m off the case? I have some leave coming up. ;s sake, carri
6
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
‘The Swiss are furious, and so am I!’ M barked. He strode up and down behind his desk, brows dark and face an angry crimson. ‘Why do we always have problems like this when you have to work with any female member of a foreign service, 007? I won’t have it. You know that already, so why do you constantly go out there and make fools of us?’
From long experience Bond knew there was no point in trying to argue with his Chief. When the Old Man had the bit between his teeth, and truly believed that his accusations were founded on fact, all you could do was hang on and wait for the storm to pass.
The moment he entered M’s office, on his return to London, he immediately knew there was trouble. The Chief was icy and terse as he made his verbal report, waiting to hear Bond’s side of things before launching into an uncontrolled attack, which still continued after fifteen minutes.
‘You appear to have lost a vital piece of evidence, which is reprehensible. You have also behaved in a manner prejudicial to both Queen’s Regulations and the discipline of this service. I suspect the loss of the evidence is partly due to your misconduct, which was eventually reported to me via Scotland Yard, who were informed personally by the Swiss authorities.’ He stopped in mid-flow, turning to glower at Bond. ‘Well, 007? Well, what have you to say for yourself?’
‘I admit to losing a document, sir. But, in my defence, that document was secure: locked in my briefcase which was inside one of the rooms in the suite I occupied with a member of the Swiss Intelligence and Security Service. There was no reason to think that anything would be stolen from a room that was locked and safeguarded.’
‘But it was stolen!’ M’s voice rose on the ‘was’ and reached a high decibel level on ‘stolen’.
‘I don’t deny that, sir. I didn’t know I’d have to sleep with the thing chained to my wrist. As far as we were concerned, Fräulein von Grüsse and myself were the only people who even knew of the existence of the letter.’
‘Oh, yes, Fräulein von Grüsse! The pair of you are a disgrace. She’ll be lucky if she’s not actually dismissed from her service. But for your seniority, Bond, I’d have you permanently out of this building before nightfall. In these times, when various parliamentary idiots are calling for the disbandment of all intelligence services, we cannot afford flagrant moral lapses in the field.’
He paused, shaking his head as if in disbelief. ‘God knows, many people in power, both here and in the USA, seem to delight in telling the world that there is no further need for either security or intelligence operations. I even heard recently of some bestsellinhe Duty Officer ffont-family: sans-serifg novelist doing a Chamberlain and sounding off about peace in our time. We all know that the so-called reformed Russians are still carrying out clandestine operations, and there’s been a proliferation of new “active measures” by foreign intelligence services that the politicians – let alone the general public – have never even heard of. So, I cannot afford officers like yourself, who go out and live the life of Riley on government money.’
‘What are Fräulein von Grüsse and myself accused of doing, sir?’
‘Of rutting like animals, Captain Bond. Of disturbing the peace of the Hotel Victoria-Jungfrau, Interlaken, and of causing grave moral scandal.’
‘On whose word, sir?’
‘On whose word? The hotel management’s word, 007. They had no less than six complaints from guests. Heaven knows I have often turned a blind eye to your flagrantly immoral behaviour, but this time even I can’t disregard it. It appears that you, with Fräulein von Grüsse, made enough noise to waken the dead.’
‘What kind of noise, sir?’
‘The noise of brute beasts of the field. A retired couple called down to reception after midnight to complain of some kind of orgy going on in your suite. Within the hour there were five more complaints from people next door, and across the hallway from your suite. One elderly lady, it seems, was concerned lest murder was being done. Screaming, laughter, shouts and – I can hardly bring myself to say it – the noise of furniture being abused. In plain language, the violent creaking of bed springs.’
‘Really, sir?’ Though he would be the first to admit that Flicka and himself had enjoyed each other’s company, it had been a very quiet business. Endearments and whispers, rather than laughter and screams of delight. ‘And who, sir, reported all this to the police?’
‘The hotel reported it.’
‘Yet they took no steps to pass on these so-called complaints directly to either myself or Fräulein von Grüsse. Wouldn’t you say that this is the normal kind of action in a properly run hotel? If there are complaints concerning noise from a guest’s room, then isn’t it more usual for the hotel to inform the guest and ask him to keep quiet?’
‘That’s as maybe. In this instance, the hotel reported it to the police – you know how the Swiss are. In turn, they checked on your names, realized why you were in Interlaken, and passed the comment back to Scotland Yard, who informed me.’
‘I’d like to make a bet on which particular member of the hotel staff did this, sir.’
‘That’s not the crux of the matter . . .’
‘It is as far as I’m concerned, sir. I would like it on record that, during that particular night, absolutely no noise came from the suite occupied by Fräulein von Grüsse and myself – no screams, no laughter, no shouting, no abusing of furniture. I admit to spending the night in Fräulein von Grüsse’s company, but there was no blatant impropriety. Also, I would suggest that the person who made these accusations is a hotel employee, and assistant manager, I think. Her name is Marietta Bruch.’
‘Really, and can you give me any reason why this Marietta Bruch would lie about something as serious as this?’
‘I have absolutely no idea, sir. She was a shade put out when we couldn’t complete the search of the late Ms March’s room. Apart from that, she did seem slightly belligerent from the moment we arrived.0; margin-right: +0; margin-top: outhing ’
‘In what way?’
‘She made it pretty clear, by her manner, that she did not believe our cover story. I think if you can get the local Interlaken police to look into her story – perhaps even interview the people who are supposed to have complained – you will find it’s Fräulein Bruch who’s telling fairy tales.’
M made an harrumphing sound, half clearing of throat, half dubious grunt.
‘In fact, sir, I think I must insist that Fräulein Bruch’s accusations are followed up, even it it means chasing former guests halfway around Europe. I repeat, sir, there was no noise from our suite.’
He looked at his Chief, locking eyes with him and, for an instant, could have sworn that deep behind M’s glare were the traces of a slight twinkle.
‘And what will you be doing while I follow this up – if I follow it up?’
‘I am going to apply for a month’s leave
, sir. I’m going to get out of this building and not return until you, or whoever you appoint, have investigated this business thoroughly, and my name, together with that of Fräulein von Grüsse, has been cleared of any meretricious impropriety.’
Again, he saw the small light in M’s eyes. ‘A very good idea, Captain Bond. I would suggest that you go to your office, make your report in writing and then stay away from this facility until I recall you.’
‘You’re suspending me from duty, sir?’
In the short pause that followed, Bond actually saw his Chief lift an eyebrow. ‘No, Captain Bond. No, I’m not suspending you. I’m giving you leave to do exactly as you see fit. Go and write your report, then get out of my sight until everything is cleared up.’
Bond rose and began to walk towards the door, halting and turning only when M spoke again. ‘Oh, Captain Bond, I suggest you also clean out your safe, and remove any sensitive papers from your desk. I shall let you know when you may return.’
This time, there was no mistaking the signals. Though M still maintained his stiff, angry pose, he clearly winked.
‘Very good, sir.’ Bond returned the wink. ‘I would like your permission regarding one matter.’
‘Yes?’
‘I would like to attend Ms March’s funeral.’
‘As far as I’m concerned you can do anything you like. Good day to you, Captain Bond.’ Another wink, this time broad and unconcealed.
It took less than an hour to write the report, which he sealed in an envelope and sent up to M by messenger. There was little of importance in the drawers of his desk, so he opened the small wall safe, provided for all senior officers. When he had left on the previous Saturday, the safe had been empty, but M’s instructions, combined with the clandestine wink, had been specific.
Lying inside the safe were four slim buff folders, each flagged ‘restricted and classified’. A quick look inside the first file told him these were the up-to-date reports on the four assassinations that had taken place – in Rome, London, Paris and Washington – during the previous week. There was no doubt in his mind that M was quietly ordering him to carry on investigating the situation.
Swiftly, he slid the folders into his briefcase, flicked the combination locks and left his office. At the main entrance he signed out, appending the words ‘on extended leave’, and adding ‘Contact at private number’. Ian Fleming Publications, fHe then strode out into a pleasantly warm and sunny London afternoon.
Within minutes, as he walked briskly across Regent’s Park towards Clarence Gate and Baker Street, he knew there was surveillance on him. Anybody who has spent a lifetime in the world of secrets, leading double existences, prowling those dark and maze-like alleys where truth is so often fiction, and reality becomes illusion, is bound to develop sensitive antennae: a sixth sense.
He could never have given anybody a logical explanation of how his antennae worked, but work they did. He knew he was being observed and probably followed, though there was no way he could immediately identify those who watched him.
On reaching Baker Street, he decided to sort out the sheep from the goats by giving them a run for their money. Hailing a passing taxi, he told the driver to take him to Austin Reed’s in Regent Street. As the driver pulled out into the traffic, Bond glanced back, just catching sight of a young man in jeans and a black shirt desperately trying to flag down another cab.
Austin Reed’s store occupies almost an entire block on the west side of Regent Street, a few blocks from Piccadilly Circus. As the cab pulled up, so Bond slipped the driver a five pound note and was on to the pavement almost before the vehicle had come to a stop. He had no intention of going into the store. Instead, he walked quickly towards what Londoners usually refer to as ‘The Dilly’, and disappeared down the steps to the London Transport Underground system.
He took a train to South Kensington where he intended to change on to the Circle Line, to take a train back to Sloane Square which would bring him within walking distance of his flat in the pleasant Regency house which stands on a quiet tree-lined street off the King’s Road.
As he negotiated the pedestrian tunnels at South Kensington he realized that the young man he had seen in Baker Street was not only still with him but he had also manoeuvred himself into a position some twenty feet in front of him, anticipating Bond’s destination. The young man was a professional and Bond knew where there is one experienced watcher then two or three others are usually near at hand.
The adrenalin began to pump, and his nerve ends tingled. The very fact of being followed created a tension of its own, and he felt his muscles involuntarily tighten. He had no idea where this team came from. For all he knew, they could be part of some foreign service, or – more likely, he considered – part of the famed Watcher Service of MI5.
The platform was crowded even though the usual rush hour would not get under way for another hour or so. The man in jeans and black shirt lounged against the slick, tiled wall, near a poster proclaiming ‘Cats. Now and For Ever’.
Bond placed himself directly in front of the watcher, giving the young man a good view of his back, waiting for the next train to rumble from the tunnel. It pulled up with a hiss of automatic doors opening, and there was a surge forward as people tried to board the carriages while others eased their way out.
He stayed back, as if he had changed his mind about getting on the train. Then, he turned, took a pace forward and asked the young man if he had the time. The watcher lazily raised his left arm to look at his watch and Bond gave him a quick, hard jab to the chin with the heel of his right hand.
The watcher’s head snapped back, his eyes taking on a glazed look of surprise.
‘There’s a man in trouble here,’ Bond shouted in the general direction of a uniformed official, before he lunged for the closing doors of the nearest carriage. As the train of the famous Mr Dragonpol.’IU pulled out, he saw a small knot of people form around the crumpled watcher.
The street off King’s Road where Bond lived was a cul-de-sac, the preferred kind of location for anyone in his profession. ‘You either live out in the open, with a lot of flat ground between you and the rest of the world, or you choose a street with only one entrance or exit,’ one of the instructors had told him years ago. ‘Preferably, a short street,’ the old expert had added.
He knew all his neighbours, and their cars, by sight, and could spot a strange car or person in a second. Now, as he finally turned the corner and entered his street, Bond realized that, whoever they were, this surveillance team was serious. He saw not only a very strange vehicle – a small closed van – but also a uniformed road sweeper, with his high wheeled cart, who was making his rounds, working – as Bond’s old housekeeper would have said – ‘as though dead lice were dropping off him’. The road sweeper was a total stranger, and not the man Bond was used to seeing.
He showed no sign of having noticed anything out of the ordinary as he put his key in the latch and entered the house through the front door. A pile of mail lay on the mat.
His housekeeper, May, was up in Scotland with her nephew and his wife, so Bond had taken his usual extra precautions – slivers of wood in the door jamb, invisible thread across windows, just in case anyone had tried to bypass his sophisticated alarm system. Everything was in place, but that did not mean a thing. If he was truly the target of a tight surveillance operation, there could be a tap on his telephone without anyone gaining entrance to the house.
He dumped the mail on his sitting-room table, went to the ornate Empire desk and unlocked one of the larger drawers and removed what appeared to be a normal telephone. Unplugging his house phone from its modular jack, he replaced it with the equipment taken from the desk drawer. He did not trust pocket tap detectors, and certainly could not call in the delousing department from headquarters. The telephone now in use was a state-of-the-art piece of equipment, a very distant cousin of what used to be called the Neutralizer phone. With this instrument in place, even the best wire tap
was defenceless. The micro circuits within the telephone automatically sent out signals which could not be captured on tape or headphones. Instead, a would-be eavesdropper would be treated to a high-pitched signal known to cause severe deafness for a minimum of forty-eight hours – one of the reasons the service instructions forbade the use of these devices on a permanent basis. The other consideration was cost, for each unit of the Electronic Countermeasures Telephone (ECMT) or ‘Squealerphone’, as it was often called, ran to almost £4,000.
Having dealt with communications, he took the briefcase into his small bedroom, felt along the gleaming white painted wainscot until he found a tiny knot of wood which he pulled back to reveal a large, secret fireproof steel safe. Quickly working the combination, he slid the briefcase inside then locked everything and slid the panel back into place.
Having dealt with the important matter, Bond now turned his attention to the day’s mail: ironically enough there was a telephone bill, as well as a red electricity account, meaning that it was time to pay up or lose power, four pieces of junk mail, and a letter in a dark blue envelope, addressed correctly in a bold hand – female, he thought – which he did not recognize.
The envelope contained one sheet of notepaper, in the same shade of blue. The sheet contained neither address nor salutation. In the same, round, very feminine hand was a five-line message: eventually, the animals became 3Q f‘You should be warned that the Security Service has put permanent, round-the-clock surveillance on you,’ it read. ‘We have met once, but I should not give you my name in writing. I shall take tea at Brown’s Hotel each afternoon this week between four and six. Please throw the watchers and meet me. This is a matter of great urgency and importance, which concerns the late Laura March.’
There was just enough in the short note to rouse his interest. The trick would be throwing the surveillance team. In novels of espionage a hero might disguise himself suitably and hoodwink the sharp-eyed team of watchers. He thought of Buchan’s The Thirty-nine Steps, where Richard Hannay had left the police standing as he exited a building disguised as a milkman. It was almost five in the afternoon, Brown’s Hotel lay a good twenty minutes away, by taxi, in Dover Street, close to Piccadilly and Bond Street. If he was going to slip the leash and make contact today, he would have to be very light on his feet.
