James Bond - 028 - Never Send Flowers

by John Gardner

  At least he now knew who he was up against, and that was not the happiest of thoughts, for the Watcher Branch of the Security Service is one of the best-trained surveillance outfits in the world. Softly he quoted Shakespeare to himself: ‘ “Oh, for a muse of fire . . .” ’

  He stopped, wrinkling his brow, and then smiled to himself. That had done it, the Muse of Fire. Smoke and mirrors, he thought, as he went rapidly into the kitchen.

  May, his housekeeper, was old-fashioned and regarded any utensil made from plastic with the same disdain as a conscientious watchmaker might regard the electronic workings of digital timepieces. Instead of the ubiquitous plastic, foot-operated rubbish containers, she insisted on using an old and heavy Victorian all-metal rubbish bin. The plastic variety, she always claimed, were fire hazards and that was exactly what he needed now – a safe, well-contained fire hazard.

  On the previous Saturday, when he had been unexpectedly called into the office, Bond was left with little time to complete any of the household chores usually undertaken by the absent May, so the rubbish bin was still almost a quarter full. It contained damp paper towels, the somewhat pungent remains of the curry he had cooked for himself on the Friday night, together with coffee grounds, egg shells and some discarded toast from his breakfast on the Saturday morning. To this now unpleasant stew he added a pile of bundled-up paper towels, tamping them around the garbage and crumpling more which he threw on top of the moist mess until the bin was around three-quarters full.

  Dragging the bin into the small lobby, he placed it in the open doorway between there and the sitting-room. Then he went quickly through to his bedroom.

  When the old house had been renovated, a skilful architect had made certain that each of its three storeys was entirely self-contained. The only entrance to Bond’s apartment was through the front door, and to all intents his rooms occupied the entire ground floor. In reality his apartment, like each of the flats above him, lost some eight feet along the right-hand gable end of the house, where a false wall had been put in to accommodate private entrances, each with its own self-contained flight of stairs, for the two higher apartments.

  These alterations had in no way affected the original view from Bond’s bedroom, where the gold Cole wallpaper contrasted elegantly with deep-red velvet curtains. The bedroom windows looked out on to a tiny garden, with a red brick wall surrounding the lawn and flowerbeds behind the house. The three sections of the wall formed simple divisions between the gardens of the houses on either side, and, at the end, the garden of the property at the rear. It was this far0; margin-right: +0; margin-top: outhing wall that interested him. The view from his windows included the back of the slightly larger Regency house which stood in another cul-de-sac running roughly parallel to the one in which Bond lived.

  There was a drop of some eight feet from the bedroom windows, and the wall that separated the neighbouring garden was around twelve feet high, with no barbs, broken glass or other deterrents to a would-be climber. This house was owned by a merchant banker and his family who, to his certain knowledge, had left for their annual summer holiday in Cyprus on the previous Saturday. Bond liked to keep track of all his neighbours. It was something he did automatically when in London, and, over the years, his personal watch was one of second nature. He also knew that the house had a side entrance giving access from the garden along the gable end to a gravelled turning circle and the street.

  He opened one of the long sash windows in the bedroom, then went back to the rubbish bin. Even a careful team of watchers were unlikely to have any spare people loitering in the parallel street, anywhere near the merchant banker’s home, and he considered that, should the ruse in mind work, he could get from his bedroom window, across the wall and out into the street through the garden door in a maximum of one and a half minutes. It would be a race, for the watchers would certainly react very quickly, but he considered the odds were just in his favour.

  Squeezing past the rubbish bin, he opened a drawer in the ornate clothes stand, which stood against one wall of the entrance lobby, and took out a pair of black leather driving gloves. Thirty seconds later, Bond set light to the paper towels in the bin.

  Initially, the metal container blazed alarmingly with flame. Then the fire tried to claw its way into the damp garbage, the flames died and dense white smoke began to billow from the container. Within thirty seconds the smoke began to fill the lobby, and Bond hesitated, wondering how much the smoke damage would cost him in refurbishing, then he stepped back heading for the kitchen to activate the alarm system which would shriek into action almost immediately because of the open window in his bedroom. A second before the bells went off, the smoke detectors triggered their separate shrill siren, and he made his way to the bedroom with ears humming from the din.

  There would not be much time, for the watchers in the van, plus the phony road sweeper would almost certainly make for the front of the house, intent on breaking down the door. This would be a flushing-out with a vengeance, for the team’s instinctive reaction would be to assist in what should appear to be a true emergency, and to blazes with their cover. Once they broke down the door, the source of the predicament would be all too apparent, and by then Bond would have to be long gone.

  He dropped from the window and hit the ground running, taking a flying leap at the brick wall, his gloved hand rocketing up as he reached the apogee of his jump, scrabbling to get a firm grip on the topmost bricks of the wall. His hands took hold, his body hitting the wall, chest first, knocking the wind out of him so that, for a second, he almost lost his grasp. Then, with one muscle-wrenching haul, he lifted himself over the wall and dropped into a carefully tended flowerbed on the far side.

  Not looking back to see what damage he might have caused to the banker’s hardy annuals, he plunged across the manicured lawn, running for the large wooden gate that would take him along the side of the house and into the street.

  The gate was firmly bolted and locked, and he lost precious seconds in slipping the bolts and smashing the lock with three mighty kicks. Finally, some two minutes after dropping from the bedroom window, he emerged into the street, brushing himself ofcolor: gray} f blef with one hand, and struggling to get control of his breathing.

  In the distance he could hear the fire engines, and he thought he could detect the frantic shouts of the watchers. Smiling to himself, Bond reached the King’s Road and hailed the first available taxi.

  ‘Looks like a drama somewhere around here, guv’nor,’ the cabbie observed.

  ‘It’s quite near my place, I’m afraid.’ Bond was still flicking brick dust from his navy blue blazer. ‘I’ll know soon enough. Brown’s Hotel please, and I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky this time of day, guv’nor, but I’ll do me best.’

  It was exactly ten minutes to six when they pulled up in front of the hotel’s unpretentious entrance, for Brown’s still does its best to be a home-from-home to the gentry – even though a large slice of its current clientele now comes from Britain’s former major colony. Yet that was also in its tradition, for Teddy Roosevelt was married from the hotel, and FDR and his new wife, Eleanor, spent part of their honeymoon there. Mr Brown himself, originally butler to Lord Byron, would probably still smile down on his creation.

  He headed straight for the comfortable, panelled lounge to the right of the foyer, where afternoon tea was served in a truly traditional manner. There were only half a dozen people still in the room, and a waiter came up to quietly tell him that they had finished serving tea.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m supposed to meet someone . . .’ His voice trailed off for he saw her raise a hand and smile at him. She was sitting in a corner, near the fireplace – decorated with flowers now in summer – where she had a total controlled view of the room, and as he moved closer, he still could not place her.

  She wore an elegant black business suit and the short skirt rode up high, showing an almost erotic amount of thigh. When he had last see
n her, she had her black hair pulled severely back from her forehead and fastened in a bun at the nape of her neck. Now the smooth and glossy hair fell down to her shoulders and curled provocatively. The granny glasses had gone and he presumed she was wearing contact lenses, for the deep brown eyes looked up at him, wide and delighted, with just a hint of anxiety.

  ‘Captain Bond, I’m so glad you could make it. I hope you didn’t bring anybody with you.’ The voice was husky and distinctive.

  ‘Please call me James, Ms Chantry. This is quite a surprise. You look different.’ The last time he had seen her was in M’s office with her superior officer from MI5, the fussy Mr Grant.

  ‘Then you should call me Carmel – a strange name for a good British girl, I know.’ She smiled and the entire room seemed to brighten. ‘You did manage to slip our little phantom friends, I hope.’

  He smiled and sat next to her, his nostrils noting the subtle trace of a very expensive scent. ‘They were dealing with a fire in my flat when I left.’

  ‘Good. Might I suggest we go somewhere a little more private. I have a great deal to tell you, and I really don’t think I’m going to have all that much time. I fear my immediate boss, the preposterous Gerald Grant, will be out looking for me, and I think his message will be that I’ve overstepped the mark once too often. Would your service have a job for a former member of the Security Service?’

  ‘It depends what kind of service she’s offering?’

  ‘Well,’ she paused, letting a wicked smile play around her of the famous Mr Dragonpol.’y back from a

  7

  THE MAN WITH THE GLASS HEAD

  The name, David Dragonpol, slewed around Bond’s mind as they rode the elevator up to the third floor. In that short space of time, he went through all he could remember concerning the great actor who was, in himself, an enigma.

  The world had become aware of Dragonpol in the late 1970s when he had appeared, first, in a television dramatization of the life of Richard Wagner, then, later in the year, in a National Theatre production of Hamlet. It was his first leading role on stage, and he had only left the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in the spring. What followed was theatrical fairytale history. Dragonpol had a stunning stage presence, was tall, fine looking, and with that extraordinary talent of a truly great actor – the ability to change both voice and appearance almost at will. After his huge success as the Prince of Denmark he directed and played in Richard III and The Merchant of Venice. Both productions had taken not just London, but the world, by storm and Hollywood came calling with offers he could not refuse.

  He did five films before returning to the stage, and by the early 1980s, David Dragonpol was hailed as one of the greatest living British actors, second only to Olivier.

  During the film period, one reviewer had commented that he was ‘. . . as impressive in his pauses as he is when sp announced his retirement ir">waseaking the lines of a character. He has that unique gift, known to only a handful of film actors, which allows the audience to see into his head, as though you can view his brain and mind. It is as if he is a man with a glass head.’

  The jealous few derisively called him the Man with the Glass Head.

  On stage he played just about every classic role, from the comic Lord Foppington in the bawdy Restoration comedy The Relapse, or Virtue in Danger, to Firs, in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, and on to Lear. He also created new characters like Justin Marlowe, the seedy confidence trickster in a first play – Graft – by unknown author Jack Russell; and the Mystic in a clever reworking of the general plot of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. He was a household name, and within a decade enhanced the art of acting.

  Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, Dragonpol – whose ancestry could be traced back to the Doomsday Book – retired from both stage and screen in 1990, for what were described as ‘personal and private reasons’.

  Rumours spread: that he had Aids; that he had been the victim of a nervous breakdown which had destroyed both his talent and confidence; that some unknown tragedy had struck within his family – he had always kept his private life strictly to himself, and even the most skilful and unprincipled journalists had failed to break into his privacy. They tried to track him down, but David Dragonpol eluded Press and the other media, disappearing as though he had never been.

  Bond had seen him on stage and film, then once in the flesh, dining at Fouquet’s in Paris with the British director Trevor Nunn, and swore he could feel the creative static right across the busy restaurant.

  As they reached Carmel Chantry’s door, he felt a strange sense of déjà vu, as though the David Dragonpol of that time was very near at hand.

  The room was on the small side, though pleasant enough and well furnished. Carmel slipped out of her suit jacket, to reveal a white silk shirt which showed off her slim waist and clung tightly to neat, firm breasts. She dropped on to the bed, propping herself against the padded headboard, indicating that Bond should take the one easy chair.

  ‘Okay, what about Laura March and David Dragonpol?’ He tried to look elsewhere as her skirt rode higher up her thighs.

  ‘Oh, James.’ She gave a little throaty laugh, and arched her body. ‘You mean I have lured you into my web and you still want to talk business?’

  He looked up and saw that her lips and eyes were almost mocking him, one eyebrow raised quizzically. ‘It’s all right,’ she smiled. ‘I did lure you here to talk business, but I get so few opportunities to play the femme fatale that the role carries me away.’

  ‘Then why the disguise?’

  ‘Which disguise?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Either the disguise you wore when you came to see my Chief, or the one you’re wearing now?’

  She shifted on the bed. ‘Actually, this is the real me.’

  ‘Then why the frumpish outfit, the granny glasses and severe hairdo when you came calling?’

  ‘Gerald,’ she sighed.

  ‘Grant?’

  ‘Master of the Anti-terrorist Section, lord of all he surveys. Gerald Grant is the complete paranoid. Because of his paranoia he sees the Red Brigade lurking behind every door, the Provisional IRA in every shadow, the PLO eventually, the animals became usU and the Grey Wolves with moles inside the section itself. He demands that his officers practise tradecraft twenty-four hours a day, and use disguises when out on the town. To be honest with you, James, I’ve had fat Gerald up to here.’ She raised one hand above her head and the silk of her shirt tightened against her breast. ‘I told you that I was on leave. That’s true, but I’ve also handed in my resignation. Gerald is more dangerous than a busload of terrorists.’

  ‘Because of his paranoia?’

  ‘That, plus his incompetence.’

  ‘He put the watchers on to me?’

  ‘Of course. He holds executive rank, which gives him more power than he should rightly have.’

  ‘Why the watchers?’

  ‘He instructed them from the word go. They were with you in Switzerland, though he had no right to use them. When you came back – in disgrace, I understand – he put an entire team on to you. Said it was an exercise. Bamboozled the head of the Watcher Section. Told him it would be good practice for the lads and lasses.’ She paused, then shot him a quick and interested smile. ‘Did you really come back in disgrace? Gerald said you’d been pretty naughty with a lady from Swiss Intelligence.’

  ‘Naughty enough to be on leave pending an enquiry.’

  ‘Oh, James. You really should control yourself. You can when you try. Look at you now.’ She moved suggestively and another couple of inches of thigh were revealed.

  ‘Okay, so he put the Watchers on me. Why?’

  ‘I think you know why. It’s the reason that fat Gerald will get the push. His concern was that you’d find out exactly what you did find out.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Don’t be coy, James. You found out one of Laura’s secrets.’

  ‘Her brother?’

  ‘Of course.’


  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘When Laura March joined the Anti-terrorist Section, it was Gerald who did the positive vetting. He screwed up – mightily.’

  ‘And he realized he had screwed up?’

  ‘About a year ago, yes. Well, in fact, I discovered Laura’s secret – the serial killer brother.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By accident. I was doing some checking on a possible terrorist contact in the North. It meant looking through local newspapers from way back. I stumbled on the David March story. Though it was headlines all over the world, and people have written books about it, the March family somehow managed to distance themselves. They even kept their photographs out of the papers – the national papers, that is. I happened to see a picture of the father with his daughter in a local paper. She was only a schoolgirl, but I had no doubt it was her.’

  ‘So you came running to Gerald.’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t. Laura was super. She was very good at her job, likeable, funny, very professional. She was my friend, so I went running to her.’

  ‘So who broke the bad news to Gerald?’

  ‘She did. You can imagine how she felt. She had buried the past. Done everything to live it down. She had been terrified with the first vetting, let alone the one Gerald did. She knew she’d be out on her ear if anyone linked her with the David March business. One psycho nut in the family puts a terrible blot on the old escutcheon. Nobody through the ages. vething in our service would risk employing her – tainted blood and all that kind of thing. The possibility of blackmail was worse than the old days when they wouldn’t use gay people. Thank heavens that’s changed.’ Again she shifted on the bed, and, for the first time, Bond got her message.