Young Bond

by Steve Cole

  James recognized the accent with surprise and relief. A key scraped in the lock, and the door to his cell was barged open by a familiar stocky man in a rumpled grey suit and a fedora, with an air of hard-boiled alertness about him. Small blue eyes twinkled and a grin spread over the tough-guy face. ‘Well, well. We meet again, Mr Bond!’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ James stood and took his hand in a firm shake. ‘Elmhirst! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I heard you called for me last week at the office. When I heard this police report, I thought I should come and call for you.’ Elmhirst turned to the sergeant. ‘He’s leaving with me, so you’d better get busy with the paperwork. Chop, chop, eh?’ As the officer moved reluctantly out of the cell and closed and locked the door behind him, Elmhirst’s face grew more serious. ‘Those postcards from your father you dropped off – they confirmed a few professional opinions. Including my opinion that you would wind up in bother if you drew attention to yourself. Which, of course, you did. Worked out Mechta’s address from your old man’s clues, right?’

  ‘I needed to know what he was trying to say,’ James said. ‘I tried to ask your office for help, but I was just about thrown out. Thought that, without any evidence, SIS would call it a cold case.’

  Elmhirst looked at James and shook his head. ‘It’s an old case that’s building up to boiling point. I’ve had Mechta under surveillance for some time.’

  ‘SIS know about the Mechta Academy?’

  ‘We’ve got a man called Karachan under observation. Served with the Latvian Riflemen in the Great War, until the Russian revolution – then he threw his lot in with the Bolsheviks so he could shoot the nobility for pleasure and profit.’ Elmhirst smiled grimly. ‘Currently runs a violent subset of the British Communist Party.’

  ‘Then you must know about the high explosives I found in the basement.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You need to get a team down to Mechta right now!’

  ‘Oh, sure, all tooled up with tommy guns to rat-a-tat the bad guys, right?’ Elmhirst held up his hands. ‘Just slow down, eh?’

  James stared. ‘You don’t believe me either? Think I’m making it up like Madame Radek?’

  ‘Don’t mention that old bat to me.’ Elmhirst shook his head. ‘She’s bent so many earholes about security for her royal gala show, so many times. VIP bigwigs galore are going, see, the head of SIS included, so we’ve been assisting the Met, running background checks on those involved. I s’pose I should thank her, really – that’s how we found out about Karachan. He came over from Moscow three years ago, but he’s just one cog in a very big wheel.’ Elmhirst took off his hat and wiped his bald head with his sleeve. ‘If I take a team into Mechta to search it from top to bottom, Karachan’s bosses get the tip-off that we’re on to their little plot – and who knows how they’ll respond. They could go to ground, or else use that explosive rather than let it be captured.’

  ‘Use it . . .’ James looked up at him. ‘Then you do believe me?’

  ‘It would fit.’ Elmhirst fixed his hat back on his head. ‘And after your little visit today, some very loud alarm bells will have gone off. They got your real name, didn’t they?’

  James nodded, cheeks prickling. ‘They must’ve searched me while I was knocked out. I have my passport with me.’

  ‘Yes, well, I expect questions about you are being asked right now.’ Elmhirst began to pace up and down. ‘Staying locked up in here is probably the safest bet for you. But we don’t have that option.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Officially, nothing at all. But you have to know you’re mixed up in the end moves of a long, long game – a Soviet plot that must be nearing completion by now.’

  ‘Did my uncle Max know about it?’ James asked.

  ‘Not as much as your old man.’ Elmhirst looked all around the room as if afraid he’d be overheard. ‘You’re involved. Have been since your dad named you in that letter: Play with James . . . a major key. That doesn’t mean play a game, it means the game’s afoot, and somehow you’re vital to it all.’

  James was lost. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You know your dad’s message to your uncle was in code. You cracked some of it, which is how you ended up at the Academy. But there’s more, and we need your help in order to understand it.’

  James looked doubtful. ‘I’ve read those words so many times, and I’m none the wiser.’

  ‘Well, at SIS we’ve got a little more to go on,’ Elmhirst said. ‘And that leaves me convinced that you can help. In fact, you’re going to have to.’ He smiled. ‘Still, first things first: getting you out of here. I’ve had a word with the duty sergeant – he understands—’

  As if on cue, the bolts on the door slid back and the heavy key turned in the lock. The officer who’d brought in Madame Radek opened the door and came in, looking grave.

  ‘I’ve talked to my superiors,’ he announced.

  ‘Good.’ Elmhirst winked at James. ‘Then we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘As you were, sir.’ The sergeant retreated through the door and it slowly closed behind him. Elmhirst started towards it.

  Then the door swung back open and smashed into Elmhirst’s face. He reeled backwards with a gruff cry, falling on his side as the sergeant pushed back into the room and kicked him in the guts.

  James flew to Elmhirst’s aid, hooked an arm around the sergeant’s throat to drag him away. An elbow thudded into his solar plexus, but James had been expecting the blow and tensed his stomach muscles.

  The burning powder that the sergeant threw into James’s eyes was a different matter.

  Recoiling, James shouted out in pain, his eyes streaming, nose and throat burning. What the hell was that? He staggered back and tripped over the bucket, fell against the wall, banged the lump on his head again – but his eyes were stinging so badly now that he hardly noticed. He heard the sounds of violence close by, a gasp from Elmhirst and the sound of a blow. Someone stamped on James’s leg and he winced and rolled out of the way, falling against his father’s backpack. He grabbed it and clutched it to his chest. The pain in his eyes was almost unbearable . . .

  An almighty thump reverberated through the wall James was leaning against. A moment later, strong hands grabbed hold of his arms and hauled him to his feet. James began to struggle, lashing out blindly.

  ‘Oi! Hold up, Bond, it’s me.’ Elmhirst’s breath brushed James’s cheek. ‘You all right?’

  ‘I’m blind.’ James’s eyelids felt swollen with fire and he fought to stay calm. ‘Some sort of powder . . .’

  ‘’S all right.’ Elmhirst smacked his lips, then spat. ‘Yeah, it’s just ground cayenne pepper mixed with flour – old fighting trick from the Orient. They carry it wrapped in rice paper. Won’t do any permanent damage. Maybe our friendly bobby here served with the Chinese Labour Corps in the war.’

  ‘But why blind me?’

  ‘Same reason he tried to stop me taking you away. Like I said, your trip to Mechta will have set off alarm bells in high places – and raised some pressing questions. Obviously Karachan’s not their only agent.’

  ‘But this man is a British policeman—!’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Elmhirst patted James on the shoulder. ‘Look, let’s save the whodunnits for later, eh? Chances are he’s not the only one in this nick who wants you to stay put. We need to go.’

  ‘Go?’ James held on tightly to his father’s pack. ‘I can’t see a damned thing.’

  ‘I’ll guide you. Just look down at the ground and keep quiet.’

  James was jerked away by the arm, out of his cell and into the cool corridor beyond. The idea of depending on someone else, of surrendering control, made him feel sick; all his life he’d watched out for himself and his friends. But what choice did he have – left blind with eyes and nose streaming?

  The station was quiet apart from the ring of their footsteps on the floor. With Elmhirst keeping him close, guiding his flight, Ja
mes could hear the steady thump of the man’s heartbeat. He was keeping calm. He was a professional. They would make it out of here.

  James heard the duty officer call, puzzled: ‘’Ere, hold up! You can’t just take him out of here?’

  ‘All arranged,’ said Elmhirst, quickening his step.

  ‘Wait—’

  But Elmhirst was waiting for no one! He practically pushed James through a doorway into the unexpected heat of the evening, along a path, heading for the growl of traffic on the road ahead; the station must be set back from the main street. He heard the bass hoot of a tugboat on the Thames, and blinked and rubbed his watering eyes furiously. Finally, through the tears, he saw the dark-blue blur of an Austin 12 taxicab looming up ahead.

  ‘Who says you never find one when you need one?’ Elmhirst tugged open the rear door, bundled James up over the High-Lot’s running board and into the back, then slid onto the black leather seat beside him and slammed shut the door.

  ‘Everything all right, guv?’ the driver chirped through the glass partition.

  ‘It’s been a long day. Get going,’ Elmhirst snapped. ‘Mark Lane underground station. Quick as you can.’

  ‘It’s rush hour,’ said the driver, ‘and there’s a lot of traffic round the bridge . . .’

  ‘Here you go,’ Elmhirst said calmly, and James heard the rustle of paper drawn from a billfold. ‘There’s a few bob extra if you get us there tout de suite.’

  ‘Naturellement, monsieur.’ The cabbie slaughtered the French pronunciation and proceeded to do the same to the Austin’s gearbox as he took the car out into the traffic.

  ‘You think we’re being followed?’ James murmured.

  ‘Odds on,’ Elmhirst agreed. ‘Someone could’ve been posted outside the station to check that the bent copper did his dirty work. I didn’t hang around to find out.’

  ‘I can’t believe he attacked you too,’ said James. ‘I mean, how on earth could he explain that away to the real police?’

  ‘Put the blame on you?’ Elmhirst pushed a handkerchief into James’s hands. ‘Make you seem unstable, get you locked up for longer as a danger to others . . .’

  ‘But when you came to, you’d tell people what really happened.’

  ‘Who says I was supposed to come to?’ Elmhirst shifted on the seat. ‘I told you, James, you’ve poked your nose into something really big this time.’

  ‘Never mind my nose, it’s my eyes . . .’ James muttered, dabbing furiously at his swollen lids. To his relief, his sight was growing clearer. The looming hulks of bulky red buses, trundling alongside in a steady stream, slowly revealed their details: rows of faces stared blankly through dusty windows while advertisement slogans smeared across the length of the vehicles in horizontal strips – Wrigley’s after a meal helped digestion and whitened your teeth! Maples had a sale on, today and every day! The busy grey blur on the pavements resolved into crowds of bowler-hatted commuters, pipes jammed between their lips as they scurried like rats from their workplaces. The freedom of the pale-blue sky stretched beyond the tall stone facades of the teeming streets. James saw a van from Meredith & Drew, a pack of their cheese sandwich biscuits painted on the back, promising A meal for 2d! His stomach growled.

  ‘Where are we going?’ James wondered. ‘Why Mark Lane station?’

  ‘Plenty of places we could go from there. West to Kensington, north to Liverpool Street, east to Dagenham . . .’

  ‘So which is it?’

  Elmhirst cast a wary glance at the cabbie and lowered his voice, speaking in James’s ear. ‘None of them. We’ll get out at Mark Lane, go inside the station and then double back across the river on foot.’

  ‘And give the slip to whoever might be following.’ James considered for a moment. ‘But where are we really going?’

  ‘I reckon that the best thing to do is retrace your old daddy’s footsteps . . .’ Elmhirst put an arm around James’s shoulder. ‘I hear Moscow’s lovely this time of year.’

  7

  On His Majesty’s Secret Service

  MOSCOW! JAMES COULD hardly believe he might be flying there himself, helping personally on official SIS business. Excitement buzzed in his heart now that he had fresh hope of reaching the truth at the bottom of this mystery.

  The taxi dropped James and Elmhirst at Mark Lane station. Elmhirst led the way through the entrance, pretended to scrutinize the map, then turned and walked straight out again onto Lower Thames Street. James’s eyes still stung and watered, but he could see well enough to walk unassisted. In any case, he soon found it best to keep your head down when trying to barge through the busy pinstriped crowds. He held his father’s backpack to his chest like armour.

  ‘Rush hour works in our favour,’ Elmhirst said. ‘Chucking-out time for the suits will make us harder to spot.’

  ‘You still think we’re being followed?’

  ‘In this game you get used to thinking, What’s the worst that could happen? and then doubling it.’

  Given his day, James could relate to that, but it was impossible not to feel excited as well as apprehensive with things moving so quickly. ‘Are you serious about travelling to Moscow?’

  ‘You’re a popular boy, James. Wanted by both sides. But I think you’ll prefer my protective custody to theirs.’ He held up a hand to James’s rush of questions. ‘Not now, eh? Not in the open.’

  James and Elmhirst were buffeted by the crowd as they made their way onto London Bridge. The roar of passing traffic filled James’s ears; exhaust fumes caught in his nose and throat. He felt distanced from the crowds around him; they were heading home from work, another ordinary day marked off in their humdrum lives, while he . . . where was he going? Suddenly he was a fugitive. The evening sun glittered on the gun-metal sweep of the Thames, and smoke belched from a steamboat chugging under the bridge, hazing his view of Southwark Cathedral. Perhaps, he thought, some of these humdrum lives held great secrets. Andrew Bond had been just another businessman racing home to see his family . . . but what else had he been doing? Spying for his brother, and his country? Hunting out intrigue?

  Once they’d crossed the bridge, Elmhirst guided James to the white steps on his right that led down to Green Dragon Court, a quiet cobbled street lined with shabby shopfronts and black-leaded bollards, and onto Middle Road. The smell of rotting fruit and vegetables carried through the warm air, and James turned up his nose as he and Elmhirst neared Borough Market. Elmhirst strode confidently through the tussle of traders, customers and staff shutting up shop for the evening, making for a large, bald man with an egg-shaped head and a striped apron, who was loading wooden crates into the back of a Bedford delivery van.

  ‘All right, Harry?’ Elmhirst nodded his head. ‘I’m taking you up on that offer of storage. Is it still available?’

  ‘Way’s clear, Mr Elmhirst,’ Harry said, nodding past a sheet of cloth hanging down from the shop front behind his stall.

  Elmhirst glanced about as if testing Harry’s claim, and then ushered James inside the shop. It was an ill-lit tobacconist’s, the air hazy with cigar smoke and cherry tobacco. James followed Elmhirst through a beaded doorway, down a flight of stairs and along a dark passageway that ended in a door with no handle, just a keyhole. Elmhirst produced a key, turned it and pulled the door open.

  ‘SIS safe house,’ he explained. ‘A place to stay, always available at the drop of a hat.’ As if to demonstrate, he took off his fedora and flipped it onto a hatstand. ‘Storage for you.’

  James went through the door and stared around the basement flat. The oak furniture looked new, the curtains clean, the tables and countertops spotless, but there were no possessions on display, no pictures on the walls; it was a neutral space, a place of passing through. The evening sunlight was turned away by a row of small, grimy windows level with the street beyond; all that was visible was a shifting vista of legs, shoes and bicycle wheels – a world going on outside from which James felt isolated. Everything had happened so fast.

  Jam
es put down his father’s backpack and turned to Elmhirst who, having locked the door, was looking through the cupboards in the small kitchenette. ‘I need to telephone my aunt Charmian and let her know that I’m safe.’

  ‘If you go out again, you may not be,’ Elmhirst warned him. ‘I’ll let her know you’re all right later tonight when I go to arrange our visas and the flights to Moscow. Don’t want Intourist giving us a hard time.’ He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he located the kettle, filled it, lit the gas ring with a match and put the water on to boil. Then he pulled out a tin of Ferndell coffee. ‘No milk. We’ll have to take it black.’

  James couldn’t believe how casual Elmhirst was acting. ‘Who or what is Intourist?’

  ‘Soviet state travel agency.’ Elmhirst poured coffee grounds into two white mugs. ‘They manage foreigners’ access to Russia, make sure they don’t see anything they shouldn’t. Basically they are to tourism what indigestion is to a decent meal. Still, we should be able to give them the slip when we have to.’

  James felt as if he were being dragged headlong into a penny dreadful. ‘You say I’m a key, but to what? How did my father get mixed up in this?’

  ‘Your old man’s work for Vickers took him all over the world.’ Slowly the blue flames from the gas ring made the kettle start to bleat. ‘That would leave him well placed to meet with foreign agents. Including “talpid” types.’

  ‘That’s Latin for mole, isn’t it?’

  ‘And mole is an old word for spies. Although the Russian secret police – the NKVD, you know – use it more to mean informants within an organization. Your dad must have come into contact with one, somehow.’ Elmhirst waited as the kettle was stirred to a steady whistle. ‘What else can you tell me about those explosives you found?’

  ‘They were manufactured by Blade-Rise.’

  ‘Aha! I heard you had a run-in with Maximillian Blade himself at Christmas?’