Scorpius

by John Gardner

  Their routine rarely varied. One would be stationed in what had once been a large box room, now converted into a house surveillance and operations room. Six screens monitored the street and the whole of Greville Mews, while other interior cameras could announce anything untoward in the house itself. Danny took the first shift after Harriett arrived – Sweeney squeezing in to unplug the monitor which gave a perfect picture of the bedroom allotted to the girl.

  Later in the day, when ‘Todd’ Sweeney took over, Danny walked to the Pakistani newsagent’s shop on the corner to buy a pile of magazines and some paperbacks, so that the girl had something other than the television to help her pass the time. To Harriett’s amusement he brought back a Judith Krantz and two Danielle Steels, not her kind of reading at all, for Harriett much preferred the works of Deighton, le Carré et al. Nor did she usually read the kind of woman’s magazine he bought for her, not that he would have known, for she thanked him profusely and took them to her room.

  At around quarter to six, Danny came up and asked if she would care to have tea in her room, or would she do the honour of having tea with him. She chose the latter, joining him in the downstairs back room, adjacent to the kitchen, which they had elevated to the status of dining room. There, Harriett discovered that tea, for Danny, meant large cups of a very strong brew, kippers with plenty of pepper and vinegar, and bread and butter, though there appeared to be more butter than bread.

  Up in the operations room, Sweeney saw the large red Post Office van draw up in front of the house and was immediately on alert.

  As he raised the first forkful of kipper to his mouth, Danny’s portable radio crackled into life. ‘Dan, there’s a PO van out front. Looks okay, but it isn’t the usual time for either mail or anyone bringing over papers from HQ.’

  Danny clicked the button of his radio to transmit. ‘I’ll take a look,’ he said dryly. ‘Could be something to do with our visitor.’ The bell rang in the hall outside and Danny, automatic pistol drawn and held low behind his right thigh, went through and asked who it was. His actual words were, ‘Who is it? That you, Brian?’

  He would have expected to receive the answer, ‘Special Delivery for Mr Dombey,’ to which he would have replied, ‘Right, it’s his son here.’ This was today’s pattern of code words.

  Instead, the voice outside said, ‘I got a registered package. It’s this address, but I can’t read the name.’

  ‘Check it out and come back in the morning, then.’ By now, Danny had the pistol safety off, and raised towards the door. At the same time he stepped back three paces and, as he did so, Sweeney’s cry came over the RT – ‘Watch it, Dan, there’s four of them! I’m coming down!’

  Danny motioned Harriett to stay out of the hallway just as the first burst of fire hit the door, doing nothing but spreading itself back among the four men who were gathered in the porchway, for the door was disguised with five-inch armour-plated steel.

  There was a cry of pain as one of the strangers received a ricochet in the face. Then a steady rain of axe blows began pounding on the door, making little impression.

  ‘Place is like a strong room!’ someone yelled from outside. ‘Pick him up, we’re not going to get in here.’

  Sweeney, who was now at the top of the stairs, dashed back into the operations room to check the full situation on the camera monitoring the porchway, but it had been knocked out by the first, ineffectual burst of fire. He banged down on the alert button, which would trigger an alarm in the Special Branch ops room of Scotland Yard, then returned to the stairs and shouted. ‘Watch it, Dan. I don’t know what the situation is out there!’

  Too late, Danny, on hearing the scuffling of withdrawal, clicked back the automatic bolts, threw the door open and stepped forward, raising his automatic in the two-handed stance.

  The shotgun blast caught him full on the chest, throwing him back along the hallway. Two intruders had been left at the door. Now they leaped inside, the lethal shotguns at the ready.

  But Sweeney, at the top of the stairs, had flicked out the landing light. He put the first man to sleep for ever with a pair of shots taking off the top of his skull. The second attacker lifted his shotgun, but caught two bullets in the chest. The shotgun exploded as he was thrown into a kind of macabre back-flip. A lot of plaster dislodged itself from the hall ceiling.

  Harriett leaned into the hall, despite Sweeney’s call for her to get back, and helped herself to dead Danny’s automatic. The other two men were in the street, one – wounded from the ricochet – being helped into the post van by the other. Sweeney put a pair of shots in his direction, not aiming for a hit – the man appeared to be unarmed – and saw the big dents the slugs made as they went through the side of the red van.

  The man dropped his partner, who lay groaning on the pavement, and leaped into the van, taking off dangerously and at speed. In the distance came the wheep-wheep-wheep of patrol cars.

  By the time Bond arrived at the scene, carefully, through the rear lock-up entrance, the bodies had been removed, and the wounded man was being treated in a secure area of the London Clinic – often used in an emergency. There were two police cars still outside, while, in the main sitting room, Bill Tanner, together with Detective Chief Superintendent Bailey – who had been the start of the whole business the previous day – were going through the stories of Todd Sweeney and Harriett, who appeared, to Bond, to be in shock. There was a plain-clothes SB man in the hallway and a doctor standing by.

  ‘I got here as quickly as I could.’ Bond went straight over to Harriett, placing an arm on her shoulder. ‘You okay?’ he asked, and she gave a quick uncertain nod, followed by a brave smile that suddenly changed Bond’s day. If he was not careful he might get very attached to this girl. That kind of thing was not good, particularly as she was undoubtedly still an unknown quantity as far as this investigation was concerned.

  ‘She’s given us a very accurate description of what happened.’ Tanner sounded more than gruff. ‘But this house is blown.’

  The Branch man coughed. ‘To blazes,’ he added.

  ‘And by whom, I wonder?’ Bond asked of the air.

  Tanner still sounded put out. ‘By your good self, in M’s estimation,’ he said, looking coldly at Bond. These two had a friendship which went back to their Navy days, and it was unlike Tanner to be censorious. ‘You, or the young lady here.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Bond snapped.

  ‘It’s M’s opinion, not mine. Though it does make me wonder.’

  ‘I had nobody on my tail when I brought Harriett here this morning. Nobody. We came by taxi, and I walked her around the block to make certain.’ He turned towards Sweeney. ‘She use the telephone?’

  Harriett gave a small cry of alarm. ‘James, you don’t think . . . ?’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘No.’ Emphatic, and again, ‘No. No way could she.’

  ‘Good.’ Bond turned to Tanner. ‘So, I’m to blame, eh?’

  ‘At the moment.’

  ‘What’re the orders?’

  ‘When we’ve finished here, you’re supposed to come back with Mr Bailey and myself. Debriefing. Ms Horner and you. Both.’

  Bond frowned. ‘The message I got said “three slabs”. Who were they?’

  ‘Todd got two of the intruders, complete with black jumpsuits and hoods. They got Danny De Fretas.’

  ‘Oh, hell no.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. There’s a team coming in tonight. We’re clearing everything out, and the office is concocting a press story.’

  ‘ “Three slabs and a pick-up,” they said. Who was the pick-up?’

  ‘He’s down for interrogation. Blast in the face. They fired a damned great shotgun at the door. The shot, and flakes of steel just bounced back and shared themselves out with the attackers. One caught a lot in the face.’

  Bond thought for a moment, remembering Trilby Shrivenham at the clinic. ‘Bill.’ He motioned Tanner towards a corner. ‘Listen, where’s the pick-up?’


  ‘London Clinic. We’ve got him mewed up close and tight.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘How’s my standing with M? Really, how is it?’

  ‘He’s convinced that you bringing Ms Horner here blew the cover on this place. You did it first and asked afterwards, James. You know how much he likes that kind of thing. What is it you want?’

  ‘I want to have a crack at the pick-up. Is he receiving visitors?’

  ‘They’ve removed a lot of shot and splinters from his face. Shock, of course. The doctors say he should be okay for interrogation tomorrow.’

  ‘I want him now.’

  ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘Bill, believe me. M sent me to Sir James Molony to listen to Trilby Shrivenham. I have the tapes with me. I have an edge. I only need five minutes with this wounded terrorist. Five minutes, then I’ll come back and face the music. You can convince M, Bill.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Then he gave a quick shrug. ‘Oh, well, nothing ventured. Okay, I’ll call him. But I can’t promise anything.’

  Everyone was preparing to leave, and Bond had a hurried word with Harriett as Bill Tanner went off to make the telephone call.

  ‘Small piece of advice, Harriett.’ Bond stood close to her. He could smell her hair full of the reek of cordite and feel the bowstring tension in her body. ‘You’re going to be interrogated by a very cunning old intelligence expert. Tell the truth and we’ll all come up covered with rosebuds.’

  She gave him a wan little smile. ‘Do my best. It’s been quite a day. I’m not used to getting myself shot at twice in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Few of us are. Now the real advice. Do you know an Agency man called David Wolkovsky, who works out of the US Embassy, Grosvenor Square? Truth now.’

  There was no hesitation. ‘Yes. Yes, I know him.’

  ‘Right. Does he know of your operation?’

  ‘He knows I might make contact. He was there as back-up if I ran into real trouble.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself, Harriett, you did run into real trouble. Now, when my chief interrogates you, do not, and I mean not, own to knowing Wolkovsky. Any friend of his is an enemy of my superior officer. Apart from that, just tell the truth as I said.’

  ‘Thank you, James. I’ll try and remember.’

  She sounded very formal, and Bond caught her gaze drifting over his shoulder. He turned to find Bill Tanner there. ‘Your wish has been granted.’ He gave Bond a friendly, almost conspiratorial grin before continuing, ‘But he says five minutes only, and you are to come straight on to HQ.’

  Bond nodded. ‘See you later.’ His hand brushed Harriett’s shoulder, fingers squeezing for a second. Then he was taking long strides out of the room, heading back towards the rear of the house and the lock-up garages. Half an hour later, with the Bentley parked nearby, he walked into the London Clinic.

  They had the wounded man on the third floor, in a private section enclosed by a ring of bodyguards and police. A senior minder called Orson was in charge and he recognised Bond immediately. ‘The doctors don’t like it, sir,’ he began, ‘but M has decreed that you have five minutes with him. That really is all I can give you.’

  ‘Fine. Five minutes with the pick-up is all I asked for.’

  There was an armed hood by the bedside who stood up as they entered. ‘Stay,’ Bond said, casually. ‘I want to check one thing out with the man.’ He took out the Sony Professional Walkman – the tape had already been wound on – fitted the mike and placed it by the bed. The man who lay there was short and thin, his face covered with dressings and bandages, except for his mouth and one eye, which moved constantly. Bond could see the fear in that one eye. At least he had that going for him.

  He turned the Sony to record and leaned forward, speaking with his lips close to the man’s ear. ‘Listen well, my friend, and nothing bad will happen to you. I come because I know the meek shall inherit the earth.’

  The one eye twitched anxiously. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he whispered. The accent came from somewhere in the Middle East.

  ‘Oh, but you do. You know the meek shall inherit the earth. Just as the blood of the fathers shall fall upon the sons; and the blood of the mothers will pass also. Thus an endless wheel of revenge will turn.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ It came out in a breathless rush. ‘You do know.’

  ‘Of course I know. Now, I have one question.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Why are the meek going to King Arthur?’

  There was a long silence, and the twitching eye appeared to have become much more steady. ‘What is the time, friend?’ the wounded man asked. Even his voice was steady now.

  Bond glanced at his watch. ‘Nine thirty.’

  The wounded man’s lips formed a tiny smile. ‘Then it’s too late, whoever you are. The meek went to King Arthur at nine o’clock.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You will.’ The man’s head moved a fraction so that he could bring his one eye to bear on Bond. ‘You will see. And you will not see. The meek shall inherit, and not just by going to King Arthur.’ He turned away again and closed the one eye, like a prince signalling the end of an audience.

  Bond switched off the recorder, nodded to Orson and the hood, then walked to the door. Halfway down the corridor he heard footsteps behind him, moving fast. It was Orson, making little gestures for him to stop.

  ‘Bad news, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Old Lord Mills.’

  ‘What about Lord Mills?’ Everyone in the country knew, and loved, Lord Mills, no matter what their politics. Lord Mills of Bromfield, formerly Mr Samuel Mills, had twice been Prime Minister, was outspoken in criticism, even against his own party when necessary. Still his wisdom and charisma could sway huge audiences, even though he had reached the age of eighty-seven. ‘What about him?’ Bond repeated.

  ‘Just came through. He’s been assassinated.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About fifteen people dead altogether. Some kind of bomb.’

  ‘How? Where?’

  ‘He was on his way to a campaign meeting in the West Country. He stopped to go walkabout and talk to an election crowd in Glastonbury, sir.’

  ‘It happened in Glastonbury?’

  ‘Terrible. Yes. Terrible carnage.’

  Bond started to run towards the lifts. Glastonbury, he thought. The meek had indeed gone to King Arthur. The small market town of Glastonbury with its great knoll of a Tor surmounted by a tower, and the ruined Abbey nearby, with the thorn bush supposed to have been grown from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea – the man in whose garden Christians believed that Christ was buried and rose again. Glastonbury, the place many Arthurian scholars singled out as the legendary Avalon – with Arthur himself buried in the Abbey. That was where the much-loved Lord Mills had been assassinated, together with innocents. As he rode down in the lift, Bond felt shocked and numb. The blood of the fathers? The endless wheel of revenge? The meek had gone to King Arthur and killed, violently and with vengeance.

  10

  GO FIND THE DEVILS

  ‘It is difficult to describe the carnage here, by what was once the market cross of this usually quiet and peaceful West Country town. The police and rescue services are still sifting through the wreckage, and, at the moment, the casualty list stands at thirty injured – ten seriously – and twenty dead, including, of course, Lord Mills himself. The Prime Minister has postponed an election meeting due to be held tonight in order for her to come here, to Glastonbury, and then to visit Lady Mills.

  ‘Lord Mills began his long political life in 1920 when he first stood for Parliament and was elected as Member for . . .’ Bond snapped the car radio over to short-wave and hit the button for his listening-out frequency. He drove as fast as possible through the evening traffic, a hundred questions invading his mind.

  Inevitably, everything went back to the beginning – to young Emma Dupré’s death,
and what followed. There were massive question marks over so much, not least the other vehicles who had him under surveillance when Pearly brought him down from Hereford. Someone must have known exactly where he was; just as someone knew he had taken Harriett to the Kilburn Priory safe house – which was no longer safe.

  Pearly, he wondered. Might it have been him? He could certainly have tipped someone regarding the journey to London, but what was the point? It had been a dangerous ride and Pearly was just as much at risk as Bond himself. As for Harriett and the safe house, he would have to check on whether Pearly fitted the profile there – whether he knew of the safe house, Harriett’s existence, and the fact that she was there.

  This last was certainly unlikely. Only a handful of people knew, and if they did have a penetration agent – damned if he would call him a mole – then that person had to fit a distinct profile. Had to know of the trip from Hereford, and had to know where Harriett had been lodged. As far as he knew, the only people who fitted the entire profile were M, Bill Tanner, Miss Moneypenny and himself. David Wolkovsky? He wondered. The CIA London resident rarely missed anything. It could just be possible. Though certainly Bond doubted it.

  He managed to keep the other demons at the back of his mind – the horror at Glastonbury and the undeniable fact that at least two people had known it was going to happen – even if the knowledge was only in Trilby Shrivenham’s subconscious. As to who had carried out the atrocity, Bond was in no doubt that it was Father Valentine/Vladimir Scorpius, through the agency of the Society of the Meek Ones. Why, was another matter.

  At headquarters it looked and sounded as though they were on a war footing. M sat behind his desk, his face lined, eyes sad and tired, a man almost in shock. They were waiting for the most recent reports to come in from Glastonbury in the calm folds of England that form Somerset.

  ‘You are absolutely, completely certain that nobody had you marked when you took the girl, Horner, to Kilburn?’ M asked for what seemed to be the hundredth time.