by John Gardner
‘Positive, sir, as I’ve already told you. I plead guilty to taking Ms Horner to Kilburn without authorisation. I acted first and asked permission afterwards. But I was very concerned for her safety.’ In truth he was certain, but knew that in his trade nothing is totally certain. Was there not an old Italian proverb – ‘He who knows the most believes the least.’
‘Mmm,’ M growled. ‘I’ve asked Wolkovsky to step over from Grosvenor Square again.’ He spoke almost to himself. ‘So far it looks as though your Ms Horner is genuine, and one hundred per cent safe. But there are aspects that still worry me.’
‘There are at least two that worry me, sir.’ Bond had yet to tell his chief about Trilby and the surviving member of the raid on the Kilburn house.
He was about to play the tapes when Bill Tanner came in, through his private office door. ‘There’s a full and detailed newsflash going out on all channels in two minutes, sir.’ He crossed the room to the small portable television set that had been brought into the office. Things had to be serious for the TV to be there at all: M regarded television with grave suspicion. He was the same with computers, but they were forced upon him while television was not.
The pictures that came up with the detailed report of the bomb outrage were ghastly. The area around the market cross at Glastonbury looked as though a giant demolition machine had gouged a crater in the middle of the road. There were grotesque and tangled pieces of metal which had once been vehicles, while some of the old houses had frontages blown away. Others had escaped with shattered windows. Explosive blast knows no natural laws in the open. A man standing near the centre was likely to be completely destroyed, though it was technically possible to survive, deaf and naked, but alive. Blast will remove windows from one building, leaving it intact while the structure next to it collapses.
The cameras roamed the streets, bathed in light from the huge arc lamps that had been set up by the emergency services, picking up a bloodstain here, a woman’s handbag there, a shoe in what had once been the gutter. The market cross had disappeared altogether.
The commentary was relentless. Lord Mills – Sam to his many friends – had been in a chauffeur-driven Rover and was scheduled to make three stops: one at Shepton Mallet, then a detour to Glastonbury before going on to address a meeting for the Conservative candidate in Wells. It crossed Bond’s mind that the old man had still managed to travel and speak in public like someone in the prime of life. Shepton Mallet was well known for its military prison; Glastonbury for its Abbey ruins and the supposed connection with King Arthur, and Wells for its beautiful cathedral. The visits and speeches had been planned only four days before. Whoever had decided on Mills as the target had chosen one of the most peaceful towns in England to carry out the horrible deed. The whole thing had barbarous overtones – target and place, not to mention the fact of innocent bystanders.
A large crowd had turned out to see the famous old man. A local police car had picked up the Rover two miles out of Glastonbury, taking over from the Shepton Mallet car. They had come into the town slowly, the few local police on duty holding back the crowd which threatened to press in on the car. It was all good-humoured, and the police would certainly never have even considered Sam Mills as a terrorist’s target.
The cars had finally stopped near the market cross – the whole area cordoned off by the police – and the crowd appeared to be forming an orderly circle around the vehicles. An aide assisted the old man out of the Rover, and, just as the door was closed behind him and he had pulled his body into its familiar tall, unstooping stance – one hand on walking stick, the other raised in salutation, face wreathed in a smile – part of the crowd appeared to break out almost swamping the car, and from its centre came the fireball, ripping forward, then billowing outwards. All had been caught by the cameras, and the public were spared nothing in the viewing.
‘My God!’ M breathed. ‘The evil devils. Sometimes I think these people do it merely for the love of death.’
Both Bond and Tanner, who had seen a great deal of carnage over the years, were sickened by the sight.
When it was over, all three men were shaken. Even M jumped when the intercom phone rang. He spoke, then listened and spoke again. ‘Send him straight up,’ he said into the instrument, then, replacing it, looked up at Tanner and Bond. ‘Bailey, from the Branch, is here. Says he has some urgent information for us.’
The Chief Superintendent also had the haggard look which seemed to be infectious. M ushered him into a chair. ‘Nobody claiming responsibility,’ he said wearily. ‘As yet we just don’t know how it happened, but none of the known terrorist groups have come on the line with a code – not even the idiot calls. Usually someone claims one of these within the hour. It’s very worrying. To be honest with you, I don’t think it’s a one-off.’
‘I can tell you who did it,’ Bond said quietly. ‘But I’d like to know how. Was it thrown, launched, pre-set or what?’
‘Who?’ It was a chorus from M, Tanner and Bailey.
‘I was just going to play a couple of tapes for M when the newsflash came on.’
M was tetchy. ‘Why didn’t you say so, Bond? This sounds essential for any follow-up.’
‘The Society of the Meek Ones did it.’ He even sounded matter-of-fact.
They listened as he played through the awful, evil tape of Trilby Shrivenham with her strange, witchlike coded prophecy. Then the more obvious conversation with the injured raider of the Kilburn house. ‘He knew – knows – some of the details and should be sweated,’ he said after the recordings had been played. ‘Trilby is different. That’s almost certainly her subconscious.’ He went on to tell them what Molony had said about the possibility of Trilby not being able to recall anything once he had weaned her off the overdose of drugs still in her system.
‘If it is the Meek Ones, we should start an immediate operation.’ M’s crustiness had gone. ‘It would be best if everyone combined forces – the Branch, local police forces, ourselves and Five.’
‘And the Americans, sir,’ from Tanner. ‘This Valentine man is wanted by our beloved cousins. It’s reasonable to bring them in, I think.’
‘If we have to, I suppose. Yes. You know how I feel about . . .’ They all knew what he was going to say but the telephone cut him off short. He picked up the instrument, listened to Moneypenny, then said, ‘Oh! Yes, I see. Put her through, please . . .’ His tone was now deferential. Bond and Tanner exchanged glances, and Bailey raised his eyebrows.
The conversation went on for six or seven minutes. Nobody was in any doubt as to the identity of the caller. ‘Yes, Prime Minister, yes, I rather think we do know. But it’s highly complex . . . Certainly . . . Yes, of course . . . I’ll take the action and report . . . At midnight, very well, I shall be there, Prime Minister.’ He put down the receiver, glared around him in an almost Churchillian look of belligerence and announced, ‘That was the Prime Minister!’ Tanner actually stifled a snort at this statement of the obvious, but M was speaking again, steamrollering anybody who wanted to get a word in. ‘We shall be performing a combined operation. Even though we’re in the middle of a General Election the PM is assembling COBRA. I’m to be there by midnight.’
COBRA is a special committee – taking its name from the Cabinet Office Briefing Room – usually consisting of the Home Secretary as Chairman, the Secretary of the Cabinet Office and several others, mainly representing the Home and Foreign Offices, MI5 and the Secret Intelligence Service, Metropolitan Police and Ministry of Defence. It has the power to co-opt members from other departments or services – particularly when the committee is assembled to deal with a terrorist threat.
‘As there is an American interest here,’ M continued, ‘I propose to move that we co-opt Cousin Wolkovsky. Keep him out of mischief. Also, as we appear to have all the leads, I am going to ask you, Bond, to go out and track this dangerous and wicked man, Valentine – or Scorpius as we know he is – and his nest of killer spiders, the Meek Ones. You may ask for an
y assistance. I can’t stress too strongly that this is a desperate assignment.’
‘Where do I start looking, sir? We don’t even know how they did this thing.’ He glanced at Bailey who merely shrugged and said the forensic people were there, with C13 – the Anti-Terrorist Squad. As soon as there was any news it would be passed on.
‘You’ve seen the television tapes,’ he added. ‘They tell you as much as we know. They are, of course, undergoing analysis at the moment.’
‘You look under every stone.’ M spoke steadily. ‘You take who you like. For the honour of this Service – as well as your country – you get them. Understand?’
Bond thought, yes, for a few more million in the Secret Vote as well. Then he felt ashamed at even having thought it. M was a wise, experienced officer who would go through fire and ice for his country. This one terrible act of killing an old, well-loved, highly respectable politician, plus a crowd of innocents was being interpreted as possibly only the start of some even worse atrocities – or a whole campaign, aimed at disrupting the General Election. Whatever M’s other motives might be, his first concern would most certainly be to root out and destroy the evil that had come among them in the guise of a moral, peace-loving religious organisation. ‘Has Pearlman come back yet, sir?’ he asked.
M nodded. ‘He has, but I’ve yet to hear his report.’
‘I’ll take him, if I may?’ He knew there were dangers, for he could not rule out the possibility of Pearlman not being straight. But those you cannot entirely trust are best kept close, he thought.
‘When we’ve heard what he has to say, yes.’
‘And Ms Horner, to represent the United States. She appears to have been on this case for some time.’ Harriett was another unknown quantity. Again, he thought, she is best kept close. Watch, observe and be on your guard. He had to remind himself, for Harriett Horner was, in a strange way, playing havoc with his emotions.
‘She has, indeed.’ M sounded distracted. ‘Yes, very well Bond, but take care. I’ve seen the interrogation reports, and her personal file – at least Wolkovsky allowed me that. She’s very good, but we’ll have to get clearance from her service. Providing that’s agreed, yes, you can take her.’
As M reached out for the telephone again, Bailey asked if he could go. ‘I’ll be on to you the moment I have some solid news, sir.’
M nodded, an almost arrogant dismissal, then, as though changing his mind, held up a hand. ‘I don’t even know if Pearlman’s got anything for us, but, in the light of Commander Bond’s tapes – evidence – regarding these precious Meek Ones, I suspect someone should get Forensic and Scene-of-Crime units down to Manderson Hall. Can you fix that, or d’you want me to get on to the Commissioner?’
‘I can do it, sir. Leave it with me.’
M turned back to Bond as the door closed behind the Branch man. ‘Let me get on to Wolkovsky, then we’ll have Pearlman in.’
Wolkovsky had already left the Embassy, on his way over to Regent’s Park, so M instructed Moneypenny to let them know as soon as he arrived. ‘In the meantime, I’ll see Sergeant Pearlman, he’s been waiting long enough.’
‘Pearly’ Pearlman looked decidedly the worse for wear. He had not shaved for forty-eight hours, and the clothes on his back looked as though they were more fitted for a tramp than an SAS NCO.
‘Good grief, man, do you usually report to your CO in Hereford like this?’ M showed a touch of the old sea dog he had once been – ‘A terror when you were up before him,’ a former Naval rating had once confided to Bond. ‘They used to call him the Defaulters’ Curse.’
M’s tone rolled off Pearlman like water off the proverbial duck’s back. ‘Well, chief, sometimes one has to, if you see what I mean.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t see what you mean.’
‘Look, chief. I’ve been press-ganged into this. Certainly I told the boss here that I’d help. But I didn’t expect to be standing out half the day waiting for everyone to clear off. Yes, I went down like this to mingle – sit in hedgerows, blend into the landscape. I was called back here and I’ve been sitting in your padded cell for a long time.’
‘All right, all right,’ M frowned. ‘Let’s forget it. As soon as we’ve finished here I suggest that you go and get spruced up a little. Now, have you anything to report?’
Pearly held his hand in front of him, tipping it to and fro. ‘A little. Not a lot.’
‘Well?’
‘I went through the place as best I could. Had to jemmy open a window round the back, so that was me, if anyone’s asking. I left no prints on the place, that’s for sure, and I didn’t spoil any evidence that might already be there. I can tell you one thing though, they knew they were leaving. It was planned well in advance. Looked as though they had known for several days. Prick neat the place was, as my old mother used to say. Prick neat. Everything stowed away shipshape and Bristol fashion. Beds made, nothing in the wastepaper baskets, nor the dustbins. Not a sheet of paper in there. Not a pair of jeans; not a shirt; not even an old pair of drawers. They’d swabbed down and got out as though they had never been there in the first place.’
During Pearlman’s little speech, Bond turned away to smile. He had no doubt that, while Pearlman was giving a very clear picture of the state in which he found Manderson Hall, he was adding a few seafaring phrases for M’s benefit.
‘Commander Bond?’
‘Sir?’
‘Any questions you want to put to Sergeant Pearlman?’
‘Tyre marks? Signs of the way they left?’
Pearlman nodded. ‘Yes. Tyre marks round the back, but the cars – about four of them I reckoned – and a couple of small vans went empty. Anyway, there wasn’t enough room in that transport for the whole lot.’
‘Left empty?’
‘Marks not deep enough for fully loaded vehicles.’
‘And how many people do you think were at the place?’
‘One hundred and fifty, going on two hundred.’
‘How d’you work that out?’
‘First, the beds. There were doubles and singles. I told you they was made up, neat. All tidy. Shipshape.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Bond gave him a look to signify that the SAS man had taken the mickey for long enough.
‘Even though beds’re neat and tidy, you can usually tell if they’ve been slept in within the last week or so. That is unless they had all the sheets changed – something people in a hurry do not stop for, even if they’ve left everything else tidy, and cleared every scrap of paper, and every last stitch of clothing, every book, every plate, every last thing. They did all that, but they did not change the sheets. I went through each bed in the place and I’d swear every pair of sheets had seen at least three to four days’ recent usage. Right?’
‘Right,’ Bond nodded. ‘How do you think they left, then?’
‘Over a couple of days, I would say. Probably took the heavy stuff out a while ago. Then they’d go in twos and threes. No big rush, just drifting off. Some in cars and vans picking others up. I had a word in the local pub – well, more like I listened out really. I’m sure that’s what they did. They just drifted off, all set for either an RV somewhere else, or on a series of operations to be carried out.’
The enormity of what Pearlman had said hit Bond. Aloud, M gave a groan. ‘Lord have mercy,’ he added.
‘Amen to that, chief,’ from Pearlman.
The telephone buzzed again and M gave muttered instructions. Then, to Bond, ‘You want to give the Sergeant his orders?’
‘I can’t do that, sir. I can ask him.’
‘Well . . . Well, be quick about it, Bailey’s back and our friend from up the road is waiting.’
‘Pearly.’ Bond smiled at the SAS man. ‘Will you go on helping?’
‘If I’m needed, yes, of course.’
‘Nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning.’ He gave a place near to his own flat just off the Kings Road. ‘We’ll go over the Pangbourne place again.’
‘I�
��ll be there, boss. That all?’
Bond nodded, and M raised a hand, gesturing towards the door.
‘Bailey first,’ M said, when Pearlman had left. ‘Says they have evidence of how it was done. He’s got a video. It seems his people sent it over here; he hasn’t been out of the building.’
Bailey looked even more shocked than before. He lugged a video recorder into the room and set it up by M’s television. ‘We slowed the tape right down, and our specialists managed to enhance the picture – zoomed in on the vital part.’
‘And?’ M had watched the setting up of the electronics with a certain wariness.
‘And, I think you should see for yourself, sir. First, this is the original tape.’ He pressed the Play button and the scene that had sickened them before was replayed on the screen. The cars drawing up, the friendly crowd, the old man being helped out of the car, waving and smiling. Then the sudden break and the explosion.
‘Now,’ said Bailey. ‘I want you to watch this.’ He pressed Play again. This time it was as though they had a camera zoomed in on a small section of the crowd who were pressing forward. In slow motion, they moved and the Rover’s bonnet came into the frame.
‘Watch the young man in the green anorak,’ Bailey almost whispered.
They picked him out easily, a dark-haired young man. Bond thought he would be nearly thirty, certainly no older. Suddenly, in this shocking slow motion, they saw the young man leap forward, almost onto the bonnet of the car. As he did so, his hand moved inside the anorak and he was gone in a huge fireball, flesh, bone and blood disintegrating.
‘My God!’ M was almost out of his seat. ‘My God! The fellow detonated himself. That’s too horrible. Terrible.’
‘But it’s true, sir.’ Bailey really was whispering now. ‘What happened in Glastonbury was that a human bomb exploded himself close to Sam Mills.’
He played it again. This time Bond almost retched.
‘Get them, James!’ M spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Just get them. Kill them, wipe them off the face of the earth if you have to, though I’ll deny ever saying that to you if it happens. Go out and find the devils.’
