by John Gardner
‘That’s why you come to me in the night, with my own gun?’
‘The only way you’ll listen, boss. The only way any of your people’ll listen. Yes, I became involved with the Meek Ones, and that murdering Father Valentine who acts as their Son of God made man – that’s what he is to them, you know. He’s the Messiah to the Meek Ones. What he says goes. Go forth and kill thyselves in a crowd near this politician, or that VIP. They go. Don’t look back or you’ll be turned into a pillar of salt. And my little Ruth, not quite twenty yet, is the light of this bastard’s life. Because she’s had a baby – oh, married of course. Their ceremony followed by a trip down the Register Office to make it fully legal. So she’s all set to go to the Meek Ones’ paradise in a hundred fragments. And, for all my cleverness, there’s sod all I can do. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, eh, boss?’
‘That’s what they say.’
‘When I went down to see her the first time, I got introduced to their god, to our Father, Valentine. He saw me as a likely lad, and I played along. Went down to Pangbourne a couple of times. Then went to the wedding. I couldn’t stop it, even though the bloke’s a dyed-in-the-wool Marxist at heart. He believes all the Meek Ones stuff because, subconsciously, he sees it as part of the great revolution. That was eleven months ago now, and she’s had the baby – I’m a grandfather at thirty-seven, boss. Little boy. Joshua. At least she had the decency to give him a good name. And it was after the wedding that Valentine put the bite on me. “I don’t want you to live with us, John,” he said. “I know you draw strength from your daughter being one of us, and I see you also believe.” I’d played the cards right, see. I’d let them all think I was sold. “I need you in the world,” Valentine tells me. “I need you to watch, listen, and report for me. You shall be like the spies the blessed Moses sent to spy out the land of Canaan.” Very good, he is. Quotes the Bible, the Koran and a hundred books that might not exist for all I know.’
‘Yes?’ Bond’s arms were tiring, but he did not dare move. He found Pearlman’s narrative more interesting than he had expected. There were chinks here that Bond could exploit, lever open and use to advantage.
Pearlman still talked. ‘Valentine – Scorpius if you like – told me that when the moment came he would have specific things for me to do. He’d want information. Then, a month or so ago, he gave me a list of people. Just names. Never heard of any of them. I was to let him know if one of the names became a face up in Bradbury Lines. Yours did. So I informed on you, and nearly got us both killed. Any old how, he was well pleased, and I strung along as best I could. Stupidly I wanted to trap him. I kept him well informed. Right up to the Glastonbury business, and after. It was only then that I saw what he was really at, and it worried me sick, boss, because the last time I was with him – just after little Joshua was born – he told me that a great opportunity had come up. When it was over, Britain would be a place fit for heroes. The world would follow in the wake of what was to happen. He also told me that my little Ruth had probably the most important part to play in this great thing – this dawning of a new age. He said I should be proud of what she would do.’
Bond believed every word. Nobody could tell this story without its being true. ‘What happened at the clinic, Pearly?’
‘Yesterday? What didn’t bloody happen? That American bird – Harriett – stumbled on the three guys in Trilby’s room. There was a lot of noise coming from in there – not surprising, they were about to kill her. Harriett opened the door, and they stood like statues. I knew them all. The whole trio, they’re part of Valentine’s personal bodyguard, personal hoodlums if you ask me. Anyhow, they recognised me, and one of them shouted, “What’s going on?” I pretended they’d been rumbled and they started to get out. Suddenly I saw young Harriett lift her skirt. She’d only got a damned great snub-nosed Colt in a thigh holster. Then the shooting began. They were like maniacs – killed anything that moved, including one of their own. He got in crossfire on the steps. I had to box clever. Too bloody clever, though. I caught Harriett, and told her to stay still, but the others thought I’d given them a little present – which in a way I had, ’cos they’d already tried to snatch her in Kilburn. They told me to duck out and they took her with them. I think their car was down the road ’cos they pinched the ambulance. I’m sorry, boss. She’s a good kid, they got away with her, and that was my fault.’
‘So what happened then? And why are you here, Pearly?’
‘I had this emergency number, from Valentine. To use if there was trouble. I legged it out of the clinic, then hid up and telephoned the number. I was told where you were – this was ten o’clock last night. They knew exactly where you were. Just like they knew about the alarm system and the security system. They said it would be easy, because you would not be watched. The place was so secure, your Service didn’t need to watch you. They’ve got it all sewn up. But you figured that, didn’t you? They have someone right there, in the heart of your Service, who might have been working for them a long time. Whoever it is, he’s trusted, and he – or she – gives them each move.’
‘Yes, I had thought that. And it’s worrying, because it has to be someone I’ve cared for over a long time. But, Pearly, what are you going to do?’
‘My orders are to bring you in. Take you to our Father, Valentine.’
‘So you’re going to do it? I’m to be your hostage for your daughter, Ruth.’
‘No. No, I didn’t see it like that. I thought that, maybe, the two of us stand more chance of really getting this madman. I want a partnership, boss. Let them think I’ve brought you along. Mind you, I suspect the great Father Valentine has some plans for you. You and the girl Harriett. They still have her.’
‘Maybe it’s human sacrifice time.’
‘Nothing would surprise me. Will you come – I mean quietly – as my partner not as a hostage?’ He paused letting the pistol drop into his lap. ‘If I can’t get my daughter out of it and make her sane again, I might as well not be around. It’s really up to you, boss. I leave it all up to you. See?’ He took hold of the ASP by the barrel and offered it, across the room.
Bond let his hands drop from his head, reached forward and took the pistol by the butt. ‘So, where do we have to go, Pearly? Where’s he hiding?’ He checked the gun, and noted the safety was off. Pearlman had meant it. He would have killed if necessary, though he had come for another purpose, to plead for Bond’s help – not to save his country, but his daughter.
‘A long way from here. He’s set all the fuses. Organised his bit of terror, guaranteed to leave England in tatters, with no General Election and Government. It’s set, like the fuse on a time bomb – several time bombs. He’s not going to be around while it happens. He’s long gone, together with those of the faithful that are left. Those who aren’t earmarked to die as yet, for his paradise and his bank accounts.’
‘Where?’ As he asked, so the telephone started to ring. ‘I thought you’d fixed the electrics?’ He looked from the phone to Pearlman.
‘Everything but the telephone. If you don’t answer, your people will be here like ferrets down a rabbit hole. Answer it.’
M was at the other end. ‘The clinic again,’ he said, almost cryptically.
‘What about it?’
‘Nobody dead as far as we know. But they lifted Trilby, and their man got away.’
‘El Kadar? Also known in death as Joseph?’
‘The same. No trace of Scorpius, though.’
‘I might have.’
‘Oh?’
In the background Pearly whispered that they should get going.
‘Don’t worry if you find me missing.’
‘We need you here.’ M had caught the clue. Now he gave Bond a chance to offer information.
‘A possibility’s come up. It’s okay. Something that can help in a really big way. Ultra-sensitive.’
‘Got you.’ M had caught the ‘Ultra’ which was a plea for a team to watch wherever he went.
&
nbsp; ‘Far?’ M asked.
‘Wait and see. I’ll get back to you.’ In plain language, ‘Probably. Make sure the team’s prepared.’
‘What identities?’ M referred to the cover documents Bond would still have stashed somewhere safely.
‘One and Six.’
‘Use One.’
‘Right, I’ll be in touch,’ Bond said closing the line, reasonably secure in the fact that even a small team would be on their tail if he could stall Pearlman for a short time.
He looked back at Pearlman. ‘Come and help me pack – only the bare necessities.’
‘It really will have to be bare. I was supposed to pick you up and have you running in what you stand up in.’
‘Where is Valentine?’ Bond asked as they moved up the stairs.
‘With around sixty of his flock.’
‘Where, Pearly? Or I don’t leave here – with you or without you.’
‘Okay. We take a Piedmont Airlines flight to Charlotte, North Carolina. Then we go down to a real millionaires’ paradise off the coast of South Carolina. It’s a perfect hideaway in spite of the well-heeled tourists. Place called Hilton Head Island – hotels, private homes, great beaches, sea birds, golf courses by the dozen, rattlesnakes, alligators and water moccasins. A good mixture.’
‘Just the place for friend Valentine/Scorpius. He should be at home with the water moccasins. They’re almost as deadly as he is.’ The water moccasin, Bond knew, was a highly belligerent snake with a deadly bite. It is also one of the few snakes that will readily eat carrion.
‘Perhaps he thinks you’ll make a nice meal for them.’
Bond would somehow have to find time to get his hands on the emergency identity. M’s instructions were for him to use Number One. That was his standard cover, in the name of Boldman. When the time came to meet Scorpius, he hoped he could live up to the alias.
16
WELCOME NIGHT MUSIC
At eleven o’clock that same evening a colourful, though highly controversial trade union leader was leaving a plush working men’s club situated in one of the safe Labour Party boroughs of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The trade union leader had been speaking for – and with – the local Labour Party candidate. They were both happy men. The meeting had gone well. Both the Labour candidate and the trade union leader had successfully put down the very few hecklers in the hall, and, at the end, there was a standing ovation.
Because of the recent emergency orders, the police had thought it a wise precaution to bring both men to their waiting cars at the rear of the building. Fifteen burly constables blocked off the small crowd, forming a human aisle to the first car, though the two men came out together, shaking hands and full of mutual self-congratulations.
They had just got to the union leader’s car when a press photographer whispered to one of the policemen – ‘Give us a chance, mate. Let’s get a picture?’ The policeman nodded, and broke ranks for a second. It was his last second on earth.
The photographer, once through the cordon, hurled himself at the two men by the car. There was a sound like a clap of thunder and a massive flash as the photographer exploded himself. All fifteen policemen, the drivers of the two official cars, the union leader and his secretary, the candidate and his agent, plus twelve people nearby were killed instantly. Sixteen others were seriously injured. One died in hospital the following day.
It was six o’clock in the evening for James Bond, who was aboard a Piedmont Airlines Dash 7 STOL aircraft, ex-Charlotte, North Carolina, just coming in on finals at the small airstrip of Hilton Head Island.
Hilton Head is the southernmost point of South Carolina, and the largest of the Sea Islands which stretch along 250 miles of coastline from the Carolinas to Florida. Shaped like a trainer shoe, you can reach it by land, sea and air. By land across the Byrnes Bridge, on Route 278, and by air from Savannah – only forty miles west – Atlanta, Georgia, or Charlotte, North Carolina.
The view from the aircraft reminded Bond of happy days in the Caribbean. Lush grassland; tropical trees and beaches that dazzled, like long stretches of gold; sprawling luxury hotels, and private houses set in wonderful locations. On the way in they passed over three golf courses. The island has a total of fourteen.
At Scatter, they had quickly made the decision that Bond was to act the role of Pearlman’s prisoner in order to carry out what the SAS man called ‘A Wooden Horse Op on Scorpius’. Yet there had still been a great deal of talking to do. Bond was not prepared to go blind into the devil’s mouth. So, there followed a long question and answer session, during which Pearlman passed on a great deal of information regarding the Meek Ones in general, and his daughter, Ruth, in particular. He even showed Bond a passport-type photograph of the girl, redheaded, freckled and laughing into the camera. ‘She was always laughing,’ the SAS man said, with a hint of self-pity. ‘Ruth’s much more serious now.’
They made coffee and toast, sitting in the main room of the narrow little house talking, with Bond discussing strategy. Outside, the dawn came up, not with the bang of thunder, but with a whimper of cloud and a chilly breeze. Dawn slowly broke into day.
‘We’ll have to get a shift on.’ Pearlman began to get agitated as the time wore on. They went upstairs, and the conversation turned to specifics.
‘No way can we go in armed,’ Pearlman said, as Bond searched the main bedroom cupboards – finding one of Q’ute’s neat overnight briefcases. There were usually at least two kept in readiness at Scatter – large black briefcases to which an extra section could be added, clipped on to the side and fitted with a third combination lock.
‘That’s the truth.’ Bond gave the SAS man a blank look. Q’ute’s briefcases were really very special. Not only did they have a foolproof method of screening, for the airport security ‘Friskem’ machines, but they also contained an undetectable false section large enough to take several of Q Branch’s more ingenious items, plus a weapon.
‘Must pack my shaving gear.’ Bond headed into the bathroom, leaving Pearlman sitting in the bedroom leafing through the latest edition of Intelligence Quarterly. Once out of sight, Bond activated the locks to reveal the safe compartment, which had once been checked by no fewer than twenty security officers, none of whom detected the foam-rubber lined secret area. Working quickly, he checked that the weapon was in place – a neat Browning Compact, developed from the FN High-Power to provide a genuine pocket pistol capable of firing full-power 9mm rounds. The other specialist equipment was there also.
He closed the compartment and carefully packed a razor and travel set of Dunhill Edition cream shave and cologne – another standard, provided by Mrs Findlay who, as housekeeper, felt her gentlemen should have the best. Unhappily, Bond considered, she was not so meticulous with regard to clothes.
The house had seen many comings and goings, and its walls held the secrets of years. Men and women had been lodged here for varying periods of time and the bedroom wardrobes were divided up for them – skirts and dresses in various sizes; suits and jeans, straight from the peg in Large, Medium or Small.
As for accessories, they appeared to have come from Marks & Spencer, in standard sizes also. In the bedroom, Bond rummaged through the various drawers, providing himself with a couple of changes of underwear, socks, shirts and, with certain reservations, pyjamas. He was unhappy with the texture and lurid colours of the underwear, and almost angry when it came to the socks. He had always sworn he would never wear nylon; now there was no alternative. At least a couple of the shirts would fit. He fussed and grumbled over the lack of sartorial taste shown by the housekeeper.
With some flamboyance, he locked the ASP and his Baton, together with spare ammunition, in a steel-lined box-safe, hidden and bolted to the floor at the rear of the fitted wardrobe.
‘Best that way, boss.’ Pearlman looked up from his reading. ‘Don’t want to be nobbled by our own security people on the way out.’
Bond agreed with him, safe in the knowledge that he at least had some hardwar
e at his disposal. In the bathroom he had also taken an extra precaution. Among the items left in the case by Q Branch were several innocent-looking pens. He had taken one of them which he immediately activated as a homing device. Its range was only fifteen miles and he could turn it off when going through airport security, but it would give him an edge during the first phase of the operation.
They left the house together – Pearlman with a blue roll bag; 007 with Q Branch’s speciality overnight briefcase.
Upstairs, Bond had partially drawn one curtain in the main bedroom, leaving what he thought was a rather ugly china vase on the ledge. Later that morning it would be spotted by Mrs Findlay, making her rounds, and she would know it was safe to go back in and file her own report by telephone.
In Kensington High Street, Bond searched for a taxi while Pearlman used a public telephone box – one out of the available three happily remained unvandalised.
‘We’re all set,’ he said once they were settled in the back of the cab. Bond had given the cabbie instructions to go to a branch of Barclays Bank in Oxford Street.
‘Later,’ he cautioned Pearlman. ‘If you could pay off this cab and wait for me, I’ll only be a few minutes.’
Pearlman lowered his voice. ‘You won’t do a runner on me, boss?’
‘Don’t worry. Just pay off the cab, keep out of sight and wait.’
In Oxford Street, Bond was happy to see a Service watcher show himself in a car that overtook the cab when it stopped. Leaving Pearlman to settle up, he went into the bank, passing a card over the counter to the nearest available teller, who looked at it, and said, ‘If you’d like to come to the end of the counter, I’ll let you in, sir.’
She unlocked the door which gave entrance to a passage running alongside the manager’s office, and led him down a flight of stairs to the vault and deposit boxes. Checking the number on his card she brightly produced a key. Together they went to Box 700. Bond took out his key ring, selected the correct one and inserted it into the right-hand lock, while the bank teller put her master key into the left-hand hole. They turned the keys and the twelve-by-seven-inch door swung back.
