by John Gardner
‘Have I the guts to kill her?’ Pearlman asked.
‘Well, have you?’
There was a long pause which took them right up to the gate. ‘Boss, I just don’t know. I’ve accepted that, bar a miracle, she’ll have to die. If I can’t do it, you’ll know soon enough, and I’ll never hold it against you.’
They stood in silence, watching the men and women of the press corps arrive and make their way through the gate, each checked by the guards who seemed to know most of them by name.
The clocks ticked on. One thirty.
No sign of anyone who looked remotely like Ruth.
One forty-five. Still nobody, and the initial flood of photographers had dwindled to a trickle.
At one fifty a young man, dark-suited, and hung with cameras, showed his pass and was cleared through the gate. He was on the plump side, three cameras slung around his neck, short fair hair showing beneath a large-brimmed, flamboyant hat, and a drooping moustache giving the impression that he regarded himself as something of a Bohemian.
‘Takes all kinds,’ the security officer in the booth called to them. ‘That’s all, folks, as they say in Looney Tunes. Nobody else gets in now.’
‘Maybe we were wrong.’ Bond did not sound convincing. He felt the tension coming from Pearlman like an electric charge.
‘Maybe.’ The SAS man looked as though he could drop with stress.
When they reached the Rose Garden, the gaggle of TV and press photographers were setting up their gear, ready for the main event.
They joined Wolkovsky, shaking their heads. Then Pearlman spoke. ‘She’s here, somewhere. I know it. I can feel it.’
‘Would they cancel?’ Bond asked.
‘No way. Not now.’ Wolkovsky took a deep breath. ‘I’ll stay to the rear. Would you two like to spread yourselves one at each end of the bunch? Watch the photographers, not the President and the PM.’
Bond nodded, and they moved away, Pearlman going to the far left, Bond taking up position on the right.
There was a buzz of excitement from the press, not known for being impressionable. All James Bond could feel was this continued mounting tension, and his own heart like a drumbeat, ticking off the seconds to some dreadful disaster. He began to scan the jostling photographers. There was nobody who resembled Ruth as he had last seen her, at the wedding. A cloud, like bleak, cold fog, seemed to roll over his mind.
He glanced across at Pearlman whose eyes did not stop roving among the press men and women. Then the buzz became a hush as the President and his wife escorted the Prime Minister of Great Britain out into the garden.
It was a cheerful arrival, with the President calling out quips to members of the press he recognised, and making ad lib remarks to the Prime Minister, who looked fit, well and happy, under no strain at all.
Bond dragged his eyes back to the photographers. Perhaps they had got it wrong after all. Was Ruth going to hit the PM alone – even when the RAF aircraft arrived back at Heathrow? He looked towards the line-up again, the President and Prime Minister taking their places together, then turned his eyes back to the photographers, all worried about focus and position.
But this time he knew there was something wrong. In the seconds his eyes had been away from the group it had changed. He couldn’t tell how, or why, at first. Then it became clear, fully focused in his own mind.
The young man with the Bohemian look had pushed through to the front, elbowing his way forward. There was something not quite right about him. Another second went by and Bond realised the newsman was not even bothering to handle the cameras around his neck. He wasn’t taking pictures. He moved one pace forward, in front of the main crush of photographers, his hand starting to travel upwards, going for the inside of his jacket.
‘Pearly!’ Bond yelled.
The dark-suited figure seemed to be on the verge of springing. Pearlman had his pistol out, but he hesitated. Too long. Far too long, the SAS man stood there, undecided.
Bond acted without thought – an automatic reflex, his gun coming up, two quick shots, followed by panic and screams.
The first bullet caught the young man in the arm, just as his hand was reaching inside the jacket. The hand was jerked away as the second bullet caught him full in the chest. He was lifted slightly, and fell on his back, with Pearlman running forward, his own pistol pointing, ready for a coup de grâce, should it be needed.
The wide-brimmed hat had been knocked from the young man’s head, and with it the fair hair – a wig. Ruth’s own red hair seemed to spring from her head, like a grotesque magician’s trick. She twitched once, but Bond didn’t see her. He had sensed something else.
Turning on the balls of his feet, he traversed the party of VIPs who had been flung into confusion, the Secret Service men and bodyguards moving in front of them to give added protection. All but one. A member of the PM’s protection staff stepped free of the group. With horror, Bond saw who the man was, and, in seeing him, everything fell into place.
Detective Superintendent Bailey’s automatic pistol was out and coming up to the firing position. His legs were apart, the stance perfect, but his eyes never left his real target. The weapon, an extension of his arms, came to bear low down, onto the Prime Minister.
Bond’s swivelling turn was followed through. In that infinitesimal moment he saw everything, knew everything, was assured of how Scorpius had always been one step ahead. Bailey had been there. Unusual, because normally it would have been the Head of Branch. But for the whole of this operation it was Bailey. Bailey, Vladimir Scorpius’s man.
The thoughts commingled in a fraction of time, and within that second, Bond pulled the trigger twice more.
The Special Branch man did not realise he was going to die, and could not have known what hit him. His body jerked only slightly as he was knocked off his feet to crumple into the rose bushes.
The Last Enemy had been conquered. Bond quietly holstered his pistol and joined the other security officers in trying to restore calm. One thing was sure, it would be a different kind of job for the bomb disposal people. It was not often they were called upon to render a corpse safe.
‘A job well done, 007. A sad one, but . . . Well, one shouldn’t dwell on these things.’ M did not look his agent in the eyes. It was two days after the incident. There had been a press field day, but the Secret Intelligence Service was not mentioned in any of the reports. The American Secret Service, on the other hand, was taking some stick. Even Congress was giving it a hard time.
The events at Hilton Head Island did not rate a single line of type.
‘No.’ M was uncomfortable. ‘Doesn’t do to dwell.’
‘No, sir.’ Bond was not his usual relaxed self.
‘Take some leave if I were you.’
‘Just three or four days, sir, if I might.’
‘Three or four weeks if you want.’
‘I think I should get back to work as soon as possible, sir.’
‘Have it your own way, then, Commander Bond. Just sign the slip and I’ll pass it through.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He rose and began to walk towards the door.
‘Oh, and James . . .’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘The Shrivenham girl. Young Trilby.’
‘Sir?’
‘She’s going to be fine. They’ve brought her back, and Molony’s giving her the once-over. Says she’ll be as fit as a flea in no time.’
‘Good.’
‘In fact, she’s asked to see you – only if you wish to see her, of course.’
‘Maybe, sir. Maybe in a week or so. I have to attend a couple of funerals in the States first. After that, well, maybe.’
‘Good girl for you, James. Good family. Steady.’
‘Yes. Yes, I realise that, sir. If you’ll excuse me.’
He did not even speak to Moneypenny as he left. Once the funerals were over, he would feel better. Maybe M was right. Perhaps he should take Trilby to dinner or something. One thing was sure, Har
ry would have approved.
By John Gardner
Licence Renewed
For Special Services
Icebreaker
Role of Honour
Nobody Lives For Ever
No Deals, Mr Bond
Scorpius
Win, Lose or Die
Licence to Kill
Brokenclaw
The Man from Barbarossa
Death is Forever
Never Send Flowers
SeaFire
GoldenEye
COLD
John Gardner served with the Fleet Air Arm and Royal Marines before embarking on a long career as a thriller writer, including international bestsellers The Nostradamus Traitor, The Garden of Weapons, Confessor and Maestro. In 1981 he was invited by Glidrose Publications Ltd – now known as Ian Fleming Publications – to revive James Bond in a brand new series of novels. To find out more visit John Gardner’s website at www.john-gardner.com or the Ian Fleming website at www.ianfleming.com
An Orion ebook
First published in Great Britain in 1988 by Guild Publishing in arrangement with Hodder and Stoughton Ltd
This ebook published in 2012 by Orion Books
© Glidrose Publications Ltd. 1988
The right of John Gardner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
James Bond and 007 are registered trademarks of Danjaq, LLC, used under licence by Ian Fleming Publications Ltd.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-4091-2728-4
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