Bond - 18 - Role of Honor

by John Gardner

  In all, only eight files had been at risk. But, on the relevant dates, James Bond had been one of those with access to the files. Five people were under suspicion, and they had hauled Bond in before anybody else.

  "Someone of my rank and experience would normally be given the courtesy of a private interview with the Head of Service,' he said, his tone verging on anger. "But no. It didn't seem to matter that the other four were junior, relatively inexperienced and without field records. It was as if I was singled out because of my position, because I had been in the field, because of my experience."

  "You were actually accused?" It was Simon who asked.

  Bond allowed the anger to boil up and break the surface. "Oh, yes. Yes, I was accused. Before they even talked to anyone else they carted in a couple of very good interrogators, and a Q.C. You removed these files from the headquarters building, Commander Bond. Why? Did you copy them? Who asked you to take them? It went on for two days."

  "And did you take them from the building, Commander?"

  "No, I did not,' Bond almost shouted. "And it took them another two days to haul in the other four, and then a day for Head of Registry to come back off leave and remember that special permission had been given to one officer to take the wretched files over for study by a Civil Service mandarin adviser to the Ministry. They had left spaces in the records, just to keep the data neat.

  Head of Registry was supposed to put a special code into the databank. But he was off on leave, and forgot about it. Nobody had a go at him, or offered his head on a salver."

  "So no files went missing at all. You got an apology, of course?"

  "Not immediately." Bond glowered, like a schoolboy.

  And nobody seemed at all concerned about my feelings.

  Head of Service didn't appear even to understand why I got annoyed."

  "So you resigned? Just like that?"

  "More or less."

  "It's a very good story. Tamil Rahani looked pleased.

  "But it will be difficult to prove, if I know anything about government departments.

  "Exceptionally difficult,' Bond agreed.

  "Tell me, what did the files in question contain?"

  "Ah." Bond tried to look as charming as possible. "Now you're really asking me to betray."

  "Yes." Rahani was quite matter-of-fact.

  "Mainly updated material on the disposition of Eastern Bloc tactical forces. One concerned agents on the ground and their proximity to the Eastern bases." Rahani's eyebrows twitched.

  "Sensitive. I see. Well, Commander, I shall make a few enquiries. In the meantime, perhaps Simon will show you around Erewhon, and we'll continue to have little talks."

  "You mean interrogations?" Rahani shrugged. "If you like. Your future career depends on what you tell us now. Quite painless, I assure you.

  As they reached the door, Bond turned back. "May I ask you a question, sir?"

  "Of course."

  "You bear a striking resemblance to a Mr. Tamil Rahani, chairman of Rahani Electronics. I believe you've been in Monte Carlo recently?" Rahani's laugh had all the genuine warmth of an angry cobra. "You should know, Commander. You were raising a fair amount of hell at the gaming tables on the Cete d'Azur at the time, I think."

  "Touche', sir." Bond followed Simon out into the sunshine.

  They went first to a mess hall where about eighty people were enjoying a lunch of chicken cooked with peppers, onions, almonds and garlic.

  Everyone wore the same olive uniform. Some carried side arms. There were men and women, mainly young, and from many different countries.

  They sat in pairs or teams of four. That was how the training went, Simon explained. They worked with a partner or in teams. Sometimes two teams would be put together, if the work demanded it. Some of the pairs were training to be loners.

  "Doing what?" Bond asked.

  "Oh, we cover the usual spectrum. Big bang merchants, take away artists, removal men, monopoly teams. You name it, we do it electricians, mechanics, drivers, all the necessary humdrum jobs too." Bond identified a number of different tongues being spoken in the hall - German, French, Italian. There were also Israelis, Irish, and even English he was told. He almost immediately identified a pair of German terrorists whose names and details were on file with his Service, M.I.5 and at Scotland Yard.

  "If you want anonymity, I shouldn't use those two in Europe,' he told Simon quietly. "They've both got star billing with our people."

  "That's good. Thank you. We prefer unknowns, and I had a feeling about that couple. Everyone has had some field work behind them when they come here, but we don't like faces." Simon gave a knowing grin.

  "We do need them though. Some have to be lost, you know. It comes in handy during training." Throughout the afternoon, they walked around the well-equipped training area, and Bond experienced the odd sensation of having seen all this before. It took an hour or so to work out exactly what was wrong. These men and women were being trained in techniques he had seen used by the S.A.S Germany's G.S.G.9, the French G.I.G.N and several other elite units dealing with anti-terrorist activities. There was one difference, however. The trainees at Erewhon were receiving expert tuition on how to counter anti-terrorist action.

  Apart from classes in weaponry of all kinds, special attention was paid to hijacking and takeover. They even had two flight simulators in the compound. One building was devoted solely to the techniques of bargaining with authorities while holding either hostages or kidnap victims. The skills were being taught extremely thoroughly.

  One of the most spectacular training aids lay around the gutted buildings Bond had noticed earlier. Here a team of four would be taught how to fight off attempted rescues employing all the known counter-terrorist techniques. It was disturbing to note that most eventualities appeared to be covered.

  That night Bond slept again in the same sparsely furnished room where he had first woken. On the following day, the interrogation began. It was conducted on a classic one-to-one basis - Tamil Rahani and James Bond - with Rahani asking seemingly ordinary questions that were, in fact, attempts to ferret out highly sensitive information about Bond's Service.

  Rahani began with reasonably harmless stuff, such as organisation and channels of command. Soon, detail was being called for, and Bond had to use all his native ingenuity to give the appearance of telling everything, at the same time keeping back really vital information.

  Rahani was like a terrier. Just when Bond thought he had managed to avoid giving some piece of information, Rahani would change tack, going in a circle to return to the nub of the question. It became all too obvious that once they had milked him dry, Bond would be quietly thrown to the wolves.

  On the sixth day Rahani was still hammering away at the same questions concerning details of protection for heads of state, the Prime Minister, the Queen and other members of the Royal Family. This was no part of Bond's own work, or the work of his Service, but Rahani quite rightly assumed that Bond would know a great deal about it. He even wanted names, possible weaknesses in those assigned to such duties, and the kind of schedules they worked. At about five o'clock in the afternoon, a message was brought in. Rahani read it, then slowly folded the paper and looked at Bond.

  "Well, Commander, it seems your days here are numbered. There is a job for you back in England. Something very important is at last coming to fruition, and you are to be part of it. You are on salary as from now.

  He picked up one of his telephones and asked for Simon to come over as quickly as possible. Bond had learnt by now that they used first names at Erewhon for everyone except the Officer Commanding.

  "Commander Bond is with us,' he told Simon. "There's work for him, and he leaves for England tomorrow. You will escort him." An odd look passed between the two men before Rahani continued. "But, Simon, we have yet to see the gallant Commander in action. Would it be a good idea to put him through the Charnel House?"

  "He'd like that, I'm sure, sir.

  The Charnel H
ouse was a gallows-humour nickname for the gutted buildings they used for training against counter-terrorist forces.

  Simon said he would set things up, and they walked the short distance to the area, where Simon left to make the arrangements. Ten minutes later, he returned, taking Bond inside the house.

  Though the place was gutted and bore the marks of many simulated battles, it had been remarkably well built. There was a large entrance hall inside the solid main door. Two short passages to left and right led to large rooms, which were uncarpeted, but contained one or two pieces of furniture. At the top of a solid staircase was a wide landing with one door. Through this a long passage ran the length of the house with doors on the facing wall leading into two rooms built directly above those on the ground floor. Simon led Bond upstairs.

  "There will be a team of four. Blank ammunition, of course, but real flash-bangs." Flash-bangs were stun grenades, not the most pleasant thing to be near on detonation. "The brief is that they know you are somewhere upstairs." Simon pulled out the ASP 9mm. "Nice weapon, James. Very nice. Who would think it has the power of a .44

  Magnum?"

  "You've been playing with my toys.

  "Couldn't resist it. There - one magazine of blanks, and one spare. Use your initiative, James. Good luck." He looked at his watch. "You have three minutes.

  Bond quickly reconnoited the building and placed himself in the upper corridor, since it had no windows.

  He stayed close to the door which opened on to the landing, but was well shielded by the corridor wall. He was crouched against the wall when the stun grenades exploded in the hallway below - two ear-splitting crumps, followed by several bursts of automatic fire.

  Bullets hacked and chipped into the plaster and brickwork on the other side of the wall, while another burst almost took the door beside him off its hinges.

  They were not using blanks. This was for real, and he knew with sudden shock, that it was as he had earlier deduced. He was being thrown to the wolves.

  RETURN TO SENDER

  Two

  MORE EXPLOSIONS came from below, followed by another heavy burst of fire. The second team of two men was clearing the ground floor. Bond could hear the feet of the first team on the stairs. In a few seconds there would be the dance of death on the landing - a couple of stun grenades or smoke canisters would be thrown through the door to his right, then lead would hose down the passage, taking him on that short trip into eternity.

  Simon's voice kept running in his head like a looped tape: "Use your initiative . . . Use your initiative .

  Was that a hint? A clue? There was certainly something of a nudge in the tone he had adopted.

  Move. Bond was off down the corridor, making for the room to his left. He had some vague idea that he might leap from the window.

  Anything to remove himself from the vicious hailstorm of bullets.

  He took rapid strides into the room and, trying to make as little noise as possible, closed the door, automatically sliding a small bolt above the handle. He started to cross the floor, heading for the windows, clutching the useless ASP as though his life depended on it.

  As he sidestepped a chair, he saw them - two ASP magazines, cutaway matt black oblongs, lying on a rickety table between the high windows.

  Grabbing at the first, he saw immediately that they were his own reserves, both full, loaded with Glasers.

  There is a fast routine for reloading the ASP, a fluent movement that quickly jettisons an empty magazine, replacing it with a full one.

  Bond went through the reload procedure in a matter of five seconds, including dropping his eyes to check that a live round had entered the chamber.

  He performed the reloading on the move, finally positioning himself hard against the wall to the left of the door. The team would leap in after the grenades had accomplished their disorientating effect, one to the left and one right. They would be firing as they came, but Bond gambled on their first bursts going wide across the room.

  Flattening himself against the wall, he held the powerful little weapon at arm's length in the two-handed grip, at the same time clutching the spare magazine almost as an extension to the butt.

  They were making straight for this room. As he reloaded, Bond had been conscious of the bangs and rattle of their textbook assault through the landing door.

  Bullets spat and splintered the woodwork to his right. A boot smashed in the handle and broke the flimsy bolt, while a pair of stun grenades hit the bare boards, making a heavy clunk, one of them rolling for a split second before detonation.

  He closed his eyes, head turning slightly to avoid the worst effect - the flash that temporarily blinds - though nothing could stop the noise which seemed to explode from within his own cranium, putting his head in a vice, and ringing in his ears like a magnified bell. It blotted out all external sounds, even that of his own pistol as he fired, and the death-rattle of the submachine guns as the two-man team stepped through the lingering smoke.

  Bond acted purely by intuition. At the first movement through the door he sighted the three little yellow triangles on the dark moving shape. He squeezed the trigger twice, resighted and squeezed again.

  In all the four bullets were off in less than three seconds - though the whole business appeared to be frozen in time, slowed down like a cinematic trick so that everything happened with a ponderous, even clumsy, brutality.

  The man nearest Bond came through, leaping to his left, the wicked little automatic weapon tucked between upper arm and ribcage, the muzzle already spitting fire as he identified and turned towards his target. Bond's first bullet caught him in the neck, tearing through flesh, bone, arteries and sinews, hurling the man sideways, pushing him, the head lolling, as though it was being torn away from its body.

  The second slug entered the head, which exploded, leaving a cloud of fine pink and grey matter hanging in the air. The third and fourth bullets both caught the second man in the chest, a couple of inches below the windpipe. He was swinging outwards, and to his right, realising too late where the target was situated, the gun in his hand spraying bullets towards the window.

  The impact lifted the man from his feet, knocking him back so that, for a split second he was poised in midair, angled at forty-five degrees to the floor, the machine pistol still firing and ripping into the ceiling as a mushroom of blood and flesh spouted from the torn chest.

  Because of his temporary deafness, Bond felt as though he stood outside the action, as if watching a silent film.

  But his experience pushed him on: two down, he thought, two to go.

  The second team almost certainly would be covering the entrance hall, and may even be coming to the assistance of their comrades at this moment.

  Bond stepped over the headless corpse of the first intruder, his foot almost slipping in the lake of blood. It always amazed Bond how there was so much blood in one man. This was something they did not show in movies, or even news film - over a gallon of blood which fountained from a human body when violently cut to pieces.

  In the doorway, he paused for a second, ears straining to no effect, for his head still buzzed as though a hundred electric doorbells were ringing inside his skull.

  Glancing down, he saw that the second man still had a pair of grenades tucked firmly into his belt, hooked on by the safety levers.

  He slid one out, removed the pin, and holding it in his left hand advanced down the corridor towards the landing door, calculating the amount of force he would need to hurl the grenade down the stairs.

  It had to be right, for he would not get a second chance.

  He paused, just short of the landing door. Something made him turn - that sixth sense which, over the years was now fine-tuned to most emergencies. He spun round just in time to see a figure emerging gingerly from the room, negotiating his way through the gore and shattered bodies on the far side of the door. Later, Bond reasoned they had planned some kind of pincer manoeuvre when they heard additional shots, one man scaling the
wall to attack through the window, the other mounting the stairs.

  Bond let off two shots at the man in the doorway, both aimed at the centre of the target, while with his left hand he lobbed the stun grenade out of the landing door in the direction of the staircase. He saw the man in the doorway spin as though caught by a whirlwind. In the same instant, he was aware of the flash from the landing.

  There were only two rounds left in the first magazine. In five seconds Bond replaced it with the fully charged one. Then he took two paces through the door, firing as he went, two slugs going nowhere while he located his target.

  The last man was struggling at the bottom of the stairs, for the grenade had caught him napping. From the scorch marks and his agonised beating at the smouldering cloth around his loins, it was obvious that the grenade had hit him in the groin while he was on the stairs.

  Still deafened, Bond saw the man's mouth opening and closing, his face distorted. From the top of the stairs Bond shot him once, neatly blowing off the top of his head so that he fell on to his back, moving a foot or so on impact, with his brains spilling out over the dirty entrance hall floor.

  Quietly, Bond retraced his footsteps, once more stepping over the now-larger sprawl of bodies, and crossing to the window. Below, about twenty yards away, Tamil Rahani stood with Simon and half a dozen members of Erewhon's permanent staff. They were quite still, heads held as though listening. There was no sign of an unholstered weapon, and Bond could not see a gun trained on the house from any vantage points.

  He moved back from the window, not wanting to show himself yet uncertain of the safest way to get out of the place. He had gone only two steps, when the decision was partially made for him.