Seafire

3 – Fool's Errand

The new headquarters of Bond's Two Zeros Section was a beautiful Georgian house in Bedford Square. It was a deceptively quiet place, only a three-minute brisk walk to busy Oxford Street, and his office looked out on the pleasing view of what had once been the homes of the well-to-do. There was a railed-off centerpiece of trees that aped the seasons and had seen the area go through phases ranging from family opulence, through conversion to apartments, and lastly modification to offices.

He had been ten days late in taking up the new appointment, as there were endless formalities to be gone through before their final release following the rescue. More time was eaten up with interrogations by the FBI and the U.S. Navy CID regarding the attempted holdup, while he had also been required to give evidence at the coroner's inquiry into the young officer's – Lieutenant Mark Neuman's – death by fire. Ten days can be a long time in both politics and the shadowland of security matters. So Bond's first weeks as Director of Two Zeros turned into hours and days jammed with paperwork and the kind of executive instructions and organization he most disliked – constant visits to useless meetings of MicroGlobe One.

He did, however, get a chance to look over the various confidential reports concerning the explosion on Caribbean Prince, for these were routed automatically across his desk, together with cryptic memos on Sir Max Tarn, head of Tarn Cruise Lines, Inc., and dozens of other companies in London, Paris, and New York.

Bond could only presume that somebody, possibly the police, or maybe the Security Service, was taking a long look at the legendary Tarn, so the memos came and went, accompanied by the latest theories on the near sinking of Caribbean Prince – which ranged from plastique set by the would-be thieves, to traces of what some expert suggested could be an explosive that had not been on the market since shortly after the end of World War II.

One senior U.S. naval officer – an expert on damage caused by weapons – had written a pithy three-page report saying that the shape and condition of the large hole blasted in the side of Caribbean Prince, and the resultant fire, were consistent with the type of damage inflicted by an old, and possibly unstable, torpedo.

Nobody was likely to take this last possibility seriously. Of course they would not, thought Bond as he saw, with mounting incredulity, that the U.S. Navy had square-searched the Caribbean with sub hunter-killers both on the water and in the air. Since the bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993, the American Forces had developed an almost novel fast reaction as far as probable terrorist activities were concerned.

After being a nine-days wonder, the Caribbean Prince incident soon appeared to be put to one side, becoming another of those strange puzzles, like events inside the Bermuda Triangle. It was still only an unpleasant, frustrating memory to both Bond and Flicka on the morning of April 8 when Bond was summoned to a sudden and unexpected meeting convened by MicroGlobe One, his lords and masters as far as Two Zeros was concerned.

The call came around noon, and he was warned that the meeting would probably be lengthy. It was a Friday, and this news did nothing to sweeten his temper, for he had planned a long weekend with Fredericka in Cambridge, one of their favorite places. As he left for the Home Office, where the meeting was scheduled to take place, Bond reflected that at least Flicka was a professional and understood how these things worked. Many girlfriends and lovers in the past had been stubbornly put out by sudden calls to duty.

He made no secret of his dislike for committees. All his training and experience told him that committees wasted much time. They were also notoriously leaky.

The small reading room at the Home Office had the atmosphere of a private club: a long table, the scent of beeswax, comfortable chairs, and ancient, almost chocolate-box paintings of scenes from English country life, with the obligatory reproduction of HM The Queen at the far end, over what had once been a fireplace.

His first impression was that this extraordinary meeting had been called at the insistence of the police representative – a short, balding Commissioner, Claude Wimsey by name – leading his friends and colleagues to call him Lord Peter. Today, however, he sensed there was something else beneath the surface in the reading room: a sensation of concern and underlying urgency, clear in the atmosphere and the covert glances that passed between the committee members.

The Minister called the meeting to order, immediately asking Wimsey to take the floor, which he did with a clarity and brevity born of giving accurate evidence in police courts all over England.

"Sir Maxwell Tarn," he began as though the very name would capture attention. "As most of you know, we have for some time been acting on information from within the Tarn business empire. Tarn and his wife have been under constant surveillance, and we now have reason to believe that he is behind a number of dummy corporations around the world which deal in illicit arms."

"The first I've heard of it," grunted Bond, almost sotto voce.

"We do still run matters on the need-to-know principle." The Minister gave him a cold glance.

"Told 'em last week that you should've been brought in sooner," from M, who appeared to have wakened from a deep sleep.

"Please." The Minister flushed with irritation. "You know as well as I that Captain Bond has had his hands full since taking over Two Zeros. He was not included in the original briefings out of deference to his workload."

"Well, at least Wimsey should tell him who got the ball rolling. You're leaving the man in the dark at the starting post."

The Minister sighed and Wimsey fussed with his papers.

It was the calm, untroubled voice of the very matter-of-fact head of the Security Service that broke the silent deadlock. "I think, Captain Bond, the CSIS would like you to know that his service is responsible for the intelligence from within Max Tarn's vast and somewhat-jumbled organization." She spoke quietly, even dropping her voice slightly.

"Not just my service," M bristled. "The information came to me from a personal friend. Well, the son of a personal friend."

"Peter Dolmech," Wimsey supplied.

"Quite. Knew the father for years. Old shipmate. Dolly Dolmech. Fine officer, good family. The son had no desire to follow in his father's footsteps, though. Can't blame the man for that. Became a very good accountant. First Class honors in economics. Cut out for a political career but sidetracked by Tarn."

"A mega-accountant," Wimsey said dryly, glancing at his notes. "A superlative accountant who was sucked into Tarn's business from one of the most prestigious London firms about a year ago. He apparently set up a somewhat clandestine meeting with Admiral – with M – last month."

Bond, now fully alert, asked if he could have this in some detail.

It was Wimsey's turn to look put out. "Well, I suppose, if you must. We've all rather taken the thing for granted."

"Well, I certainly never take things for granted," M growled. "Fact is, James, the thing was so hush-hush that I dealt with it personally. Peter got in touch with me at my home number, and I fixed up a meeting. All very cloak and dagger, because the man's scared to death. Had to meet him in some dreadful tearooms in Croydon, of all places."

"And he told you what?"

"I passed it on to Wimsey. It all appears to be sound enough, and I trust Dolmech. The man's got a conscience, and what he'd discovered frightened him. Under the law it's a police matter, if they can collect evidence…"

"And the perfect opportunity to use Two Zeros for the first time," added the head of the Security Service.

"That is exactly why we've called this meeting." The Minister could not hide his irritation. "I think the Commissioner can probably carry on now and fill in the gaps."

There was a pause as Wimsey looked around the assembled company. He cleared his throat and began again. "The source claims that Tarn is using at least four companies to launder money used to purchase arms illegally and pass them on to customers who pay him off to the tune of a hundred percent profit. He says there's firm evidence that one of the container ships of Tarn Shipping Ltd. carried arms and munitions on several occasions, while one of his ships from Tarn Cruise Lines, Inc., was used last year to pick up a special consignment from Odessa – the passenger list was, he says, padded with people in Tarn's employ. Also, Tarn Freight Ltd. has brought stuff overland. The entire network lives off the smuggling and selling of arms. That's where the really big money comes from – that and a couple of other nefarious sources: dodgy art and that kind of thing. The Tarn empire, it seems, has been built on arms deals from way back."

"And he's buying them from where?" Bond interrupted.

"Anywhere he can get them. In the old days he spent a lot of time dodging embargoes, producing phony end-user certificates, and he bought from anyone who would sell – even British and American companies. Now, of course, the field's wide open. Under the counter from the old Eastern Bloc countries, Russia itself, intermediaries in Switzerland and Luxembourg, of course, plus all the old sources. It's big business, and the larger his orders the more likely it is that no questions are asked. Accounts in the Cayman Islands, Bermuda, and Lord knows where else. Our source says it would take months to trace the various huge sums of cash without his help. As M says, he took fright when he stumbled on the full extent of Tarn's operation."

"Which is?"

"Well, it's not your usual few boxes of small arms and ammunition, Semtex and semiautomatic s, stuff like that. Tarn, it appears, aims a little higher. Aircraft, tanks, missiles, high-end materiel." He seemed to glare around the table at his colleagues, as though daring them to dispute his statement. When he resumed, his sentences came out in short bursts, as if he were giving the bare bones of a précis. "It's not going to be a walk in the park trying to nail Sir Max. The man probably thinks he's fireproof. After all, he's one of the wealthiest men in the world. Tarn International is, as we all know, a general umbrella company for a large number of subsidiaries scattered all over the place. Dolmech is reluctant to bring documents out of the main office because he's too frightened. We'd have to pick him up as well and let him lead us through the paper trail."

"So you're suggesting?" Bond already had an inkling of why he was being brought into the business.

"Several options." Wimsey did not look him in the eye. "We have kept Tarn and his wife under surveillance for the past ten days, and I do have warrants for search and seizure of documents from the offices of Tarn International. Also warrants to lift Tarn, his wife, and our asset, which seems to be the straightforward route. Tentatively we plan to do this first thing on Monday morning. But… Well, it's going to bring his legal department down on us like the proverbial ton of bricks, and the media will have a field day. Arrest, seizure, and all that kind of thing could possibly ruin any case we might bring, because I have no doubt that the Tarn organization has a kind of self-destruct plan in the event of action by the authorities."

"So you have another plan, sir?"

"Yes, there is another way to go. Problem is that it might take us some time to set up, and a delay could ruin the probability of any real success."

"You wouldn't by chance be thinking of flushing him out by putting one of my people in?"

"It's a thought." Wimsey left the words hanging in midair.

"And it should remain just that. A thought." Bond did not even try to disguise his anger. "Have you any conception of how long it would take to put someone in? Weeks, months. It would be like the old Cold War days: putting someone into the Eastern Bloc. I've known it to take years to establish bona fides and get them to bite. If Tarn's as good as you say, he has the resources of a small country anyway. It could take one hell of a time."

"What about a walk-in?" M looked at his former agent with dead-fish eyes.

"You're suggesting that one of my people calls Sir Max and lays it on the line? Says to him, 'Look here, old chap. I know you're a decent person, but I also know that the authorities are about to lift you and go through your files like grease through a goose, if you follow me.'"

"Yes, something very like that." M was still locking eyes with him.

"Whom would you suggest?"

M gave a long sigh, a huge sucking in of breath, followed by its expulsion from his lungs. He sounded like an old steam train, though not as benign. "I have to spell it out for you, Captain Bond?" The "James" had gone, a sure sign that the old Chief was getting testy. "Quite recently there was an incident concerning one of Tarn's cruise ships, Caribbean Prince, one of the three he operates under Tarn Cruise Lines, Inc. On the passenger list of that luxury vessel were a Mr. and Mrs. James Busby. Mr. Busby carried a British passport which described him as a civil servant attached to the Home and Foreign Offices. You follow me, Captain Bond? JB, James Busby. JB, James Bond."

"Ah, so, the above-mentioned Mr. Busby goes to Sir Max Tarn and says he knows one or two things about the Caribbean Prince episode, and will spill the beans -"

"Not quite," Wimsey snapped. "The idea is that Mr. James Busby has seen some confidential documents which he is willing to share with Sir Max."

"What kind of confidential documents?"

"First, you should know that Dolmech has provided a verbal list of some recent purchases by Tarn under the guise of artifacts for a military museum he plans to assemble on one of the Caribbean islands as a special draw for passengers swanning around on his cruise ships. One item has us worried. Last autumn he acquired a submarine."

"A submarine?"

"An old submarine, admittedly. Possibly a very early Victor II-class Russian submarine."

"We don't have any idea where he's hiding the damned thing." M's voice was clipped and terse. "But we're pretty sure that Caribbean Prince was, either accidentally or by design, at the receiving end of a small, and equally old, torpedo from this submarine. Damn it, Bond, you've seen all the signals: all the confidential stuff that's passed between the Americans and ourselves."

"I've seen nothing suggesting that good old Sir Max – as the British tabloids so often call him – owns a personal submarine which goes around taking potshots at his cruise ships." Sir Maxwell Tarn was beloved by the British tabloids – self-made man from an indistinct background, billionaire, the giver of large charitable gifts, and good copy for the columnists. "What are you really getting at, sir?"

"The fact that you, and your colleague Fräulein von Grüsse, have built-in bona fides. Good old Sir Max, as you put it, knows just about every name of every passenger who travels on his ships. He's a man who pays attention to that kind of detail. We know this from Peter Dolmech. Max Tarn looks out for people who can be of use to him, and I should well imagine that James Busby, civil servant working for the Home and Foreign Offices, has caught his eye. Anyone with that kind of job description can only really be one thing – Security, and/or Intelligence. In many respects I'm surprised you haven't heard from Tarn already. After all, you saved the day by putting paid to the attempted holdup. You're tailor-made for an approach, and I am correct in assuming that you're planning to stay at the University Arms, Cambridge, this weekend, aren't you?"

"How the…?" Bond began.

"Don't be a fool, Bond. The Security Service checked out all the bookings at this hotel for the entire weekend when they discovered that Sir Max and Lady Tarn were going to be staying there. Good old Sir Max is speaking to a convention of economists tomorrow night. He's booked into the hotel until Monday morning. Mr. and Mrs. James Busby are also booked in until Monday morning. I sincerely hope they were planning on leaving at the crack of dawn on Monday so that they could be in their respective offices by nine A.M."

"They were." Bond bit out the words. "But how do you envisage playing out this charade?"

"I'm sure you'll think of an approach. Find the right words. Put the fix in, as we used to say. What we need is to flush the fellow out, so the tabloids can announce that Good Old Sir Max and Good Old Lady Trish have both gone missing. The idea, my boy, is to make them gallop off to some safe mansion so that we can give the ladies and gentlemen of the press and the tube some other reason for the Commissioner's lads and lasses to wander into Tarn International's ghastly building at the bottom of Fleet Street. Like Sherlock Holmes, they'll be looking for clues."

"And I'm to tell him that you're on to him?"

"Well, you know the form. Don't worry, you won't be alone. The boys and girls from the Security Service'll be with you – unheard and unseen, but with you nevertheless, won't they, ma'am?" He flashed an almost luxuriant smile at the Director of the Security Service.

"Invisible wall." The Director bleakly returned his smile.

"Good. Then that's settled."

"Is this an order, sir, or are we simply floating an idea?"

"Weeeellll," the Minister drew out the word, leaving Bond in no doubt that everything had been agreed long before he was called to the meeting. "Weellll," he repeated, "we rather feel that it's in everyone's best interest."

"Your job is simply to flush him out. Make him run." Wimsey's body language betrayed great anxiety. "Tip him off that things aren't quite as safe as he might think. After that, he can be followed anywhere he decides to go – which I do not think will be London. We suggest that you drop the news on him sometime late on Sunday. In turn, we'll have taps on just about every telephone within reach – including the one in his Rolls."

"And you're sure this is a safer way than just feeling their collars first thing Monday morning?"

"Infinitely better." The Minister looked at his watch. "We have a slim and incomplete dossier on Tarn which you should look at." He slid a buff folder across the table. "Now, you'd best be going. Captain Bond, or you won't make it to Cambridge in time for dinner."

"Thank you, Minister. I'd hate to miss dinner." He rose.

"You do see that you're just about the only person we can trust with this," from Wimsey.

"Oh, yes. As former passengers on his torpedoed cruise ship, we have all the right bona fides. I just hope we aren't all being a shade naive."

"Oh, I think we're on the right track, Bond. Keep in touch. Usual way, of course."

"Of course." Inwardly seething, Bond left the room. Flicka would not be as convinced as the other members of MicroGlobe One. The words "fool's errand" were uppermost in his head as he hailed a cab.