Role of Honor

"So, what's this job you have for me?"

"It is a large and complex operation. But one thing I can tell you." Rahani looked up at Bond, his eyes blank as though made of glass.

"What is being planned at the moment will be the terrorist coup of the decade, even the century. If things proceed normally, it will spark off the ultimate revolution. A unique and complete change in the course of world events. The beginning of a new age.

And those of us taking part in it will have a privileged position in the society that will emerge.

"I saw the film." Simon rose and went over to the filing cabinet, where there were a few bottles. He poured himself a generous glass of wine, then disappeared from view.

"Scofi, Commander Bond. But I think even you will find this to be an operation without parallel in history."

"And it won't work without me?" Bond raised an eyebrow sardonically.

"I did not say that. But it may not work without somebody like you. "Okay." He leaned back in his chair. "So tell me all about it."

"I'm afraid I can't do that." Rahani's cold eyes bored into him, so that, for a second or two, Bond thought the man was trying out some elementary hypnosis.

"So?"

"So, you have to be returned. You have to go back.

"Back? Back to where?" Too late Bond felt Simon's presence behind him.

"Back where you came from, James." Bond was conscious of the small, sharp pinch through his shirt, on his arm just below the right shoulder.

Tamil Rahani continued to speak.

"We're nOt talking about stories dreamed up by pulp novelists. No blackmail through concealed nuclear devices hidden in the heart of great Western cities; no plots to kidnap the President, or hold the world to ransom by setting all the major currencies at naught. We're not talking about extortion; neither . . . are we " His voice slowly receded, blurred, and then stopped.

THE NUMBERS

RACKET THE SKY WAS grey, almost leaden. He could see it through the window - the sky and part of an old apple tree. That was all.

Bond had woken from what seemed to be natural sleep. He was still fully dressed, and the ASP, complete with holster and one extra clip of ammunition, lay on the bedside table. The room appeared to be a genuine English bedroom - white gloss paint on the woodwork and Laura Ashley wallpaper, with a contrasting fabric for curtains; only most of the window was bricked up, and the door would not budge when he tried to open it.

There was a depressing sense of deja vu. He had been along this road before, only last time it was Erewhon.

Rahani had said they had accepted him, but he wondered how and why. Certainly the long interrogation sessions had been searching - M had instructed him to give away anything they could check on, even if it was highly sensitive. Fences, his Chief maintained, could be mended later. But what would be the state of play by the time they came to mend fences? At Erewhon preparations were going forward for something earth-shattering.

What was it that Rahani had said - "A unique and complete change in the course of world events'? The dream of revolutionaries: to change history, to crush the status quo, to alter it in order to build a new society.

Well, Bond thought, it had been done before, but only within countries: Russia was the prime example, though Hitler's rise in Germany had been a revolution as well.

The problem with revolutions was that the ideal usually fell short because of human frailty. M often expounded such theories.

Rahani had told him that he, Bond, or somebody like him, would be essential to whatever was about to take place. They needed someone with the skills, the contacts and the knowledge of an experienced Secret Intelligence field officer. What part of those skills, or what special knowledge was required?

He was still pondering on these things when somebody knocked at the door and a key turned in the lock.

Cindy Chalmer looked bright and crisp. She wore a laboratory coat over jeans and shirt, and was carrying a large tray.

"Breakfast, Mr. Bond,' she said, beaming at him.

In the background, he could see a tall, muscular man.

Bond nodded towards him. "Someone to watch over me?"

"And me, I guess. - She set the tray down on the end of the bed. "Can't be too careful with hot shots like you around. Nobody knew what you'd like, so Dazzle did the full English breakfast - bacon, eggs, sausages, toast, coffee." She lifted the silver cover from the steaming plate, holding the inside towards Bond. There was a folded paper neatly taped to the inside.

"That'll do fine." He gave her a nod. "Do I call room service when I've finished?"

"Don't call us, we'll call you, she said brightly.

"We shall, Mr. Bond. I gather the Professor wants to talk to you later. Good to see you feeling better. They said you had a nasty bump when you went off the road. The Professor was genuinely worried, that's why he persuaded the hospital to let him bring you here."

"Very good of him." She lingered by the door. "Well, it's nice to know we'll all be working together."

"Good to have a job in these difficult times,' Bond countered, not knowing how much Cindy knew or believed.

Had they told her he'd been in a motor accident? That he was being given a job at Endor? Well, presumably the latter was more or less true.

Bond waited until the key had been pushed home in the lock. There was no other sound, no retreating footsteps, for the passage outside, like this room was overlaid with thick carpet.

The paper came away easily from the inside of the lid.

Cindy had filled it with small, neat writing and, in spite of the steam, the ink had not run. The note started abruptly, without any salutation.

I don't know what's happened. They say you've had a car smash, but I don't know whether to believe them. They brought your Bentley back here, and there's been a lot of talk about you joining the team as a programmer. I wondered if they knew you had computer equipment with you, and felt you would not want them to find it. Very difficult, but 1 got hold of the Bentley's keys and cleaned out the boot. All your private stuff is now hidden in the garage and not likely to be found, unless we're unlucky. A good thing I did it straight away, because securitys been tightened for the weekend. A lot of people are coming down, and from what I've heard, the game I told you about (remember the balloons?) is going to be in use. It is possible that I may be able to get hold of it. Do you wish to copy? Or is that superfluous now that you are One of Us?

So, the place was going to be crowded, the Balloon Game to be used. Bond was essential. Therefore, if the Balloon Game was a training simulation for the operation, then Bond and the Game were closely connected.

He tore the message into tiny pieces, and ate them with the bacon and some toast. He could not stomach the eggs or Sausage, but the coffee was good, and he drank four cupfuls, strong and black.

There was a small bathroom attached to his bedroom.

Set neatly on the glass shelf above the hand basin were his razor and his favourite cologne. Already he had seen his weekend case beside the small wardrobe. On examination he discovered his clothes had all been washed and neatly pressed.

Don't believe it all, he told himself. On the face of it, he was trusted; his weapon, shaving kit and clothes were intact. But they kept the door locked and there was no easy way out of the window. It was possible that they only wanted him to believe he had been accepted.

He showered, shaved and changed, putting on fresh casual clothes that allowed him to move easily and fast.

Even the ASP was strapped to his right hip by the time a second knock and the turning of the key announced the arrival of two muscular men whose faces were familiar from Cindy's description - Tigerbalm Balmer and Happy Hopcraft.

"Morning, Mr. Bond." Tigerbalm greeted him with a smile, his eyes not meeting Bond's but sliding around the room, as though measuring it up for a robbery.

"Hallo, James, nice ter meecher." Happy stuck out a hand, but Bond pretended not to notice.

"Balmer and Hopcraft,' Tigerbalm said. At your service. The Professor wants a word." C. Behind the expensive mohair suits and the cheerful bonhomie lay a hint of menace. Just by looking at them, you could see that this pair would have your head stuffed and mounted if it suited them, or they had instructions from anyone paying them enough.

"Well, if the Professor calls, we must answer. Bond looked at the key clutched in Tigerbalm's hand. "That really necessary?"

"Orders,' Happy said.

"Let's go and see the Professor then." They did not exactly crowd him as they went downstairs to the working area. There was no pushing or frogmarching, but their presence had a certain intimidating effect.

Bond felt that one false move - any inclination to go in another direction - would bring about a fast, restraining action. There was no sign of Cindy or Peter.

But St. John-Finnes sat at his desk, the large computer keyboard in front of him and the V.D.U. giving Out a glow of colour.

"James, it's nice to have you back. He signalled with his head that Tigerbalm and Happy should leave, then gestured to an easy chair.

"Well,' he went on brightly when they were settled.

"I'm sorry you were put to some inconvenience."

"I could have been killed quite easily." Bond spoke in a level, calm manner.

"Yes. Yes, I'm sorry about that. But in the event it was you who did the killing, I gather."

"Only because I had to. Habits take a long time to die.

I think my reactions are reasonably fast." The narrow, bird like head moved up and down in comprehension. "Yes, the reports all say you're rather good. You must understand that we had to be sure of you.

I mean, one error and a great deal of money, and planning, would have been in jeopardy." Bond said nothing.

"Anyway, you passed with flying colours. I'm glad, because we need you. You're now aware of the connection between things here at Endor, and the training camp, Erewhon?"

"I understand you and your partner, Mr. Tamil Rahani, run a rather strange enterprise, hiring mercenaries to terrorist and revolutionary groups,' Bond stated flatly.

"Oh, a little more than that." His manner was now benign, smiling and nodding. "We can offer complete packages. A group comes to us with an idea and we do everything else, from raising the money to performing the operation. For instance, the job you have been recruited for has been on the drawing board some time now, and we stand to gain a great deal from it." Bond said he realised that he had been vetted, and he knew there was a job for him within the organisation, and connected to an operation, "But I've no idea of the.

"Details? No, of course you haven't. Just as in your old Service people work on a need-to-know basis, so we must be exceptionally careful, particularly with this current work. No one person is in possession of the full picture, with the exception of Colonel Rahani and myself, of course." He made a slight movement of the fingers and head, which was meant to convey modesty. It was a curiously oriental gesture, as though he wished Bond to realise that he was really unworthy to be granted the honour of knowing such plans. Bond also noted that it was now Colonel Rahani, and he wondered where that title came from.

especially careful concerning you, I fear,' St. John-Finnes was saying. "Our principals were very much against giving you a situation of trust, but - since Erewhon - we have made them think twice."

"This job? The one you've recruited me for. . . Bond started. "Has been in the making for a considerable time. A large amount of money was needed, and our principals were, shall we say, short of funds. This suited us. We're packagers, Bond. So we packaged some moneymaking projects to finance the main thrust."

"Hence the Kruxator Collection and other high-tech robberies." Jay Autem Holy, alias St. John-Finnes, remained icy cold. Only in his eyes could Bond detect a tiny wariness.

"You come to interesting deductions, my dear Bond. For one who knows nothing.

"Stab in the dark." Bond's face betrayed nothing. "After all, there have been several imaginative robberies lately all with the same handwriting. A case of putting two and two together, and maybe coming in with the correct answer.

Holy made a noncommittal grunt. "I'll accept that you're clean, Bond. But still my orders are to segregate you. You possess knowledge and skill which we require you to use now.

"Well?"

"Well, as a former field officer of the Secret Intelligence Service, you must have a working knowledge of the diplomatic and military communications network."

"Yes."

"Tell me, then, do you know what an EPOC frequency is?"

"Yes." He remained as bland as before, though the turn of the conversation was beginning to worry him.

The last time Bond had heard of EPOC frequencies was when he had had to guard against aggressive signal monitoring during a visit to europe by the President of the United States.

EPoc for Emergency Presidential Orders Command EPOC frequency was the cleared radio which emergency messages could be sent during an official tour outside the md of signal is sent over an EPOC "S though giving the matter some thought. "Only vital military instructions.

Sometimes a response to a military problem demanding the President's decision alone. Sometimes action inaugurated by him."

"And how are these orders transmitted?"

"Usual high-speed traffic, but on a line kept permanently clear, via one of the communications satellites."

"No, I mean the nature of the transmissions. The form they take."

"Oh.

A simple group of digits. Data, I suppose. The orders that can be given through the EPOC frequency are very limited. It's rarely used you know."

"Quite." Holy gave what could only be described as a knowing smile. "Rarely used, and very limited - but with the most far-reaching consequences?" Bond agreed. "The President would use the EPOC frequency only on strong recommendation from his military advisers.

The messages are usually concerned with rapid deployment of conventional troops and weapons..

"The alteration in the Readiness State of nuclear strike capacity?"

"That's a priority, yes."

"And tell me, would the instructions be obeyed? Immediately, I mean. Suppose the President were, for the sake of argument, in Venice and wished both to put NATO forces on the alert and prepare his nuclear strike forces for action.

Would it be done? Without consultation?"

"Quite possibly. The code for that kind of action is, in effect, a computer program. Once it's fed into the system it works. In the scenario you're suggesting, the British Prime Minister and the Commander-in-Chief NATO would consult back. But the Readiness State would continue.

"And if the British Prime Minister and the C-in-C NATO forces were known to be with the President at the moment of transmission?" It was very dangerous ground. Bond frit his stomach turn over. Then he remembered Rahani's words - "No blackmail . . . no plots to kidnap the President, or hold the world to ransom "In those circumstances the instructions would go to all local commanders automatically. They would be fed into the mainframe computers, the program would begin to run, globally, straight away. No question." This was something more devious, more ingenious than some harebrained revolutionary plan to override the system and transmit presidential orders to raise the level of tension between the superpowers. "But surely you know all of this."

"Indeed I do." There was an almost insane tranquillity in the way in which Holy answered. "Oh, I know the minutiae. Just as I know who has access to the daily ciphers for use through the EPOC frequency, and who also has access to that frequency.

"Tell me." Bond gave the impression of not knowing the small print.

"Come, Mr. Bond. You know as well as I do.

"I'd rather hear it from you, sir."

"There are only eleven ciphers that are capable of being sent via EPOC. These are seldom altered, for, as you say, they are programs, designed to be automatically set in motion while the President is out of the country. The eleventh is, incidentally, a countermand program to stop an order, returning things to the status quo. But that can be used only on a limited time scale.

The frequency itself is altered at midnight every two days. Right?"

"I believe so.

"The ciphers are carried by that omnipresent, and somewhat frightening official known as the Bag Man.

Correct?"

"The system has been found reliable,' Bond agreed.

"There was a Bag Man present in J.F.K. "s entourage in Dallas.

It's never been changed. He's always around - in the United States as well as when the President travels abroad. It's the penalty for having your head of state as C-in-C Armed Forces."

"The Bag Man can part with the ciphers and EPOC frequency only to the President, or the Vice-President, should anything happen,' Holy went on. "Should the President meet with a fatal accident overseas, the ciphers would be immediately null and void, unless the Vice-President were with him."

"Yes."

"So, if someone - anyone - were in possession of the EPOC frequency, and the eleven ciphers, it would be possible to relay a command which would automatically begin to run?" For the first time since they had started talking, Bond smiled, slowly shaking his head.

"No. There is a fail safe.

The EPOC frequency is a beamed satellite signal. It goes directly through one of the Defense Communications Satellite Systems, and they are very tricky little beggars.

The program will run only if the satellite confirms that the signal has come directly from the area where it knows - because it has been told - the President is. You would have to be very close to him before you could beat the system.

"Good." To Bond's surprise, Jay Autem Holy looked quite happy.

"Would you be surprised to learn that we already have the eleven ciphers, the programs?"

"Nothing surprises me any more. But if you're playing games with an Emergency Presidential Order you still have to get hold of the frequency for the forty-eight hours when you plan to operate. Then you have to get close to the President, and be able to use the frequency. I'd say the last two were the hardest parts getting near the President with the equipment needed to transmit, and obtaining the necessary frequency.

"So who else knows the EPOC frequency - always? I'll tell you, Mr. Bond. The Duty Intelligence Officer at the NATO C-in-C's Headquarters, the Duty Communications Officer at the C.I.A. HQ Langley, the Duty Communications Officer at N.S.A the corresponding senior communications officers of the U.S. armed forces - and, Mr. Bond, the senior monitoring officer at G.C.H.Q. Cheltenham. The Duty Security Officer at the British Foreign Office - who is always a member of the Secret Intelligence Service - is also in possession of the frequency.

It's quite a list, when you consider that the President himself doesn't know the EPOC frequency until he has occasion to use it."

"They're so very rarely used. Yes, as I remember it, you've got the list right but for one other person.

"Who?"

"The officer who controls the ciphers and frequency at the outset. Normally a communications security officer with the National Security Agency.

"Who usually, Mr. Bond, has forgotten the details within five minutes. What we shall need from you is the precise EPOC frequency on a particular day, which means we need it twenty-four hours in advance.

All other details are taken care of."

"And how do you expect me to give you the EPOC frequency?" Jay Autem Holy gave a throaty laugh. "You have done service as Duty Security Officer at the Foreign Office.

You know the system and the routine. Someone with your background and your expertise should have no difficulty in obtaining what we require. Just put your mind to it. This is why you were the obvious candidate, Bond. Providing you're as straight as we believe you to be.

There is an old proverb: when you want something from the lions, send a lion, not a man.

"I've never heard that before."

"No? You are the lion going to the lions. You are trusted, but if you should fail us . . . Well, we are not forgiving people, I'm afraid. Incidentally, I'm not surprised you didn't recognise the proverb. I just invented it." Jay Autem Holy threw back his head in a guffaw of laughter. James Bond did not think it was at all funny.

"You'll get the frequency for us, won't you, Bond?" The query came out through a series of deep breaths, as he gained control of himself.

"Think of it as your revenge. I promise you it will be used for good, and not to create havoc and disaster.

He had no option. "Yes, I'll do it. It's only a few numbers you want, after all."

"That's right. You're in the numbers racket now. A few simple digits, Mr. Bond." He paused, the vivid green eyes boring into Bond's skull. "Did you know the Soviets use almost an identical method when the General Secretary and Chairman of the Central Committee is abroad?

They call it the Panic frequency - but in Russian of course.

"You need access to this Panic frequency as well?" Bond asked, his nerves on edge.

"Oh, we already have it. You're not the only person in the numbers racket, Mr. Bond. Our principals in this operation have little money to spare but they certainly have contacts. Light on cash but heavy on information.

They do not trust your judgment as we do - or have I already told you that?"

"Ah, your principals, yes." Bond turned down the corners of his mouth. "Even though my part in all this is vital - essential - I am not allowed to know . . .

"The name of our principals? I should have thought a man like you would have guessed already. A once powerful and very rich organisation, which has fallen on bad times - mainly because they lost their last two leaders in tragic circumstances. Our principals are a group who call themselves SPECTRE. The Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion. I rather like the revenge bit, don't you?"

BUNKER'S HILL

TIGERBALM AND HAPPY, the strong-arm men in residence, cheerfully took Bond back to his room and left him, keeping up their good humoured banter the whole time.

Yet something was different, Bond knew. In his present bemused state, he could not work out what it was.

Stretching out on the bed, he looked up at the ceiling and put his mind to the current problem. It all seemed so unreal, particularly in this pleasant room with its white gloss paint and flowered wallpaper.

Yet here he was, with the knowledge that downstairs a scientist had already run simulations for criminal activities and was now training people for some other, more dangerous mission using microcomputer games techniques and his own particular skills.

It was even more difficult to believe, as Jay Autem Holy had suggested, that, packaged to SPECTRE'S requirements, the plan concerned military orders transmitted by the United States President. It had not surprised him to learn that SPECTRE, as principals in the matter, did not approve of Bond's recruitment. After all, they had carried on a death feud for more years than either party cared to remember.

But that was neither here nor there at this moment.

Jay Autem Holy had disclosed the reason for Bond being on the payroll. Now it was up to him to be convincing.

M had been clear about the way this kind of situation should be handled. "If they take you in - if any organisation takes you in then you will have to split yourself in two,' he had counselled.

First, Bond should not think of any recruitment as either serious or long-term; second, he had to believe it was serious. The ultimate paradox.

"If they want you for a specialist job, you must at all costs treat it as a reality. Work it out, as they would expect of you, like a professional." So now, lying on the bed, with part of his mind treating the situation with grave suspicion, James Bond began to tackle the problem of how to get hold of the EPOC frequency for these people.

There was one small ray of hope. To secure that set of numbers he would have to get in touch with the outside world. It would mean communication with the Service and it was probable that contact would eventually be physical - which meant escape. What he now had to do was plot a plausible method of making the right contact to get hold of the special frequency. At the same time, he must devise a way to do this with full knowledge and cooperation from his own Service.

It took half an hour for him to concoct two possible methods, though both presupposed he would be allowed to work alone. The first plan needed Cindy Chalmer's undercover assistance, and a method of getting to his Bentley. If this were not possible, then the second plan would have to suffice, though it contained a number of imponderables, some of which could come unbuttoned with worrying ease.

He was still working out this reserve plan when he realised what was different. Once Tigerbalm and Happy left, there had been no click of key in lock.

Sliding quietly off the bed, he went over to the door and tried the handle. It opened without resistance. Was it an error or a message from the Master of Endor telling him he was free to go wherever he liked? If the latter, then Bond would have put money on it being a very limited rein. Why not put it to the test? There were plenty of reasons for trying. He had no idea what had been going on in the world lately.

The corridor took him out to a landing, the landing to the main staircase, which brought him into the hall.

There, all possibility of real freedom ended. Seated near the door, dressed in jeans and a rollneck, was a young man he recognised from Erewhon. Another graduate from that alma mater lounged near the door to the laboratory stairs.

Giving each guard a friendly nod of recognition, which was returned with only a hint of suspicion in their eyes, he strolled through to the main drawing room where he had last sat with Freddie, Peter, Cindy and their hosts before dinner on the night which now seemed a hundred years ago.

The room was empty. He looked around, in the hope of spotting some newspapers. None - not even the television guides. There was a television set, however, and he strode quickly to it. The set was dead. Plugged in, switched on at the mains, but dead as a stone. The same applied to the radio tuner on the stereo system.

Nothing was coming into Endor through normal channels. Bond was sure that any other television or radio would also be inoperable, and that meant he and possibly others, had to be separated from world events.

Cut off. In isolation.

He stayed downstairs for five minutes or so then returned to his room.

About an hour later Tigerbalm came to tell him they were going to have a meal shortly. "The chief says you can join us." He showed no feelings towards Bond, either friendly or hostile. Somewhere along the road Tigerbalm's bouncy bonhomie had been removed.

The dining room was bare of its good furniture. In place of the Jacobean table, a series of functional, military trestle tables had been set up, while the food was collected from a cloth-covered table at the side. There were soups, bread, cheese and several salad dishes.

All very simple, with only mineral water to drink.

The room, however, was crowded and Bond recognised most of the faces from Erewhon. Only Tigerbalm and Happy appeared out of their depth, heavy and sly among the sunburned, soldierly young men.

"James, great to see you." Simon stood at his elbow.

"Wondered where you'd got to." Bond studied the face carefully.

The openness, so noticeable at Erewhon, had become artificial. Simon's pretence told Bond far more about the situation than all the double-talk in the world. Whatever the plot set in motion by SPECTRE through these people, it was already running. D minus two, three, four or five, he reckoned.

Then he drastically reduced the odds as he spotted Tamil Rahani, seated on one side of St. John-Finnes, with General Zwingli on the other.

The three men sat apart from everyone else at a smaller table, and were being served with food by a pair of younger soldiers. Like the others, they were dressed in uniform olive slacks and drab green pullovers, their heads bent in deep conversation.

For a second Bond's mind drifted off to M's surveillance team in the village. Had they noted the comings and goings? Were they aware of the dangerous powers gathered together in this place?

"I said, did you rest well?" Simon was repeating.

"Rest? Oh, rest, yes." Bond managed a smile. "I had no alternative, Simon. You saw to that."

"Come on, have some food." He began piling salads and cheese on to a plate until Bond had to stop him with a gesture of his hand.

They sat together at the end of one of the longer tables, Simon seeing to it that Bond had his back to the three leaders.

"Security, said Simon with a grin, in answer to Bond's last remark. "You know all about security, James. Perchance to dream, and a ride on the magic carpet. You go to sleep in a hot dusty climate, and wake up in a quiet English village. Would that all travel were so easy."

"I prefer to know where I've been, and where I'm going. I like to be aware."

"Sure." He took a mouthful of bread and cheese, chewing on it, sucking the juices back into his throat.

Simon, Bond thought, was every inch a trained soldier.

His face was the face of millions of men who marched from the Battle of Kadesh to the urban horrors of the present day.

"Hallo, the Professor's coming your way,James. Looks as if he's got orders for you.

St. John-Finnes leant over them. "James,' his voice had a quiet, confiding tone, as though trying to calm a wayward child, "can you spare an hour or two?" Bond just checked himself from making a famous remark, nodded and rose, winking at Simon as he followed the Master of Endor, as he now thought of him, from the room. He could feel the eyes of Rahani and Zwingli on his back as they left.

There was a young man guarding the stairs down to the laboratory.

He did not even signify that he had seen them, almost ostentatiously looking the other way.

"I thought I'd give you a chance to lose the American Revolution to me,' Jay Autem said as they began the descent. "It's an easy enough simulation at this level, so we can, perhaps, talk about your plans as we fight. Yes?"

"Whatever you say." Bond appeared noncommittal, but ran his plan for getting the EPOC frequency through his mind.

Neither Cindy nor Peter was in the main laboratory, and there had been a radical rearrangement. The largest area was now filled with collapsible wooden chairs, arranged in rows like a school assembly hall. At the far end, facing the chairs, were a large television projection screen and Jay Autem Holy's version of the Terror Twelve on a movable table.

Bond noticed two modern typing chairs and the big, chunky joystick controllers near by. A training session had obviously been going on earlier that day. The Balloon Game? Almost certainly.

They passed through into the long room with its map of the Eastern seaboard of eighteenth-century America; Boston with Bunker's Hill and Breed's Hill to the north, Dorchester Heights jutting out to enclose the harbour, and the townships of Lexington and Concord inland. For no apparent reason, Bond recalled hearing Americans pronounce Concord with a shortened second syllable so that it sounded like Conquered. Jay Autem Holy was smiling down at the board, with its movable open rectangle, and all the games paraphernalia set at the players' places.

Bond noticed the smile and the look, and in that second saw, for all the man's brilliance, the chink in his armour revealed. His interest in strategy and tactics had become an obsession - an obsession with winning. Holy was interested only in winning. To lose was the ultimate failure. Like an over-indulged child, to win was necessary, otherwise he could not live with himself. Had he lost some internal Pentagon battle when he disappeared all those years ago? Bond wondered, steeling himself.

This fanatical Games Master was now issuing rapid instructions.

Bond prepared to win the American Revolution, and so put Jay Autem Holy at a psychological disadvantage.

The rules were simple enough. Each player took a turn, which was divided into four movements: Orders, Movement, Challenge and Resolution. Some of these moves could be made in secret by marking the location of troops, or material, on a small duplicated map of the playing area, a pile of which rested in front of each player.

When we transfer the whole thing on to computer there will be a more ingenious method of making the unobserved moves,' Holy told him with all the pride of a small boy showing off a collection of toy soldiers.

The playing area itself, on the grid of the large map, was marked out in hundreds of black hexagonals. Each player had counters which represented the number, strength and type of unit - black for a piece of cannon with horses and crew, green for five men, blue for ten, red for twenty, and so on. There were also counters overprinted with a horse, denoting mounted troops, and special counters to represent arms caches and the rebel leaders.

In good weather men could move five hexagonals on foot, seven on horseback, and cannon only two. These moves were restricted by bad weather, woodland or hills.

Once Orders had been noted, the player moved and then challenged, either by coming within two hexes of an enemy counter or by declaring that he had sight over five hexes, thereby revealing any hidden moves.

After the Challenge came the Resolution in which various strengths, fatigue, weather, were taken into consideration, and the outcome of the Challenge would be noted, one or the other player losing troops, material, or the action itself.

As each turn, at the beginning, covered a time-scale of one day and the whole episode lasted from September 1774 to June 1775 - Bond realised they could be at it for many hours.

"Once we get it on computer, the whole business becomes faster, of course,' Holy remarked as they began their Orders phase - with Bond playing the British. He remembered what Peter had told him: that his opponent almost expected the British to make the same moves and mistakes - as they had in history.

As Bond recalled it, the garrison commander had been hamstrung by the length of time orders took to reach him from England. Had he acted decisively in the first weeks and months, this opening period could have had a very different outcome. While Independence would almost certainly have followed eventually, lives as well as face might have been saved.

Bond opened by showing patrols going out of Boston to search the surrounding countryside. He also made secret forays in order to gain control of the high ground at Bunker's and Breed's Hills, together with the Dorchester Heights, at an early stage.

He was surprised to find how much faster the game moved than he had expected.

"The fascination for me,' Holy observed as Bond took out two arms caches and around twenty revolutionaries on the Lexington road, "is the juxtaposition of reality and fiction. But, in your former job, this must have been a constant problem." Bond secretly took three more cannon towards Breed's Hill, and a section of thirty men in a final move to the top of Dorchester Heights, while showing more patrols on the ground along the Boston Concord line. "Yes." Be truthful, he thought, "Yes, I have lived a fictitious life within a reality. It is the daily bread of field agents."

"I trust you are living in reality now, friend Bond. I say that because what is being planned in this house can also change the course of history." Holy revealed two strong bodies of the Colonial Militia along the road, attacking the British patrols so fiercely that Bond lost almost twenty men and was forced to withdraw and regroup. Secretly, though, he still poured men, and weapons on to the dominating ground.

The Battle of Bunker's Hill - if it ever came - would be completely reversed, with the British forces in a strong and dominant position, defending instead of attacking under the withering fire of the entrenched Militia.

"One hopes that any change can only be for the good, and that lives are not put at risk,' Bond said after a pause.

"Lives are always at risk." The Master of Endor found himself losing four caches of weapons and ammunition in a farmhouse on the far side of Lexington. He realised that Bond had also begun to move his forces on Concord. He shrugged. "But, as for your own life, I know there is no point in threatening you with sudden death. Any threat to your person is of little importance.

"I wouldn't say that." Bond found himself smiling. "We all like life. The thought of being separated from it is as good a lever as any.

The date on the calendar easel showed them almost at the end of December, and the weather was against both sides. All either of them could do now was consolidate openly, or by using the clandestine option. Bond decided to divide his forces, encircling the road between Lexington and Concord, while his remaining troops continued to fortify the hills and heights. Jay Autem Holy appeared to be playing a more devious game, sniping at British patrols and, Bond suspected, moving forces on to the high ground already occupied by the British. They played, turn after turn as the weather grew worse and movement was constantly restricted. Throughout this phase, the Master of Endor carried on a conversation that appeared to have little to do with the simulated battle.

"Your part in our mission. . . he took out five of Bond's men " .

is of exceptional importance, and you will undoubtedly have to use much fiction and illusion to accomplish it."

"Yes. I've been giving it a lot of thought."

"Have you given thought to the way governments mislead their gullible peoples?"

"How do you mean?" Bond now had sizeable forces on all three sections of ground overlooking Boston.

"The obvious, of course, is the so-called balance of power. The United States does not draw attention to the fact that it is outnumbered in space by Russian satellites - not to mention things like the fractional orbital bombing system, in which the Soviets hold a monopoly of seventeen to zero.

"The figures are there for anybody to see." Bond would soon have to make a serious challenge from the high ground, as Colonial forces struggled upwards in increasing numbers, restricted by both the climb and the weather.

"Oh yes, but neither side makes a big thing about figures." Holy scanned the board, brow creased. "Except when Russia takes umbrage at the deployment of Cruise and Pershings in Europe. Even when she can more than adequately match them. But James, what is the real conspiracy here? The British government ties up many policemen controlling anti-nuclear protesters. Yet nobody says to these well-meaning people, "If it happens, brothers and sisters, it's not going to happen with the big nuclear bang. Cruise and Pershing are only for rattling.

What could occur would be ten thousand times worse.

They do not stop to tell the worthy ladies at Greenham Common or the marchers in London."

"Nobody tells the protesters in the United States either." Bond watched as his opponent edged even larger numbers of men towards the waiting British guns, and fought a small skirmish along the constant battlefront of the country between Boston and Concord.

"And yet, if it came, James, what would happen?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Certainly not the big bang and the mushroom cloud. More like the bright lights and a very nasty chemical cloud."

"Quite . . .

I challenge from this hex." Holy's arm moved out, to an area between Concord and Lexington, where British troops were now much thinner on the ground. "No, it will be neutrons and chemicals. A lot of death, but little destruction. Then a confrontation in space, with the Soviets holding the big stick up there."

"Unless the United States and NATO have done something to equalise things. That's what is going on, isn't it?" Why this? Bond asked himself. Why talk to me about the balance of power, and the place nuclear weapons play in that balance?

Then he recalled the sound advice always given in classes on interrogation - listen to the words, ignore the orchestration that makes the banal words seem more intelligent; the clever, soaring strings that take your mind from the cheap potency of simple, emotional ideas.

By now it was late January in the game and, at a Challenge, Bond had to reveal there were British forces ringing the far side of Concord. Jay Autem Holy started to cut them apart with his Colonial Militia, sniping across the winter landscape. Bond saw how addictive this kind of exercise could become. You could almost feel the cold and fatigue which played havoc with men's strength and fighting ability.

You even heard the crack of musket fire, and saw the blood staining the dirty snow in some farmer's field.

Dr Jay Autem Holy was not really talking about the lopsided balance of power. He was talking about the need to end the whole system which controlled that balance.

"Would the world not be a better and safer place if the real strength were removed?" he asked, making another foray into the bleak Massachusetts winter scene. "If the stings were drawn from the superpowers' tails?"

"If it were possible, yes,' Bond agreed. "It would be better, but I doubt safer. The world's always been a dangerous place." One more turn and he would have to declare his presence in the hills.

Holy leaned back, temporarily stopping play. "We're involved in halting the race to the holocaust - nuclear, neutron or chemical. To you is entrusted the task of getting that EPOC frequency. Now, do you yet have a way?" As though he did not expect an answer, he played through his turn, concentrating on bringing men well into the British firing zone.

"I have the makings of a plan. It will require certain information in advance "What kind of information?"

"When you need the frequency, I shall have to know, a little ahead of time, exactly who is the Duty Security Officer, for the night in question, at the Foreign Office.

"That presents no problem. One man does the job for a whole week, yes?"

"As a rule."

"And he is a senior officer?" Bond spread the fingers of his right hand, making a rocking movement. "Let's say middle management.

"But you are likely to know him?"

"That's why I have to get a name. If you can't provide it, I shall have to telephone "We can.

"Then, if I know him, I shall still have to make a call.

If he is unknown to me - an unlikely possibility - I'll have to think again."

"If you know him?"

"I have a way of getting in. I should need an hour at the most in his company." Bond prayed it would work.

He had to have some communication with the outside world.

"I challenge you here." Bond's finger hovered around the upper reaches of Breed's Hill.

"But. . . " his opponent began, then realised the trap which Bond had sprung.

A few minutes later, as he faced slaughter on the slopes of Bunker's Hill, having lost the majority of his men and arms on Dorchester Heights and Breed's Hill,Jay Autem angrily told Bond that he would have plenty of warning.

"You'll know who the officer is, that I promise you." He watched as Bond revealed two more cannon to counterattacking militia on the far side of the hill. "This is the wrong way round,' he said, barely controlling his rage.

"And Bunker's Hill shouldn't happen until June. It's hardly February!"

"And this is the fiction,' Bond said. "The reality's history - even though a great deal of history happens to be fiction too." He was quite pleased with his showing on this simulation, and allowed imagination to run riot. The weather for this series of turns was heavy rain, with a cold blustery wind running up from the sea. The wind raged as men and guns were locked on the barren hill, their cries lost in the cold, while the rebels still in Boston were at the mercy of British guns from Dorchester and Breed's Hill.

Then, suddenly, the storm broke. Jay Autem Holy's chest seemed to swell, and his cheeks turned from red to crimson.

"You . . . You . . . You . . ." The voice rose to a scream.

"You've beaten me! ME!" One huge hand swept the papers from his playing area, then came down in a fist.

"How dare you? How dare you even It was an awesome rage as he spluttered, stamping his feet, kicking the table. Awesome, and yet funny, as a child's tantrums are amusing yet distressing. He went on spluttering, blustering, out of control to the extent that Bond thought he would be physically attacked. The man was, as he had already thought, quite unhinged, with a dangerous, deep-seated madness.

Then, as suddenly as the rage had begun, it stopped.

There was no dusk, no twilight, for sanity appeared to return, and he stood, looking for a brief moment like a chastened child.

"The Militia could rally yet." The voice was small, throaty. "But we've played too long. I have other things to do. Better things.

He stood, as though winning or losing a game were now of little consequence to him. When he spoke again, the tone was completely normal, as if nothing unusual had taken place, quiet and conversational, making it all the more bizarre.

"The object of spending this time with you was to hear how your thoughts were shaping up - regarding your part in the operation. Tell me, if you happen to know the man on duty, how do you propose to get the frequency from him?" Bond was amazed to see from his watch that it was eight in the evening. He began to tell Holy of the method he had prepared. When he had finished, silence stretched out - the hush in the aftermath of a battle fought with counters instead of men, and on a board and map instead of ground. As the seconds ticked by, Bond thought perhaps there had been a miscalculation. Word perfect, he sifted through his mind. Was there any really weak point? Anything that Jay Autem Holy could grab at to prove the whole idea an insubstantial fiction - which, certainly, it was.

Then the silence ended, and a laugh began to rise from the tall man's throat, the head nodding in great beaky movements, as if preparing to tear his prey apart, savaging it with that sharp bill.

"Oh yes, James Bond. I told them you were the only possible choice. If you can pull that off we'll all be happy." He appeared to pull himself together, eyes darting around, as though he had been on the brink of an indiscretion.

The laughter subsided, and Bond was aware of movement, noises off.

People were entering the main laboratory area.

"We have been down here too long,' Holy snapped. "I took the trouble to ask Cindy to make up a tray for you.

In your room. I shall eat later." Superman, thought Bond. He's telling me that he's a survivor. Go without food and drink for long periods.

"In the desert,' Bond said softly, "when you were with Zwingli after you jumped from that aeroplane - did you have to go long without food and drink?" The green eyes went bitterly cold, all sign of normal human life ebbing from them.

"Clever, Mr. Bond. How long have you known?" Realising that he might have overplayed his hand, and not certain why he had done it, Bond said he had not been sure, but had suspected the truth from their first meeting. "It just happened that I'd read the old file: they resurrect it from time to time, you know. I thought I knew your face the moment we met - when I came here with Freddie. During the evening, I became more convinced, but still not absolutely certain. After all, if you are Jay Autem Holy, you've been dead a long time."

"And what if you had still been on active service, Mr. Bond? Would you have gone running to your superiors?

And why, incidentally, is the file resurrected regularly?"

"You know what the Colonial Militia is like,' Bond tried to inject humour into his voice. "Your Colonial Militia. They jump at ghosts.

Spooks." Holy made a growling noise. "Tamil was right. It's a pity we didn't pull you in sooner. His people tried, against my advice. You see, I did not wish to deal with yet another hostage, another woman. You had some woman with you, didn't you? Anyway, the job was bungled; you were quick and cunning." The tense atmosphere changed yet again. There were no warnings with Holy. "Well, I have work to do. You stand by, James. I'm glad we have you now." Everyone was assembling in the main laboratory, all the young bronzed soldiers from Erewhon. Bond saw that Zwingli was still in deep conversation with Tamil Rahani, as though they had not stopped since lunch.

"Just see Mr. Bond up the stairs,' Holy said to Tigerbalm, giving Bond a small pat on the shoulder, as if reassuring himself that all was well.

Tigerbalm went as far as the landing, and watched as Bond walked to his room. He remembered being told that Jay Autem Holy was a genius of sorts. Was it Percy who had told him? The man obviously lived in that odd world of unreality. If he said he was dead, then that was exactly what the world should believe. Holy had been genuinely shaken by the idea that others may not be convinced. Then there was the question of Percy: "You had some woman with you, didn't you?" Well, everyone said that Holy would not even recognise his own wife.

He opened the door, and there, for the second time since the whole intrigue had started, was Cindy Chalmer, a hard computer disk clutched in one hand, a finger to her lips. Bond closed the door. "More greetings from Percy?" he asked softly.

THE BALLOON GAME

"No, THIS ONE S on me. She saw the look in Bond's eye, and followed his gaze, for he had suddenly fallen silent, moving quietly around the room, examining every inch.

Softly she spoke again. "It's okay, James. They have visual surveillance and all the military detection gear, but this lot don't seem to have caught up with the deadly little bug."

"You certain?" he mouthed.

"Swept the place myself. In my first week. And I've kept abreast of all the security developments since. If they've put any sound in, I'll turn back into a virgin." The cruel lips didn't tilt into amusement. There was nothing to be amused about now. Even though he appeared satisfied, throughout the time they were together in the room all conversation was conducted in a low murmur. Foolish, he thought, for that would be as audible as yelling should Cindy be proved wrong.

"The Balloon Game." She held out the hard disk to him, a small flat square, encased in plastic.

So she had got it, the program which would provide a clue - no, more than a clue - to what SPECTRE had proposed to Rahani and Holy.

Stored away on the waler-thin magnetic disk was the answer to all Bond's questions. Yet he did not move to take it from her.

"Well, don't just stand there. At least say thank you.

He remained silent, wishing to draw her out. The trick was as old as the trade itself practised constantly by case The Balloon Game officers and agent handlers the world over. Remain silent and let them come to you, tell you all there is to tell. Only then should you try to fill in the gaps.

"They've got four back-up copies,' she said at last, "and I just hope to heaven the Old Bald Eagle doesn't need to run the fourth, because this is it." Bond remained silent. He did not smile.

"I thought they'd buried it, locked it behind steel and sprinkled man-eating spiders in the vault." She stared back at Bond, who did not move.

"All five disks have been kept in the chief's safe - the one in his office that does have everything except the man-eating spiders." Once more she held it out. "But today it's all systems go, and they're using it all the time.

As often happens Peter and I have been banished from the lab. But the guards have got used to us going up and down. I guess you beat him at his own game?"

"Yes,' Bond said flatly, as though there had been no pleasure in it.

"Heard some of it. Now perhaps you'll believe he's insane. Had one of his tantrums. I heard that as well."

"How did you get down?"

"Looked as though I belonged. Clip-board under one arm. I just walked past the young thugs on the door.

They've seen me before. You were with Bald Eagle. Like a lot of people who become paranoid about security, he has a blind spot. The safe was left open. I did a swift switch and tucked this up my shirt." It was all he was going to get. "You haven't seen it run, then?" She shook her head. Her negative gestures, he noticed, were always performed with the head tilted slightly to the right - a distinctive mannerism, a flourish, like the way some people curl the last letter of their signature, underlining the name to give it more importance. It was a habit they should have caught during training, where the mohair-suited psychiatrists note and eradicate idiosyncracies. He waited again.

"There's been no way, James. Only' the inner circle have seen it, played with it - if that's the right word." At last Bond took the disk.

"Trained on it,' he corrected her. "And there's little chance of us having a look-see. Where's my gear?"

"In the garage, under a pile of rubbish - tyres, old tins, tools: odds and ends. In one corner. I had to improvise, and it was better to hide it there than let them find it in the car. It's not safe by any means, so we just have to hope nobody goes rooting around." He seemed to give the situation a lot of thought.

"Well, I don't fancy trying to unlock this,' he touched the disk.

"What's on it is big, and I suspect dangerous. I just hope you're right - that the disk iSn't missed, and that nobody goes rooting through the garage and tumbles over my hoard of electronics."

"So what good's it going to do? You want me to try and get it out?" Bond went over to the window, where the chintz curtains had been drawn. The promised supper tray was on a table near by, and he noticed it had been set for two - prawns in little glasses, cold chicken and tongue, salads, bread rolls, a bottle of wine. Did anybody get hot food at Endor when the heat was on? he wondered. He still clutched the disk in his hand. Better if he kept it close. Yet there were so few hiding places. In the end, he banked on there being no search, walked over to the wardrobe and pushed it among his clothes. The whole process seemed to take several minutes of silence.

"There are friends,' he confided at last. "Quite near. I would have thought that by now No, you don't move from the house. Nobody tries to get out except me." Bond turned, and dropped quietly into a chair, signalling she should also sit. He nodded towards the wardrobe.

not taking any risks, not with that. It's like a time bomb.

"We just sit, and wait until the cavalry arrive?" Cindy was perched on the end of the bed, her skirt riding up to show a slice of smooth, tantalising thigh.

"Something like that." Bond was trying to reckon how much time they might have; whether the team with their cameras, log books and directional microphones had advised M that something important was happening at Endor. Would M let them sweat it out? Possibly. The cautious, diplomatic intriguer had waited before, almost until the last moment.

"I want an educated guess from you, Cindy. You've been here before - I mean when they've prepared for some caper.

She had been at Endor before, when the hard men had come and spent hours training down in the converted cellars.

"This is the biggest gathering yet?" Since she had been here, it was.

"In your estimation, Cindy, what's the timing? How long have we got before things start to roll?" In his mind the question was really, how long have I got before they ask me to filch the EPOC frequency?

"It can only be a guess, but I'd say forty-eight hours maximum."

"And your little playmate, Peter?" She sprang to Peter's defence like a sister, often at loggerheads with her brother, but always ready to stand up for him. "Peter's okay. He's a brilliant worker, dedicated .

"Would you trust him? Really trust him, when the chips are down, as they say?" She gnawed her upper lip. "Only in a real emergency.

Nothing against him. He can't stand St. John-Finnes or Dazzle.

He's been looking for a different job. Says this place is too claustrophobic for him."

"I expect it'll be even more claustrophobic soon,' Bond said. "I'd say you, Peter and myself are destined for oblivion - particularly you and Peter. Anybody who isn't completely in their confidence." Once more he fell silent, his mind slicing through every morsel of information. Jay Autem Holy had indicated that SPECTRE'S current ploy was destined to change history. Afterwards, they would not want anybody around who could name names or draw faces.

Certainly not in the immediate wake of whatever they planned.

"My car,' he snapped suddenly.

"The Bentley? Yes?"

"You took my gear from the boot. How?"

"It was just before the present crowd arrived. I had been through the kitchens and spotted a whole lot of food being loaded into the two big deep freezes. I also heard Old Bald Eagle on the telephone. I knew they were bringing you back. What did happen by the way? They said you were in hospital Bond brusquely told her to get on with it.

She knew the car had been driven back and put into the garage, and she wondered about the micro and drives he had used in the hotel. The Bentley's keys were left in a security cabinet where they kept all the car keys. She had been in and out of that one since she first arrived - and she chose her moment.

"It was a risk, but I only had the keys out for five minutes.

Everyone was busy, so I took the keys, unloaded the boot, and stashed the stuff in the garage. It's not really safe, but it seemed to be the only way. Bad enough doing that, and far too risky to attempt getting it any further away.

"And the car itself? Have they done anything with it?

Gone over it?" She gave her angled negative head shake. "No time.

Not enough troops either. Everyone's been up to their eyes here."

"The keys?"

"Jason will have them."

"And it's still there? In the garage?"

"Far as I know. Why?"

"Can we. .

"Forget it, James. There's no way we can drive out of here in one piece."

"I hope to be going officially. But if they haven't messed about with it, I wouldn't mind spending fifteen minutes in that car now. Possible?"

"The keys? How? Lord, I don't.

"Don't worry about keys. Just tell me, Cindy, can we get into the garage?"

"Well, I can. She explained that her room had a window looking out on the garage roof. "You just drop down, and there's a skylight. Opens upwards. No problem."

"And security?"

"Damn. Yes, they've got a couple of young guys out front." She explained the layout. The garage itself held four cars, and was, in effect, an extension to the north end of the house. Her room was on the corner, just above the flat roof, one window looking down on the garage, two more to the front.

"And these guards? They're out front? Specifically watching the garage?"

"Just general duties. Keeping an eye on the north end.

If we could Wait a minute. If my curtains aren't drawn they can see straight up into my room. I caught one lot at it last night. They just move a shade further down the drive and they have a good view.

How would it be if I gave them a peep show?" Bond smiled for the first time. "Well, I'd appreciate it.

Cindy leaned back on the bed. "You, James, you male chauvinist pig, have the opportunity to appreciate it any time you want. That's an offer."

"I'd love to take you up on it, Cindy. But we have work to do. Let's see how good they've been with my luggage.

He went over to the weekend case and dumped it on the bed beside the girl, then knelt to examine the locks.

After a few seconds he nodded and took out the black gunmetal pen clipped inside his pullover, unscrewing the wrong end to reveal a tiny set of miniature screwdriver heads. These were threaded at their blunt ends, the threads matching a small hole in the pen's cap.

No traveller should be without one,' Bond said. He smiled and selected one of the drivers, screwing it into place.

Carefully he began to remove the tiny screws around the right lock of his case. They turned easily, the lock coming off in one piece to reveal a small oblong cavity containing one spare set of keys for the Mulsanne Turbo, which he slipped into his pocket before replacing the lock and putting away the miniature tool kit.

The plans for Cindy's diversion and Bond's crawl from her window were quickly arranged.

"The diversion's no problem,' she said, lowering her eyelids.

"I've got exceptional quality tart's stuff on under the skirt." She gave a little pout. "I thought I might even turn you on.

She described her room, suggesting that she should enter in the dark, open the side window and pull those curtains before switching the light on. "I'll be able to see exactly where the guards have placed themselves. You'll have to crawl to the side window on your belly." "How long can you . . . well, tantalise them?" If she performed the full act, Cindy said, putting on a throaty voice, she could keep them more or less happy for about half an hour. "To be on the safe side, I guess you d better reckon on ten minutes, give or take five.

He gave her a look usually reserved for the more cheeky jumper and pearls set at the Regent's Park Headquarters, checked the ASP, and said the sooner they got on with it the better. Bond knew that, if Holy's men hadn't yet tampered with the car, it would certainly be given a going over before they let him out - if they let him out.

Nobody appeared to be stirring in the house. While tiptoeing across the landing, they saw men still lounging in the hall, but the rest was quiet, and the corridor leading to Cindy's room at the far end of the house was in darkness. Her smooth palm touched his, their fingers interlocking for a moment as she guided him towards her door.

She was young, supple, very attractive and obviously available to him at least. For a second he wondered, not for the first time, how genuine she was. But the chance to doubt had long since passed. There was nobody else to trust.

Cindy opened her door, whispering, "Okay, down boy." He dropped on to his stomach, beginning to wriggle his way across the floor. Cindy was humming to herself and interspersing the low, tuneful, bluesy sound with soft comments.

"Nobody at the side m closing the curtains okay, going to the front windows . . . Yes they're down there . . . Right, James, get cracking, I'm putting the lights on . . ." And on they flooded, with Bond halfway across the floor, moving fast towards the window, where the curtains billowed and sighed like a sail.

As he reached it, he saw her out of the corner of his eye, standing near the far front window, hands to her shirt, swaying slightly as she sang softly: He shakes my ashes, freezes my griddle, Churns my butter, stokes my pillow My man is such a handyman He threads my needle, gleans my wheat, Heats my heater, chops my meat, My man is such a handyman.

The last words were barely distinguishable to Bond, who was already out of the window, dropping silently on to the garage roof. He had a copy of "Queen' Victoria Spivey's Handman, recorded in the 1920s, so he knew what that was all about.

Flat against the root, his body pressing down as if to merge with the lead surface, Bond lay silent, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then he froze, hearing first the sound of feet on gravel, then the voices. There were, as Cindy had said, two of them, speaking in heavily accented English. One made a hushing sound.

"What?"

"The roof. Didn't you hear it?"

"What?"

"Sounded like someone on the garage roof.

Bond willed his body into the flat surface, pressing down, his head turned away, pulses thudding in his ears.

"On the roof? No."

"Move back. Take a look. You know what he said - no second chances." The sound of feet on the gravel again.

"I can't see any "You think we should go and . .

Bond's hand inched towards the ASP.

"There's nobody there. Might have been a cat - Hey, Hans, look at that." The scuffle of feet could be heard moving back off the gravel.

Bond turned his head, and saw the clear silhouettes of The Balloon Game the two guards below, in front of the house. They were close to one another, looking up like a pair of astronomers studying a new planet, eyes fixed on the windows, out of sight to his right.

Carefully he started to move towards the centre of the roof where he knew the skylight lay. Then, suddenly, he dropped flat again as the guards also moved - his own breathing sounding so loud that it must draw them to him. But the two men were now backing away from the house, heads tilted, trying to get a better view of what was happening just inside Cindy's lighted open window.

Again Bond edged forward, going as fast as safety would allow, conscious of each minute slipping away.

Though probably less than a minute, it seemed to take an eternity to reach the skylight, which moved at his first touch. Very gently he slid it back, staring down into the darkness below.

They had made it easier for him by parking the white Mercedes directly underneath. One Swing and he was down, fret on the car's root, head less than a foot below the edge of the skylight.

Crouched there, Bond slipped the ASP from its holster. If they had put a man inside the garage, plans might just have to change. Once more he waited, stock still, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

No sound could be heard but the beating of his own heart. The long outline of the Mulsanne could just be made out parked to his right.

He dropped to the floor, padded around the rear of the Mercedes, one hand still grasping the ASP, the other now clutching the keys to the Bentley.

The lock thumped open, and there was that solid, satisfying sound as the catch gave way to his thumb and the heavy door swung back.

The Bentley's interior came alive with light, and he slid into the driving seat, leaving the door open as he checked the connections around the Super 1000 long range telephone, which Communications Control Systems had provided for the electronics wizards at RollsRoyce to wire in. Closing the door, he picked up the handset, letting out a breath of relief as the small pin of red light came on to show the telephone was active. His main fear had been that Holy's men had cut the connections. Now, all he could do was pray that nobody was monitoring the closed waveband.

Quickly he punched out the number, and, before the distant end had time to say "Transworld Exports,' he rasped out, "Predator! Confuse!" hitting the small blue scramble button as he said it, then counting to twenty, waiting for the distant to come up again.

the voice of the Duty Officer at the Regent's Park Headquarters said clearly.

"I say this once only. Predator, emergency . . . and Bond launched into a fast two-minute message which he hoped would be clearly intelligible if Jay Autem Holy really intended to send him out from Endor to steal the United States EPOC frequency within the next few days.

Putting the telephone back into its cradle between the seats, he retrieved the ASP which had rested above the polished wooden dashboard only inches from his hand, and returned it to his holster Now he had to get back to Cindy's room as fast as possible. The thought of the girl slowly stripping, singing to herself was highly erotic in his heightened state of mind, bringing the picture of Percy Proud to him quickly, as though she were very close. A trick of the subconscious he decided, closing the Bentley's door as quietly as its weight allowed and locking the car.

The interior lights remained on for a few seconds, then the garage was once more consigned to darkness. He turned, to head back to the Mercedes, when a sharp double metallic click brought him to a halt.

There was an old game - remembered from his training back in the Second World War - which they still played in the school. You sat in darkness while tapes of noises were run. The object was to identify each noise.

Often they ran the distinctive cocking action of an automatic pistol with the sounds of door handles, toys, even metal snap fastenings. The sharp double click which he heard now came from the far side of the Mercedes, and Bond would know it anywhere. It was that of an automatic pistol being cocked.

He had the ASP in his hand again, like a master conjurer producing a wand from midair. But as the gun came up, a spotlight flashed on and a very familiar voice spoke softly.

"Put that nasty thing away, dear. It's not really worth it, and neither of us wants to get hurt, do we?" - 1(3EPOC BOND COULD SEE him quite clearly, outlined against the lighter colouring of the wall. In a fraction of a second, his brain and body calculated the situation and made a decision.

Normally, with all his training, and the long built-in reflexes, Bond would have taken him out with one shot, probably straight from the hip. But several factors were weighed in an instant and stayed his hand.

The voice was not aggressive, indicating room for negotiation; the words had been plain, simple and to the point - . . . neither of us wants to get hurt, do we?" More important, there was no silencer fitted to the ASP. A shot from either side would bring Holy's people into the garage. Bond reckoned that Peter was as anxious as he was himself to keep the wolves at bay.

"Okay, Peter. What's the score?" As Peter Amadeus came closer, Bond sensed more than saw that the small pistol, just visible, held away from the body, was waving around like a tree in a gale. The precise little man was clearly very nervous.

"The score, Mr. Bond, is that I want out. And as far away from here as possible. I gathered from your conversation that you're thinking of going as well."

"I'm going when I'm told - by your boss.

Does he know you're out, by the way?"

"If the gods happen to be on my side, nobody will notice. If the hue and cry is raised, I just pray they won't come looking here."

"Peter, you won't get out at all unless I go back the way I came pretty damned quickly. Wouldn't it be better for you to stay put?" The pistol sagged in Amadeus's hand, and his voice edged one more note towards hysteria. "I can't, Bond! I can't do it. The place, those people - particularly Finnes - terrify me. I just can't stay in the house any longer!"

"Right,' said Bond soothingly, hoping the young man's voice would not rise too high. "If we can think of a way, would you help? Give evidence if necessary?"

"I've got the best evidence in the world,' he said in a calmer voice. "I've seen the Balloon Game run. I know what it's about, and that's enough to terrify any large size policeman, let alone me."

"What's in it? Tell me."

"It's my only ace. You get me out and I'll give any help you might need. Is that a deal?"

"I can't promise." Bond was acutely aware that time was slipping by. Cindy would not be able to distract the two guards much longer.

He told Peter to put the gun away. "If they're letting me out to do a bit of their dirty work, it's pretty certain they'll go through the Bentley with the finest of toothcombs. You've also got to realise that your absence puts a lot of people at risk."

"I know, but. .

"Okay, it's "~ri,' now. Listen, and listen carefully As quickly as he could, Bond told Amadeus the best way to hide under the other cars in the garage. Then he pressed the keys into the young man's hand. "You use these only after they've played around with the Bentley.

It's a risk. Anything could happen, and I haven't any assurance they'll let me go in my own car. One other thing. If you're found here, you get no help. I completely deny having anything to do with you. Right?" Bond told Amadeus he should hide in the boot after the car had been examined - "For all I know they'll send one of their people with me, armed to the teeth." Then Bond gave him a final instruction should all else fail, or if Bond himself were prevented from going. He patted the little programmer's shoulder, wishing him luck, then climbed back on to the roof of the Mercedes and hauled himself up through the skylight.

Lying on the flat roof in the chill night air, pressed hard against the lead, he realised that Cindy had exhausted her repertoire.

The guards were very close, just below the garage roof. He could hear them mutterIng, commenting on what they had seen: all the usual soldiers' innuendoes.

He lay tense, listening, for about five minutes, until they moved away, following their routine pattern, covering the front of the house from all angles.

It took a further ten minutes for Bond to snake his way back to the window. After each move he stopped, lying still, ears strained for sounds of the returning guards, who passed under the garage twice during his uncomfortable crawl. At last he negotiated the sill, climbing back into Cindy's room.

"You took your time." She was stretched out on the bed, her dark body glistening, the gorgeous long legs moving as she rubbed thigh against thigh. Cindy was quit n.t'd, and Bond, with the tension released, went to her.

"Thank you. I've done all I can . . ." He was going to say something about Amadeus, but changed his mind; sufficient unto the day.

Cindy lifted her arms to his shoulders, and Bond found himself with no power to resist.

Only once, as he entered her, did Percy's face and body flash before him - a picture so vivid that he thought he could smell her scent on Cindy.

was almost dawn when he crept back to his own room. The house was still silent, as though sleeping in preparation for action. He ate some of the food, threw the rest down the lavatory and flushed it three times to clear it away. Only when that was done did Bond lie down on his own bed, still fully dressed, and drop into a refreshing sleep.

At the first noise he was awake, his right hand going for the ASP.

It was Cindy, looking as though even hard-boiled sweets would dissolve at the touch of her tongue. She carried a breakfast tray and was followed by Tigerbalm, who produced his inane grin, saying that Professor St. John-Finnes wished to see him at noon. "That's midday sharp,' he added. "I'll come and fetch yer.

"Please do." He moved on the bed, but Cindy was already halfway out of the door.

"Cindy,' he called.

She did not even look back. "Have a nice day' was flung sharply over her shoulder.

Bond shrugged, a little worried, and then began to help himself to black coffee and toast. It was ten-thirty by his watch. By eleven forty-five he was showered, shaved and changed, feeling better than the day before, and reflecting that even M could not leave it much longer before making a move against Endor.

At three minutes to twelve, Tigerbalm reappeared.

They went downstairs to the rear of the house, where Jay Autem Holy was waiting for him in a small room Bond had never seen before.

There was a table, two chairs and a telephone; no pictures, windows or any other furnishing. The room was lit by two long neon strips, and Bond saw immediately that the chairs and table were bolted to the floor. It was familiar ground: an interrogation room.

"Come in, friend Bond." The head came up in a swooping movement, the green eyes piercing, hostile as laser gun sights. He told Tigerbalm to leave, motioning for Bond to sit down. Holy wasted no time.

"The plan you outlined to me - the way to get your eyes on the current Epoc frequency "Yes."

"It is imperative that we have the frequency which comes into operation at midnight tonight, covering the next two days.

"I can get it, but "We'll do without any buts, James. SPECTRE are still most unhappy about using you. They have sent a message, which I am to give you, alone." Bond waited. There was a pause of a few seconds.

"Those who speak for SPECTRE say that you already know they are not squeamish. They also say that it is useless for us to threaten you with death or anything else, if you don't carry out orders to the letter." He gave the ghost of a smile. "I happen to believe that you're with us all the way. If you're doubling, then I'd have to admit you've fooled me. However, just so that we all know where we stand, I am to tell you the worst that can happen.

Again Bond did not reply, or allow any change in his expression.

"The operation to which we are all now committed has peaceful aims, I must stress this. True, it will alter history. Certainly it will bring about some chaos. There will undoubtedly be resistance from reactionaries. But the change will come, and with it Peace." He made it plain, by his tone that the word was given a capital P.

"So?"

"So, the EPOC frequency is a prerequisite to SPECTRE'S plan for the Peaceful solution. If all goes well, there will be little or no bloodshed. If anyone is hurt or killed, it will be the fault of those trying to make a stand against the inevitable." Holy clasped his hands together gently and placed them on the table in a gesture of open and frank paternal counselling.

"What I am instructed to tell you is that, should you fail us, or try any tricks to foil what cannot be foiled, the operation will still go ahead, but the Peaceful solution will have to be abandoned. Without the EPOC frequency there is one way only - the way of horror, terror and the ultimate holocaust.

"I . . . " Bond began, but was stopped short by Holy's glare.

"They wish me to make it clear to you that, should you be tempted to cut and run, not provide the frequency, or - worse - try to alter it, then the blood and deaths of millions will be on your head, and yours alone. They aren't bluffing, James. We have worked for them, and they terrify me."

"Do they terrify General Zwingli as well?"

"He is a tough old bird,' Holy said, more relaxed. "A tough but disillusioned old bird. But, yes, they also frighten him." He spread his hands on the table, near the telephone, palms downwards. "Joe Zwingli lost all faith in his country roughly at the time that I too came to the conclusion that the United States had become a degenerate, self-serving nation, led by corrupt men. I deduced that America - like Britain could never be altered from the inside. It had to be done from without. Together we dreamed up the idea of disappearing, working for a truly democratic society, and world peace, from the obscurity of. .

. what shall I call it? . . . the obscurity of the grave?"

"How about the obscurity of a whited sepulchre?" Too late, Bond checked his impulse to be less than friendly with the devious doctor.

Epoc The green eyes hardened, diamonds reflecting light.

"Not worthy, James. Not if you're with us."

"I was thinking it was what the world might say."

"The world will be a very different place within the next forty-eight hours. Few will be concerned with what I did. Many will look with hope to what I have done." Bond swerved back to the matter in hand. "So I go tonight - if you've decided my idea's the best."

"You go tonight, and you set things in motion before you go. The Duty Security Officer's name is Denton Anthony Denton."

"Good."

"You know him?" Bond knew Tony Denton well.

They had attended courses together in the past, and, a few years ago, had been on a bring-'em-back-alive trip to secure a defector who had walked into the Embassy in Helsinki. Yes, he knew good old Tony Denton, though it would make no difference at all if his instructions had been taken to heart at the Regent's Park Headquarters.

"He goes on duty at six in the evening, I understand,' Holy prompted.

Bond said that certainly used to be the old routine.

Holy suggested he should make the telephone call at about six-thirty. "In the meantime, I think you'd better take some rest. If you do the job properly, as you must, for the sake of your own peace of mind, not to mention the millions who are unknowingly staking their lives on you, we can all look to a brighter future - to those broad, sunlit uplands of which a great statesman once spoke."

"I go in my own car." He was not asking but telling Holy.

"If you insist. I shall have to have the telephone disconnected, but you'll not object to that."

"Just leave me an engine and a complete set of wheels." Epoc Holy allowed himself the ghost of a smile. Then the face hardened again.

"James Bond knew suddenly that he was going to say something unpleasant.

"James, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. I understand the nubile Miss Chalmer was in your room last night. Come to that, you were in hers until the early hours. I must ask you, did Cindy Chalmer give you anything? Or try to pass something to you?"

"I trust not then he realised this was not the time for facetious remarks. "No.

Nothing. Should she have?" Holy stared at the table. "She says not.

Idiot girl.

Sometime yesterday she removed what she imagined to be a rather important computer program from the laboratory. She's shown signs of wilfulness before now, so I set a small trap for her. The program she stole was rubbish, quite worthless. She says that you knew nothing of her action, and I'm inclined to believe her. But the fact remains that she hid the disk among your clothes where, James, if has been found.

Cindy made quite a speech about it. She seems to think that we're - as she puts it - up to no good. So, she took the disk as some kind of evidence and hid it in your room until she could think of a way to use it against me." He became hesitant.

"We've kept it in the family, James - by which I mean that we've not let it go beyond Dazzle and myself. My partners, Rahani and Zwingli, could become alarmed, might even pass it on to the representatives of SPECTRE. I don't think we'd want that, not a domestic thing. None of their business." So, thought Bond, as serious a matter as stealing even a dummy back-up program of the Balloon Game on which, he presumed, the whole operation for SPECTRE was based could be overlooked and kept "in the family'.

It was an interesting turn of events. What it did show was that Jay Autem Holy lived in terror of SPECTRE, and that was a piece of deduction which may well be put to valuable use later.

"Cindy?" Bond mused. "What. ?"

"Will happen to her? She is regarded as one of my family. She will be disciplined, like a child, and kept under lock and key. Dazzle is seeing to it."

"I haven't set eyes on your wife recently.

"No, she prefers to remain in the background, but she has certain tasks to perform, tasks necessary to success.

What I really wish to ask of you, James, is that we keep this business about Miss Chalmer to ourselves. Keep it as a personal matter. I mean, we don't mention it to anybody. Personal, between us, eh?"

"It's personal enough already." Bond clamped his mouth shut. What else was there to say?

Tigerbalm came for him shortly after six o'clock. They had not locked him in, though food was served on a tray, brought up by a young Arab. Tigerbalm was very polite.

They went to the same room as before, with its bolted-down table and chairs. The only difference this time was that a tape recorder, with a separate set of earphones, had been hooked up to the telephone.

"It's time, then." Holy was not alone. Tamil Rahani stood beside him, while the large, craggy face of General Zwingli peered out from behind them.

"I can't promise this part will work." Bond's voice was flat and calm. So calm that it appeared to activate something deep within General Zwingli, who pushed his way through his partners, sticking out a leathery hand.

"We haven't met, Commander Bond." The voice had a slightly Texan tang to it. "My name's Joe Zwingli, and I just want to wish you luck, son. Get in there and make it happen for us. It's in a great cause - to put your country and mine back on their feet; give them some new order in the midst of their present chaos." Bond did not want to disillusion the man. But a scheme of SPECTRE'S that was not for their good alone, he reckoned, would never see the light of day.

He played it to the hilt. "I'll do what I can, sir." Then he sat down and waited for Holy to set the tape monitor, put on the headphones and indicate they were ready.

He picked up the handset and punched out the digits to access the small complex where the S.I.S. Duty Security Officer to the Foreign Office spent his twelve hour watches, together with specialist teleprinter, cipher, radio and computer operators. Two shifts a day, twelve hours apiece.

The number which Bond had in fact punched was a screened telephone number known only to the field officers of his Service. It was also manned day and night, and paraded many identities, depending upon what operations were being run. That night it was a Chinese Laundry based in Soho, a radio cab firm, a French restaurant, and - if the need arose - the Foreign Office Duty Security Officer's direct line. For that purpose it had been alerted for special action ever since Bond's radiophone call from the Bentley on the previous evening. If the call came, it would be passed to one person only. The telephone rang four times before anyone picked it up. "Hallo?" The voice was flat, disguised for safety.

"Tony Denton - the D.O. please.

"Who wants him?"

"Predator."

"Hang on please.

Bond saw Holy give a wry smile, for when outlining his plan, he had refused to give the cryptonym he had used as a member of the Service. Apparently Jay Autem Holy thought this one very apt.

They waited while the call was being switched through to Bill Tanner, and it was his old friend Tanner's voice which next came on to the line.

"Denton. I thought you were out, Predator. This is an irregular call. I'm afraid I have to terminate."

"Tony! Wait!" Bond hunched over the table. "This is priority. Yes, I'm out - as far as anyone can be out - but I have something vital to the Service. But really vital."

"Go on." The voice at the other end sounded doubtful.

"Not on the telephone. Not safe. You're the only person I could think of. I must see you. I have to see you.

Imperative, Tony. Consul." Bond used the standard cipher word for extreme emergency. At the far end there was a fractional pause.

"When?"

"Tonight. Before midnight. I can get to you, I think.

Please, Tony, give me the all clear." Again there was a long pause. "If this isn't straight I'll see you in West End Central by morning, charged under the Official Secrets Act. As quickly as you can. I'll clear you. Right?"

"Be with you before midnight.

Bond sounded relieved, but the line was closed long before he took the handset from his ear.

"First hurdle." Holy jabbed down on the recorder's stop button.

"Now, you have to be convincing when you get there."

"So far, it's playing to packed houses." Tamil Rahani sounded pleased. "The dispatch rider brings the frequency up from Cheltenham at around eleven forty-five?"

"If the U.S. President is away from his own country, yes.

Bond held the man's eyes, trying to discern his state of mind.

Rahani laughed. "Oh, he's out of the country. No doubt about that, Commander Bond. No doubt at all."

"If you leave here at nine forty-five you should make it with time to spare." Holy removed his headset. "We'll be with you all the way, James. All the way."

DOWN ESCALATOR

THE METAL FORESTS of antennae which rise above the massive pile of government buildings running from Downing Street along Whitehall and Parliament Street, conjure up thoughts of communications flying through the night; of telephones waking ministers, calling them to deal with some important crisis; or the fabled telegrams crossing the airwaves from distant embassies.

In fact, only open messages run into those government offices.

Sensitive signals and urgent messages are usually routed through the G.C.H.Q. complex outside Cheltenham, or one of its many satellites.

From Cheltenham they are passed to the mysterious building known as Century House, or to the Regent's Park Headquarters.

Ciphers for the Foreign Office go only then, not to Whitehall and Parliament Street, but to an unimposing, narrow, four-storey house off Northumberland Avenue.

They are sent by a variety of methods ranging from the humble dispatch rider to teleprinter by land-line, or even through a closed telephone circuit, often linked to a computer modem programmed for deciphering.

If the romantically minded were to imagine that someone with the title of Duty Security Officer, Foreign Office, prowls the great corridors of power with flashlight and uniformed accomplices, they would be wrong. The D.S.O.F.O. does not prowl. He sits in the house off Northumberland Avenue, and his job is to ensure that all ciphers for Foreign Office remain secure and get to the right person. He also deals with a whole mass of restricted information concerning communications from abroad, both from British sources, and from those of foreign powers. Leaders of friendly foreign powers, in particular, look for assistance from the Foreign Office.

They usually find it with the D.S.O.F.O.

It was to the little-noticed turning off Northumberland Avenue that James Bond was now heading in the Mulsanne Turbo.

They had taken him out to the garage shortly after nine-thirty, made sure he had money, credit cards, his ASP, and petrol in the tank.

Holy, Rahani and Zwingli had, in turn, clasped his hand, Zwingli muttering, "Good to have you on the team,' and promptly at nine forty-five the Bentley had eased its bulk on to the gravel turning circle, flashed its lights once, and swept on its stately way, up the drive and on to the road to Banbury.

From Banbury, Bond followed the route they had ordered him to take - straight to the M4 motorway, and so into London.

He did not spot any shadows, but had no doubt that they would be there. It did not worry him. The street where he would finally stop would be cleared of all but authorised vehicles so there was little chance of him being observed once the car had been parked.

Risking the wrath of police patrols, Bond made the journey at high speed. From numerous telltale signs and bumps he was certain Peter Amadeus had managed to let himself into the boot. The little programmer would by now, be suffering considerable discomfort. Bond stopped once, at the service station near Heathrow Airport, to fill the tank. There he was able to let a little air into the boot and to satisfy himself that Amadeus was indeed alive and well. In a whisper, he explained that release just then was impossible, but it would not be long now.

Less than forty minutes later, Amadeus was freed, speechless and stiff from the cramped ride, but all the same duly grateful.

"Well, this is where you show your gratitude." Bond took his arm firmly, leading him towards the lighted doorway of the terraced house.

Swing doors opened on to a marble-tiled hallway with a lift which took them to the second floor and a minuscule landing, watched over by a muscular government messenger, who half rose from his desk to ask what they required.

"Predator,' Bond snapped at him. "Tell them, Predator and friend." He did not smile.

Less than a minute later, they were led quickly through a passage and into a larger room. The red velvet curtains were drawn. A portrait of the Queen hung over the Adam fireplace and another of Winston Churchill adorned the opposite wall. A long gleaming boardroom table occupied a large portion of the available space.

Six faces turned as one. M was at the head with Bill Tanner on his right and another officer Bond recognised to the left. Major Boothroyd, the Armourer, Head of Q Section, sat to Tanner's right with Lady Freddie Fortune next to him.

Bond did not have time to be surprised at Freddie's presence, for the sixth member of the reception committee left her chair almost at a run.

"James, darling. Oh, it's so good to see you.

Percy Proud, oblivious to the officialdom, held him close, as though she would never let go again.

"Commander Bond! Miss Proud!" M was genuinely embarrassed. "I, er, think we have important work to do." He detached himself from Percy, acknowledged the others, and introduced Peter. "I think Dr Amadeus will be able to contribute." Bond kept glancing suspiciously at Freddie Fortune - so often that M finally said, "Lady Freddie's been on the team for some years. Done good work, infiltrating. Sound woman, 007. Very deep cover.

Forget you've ever seen her here." Bond caught Freddie's steady gaze, returning it with a sardonic smile and cocked eyebrow. Then, M drew the conference to order.

"I trust you've gone into Endor, sir " Bond started.

"Yes, 007. Yes, we went in about an hour after you drove out, but the birds had flown. I don't think many were left when you departed.

The rest have vanished into thin air. Bag and baggage. We thought you could tell us - "I'm instructed to return there, by the same route as I came." Bond recalled the deserted feel of the place that morning, and the fact that he had seen only Cindy and the Arab first thing, and Tigerbalm, Holy, Rahani and Zwingli later.

"The cars were there." He felt it was a lame comment.

"Three of them, still in the garage."

"Two when our people arrived." The officer Bond recognised but could not name was obviously running liaison.

"How about my girl? How about Cindy?" Percy touched his sleeve, and Bond could not meet her eyes.

"I'm not certain. She was a great deal of help, last night. Even tried to steal a copy of their main program the simulation of whatever they're doing." He turned to M. "It's on SPECTRE'S instructions, this business, sir, did you know?"

"Is it, indeed?" M could administer the iceberg treatment when he had a mind to. "That villainous outfit is on the warpath again, eh?"

"You still haven't told me about Cindy." Percy had her hand tightly on his arm now.

"Just don't know, Percy. No idea." He told her about the previous night, leaving out all that happened after he got back to her room, but repeating the conversation with Holy in the morning.

"So we have no ideas abut this simulation?" M sucked at his pipe.

"If I could have a word." They all turned towards Amadeus. "I've seen the simulation running. It was a couple of weeks ago. The wee small hours. Couldn't sleep. I went down to the laboratory, and Jason was in what we call the War Room - Mr. Bond knows: it's at the far end.

Jason was engrossed. Just didn't hear me." He passed a hand across his forehead. "That was before all those great oafs - gun-happy boys turned up. Before I got nervous about being there.

M looked uncomfortable, spluttering over his pipe.

"Well, thinks I, have a look, Pete. See what the crooks are after next. They refer to it as the Balloon "The Balloon Game, yes,' Bond interrupted.

"I've seen it and you haven't. I have the floor, Mr. Bond, please." He looked around him revelling in the attention he was getting. "As I was saying, they call it the Balloon Game, but it's to do with something they've named Operation Down Escalator." M's brow creased as he repeated the words under his breath.

"The simulation - Amadeus raised his voice appears to be set in a commercial airport. Not large.

I didn't recognise it, but that's nothing to go by. The scenario begins in an office complex just to the left of the main terminal building. There's a lot of stuff with cars, and positioning men. As far as I could see, the idea was to lift one man.

"Lift?" M enquired.

"Kidnap, sir,' explained Bond.

Amadeus shot them a glance, then scowled, letting them know he did not like being interrupted. "They lift this chap, and there's a lot of changing around in cars you know, he's taken to one point, then switched to another car.

Then the location alters to a smaller field an airfield. It's tiny, with a mini control tower and one main building, a hangar, and guess what? An airship."

"Airship?" Bond repeated in surprise.

"Hence Balloon Game. They get on to this field using the man they've lifted. It does appear to be terribly clever - there are three cars twelve men, and the hostage, if that's what he is. Result? They take over the whole shooting match. There is a final scenario and that's to do with flying the airship somewhere. It got very technical and "Chief of Station almost shouted. "Go and check it out. We know the thing's there, because it's on the itinerary. Saw it myself. They cleared it with the President's people, the Prime Minister and the Russians.

Doing a sort of fly-past tomorrow morning." Bill Tanner was out of the room before he finished.

Bond looked at his chief the questions clear on his face. "Sir, I haven't seen, or heard, any news lately. They even immobilised the car radio. Could you ?"

"Yes,' M leaned back. "At least we've now got a small idea of what it's about. We know where, and how. What?

Well, that's a very different matter."

"Sir,' Bond prompted.

"It's been kept under wraps for some time - a good few months in fact" M began. "These things always take the devil of a time to organise, and the participants wanted it to remain very low profile.

Tonight, members of a Summit Conference are to arrive in Geneva.

In fact, the first main session is this very night. They've taken over the whole of Le Richemond Hotel for three days "Who, sir?"

"Russia, the United States, Britain, France and West Germany. The President of the United States, the French President, the Chairman of the U.S.S.R the German Chancellor, and our Prime Minister - with all advisers, secretaries, military, the entire circus. The discussions will be on arms control and a more positive and prosperous future. The usual pie-in-the-sky."

"The airship?" Bond's heart was sinking. The more he heard, the less he liked it.

"Goodyear. They have their ship, Europa, in Switzerland at the moment. When they heard about the Summit, Goodyear asked permission to fly what they called a goodwill mission, taking them straight over Le Richemond. They've got the Europa tethered just up the lake on a small strip - a tiny satellite field you can approach only from the lake itself. Mountain rescue boys and some private flyers use it."

"But when did Goodyear arrange this?" Bond had not heard a whisper about any Summit Conference.

M grunted. "You know what it's like, 007. They arrange their flights a year in advance. The Europa would have been there in any case. Would have been flying.

However, they had to get permission once the Conference was announced." Percy had caught on. "Dr Amadeus, when did you first hear about the Balloon Game?" About four months ago, he told her, four or five.

"And the Summit. . .?"

"It's been pencilled in for almost a year, said M. "The information was available only through diplomatic channels. The Press have been good boys for a change. Not a whisper, even though they must have known." Bill Tanner returned with the news that he had been in contact with Geneva.

"I talked to the Goodyear security man out at the strip.

No problems, and we've alerted the Swiss police. They're going to close the field to everyone but accredited Goodyear staff. That means around thirty to thirty-five people, handlers, publicity and PR, mechanics, two pilots. Nobody's going to get in unless the Goodyear representatives okay the bona fides. It's sewn up, sir.

"Right. Well, 007, all we have to do now is sew up the remainder of this unpleasant lot. Any ideas?" Bond had one idea, and one only.

"You give me the EPOC frequency, sir - the real one, just in case they already have it, because I wouldn't put anything past SPECTRE and this crowd who are doing their dirty work for them."Oh yes, the EPOC frequency. That was mentioned in your message. Made us think. Tell me about that, 007." Bond went through the essentials of the story, from start to finish, leaving out nothing.

"They claimed to have the Russian equivalent, sir, and the emergency ciphers for both Russia and the U.S.A.

I'm inclined to believe them." M nodded. "Yes, SPECTRE S never been backward in acquiring information. Good job we've got the Goodyear field under wraps, Chief-of-Staff. Chivvy the Swiss would you, and keep in contact with the Goodyear people." M fiddled with his pipe as he began to expand on his own theory. If they did have the emergency ciphers of the United States and Russia, together with the frequencies and if SPECTRE'S agents were able to get near either of the leaders, they could activate that country'S cipher.

"The way to do it,' Bond cut in, "would be to hijack the airship and load enough shortwave hardware. Then take the Europa right over the very spot where heads of state are gathered together "That's it, 007! Directly overhead would be enough for the United States' communications satellite to recognise the cipher, and, I presume, the Russian one as well." There were two possibilities: full nuclear strikes by one of the superpowers, or a simultaneous strike by both, knocking each of them out, leaving nothing but desolation on the two great continents for years to come. It was unthinkable. M said so, loudly. Bond pointed out that Jay Autem Holy had talked only of peace.

"There would be the danger of their using a reserve plan if I failed to return with the EPOC frequency."

"There's one alternative.

Ploughshare." M said it as though this were the answer to everyone's dreams.

"Ploughshare, and whatever the Russian equivalent is." Percy asked what Ploughshare was, and M told her with a smile that it was a way of consigning all nuclear weapons - the bulk of them anyway - to the scrap heap.

Quietly he informed the assembly of the cipher which could be sent over the EPOC frequency that would set in motion the destruction of all arming codes, and the disarming of all nuclear weapons, strategic and tactical.

"It's been reckoned that the process would take around twenty-four hours in the U.S.A. I should imagine it would be a little longer in the Soviet Union. Just as there's always been a Doomsday Machine, we've had a Swords to Ploughshare Machine for the last three decades." M pursed his lips and waited for this to sink in before continuing.

"It's there in case of some catastrophe, like a 67 percent paralysis of the armed forces by nerve gas, or a genuine stalemate. Of course it's always been hoped that if the Ploughshare option were taken, it would be by mutual understanding. But it's there. And it's just as potentially dangerous as blowing two great nations to pieces, because using it would be the easiest way to destabilise the two superpowers, by removing their nuclear balance at a stroke. Do that, and the stage is set for real revolution, economic disaster and chaos." Bond was right. Let him be supplied with the EPOC frequency, and a homing device, one or two of the Armourer's more fancy pieces of equipment, and a good surveillance team. "You can then go back from whence you came, 007. Somewhere along the way, they'll pick you up, and we'll track you - safe enough if the team stays well back." Without further ado the meeting broke up and they took Bond off into a side room, where Major Boothroyd wired three homing devices into his clothes, and one for luck into the heel of his right shoe. The Armourer then handed Bond a couple of small weapons, and they gave him five minutes with Percy.

She clung to him, kissed him and told him to take care.

There would be time enough once this was over, Bond said, there was no doubt about it, and the haymaking season would last all summer.

Percy smiled the knowing smile women the world over smile when they've got what they really want.

Back in the conference room, they gave him the EPOC frequency that had come into effect at midnight. It was now one in the morning, and Bill Tanner gave the final hasty briefing.

"We've already got your homers on two scanners' he said. "Don't worry, James, they've a range of almost ten miles. The car behind will stay only a mile or so away.

The one riding point is already on his way. We know the route, so as soon as you go astray, we'll be in action. One S.A.S. team standing by. They'll be anywhere you want in a matter of minutes, in a straight line, as the chopper flies. Good luck." Even the centre of London was beginning to slow down. Bond had the Bentley on the Hammersmith Flyover, heading towards the M4, in less than twelve minutes. They had calculated that Holy and Rahani wouldn't try anything until he was well off the motorway.

It happened just after the Heathrow Airport turnoff.

First, a pair of cars, travelling very fast, forced the Bentley to give up the outside lane. Bond cursed them for a couple of fools and pulled into the middle lane. Before he realised what was happening the two cars reduced speed, riding beside him, keeping him in the centre, while two heavy goods lorries came up in the slow lane.

Bond increased speed, trying to slip away in the centre lane, but both cars and lorries were well tuned, and, too late, he realised the way ahead was blocked by a big, slow-moving refrigerated truck.

He braked and saw incredulously the rear doors open and a ramp slide out, its end riding on buffered wheels, fishtailing to the road surface, the whole contraption being driven with great precision.

The cars to the right and lorries on the left crowded him, like sheep dogs working together until he had no option left. With a slight jerk, the Bentley's front wheels touched the ramp. With the steering wheel bucking in his hands, Bond gave the engine a tweak and glided into the great white moving garage.

The doors clanged shut behind him. Lights came on, and the door was opened. Simon stood beside the car, an Uzi tucked under one arm.

"Well done, James. Sorry we couldn't give you any warning. Now, there's not much time. Out of those clothes. We've brought the rest of your gear. Everything of it, shoes as well, just in case they smelled a rat and bugged you.

Hands grasped at his clothing, tearing it from him, handing over other things - socks, underwear, grey slacks, white shirt, tie, blazer, and soft leather moccasins.

When he turned round, Simon was behind him, now dressed in a chauffeur's uniform, and the van seemed to be slowing down and taking one of the exits. The ASP was handed back to him - a sign of good faith? He wondered if it was loaded.

The team had worked with such speed and proficiency that Bond hardly had time to take in what was going on.

As the truck shuddered to a halt, Simon opened the Bentley's rear door, half pushing Bond into the back, and in a second the truck's doors were again open, and they were reversing out. Simon was in the driving seat.

"Well done, James. You got the frequency, I presume?" Jay Autem Holy said from beside him.

"Yes." His voice sounded numb.

"I knew it. Good. Give it to me now.

Bond parroted the figures, and the decimal point.

"Where are we going?" Holy repeated the frequency, asking Bond for confirmation. By now they were moving smoothly back on to the motorway.

"Where are we going, James? Don't worry. We're going to live through an important moment in history.

First, Heathrow Airport. All the formalities have been taken care of. As we're just a little late, we're cleared to drive straight up to our private jet. We're going to Switzerland. Be there in a couple of hours. Then we have another short journey. Then yet another kind of flight. I shall explain it all later. You see, yesterday morning, long before you woke for breakfast, while it was still dark, the team from Erewhon carried out a very successful raid. They stole a small landing strip and an airship. In the morning, James, we're all going for an airship ride.

To change history.

A mile or so back down the road, the observer in the trail car had noted that their target seemed to pull off the motorway for a few minutes. "We're closing on him.

Can't make it out. You want me to call in?"

"Give it a couple of minutes." The driver shifted in his seat.

"Ah. No." The observer stared at the moving blip which was Bond's homer. "No, it's okay. Looks as though they were right. He's still heading west. Lay you odds on them picking him up between Oxford and Banbury." But the Bentley had, in fact,just passed them, going in the opposite direction, hurling itself back towards Heathrow and a waiting executive jet.

THE MAGIC CARPET

THE EXECUTIVE JET had Goodyear symbols all over it a smart livery, with the words Good Year flanking the winged sandal. It also had a British registration.

Bond resisted the temptation to make a run for it, try to attract attention, or cause a commotion. The realisation that he was outnumbered, outgunned and at an extreme disadvantage held him back.

Whoever had laid out the ground plan of this operation, Holy, Rahani, or the inner council of SPECTRE itself, had done so with admirable attention to detail. For all he knew, the whole gang on board could have a genuine affiliation to Goodyear. In any case, he did not even know whether the ASP was loaded. So far there was at least a small amount of trust between him and the main protagonists.

Exploit that trust to the full, he told himself, and just go along for the ride.

After takeoff an attractive girl served drinks and coffee. Bond took the coffee, not wishing to dull any of his senses. He then excused himself and went to the pocketsized lavatory at the rear of the aircraft.

The ever-watchful Simon sat near the door, eyeing him with wary amusement. But there was no attempt at restraint.

Inside he took out the ASP and slipped the magazine from the butt.

It was, as he had thought, empty.

Whatever else happened, ammunition or another weapon was a priority.

Back in his seat, Bond took stock. The takeover of the Goodyear base, together with the airship Europa, had already taken place hours before Bill Tanner had checked. True, the Swiss police were now alerted, but they would only make SPECTRE' S task easier by keeping out any unwanted meddlers. The only possibility of the Service suspecting anything amiss would be the discovery that the surveillance cars had lost him - but heaven knew when they would find out. These people had taken no chances. By stripping him, they had effectively cut off any possible pursuit. The surveillance teams could be led a pretty dance, all over the country, following the constant bleeps of the homers coming from a pile of clothes in a lorry or car.

Not for the first time in his career, Bond was truly alone, with no way of warning anyone in authority. On the face of it, there was very little he could do to stop the airship's scheduled flight over Geneva, or prevent use of the Russian and American ciphers. Even the high security classification of these ciphers would work against them.

If M was correct and the SPECTRE plan turned on the operation of the American Ploughshare cipher or its Russian equivalent, there would be no worldwide alert while Russian and American leaders were locked in their Summit talks. The damage would already have been done before they knew there was a crisis.

Sitting next to Jay Autem Holy, he reflected on the ingenuity of the plan, which would denude the two superpowers of their one true weapon in the power balance. It was, of course, what many people had dreamed of; protested for, talked and argued about for years. M had stressed this at the meeting in the house off Northumberland Avenue.

He was convinced that a "phased run-down of both sides' nuclear armouries was a reasonable solution. For the two superpowers to be stripped overnight of their major weapons would destroy the tenuous stability that had prevailed since the Second World War. Operation Down Escalator was, Bond thought, an appropriate name, borrowing from that clumsy term, dc-escalation, bandied about by politicians and protesters alike.

He dozed, not asleep, but conserving his energies for the time when ingenuity and strength might be needed.

Yet in that state, pictures of the aftermath of Down Escalator, as described by his chief; churned over and over in his mind. There would be a worldwide economic crisis, with a market crash of enormous proportions, all confidence lost in the two superpowers. M had said that any economist or social historian could map out the events which would follow the undercutting of financial stability. The United States and the Soviet Union would be at the mercy of any other nation, however small, which possessed its own nuclear capability. As he took in the pictures M had drawn, Bond became even more determined to prevent Operation Down Escalator, no matter what the cost to himself.

"Anarchy will rule,' M had said. "The world will divide into uncertain alliances and the man in the street, no matter what his birthright, nationality, or politics, will be forced to accept a way of life which will drop him into a dark and bitter well of misery. Freedom, even the compromise freedom which exists now, will be erased from our existence,' M had declaimed in a rare burst of almost Churchillian oratory.

"Seatbelt, James." He opened his eyes. Jay Autem Holy was shaking his shoulder. "We're coming in to land." Bond smiled back, sheepishly, as though he had really been deeply asleep.

"Landing? Where?" Perhaps in Geneva, at the airport, he could get away, raise the alarm.

"Berne, Switzerland. You remember we're flying into Switzerland?" Of course. They wouldn't do anything like trying to go into Geneva, which would be bristling with security.

Berne! Bond smiled inwardly. These people had the whole business tied up. Berne, cars, a swift drive over to the Lake of Geneva and the Goodyear airstrip. All formalities would be already dealt with under the auspices of the huge international company they appeared to represent.

He glanced at his watch. It was already four in the morning. As the aircraft banked on its final approach he saw out of the cabin window that the sky was beginning to brighten, a dark grey colour wash streaked with light.

No, he had to go all the way. Try to spike the plan from the inside as it got under way.

"Nice place, Berne,' he observed casually, and Holy nodded.

"We go on by car. It'll take us an hour - an hour and a half.

There'll be plenty of time. Our job does not start until eleven." They came in with engines throttled back, then there was a final short burst of power to lift them over the threshold, and hardly a bump as the wheels touched down, before the final fiery roar of reverse thrust.

As he had suspected, the transfer was swift and accomplished with the combined efficiency of Swiss bureaucracy and SPECTRE'S cunning.

The aircraft was parked well away from the main terminal. Two Audi Quattros and a police car were drawn up alongside.

From the window, Bond saw the transaction take place - the small pile of passports handed over, inspected and returned, with a salute.

There would be no customs inspection, he thought. The Goodyear jet must have been running in and out of Berne and Geneva for a month or so now. They would have the formalities cut down to the fine art of mutual trust.

Then General Zwingli eased his bulk down the aisle first, giving Bond a friendly nod as he passed. They left the aircraft in single file, with Bond hemmed in neatly by the Arab boy and Simon. Nobody threatened him, but it was implicit in their looks that any false move would be countered. The police car, with its immigration officers on board, was already slowly disappearing back towards the terminal.

The Audis had Goodyear V.I.P. stickers on the windscreens and rear windows. Bond recognised both drivers, in their grey uniforms, as men he had seen in Erewhon.

Within minutes, he was sitting next to Holy in the rear of the second car as they swept away from the airport in the half light of dawn. The houses on Berne's outskirts still slept, while others appeared to be just waking lights coming on, green shutters open.

Always, in Switzerland, Bond thought, you knew you were in a small, rich country, for all the buildings looked as though they had been assembled in some sterile room from a plastic kit, complete with small details of greenery and flowers.

They took the most direct route - straight to Lausanne, then along the lake road, following the line of the toy-like railway. Holy was quiet for most of the journey, but Simon, sitting in the front passenger seat, occasionally turned back to make small talk.

"You know this part of the world, James? Fairytale country, isn't it?" Bond remembered, for no apparent reason, that the first time he had visited the Lake of Geneva was when he was sixteen. He had spent a week with friends in Montreux, had had a youthful holiday affair with a waitress from a lakeside cale, and had developed a taste for Campari-soda.

The Magic Carpet Between Lausanne and Morges the cars stopped at a lighted lakeside restaurant. Simon and the Arab boy, in turns, brought out coffee and rolls to the cars. The sheer normality of their actions grated on Bond's nerves, like a probe on a raw tooth. Half of his mind and body urged him to take drastic action now: the other more professional half told him to wait; bide his time and use the moment when it came.

"Where are we heading?" he asked Holy soon after the breakfast break.

"A few kilometres this side of Geneva." Holy remained relaxed and confident. "We turn off the lake road.

There's a small valley and an airstrip. The team from Erewhon will be waiting for us. Have you ever flown in an airship, James?"

"No."

"Then it will be a new experience for us both. I'm told it's rather fantastic." He peered from the windows. "And it looks as though we'll have a clear day for it. The view should be wonderful." They went through Nyon, the houses clustered together on the lake as though clinging to each other to save themselves from falling in. Soon afterwards, Geneva came into view at the western end of the lake, a misty blur of buildings with a toy steamer ploughing a lone furrow of spray, chugging across the water. It all looked as peaceful as ever.

They also met the first police checkpoint, the cars slowing almost to a standstill before the sharp-eyed uniformed men waved them on.

There was a second road block just before they turned inland. A car and two policemen on motorcycles started to flag them down, until they spotted the Goodyear stickers. They were waved on with smiles.

As Bond looked back, he saw one of the men talking into a radio.

As he had imagined, the police were assisting innocently in the events planned to take place over the lake in a few hours' time.

The great cleft in the mountains seemed to widen as they climbed away. The sun was up now, and you could clearly see tiny farmhouses on the slopes. Then suddenly the valley floor and the tiny landing strip appeared just below them, the grass a painted green, the control tower, hangar and one other building as neat and unreal as a film set. Out on the grass, two mountain rescue aircraft stood like stranded birds. At the far end of the field the sausage shape of the Goodyear airship Europa swung lazily, tethered to her low portable masthead.

Then the road dipped, the airfield disappeared, and they were twisting through the S-bends which would carry them to the final destination.

Before the two cars reached the valley floor and the airstrip two more police checkpoints were negotiated.

The Swiss police had certainly snapped into action.

London, Bond decided, would feel very satisfied, content that nothing untoward could now happen by the peaceful lakeside.

There were no less than three police cars at the airstrip entrance, which was little more than a metal gateway set into an eight-foot chain-link fence, encircling the entire area. In the distance, a police car patrolled the perimeter slowly and as thoroughly as only the Swiss perform their official duties.

As the Audis drew up, Bond saw two more faces which he recognised from Erewhon. This time, though, the men were dressed in smart suits and smiled broad, almost ingratiating smiles as the two-vehicle convoy came to a halt. They exchanged a few words with the senior policeman on the gate, and the cars were waved forward.

One man got into each car.

The man who entered Holy's car was a German, fair-haired, suspicious, and with features cut from a solid block of rough stone.

He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, and the smart suit bulged around the breast pocket. Bond did not like the look of him. He liked him even less when the talking started.

Holy confined himself to the most pertinent questions, and was given precise, military answers in an American accent.

Posing as the Goodyear head of PR, Rudi, the German, had taken the call from Bill Tanner, which he now described in detail, saying the man was certainly English, and also undoubtedly represented one of the major British security agencies. The police, he said, began to arrive within half an hour of his call.

Jay Autem then asked about times, and you could tell from His expression he had already worked out that the enquiries had begun while Bond was in the Foreign Office house off Northumberland Avenue.

"James, you didn't say anything indiscreet when you were with your friend Anthony Denton?" The two cars were heading not for the little office building but for the hangar, with its two slab-winged observation-rescue Pilatus aircraft sitting outside.

"Me?" Bond looked surprised and startled, as though he had not been paying attention to the conversation.

"Indiscreet? How? Why?" Holy looked at him, a shadow of concern crossing his face.

"You see, James, Tamil's people took over this airstrip, and the whole organisation here, in the early hours of yesterday morning.

Nobody suspected, there was no trouble. Not until last night, when you were closeted with the D.S.O.F.O obtaining the EPOC frequency for us.

Why, I ask myself; should the authorities begin to take an interest at that time of night?" Bond shrugged, indicating that he had no idea, and, in any case, it was nothing to do with him.

The cars came to a halt. "I do hope you've given us the correct frequency, James. If you haven't Well, I've already warned you of the consequences; consequences for the entire world, my friend "That's the current EPOC frequency. Have no doubt, Dr Holy,' he snapped back.

Holy winced at the sound of his real name, then nodded as he leaned forward to open the door.

Bond was left with the Arab boy, who watched him with alert bright eyes, a small Walther automatic clutched in his right hand. The safety catch, Bond noticed, was off.

Simon, Holy and the German, Rudi, were joined by Rahani and General Zwingli - a little procession walking spryly towards the hangar. Rahani's men were everywhere, Bond now saw, spread out, half concealed by what cover they could find, with a full armament of carbines and automatic weapons. There were even two guards on the small door inserted in one of the great sliding doors of the hangar.

The door was opened, and the party stepped inside.

Two minutes later, Simon came out, walking quickly to the car.

"Colonel Rahani wants you inside." His manner was one of indifference, the attitude of a man who does not wish to become involved with anyone outside his own tight comradeship. Bond recognised the psychology. He had studied the whole subject of terrorist mentality and he knew they had come to some cut-off point.

Simon was not willing to have any kind of relationship with Bond now.

It could be, he thought, as they walked the few paces towards the hangar, that this really is the end. They've decided I've talked, and there can be no trust from now on. Curtain time - the fiction meeting the reality.

The little group of senior men stood just inside the door, and it was Tamil Rahani who greeted him."

"Ah, Commander Bond. We thought you should see this." He gestured towards the centre of the hangar.

About forty men sat close together on the floor, held in a tight knot by three tripod-mounted machine guns trained on them, each with a crew of four.

"These are the good men from Goodyear." He split the Good-year, as though trying a pun. "They will remain here until our mission is completed. They will be quickly dispatched - all of them - if one person makes an attempt to break out. They are being fed and looked after by the other team." He indicated four men placed between the guns. "It is uncomfortable for them. But if all goes well, they will be released unharmed. You will notice there is one lady." From the middle of the group, Cindy Chalmer gave Bond a wan smile, and Tamil Rahani lowered his voice.

"Between ourselves, Commander Bond, I think the delightful Miss Chalmer does not have much chance of surviving. But we want no bloodshed yet; not even your blood. You see, it was SPECTRE'S intention that you should be put with this group of prisoners once you'd fulfilled your mission. The representative from SPECTRE did not trust you from the start, and is not at all happy with you now.

However. . ." His lips drew back, not into a smile, but rather in a straight thin slash across his face.

"However, I think you can be of use in the airship. You can fly, can't you? You have a pilot's licence?" Bond nodded, adding that he had no experience of airships.

"You'll only be the copilot. The one who sees to it that the pilot does as he's told. There'll be a nice irony in it, if by any chance you have doubled on us, Commander Bond. Come!" They returned to the cars and drove swiftly over the few hundred yards to the office building. Inside, around forty of Rahani's trained men from Erewhon were sitting around, smoking and drinking coffee.

"Our handling team, Commander Bond. They have learned by simulation. At Erewbon. It was something we did not show you, but they are very necessary when we weigh out the airship before takeoff and, to a great extent, when we get back from our short excursion." The only man who was out of place sat at a table just inside the door. He wore a navy blue pilot's uniform, and his peaked cap lay on the table in front of him. One of Rahani's men sat opposite, well clear of the table, with an Uzi machine pistol ready to blow the man's stomach out should he make a fuss.

"You are our pilot, I presume?" Rahani smiled politely at the man, who looked at him coldly and said he was a pilot, but he would not fly under duress.

"I think you will,' Rahani said confidently. "What do we call you?"

"You call me Captain,' the pilot replied.

"No. We're all friends here. Informal." Rahani added in a commanding snap: Your first name.

The pilot realised it would be foolhardy to remain too stubborn.

He cocked his head on one side.

"Okay, you can call me Nick."

"Right, Nick . . . " Tamil Rahani carefully explained what was going to happen. Nick was to fly the airship, just as he would have done under normal circumstances.

Up to Geneva and along the lake front. After that he would change course, cutting straight over Le Richemond Hotel - "Where the Summit Conference is in progress. You will stay over the hotel for approximately four minutes." Rahani spoke like an officer used to being obeyed. "Four minutes at the outside. No more. Nothing will happen.

Nobody will be hurt as long as you do what you're told. After that, you will bring the airship back here and land. You may then leave unharmed."

"Damned if I will."

"1 think you will, Nick. Someone else will do it if you don't. This gentleman here, for instance." He touched Bond's shoulder. "He's a pilot, without airship experience, but he will do it if we give him enough encouragement. Our encouragement to you is that we kill you straight away, here and now, if you don't agree."

"He means it, Nick,' Bond interrupted. In a couple of minutes you'll just be a lump of meat. Useless to anyone.

Best do as he says.

The pilot thought for a moment, recognising his inescapable position.

"Okay. Okay, I'll fly the blimp.

"Good, Nick. And thank you, Commander Bond." Rahani went on in a level voice, "Now I'll tell you what we have in store for Commander Bond. He is to be your copilot. You will tell him now about the differences between flying an aircraft and handling an airship. We shall give him one round of ammunition for his automatic pistol. One round only. He can wound or kill only one person with that, and there'll be five of us on board; five, not counting Commander Bond and yourself. Bond here will do exactly as I tell him. If you try to be clever, I shall tell him to kill you. If he does not kill you, one of us will do it for him, and force him to take over. If he still resists, then we'll kill him too, and manage the best we can. I understand that this airship is filled with helium and ballasted so that it will stay up, unassisted, for some time, and is difficult to crash. Yes?"

"Guess you're right."

"Well, Commander Bond will look after you, and we'll all have a pleasant trip. How long will it take?

Half an hour?"

"About that. Maybe three-quarters.

"Commander Bond, talk to your pilot. Learn from him. We have things to get on board the gondola. He gave Bond a hard knock on the shoulder. "Learn, and do as you are bidden, eh?" Bond lowered his head as he sat down, letting it come near the pilot's, his lips hardly moving. "I'm working under some duress as well. Just help me. We have to stop them." Then he said aloud, "Okay Nick, just tell me about this ship." The pilot looked up, puzzled for a moment, but Bond nodded encouragement, and he began to talk.

Around them, Rahani's men were carrying equipment out of the office. Among the hardware was one powerful shortwave transmitter and a micro. Bond listened attentively as Nick told him that flying the airship was more or less the same as handling an aircraft.

"Yoke, rudder pedals, same flight instruments, throttles for the two little engines. The only difference is in trimming." He explained how the two small balloons, fore and aft in the helium-filled envelope, could be inflated with air, or have the air valved off. "It's more or less the same principle as a balloon, except, with the air-filled ballonets, you don't have to bleed off expensive gas. You just take on or dump air. The ballonets take care of the gas pressure, give you extra lift, or allow you to trim up or down. The only tricky bit is knowing when to dump the pressure as you come in to land, positioning the blimp, so that the ground crew can grab at the guy ropes. You need to bleed it all off at that point, like dumping ballast, so nobody gets lifted off the ground." It was all technically straightforward, and Nick even made a little drawing to show Bond where the valves lay, above the forward windshield, and how the ballonets were filled with air from scoops below the small engines.

He had hardly finished when Simon came over, glancing at his watch. They looked up, to find the office almost deserted.

"You're both needed at the ship." He held up one round of 9mm ammunition, and Bond saw that it was one of his original Glaser slugs.

"You get this when we're aboard." His eyes showed no sympathy. "Come along, then. We've got to show the flag. One joy ride around the lake." Over at the airship, Rahani's men had prepared themselves to take up the strain on the forward guy ropes hanging from the great pointed sausage of the airship, which at the moment remained tethered to its mooring mast.

As they reached the ship, they could see the others were already on board the curved gondola, which seemed to hang under the great gleaming envelope.

Nick climbed up first through the large door which took up a third of the gondola's right-hand side. Bond followed, with Simon taking up the rear and pulling the door closed behind him.

Tamil Rahani sat next to Holy at the back of the gondola. In front of them they had arranged the transmitters linked to the computer. The Arab boy sat directly in front of Holy, with General Zwingli across the narrow aisle from him. Bond went forward, taking his place on Nick's right. Simon now hovered between them.

As soon as he was in his seat, Nick became the complete professional, showing Bond the instrumentation, and pointing out the all-important valves for the ballonets.

"Whenever you're ready,' Rahani called out, but Nick did not answer. He was busy with the preflight checks, sliding his window open to shout down to the man in command of the ground crew. "Okay,' he called. "Tell your boys to stand by. I'm starting up, and I'll give you a thumbs-up when they have to take strain." To Bond, he said he would be starting the port engine first, and immediately afterwards the starboard would fire. "We fill the ballonets straight away, and as they're filling I shall release us from the mooring mast.

The chaps outside, if they've been trained correctly, will take the strain and dump the ballast hanging from the gondola. After that, I trim the ship, lift the nose and,' he turned, grinning, "we'll see if they have the sense to let go of the guy ropes.

Reaching forward, Nick started both engines, one after the other, very fast, and set the air valves to fill. As Bond watched, Simon leaned forward, felt inside his jacket and removed the ASP. There was a double click as one round went into the breech, then the weapon was handed back. "You kill him, if the Colonel gives the order. If you try anything clever, I'll shoot you." Bond did not even acknowledge him. By now he was following everything that Nick was doing, opening the throttles, pulling the lever that moored them to the mast, monitoring the pressure.

The airship's nose tilted upwards, and Nick waved to the ground crew as he gave the engines full throttle. The nose slid higher and there was a tiny sensation of buoyancy, then, very slowly they moved forwards and upwards - rock-steady, no tremor or vibration as they climbed away from the field. It was like riding on a magic carpet.

PLOUGHSHARE IN HIS TIME

James Bond had either flown, or flown in, most types of aircraft, from the old Tiger Moth biplane to Phantom jets. Yet never had he experienced anything like the Europa.

The morning was clear and sunny. With its two little engines humming like a swarm of hornets, its single blade wooden airscrews blurring into twin discs, the fat silver ship glided out from the wide cleft in the mountains, over the road and railway lines, and climbed above the lake. It would have been an enchanted moment for anyone, like Bond, who loved machines. At a thousand feet, gazing out at the spectacular view of lake and mountains he even forgot for a few seconds the horrifying and dangerous mission they were embarked upon.

It was the stability of the ship that amazed him most.

There was a complete lack of any buffeting experienced at that height and over that type of terrain in a conventional aircraft. No wonder those who travelled on the great airships of the 1920s and 1930s fell in love with them.

The Europa dipped its nose, almost stood on it, turning a full circle. At fifteen hundred feet they had a panoramic view of the lake: the mountain peaks touched with snow against the light blue sky, Montreux in the distance, the French side of the lake with the town of Thonon looking peaceful and inviting.

Then Nick eased the ship around so that they could see Geneva as they approached at a stately fifty miles per hour.

Bond turned his head to look at the rear of the gondola. Rahani and Jay Autem Holy ignored the view, hunched over the transmitter.

They had folded down some of the seat backs, so that Bond had a good view of the radio, seeing that it was linked to the micro.

Holy appeared to be muttering to himself as he tuned to the frequency. Rahani watched him closely, like a warder, Bond thought.

General Zwingli was half-turned in his seat, giving advice. Both Simon and the Arab boy stood guard, the boy never taking his eyes off the pilot and Bond. Simon was leaning against the door, almost as though he were covering his masters.

Below them, the lakeside of Geneva slid into view. The airship slowed, tilted forward and turned gently.

"No playing around, Nick,' Rahani called in warning.

"Just do what you normally do. Then take her straight over Le Richemond."

"I'm doing what I normally do. I'm doing it by the book,' the pilot said laconically. "That's what you wanted and that is just what you're getting."

"And what,' Bond called back, "are we really doing, anyway? What is this caper that's going to change history?" Holy lifted his eyes towards the flight deck.

"We are about to put the stability of the world's two most powerful nations to the test. Would you believe that the ciphers directly transmittable to the emergency networks of the American President and the Chairman of the U.S.S.R. include programs to deactivate their main nuclear capabilities?"

"I'd believe anything." Bond did not need to hear any more. M was right. The intention was to send the U.S. Ploughshare program, and its Russian counterpart, into their respective satellites, and from there into irreversible action. It was at this moment that Bond made up his mind.

His whole adult life had been dedicated to his country; this time he knew it would be forfeit. There was one Glaser slug in the ASP.

With luck, in the confined gondola it would blow any one of the men in half. But only one. So what was the use of a human target? Kill one, then be killed. That would serve no purpose. If he chose the right time, and the Arab boy could be distracted, the one Glaser slug, placed accurately, would blow the radio and possibly the micro as well.

He would die very soon after taking out the hardware, but for Bond this was as nothing compared to the satisfaction of knowing he would once more have smashed SPECTRE'S plans. Maybe they would try again.

But there were always other men like himself; and the Service had been alerted.

Geneva, clean, ordered and picturesque, now lay to their right, as Nick gently turned the ship. Mont Blanc towered above them. The airship began to descend to a thousand feet for its short journey along the lakeside.

"How long?" It was the first time Zwingli had spoken to the men at the controls.

Nick glanced back. "To Le Richemond? About four minutes.

"Are you locked onto that frequency?" The General was now addressing Holy.

"We're on the frequency, Joe. I've put the disk in. All we have to do is press the Enter key, and we shall know whether comrade Bond has been true to his word."

"You're activating the States first, then?"

"Yes, Joe." Rahani replied this time. "Yes, the United States get their instructions in a couple of minutes." He craned forward to look from the window. "There it is, coming up now.

Bond gently slid the safety catch off the ASP.

"Ready, Jay. Any minute." Rahani did not raise his voice, yet the words carried clearly over the length of the gondola.

The luxurious hotel with its perfectly laid out gardens was coming up below them. Nick held the Europa on a true course which would take them straight over the palatial building.

"I said ready, Jay.

"Any second . . . Okay,' Holy answered.

At that moment, Bond, gripping the ASP, turned towards the Arab boy and shouted, "Your window. Look to your window." The Arab turned his head slightly, and Bond, knowing there was one chance, and one chance only, brought his hand up and squeezed the trigger. In the whirling engine noise, the solid clunk of the pistol's firing mechanism crashing forward obliterated everything.

For a second he could not believe it. Was it a misfire?

A dud round? Then came Simon's laugh, echoed by a grunt from the Arab boy.

"Don't think of throwing it, James. I'll cut you down with one hand. You didn't honestly think we'd let you on board with a loaded gun, did you? Too much of a risk."

"Damn you, Bond." Rahani was half out of his seat.

"No gunplay - not in here. Have you given us the frequency, or is that as false as your own loyalty?" The bleep and whir from the back of the gondola indicated that Holy had activated the cipher program.

He gave a whoop of joy.

"It's okay, Tamil. Whatever else Bond's tried, he has given us the frequency. The satellite's accepted it." Bond dropped the pistol, a useless piece of metal. They had done it. At this moment, the sophisticated hardware in the Pentagon would be sorting the digits at the unbelievable rate of today's computers. The instructions would be pouring out to compatible machines the length and breadth of the U.S.A.

and to the NATo) forces in Europe. Now it was done, Bond felt only a terrible anger and a sickness deep in his stomach. What happened in the next few seconds took time to sink in. Holy was still whooping his joy as he half rose, stretching out a hand, fingers snapping, towards Rahani.

"Tamil, come on, the Russian program. You have it. I've locked on to their frequency . . ." His voice rose with urgency. "Tamil!" Now shouting, "Tamil! The Russian program. Quickly." Rahani gave a great bellowing laugh. "Come on, yourself; Jay. You didn't think we were really going to allow the Soviet Union to suffer the indignity of being stripped of her assets as well?" Jay Autem Holy's mouth opened and closed, like a dying fish. "Wha. . .? Wha . . .? What do you mean, Tamil? What . . ?"

"Watch them!" Rahani snapped, and both Simon and the Arab boy appeared to stiffen to his command. "You can begin the return journey, Nick,' Rahani said, so quietly that Bond was amazed he could be heard above the steady motor buzz.

"I mean, Jay, that long ago I took over as the Chief Executive of SPECTRE. I mean that we have done what we set out to do. I even gambled on the pawn, Bond, getting the EPOC frequency. Down Escalator was always intended simply to deal with the imperialist power of the United States, which we shall now be able to hand on a plate to our friends in the Soviet Union. You were brought in only to provide the training programs. We have no use for emotionally motivated fools like Zwingli and yourself. You understand me?" Jay Autem Holy let out a wail of despair echoed only by General Zwingli's roar of anger.

"You bastard!" Zwingli started to move. "I wanted my country strong again, by putting Russia and the U.S.A. on the same footing. You've sold out - you. . . He launched himself at Rahani.

The Arab boy shot him, once, fast and accurately. He toppled over without a sound. While the blast of the boy's weapon continued in a long bell-like boom, echoing in the confined space, Jay Autem Holy leaped towards Rahani, arms outstretched to claw at his throat, his scream turning to a banshee wail of hate.

Rahani, with no room to back off' shot him in mid-leap, firing two rounds from a small hand gun. But Holy's powerful spring, strengthened by his fury, carried his body on so that he crashed lifeless on top of SPECTRE'S leader, the man who had inherited the throne of the Blofeld family.

"Get us down,' Bond rapped at the pilot. "Just get us down!" In the confusion, he made for the nearest target, Simon, who, with his back to the flight deck, was moving towards the tangle of bodies piled across the seats. Bond landed hard on Simon's back, one arm locking round his neck, the other delivering a mighty chopping blow which connected a fraction below the right ear.

Caught off balance, Simon fell to the left. His hand, scrabbling for some kind of hold, hit the gondola door's locking device so that the door swung open, bringing in a sudden draught of air. As Simon went limp, the Arab boy fired at Bond, a fraction of a second late, for the bullet hit Simon's chest. At the moment of his death, a great power seemed to force itself through his muscles, so that he broke free from Bond's grasp, the body turning as it crumpled, the reflexes closing his hand around the grip and trigger of the Uzi machine pistol.

Half a burst of fire rapped out, cutting the Arab almost in two.

Simon did not let go of the gun, but merely fell backwards. His hands did not claw air, no sound came from his throat. He simply fell through the gondola door, through a thousand feet of clear air, his last long journey to hit the water below.

Bond made to grab at the Arab's Walther, now lying on the floor.

He felt the sting of a bullet cutting a shallow furrow along the flesh above his right hip and another sing past his ear.

He reached the Walther, but as he turned instinctively towards where Tamil Rahani should be, his finger on the trigger, he realised the instigator of this whole drama was not there.

"Parachute,' Nick said calmly. "Little bastard had a parachute.

Took the dive." Bond moved to the gondola door and, hanging on to the grab rail, leaned out.

Below, against the blue-grey water of the lake, was the white shape of Rahani's parachute, a light breeze carrying him away from Geneva, towards the French side of the lake.

"They're bound to pick him up,' Bond said aloud.

"Could you close the door, please." Nick's voice was as calm as only an experienced pilot's can sound under stress. "I've got to find somewhere to drop this blimp." He switched on the flight radio, flicking the dial with finger and thumb, adjusting the headset he had not been allowed to wear throughout the flight. A few seconds later, he turned his head slightly as Bond slumped into the seat beside him.

"We can go back to the strip. Apparently the Swiss military cleared it soon after we left. Looks as if we've had guardian angels watching over us.

They sat together on the balcony of a private room in the lakeside hotel: M, Bill Tanner, Cindy Chalmer, Percy and Bond, whose side still stung from the long bullet burn, although it was now dressed.

"You mean,' Bond said with cold anger, "that you already knew they had taken over the airstrip? You knew when you sent me off from London?" M nodded. He had told Bond how, because of the tight security surrounding the Summit Conference, anyone who was authorised had been given identifying ciphers.

On the night Bond had visited the house, off Northumberland Avenue, Bill Tanner's call to the Goodyear people had not elicited the correct sequence.

"We knew something had gone wrong,' said M calmly.

"We alerted everyone with need-to-know, arranged with the United States and the Soviet Union that any messages on their current emergency satellite frequencies should be accepted, but not passed on.

Just a precaution.

I mean, you can always be trusted, 007."

"Thank you,' Bond said with icy calm.

"Now look, 007,' M said sharply. "It's no good running away with the idea you're indispensable."

"I was to be thrown to the wolves then,' Bond almost shouted. "It wasn't necessary to leave me in outer darkness, as you once so neatly put it, but you let me go, knowing full well "Come, come. How dare you reproach your superiors in this way,' M put in tartly. Suddenly he leaned forward and placed a hand gently on Bond's arm and said in an uncharacteristic tone of paternal concern, "It was for your own good as much as ours, James. After all, you might have found a way of bringing in Holy - or Rahani, come to that. But that wasn't uppermost in our minds.

We had to find a way of restoring your good name. Look on it as a sort of rehabilitation."

"Rehabilitation?" Bond spat the word out with scorn.

"You see,' M went on quietly, "there had to be some role you could play for the sake of your public image.

The Press could hardly fail to notice high jinks on an airship directly over the place where the Summit talks were going on. Geneva's been stiff with journalists these past few days. We told the Swiss authorities they could let a certain amount of reporting through.

Saves us a tricky hushing-up job in a way. I think you'll be pleased with what the papers say tomorrow. Might not be a bad idea to get another question tabled in the House." Bond was silent. He gazed at M, who gave his arm a couple of reassuring pats before withdrawing his hand.

"I suppose you'll want to take some sick leave because of that scratch,' M said distantly.

Bond and Percy exchanged looks. "If it wouldn't inconvenience the Service, ~. "A month, then? Let all this fuss die down. We can't have the whole Department going public for the sake of your honour, 007." Cindy spoke for the first time. "What about Dazzle?

Mrs. St. John-Finnes?" Tanner told them there had been no trace of the lady who called herself Dazzle; just as Rahani had disappeared into thin air. A launch picked up his "chute. He had drifted well inshore, on the French side.

"Damn. I wanted a little time alone with that bastard." The delightful Cindy Chalmer could be lethal when roused.

Percy gave her a wicked smile. "You, Cindy, are going straight back to Langley. The order came through this morning." Cindy pouted, and Bond tried hard not to catch her eye. "And what about Dr Amadeus?" he asked.

"Oh, we're taking care of him,' Bill Tanner said a little earnestly. "We've always room for good computer men in the Service.

Anyway, Dr Amadeus turned out to be a brave young man.

"There is something else,' M grunted. "The Chief of Staff did not know this but in checking back through the files when you alerted us to Rahani, 007, we found some interesting information. You recall we've been keeping surveillance on him for some time?" Bond nodded as M slid a matt black and white print from the folder on his lap.

"Interesting?" The photograph showed Tamil Rahani locked in an embrace with Dazzle St. John-Finnes. "Looks as though they had plans for the future." Bond asked about Erewhon and was told that the Israelis had pinpointed the site. "Nobody there. Deserted. But they're keeping an eye on it. I doubt if Rahani will visit it again.

But he'll probably show up somewhere."

"Yes." Bond's voice was flat.

"Yes, I don't think we've heard the last of him, sir. After all, he boasted that he was Blofeld's successor.

"Come to think of it,' M mused, "I wonder if you should forgo that leave, 007. It may be vital to follow up...

"He's got to rest, sir, for a short time at least." Percy was almost ordering M. This was something the Head of Service rarely experienced. He looked at the willowy ash-blonde, astonishment on his face.

"Yes. Yes. Well, if you put it like that . . . I suppose Yes."

END OF THE AFFAIR

THEY first FLEW to Rome, and stayed for a week at the Villa Medici. Percy had never been to Rome and Bond enjoyed showing her as much as one can fit into seven short days.

From Rome they travelled to Greece, to take an island-hopping tour, starting in the Aegean with a couple of nights on Naxos. They stayed only one night on Rhodes, because of the tourist hordes, and then doubled back, spending a night here, two nights there.

Another week took them to the ionian sea, where they managed to find some secluded beaches and tavernas, off the package-holiday routes.

It was a time of distant voices from the past. The couple exchanged life-stories, told the long tales of their youth, made their separate confessions, and became totally immersed in each other's bodies. For Percy and Bond, the world became young again and time stood still, as only time can within the dark, secret mysteries of the Greek islands.

They ate lobster fresh from the sea and drank their fill of retsina. Sometimes the evenings ended with them dancing with the waiters under the vines of a roadside taverna, arm-stretching and calf-slapping. They discovered, as many have before, that the taverna-owners of the islands recognise the signs of love and take lovers to their hearts.

And during all their joy, Bond kept a wary eye on strangers, assuming that Percy, being a lady of the same trade, was doing likewise.

They did not spot the same face or even the same jewellery, which can he more important once. Vehicles, even motorcycles, did not show up twice. They were free.

But SPECTRE s teams were numerous and clever.

Neither James Bond nor Percy Prnud could know of shadows creeping in around them.

The teams were usually five strong, and they changed daily, never using the same car twice, always having a tail ready to follow on to the next island. A girl in one place, a happy Greek boy in another; first a student, then a middle-aged English couple; old Volkswagens, brand new Hondas, staid Peugeos. It was all the same to them.

The leader's orders were clear, and when the right moment came, he too arrived.

Bond and Percy spoke much of the future, yet, in the last week, while heading for Corfu, from where they planned to fly to London direct, they still could not come to any decision even though they had talked of marriage.

As the trip drew to an end they found a small bungalow hotel, away from beehive modern glass and concrete palaces. It was close to a secluded beach, which could be reached only by clambering over rocks.

Their room looked out on a slope of dusty olive trees and oddly Victorian-looking scrub.

Each day, in the late afternoon, they would return to their room, and, as dusk closed in and the cicadas began their endless song, the couple would make love, long and tender, with a rewarding fulfilment of a kind neither remembered experiencing before.

On their last night, with their packing to be done, and a special dinner ordered at the taverna, they followed their usual pattern, walking hand in hand up the slope from the beach, entering their room from the scrubby End of the olive grove, and leaving the windows open and the blinds drawn.

They soon became lost in each other, murmuring the sweet adolescent endearments, enjoying a private island of physical pleasure.

They were hardly aware of the darkness or the song of the night coming from the cicadas. Neither of them heard Tamil Rahani's car pull up quietly on the road below the hotel. Nor were they aware of his emissary, who moved, sure-footed in rope-soled sandals up from the road, treading softly through the olives until he reached the window.

Tamil Rahani, the successor to the Blofelds, had decreed they should both die, and he would be in at the death. His only regret was that it must be quick.

The short, sallow-faced man who was the most accomplished of SPECTRE'S silent killers, peered through the lattice of the blinds, smiled and carefully withdrew a six-inch ivory blowpipe. With even greater care he loaded the tiny wax dart filled with deadly pure nicotine and began to slide the end of the pipe through the lattice.

Percy lay, eyes closed, nearest the window.

Her reaction was conceived in long training, for she was like an animal in her instinct for danger. With a sudden move, she slid from under a startled Bond, one hand going for the floor and the small revolver that always lay at her side of the bed.

She fired twice, rolling naked on the floor as she did so - a textbook kill, the man clearly outlined through the blinds lifting back as though in slow motion, his dying breath expelling the wax dart into the air.

Bond was beside her in a second, the ASP in his hand.

As they emerged into the night air, they heard the sound of Rahani's car on the road below the hotel. They needed no telling who it was.

Later, when the body had been removed, calls made to London and Washington, and police and other authorities were satisfied, Bond and Percy drove into Corfu Town itself; to spend the night in one of the larger hotels.

"Well, at least that settles it. We should both know now, Percy began.

"Know?" They had managed to get a meal of sorts in their room, though Bond found it hard to relax.

"The future, James. We should both know about the future after that unpleasant episode."

"You mean that until Blofeld's successor is dead, neither of us will have peace?"

"That's part of it. Not all, though." She paused to sip her wine. "I killed, James, automatically and .

"And most efficiently, darling."

"Yes, that's what I mean. We're not like other people, are we? We're trained, and tidied, and obey orders fly into danger at a moment's notice." Bond thought for a moment. "You're right, of course, darling. What you mean is that people like us can't just stop, or lead normal lives."

"That's it, my dear James. It's been the best time. The very best. But..

"But now it's over.

She nodded, and he leaned across the table to kiss her.

"Who knows?" Bond asked of nobody in particular.

The next morning they rebooked tickets, and Bond saw her off' watching her aeroplane climb over the little hillock at the end of the runway, then turn to set course for Athens, where she would make her connection for Paris.

In an hour, he would be on his way back to London and one of his other lives, to play some other role for his country.