Seafire

10 – Cathy and Anna

In spite of the arrangements that had been made between MicroGlobe One and the Spanish authorities, there were a lot of questions to be answered. There were no fewer than six police cars, several motorcycle officers, and two ambulances parked in the area that usually contained the cars of visitors.

The police showed little respect, and immediately treated Bond as though he were a renegade villain, despite his telling them that they should get in touch with certain senior Spanish intelligence officers whose names he carried in his head. Even though he argued, they removed the blackened satchel saying that this could be used as evidence. As for the ASP automatic pistol, it was wrested from him and treated as if it were Jack the Ripper's original knife.

Back in Seville, they took him to the main police station, where he found Flicka sitting, silent, in an interrogation room, and, for the next hour, they were both subjected to hostile questions from two plainclothesmen who smoked filthy Spanish cigarettes throughout.

Finally the inquisitors left the pair of them alone, almost too obviously in the hope that they would incriminate each other in a conversation which was being recorded – sound and video – for posterity.

During the interrogation, Bond had asked Flicka – on several occasions – if she had told them to call in the officers in command of their security and intelligence services. She said she had, but did not know what had been done about it. Apart from that, their answers had been of the name, rank, and number style.

Flicka seemed to be in deep despair, and the usual glint in her eye and her sense of humor had been severely blunted. She was concerned about what had happened, so, because of the listening devices, Bond told her just enough to make her at least smile and nod with relief that he had retrieved the satchel.

"Mind you, I don't know what condition it's in," he said. "The outside's burned pretty badly, but I think I got to it before the papers were damaged. I just hope these people aren't fiddling with it."

She went through the trauma of Dolmech's death again, slowly repeating her description of what had happened, as though trying to come to terms with it. He leaned across the bare table and took her hand in both of his. "He was set up, poor devil." He looked into her eyes, saw the pain and anger, so added, "We were all set up."

"Easy to say after the event."

"I know, but we'll get the bastard."

Half an hour later things changed. First, a smiling policeman came in with coffee and sandwiches. He was followed by a senior officer who made what just stopped short of being a formal apology. Within the hour, two senior officers in plain clothes arrived. They spoke to Bond and Flicka in helpful, pleasant tones, returned Bond's ASP and Flicka's Beretta. Then, finally, they gave back the satchel, encased in a plastic bag, and said they were free to leave.

Outside, the two men who had picked them up on the previous night were waiting with a car. They drove back to Gibraltar, pausing for a mirthless and silent meal on the way. There were no customs or immigration formalities at La Linea, and they drove straight to the airport. An RAF transport took them to Lynham, where a car waited to shuttle them up to London.

They drove first to the office, where two of the Double Zero staff had been instructed to take the satchel directly to a member of MicroGlobe One. By one in the morning they were back in the flat. Immediately, Bond stretched out on the bed.

"What a damned tiring and frustrating day." He let out a deep sigh, and Flicka, who was fast recovering from her depression, came toward him, kissed him gently, then gave him a little loving bite on the lip.

"Not all that tiring, James darling. I hope not that tiring."

"Ah." He smiled. "No, never that tiring."

During the following week, they suddenly appeared to be in business at the office in Bedford Square. Memos and instructions began to filter down from on high. Documents, obviously from the contents of Dolmech's satchel, were being brought over by special messenger, and the Double-Oh staff began to follow paper trails from the many boxes of files, computer disks, and tapes that had been taken from the main offices of Tarn International.

Flicka spent every waking hour poring over the computers, which were her specialty, and slowly they started to make sense out of Tarn's many business dealings. Most of it was old-time arms dealing, but with the help given to them by Peter Dolmech, who had been brought back to England for burial – which Bond was strictly forbidden to attend – they started to see exactly to what lengths the multimillionaire was prepared to go in supplying buyers with the latest in arms and military matériel. This was not a small business, running little loads of Semtex or M16s to the IRA, but an operation on a huge scale. Aircraft to Libya, tanks and missiles to Iran and Iraq, a plethora of shady deals throughout the Middle East, specialist equipment to just about every known terrorist group in the world. Tarn had been, literally, the quartermaster to countries on which there was an embargo, and to major terrorist groups. Some of the items were more than worrying – plutonium, unaccounted for, to North Korea and China; ground-to-air missiles to terrorists who had long claimed that they would soon be capable of bringing down commercial airliners at the major airports of the world, including Kennedy and Heathrow.

The evidence built very quickly once members of the Section were provided with the leads from Dolmech, but in spite of the urgency, Bond found himself getting fidgety and irritated. It was nothing new, for this feeling of being trapped within the four walls of an office had been a problem he had borne, with a certain amount of stoicism, throughout the years whenever he had been forced to work out of the service office. He was a man of action, happy only when he was out there in the midst of danger, almost like a person with a death wish.

As the days went by, he wanted nothing more than to be allowed to leave the country and hunt down Tarn, kill him or put him where he could do no more harm. With Tarn still at large, the deals would continue to go down, and he felt strongly that he was shackled to a desk in London instead of being active in the field. There were times when he even contemplated putting himself out to grass and resigning.

Toward the end of the week, Bond took a call from the Minister's political secretary. "Sorry to tell you this, sir. But your old Chief has been taken ill. He's at home, and there's a nurse in residence. He has been asking for you, and the Minister would be grateful if you could get away to see him as soon as possible."

It was noon when he took the call, and Bond immediately made plans to get out of the office. He instructed his new secretary, who rejoiced in the name of Chastity Vain and sported a figure that would give pause to the saintliest of men, telling her that he would be away for the rest of the day. He gave her M's private number in case of any major panic, then left the building, taking the Saab and heading out toward the M4, turning off at the Windsor exit, making for M's home, Quarterdeck – the beautiful Regency manor house on the edge of Windsor Forest. He stopped off for a pub lunch, and finally arrived at the house just before two-thirty.

His ring – on the famous ship's bell that hung outside the main door – was answered by a nubile nurse who introduced herself somewhat formally as Nurse Frobisher. "Thank heaven." She breathed a sigh of relief when he told her his name. "He's not the best of patients. Should rest all the time but is always working on papers, or making telephone calls. I tried removing the phone yesterday, but had to let him have it back. He works himself up into such states. Come on up. Perhaps you can persuade him to relax. If he doesn't, then I fear he'll not be long for this world." This last said with a hint of sadness that worried and depressed Bond.

"I have my doubts about that." He followed her up the stairs to M's bedroom.

His old Chief lay back, propped up by pillows, the bed covered with papers and notepads.

"James, my boy. Thank heaven you've come. I am being driven half mad by interfering women."

Nurse Frobisher raised her eyebrows and quietly left as M beckoned him over, telling him to sit by the bed.

"I'm swinging the lead a bit, my boy. Doing a bit of poodle-faking, if you want the truth." Though his speech was bright and strong, the look on his face told a different story. The clear sparkle of his gray eyes had turned dull, and his weatherbeaten face showed signs of strain. Under the tan, which the old man cultivated, there was a paleness that Bond had never seen before, while the skin of his face had started to stretch tightly against his cheekbones.

"Now listen to me." He hardly paused for breath, "I know you have no leave due, but I'm wondering if you can persuade that damned Committee to let you take a long weekend. Something's come up that I would entrust to nobody but you – well, maybe you and that nice Swiss girl."

"I can always creep away without The Committee knowing."

M frowned, then gave a thin-lipped smile. "Wouldn't be the first time, eh?"

"I suppose not, sir."

"Right, let me put you in the picture, then. You already know that we drew a blank in Spain?"

Bond nodded. He had carefully read the eight-page memo that dealt with the follow-up to the incident in Seville. With the assistance of the Spanish authorities, they had pinpointed Max Tarn's villa in the hills above the town, but by the time arrangements had been made to raid the place, the cupboard was bare, and there were signs of an unexpectedly hasty departure.

"Well." M leaned back against the pillows and the tired look came back into his eyes. "In the satchel poor Peter Dolmech was carrying there was a short letter addressed to me personally. There's been a delay in it being passed on to me, unhappily. Nowadays things get snarled up. I don't have the same, unquestioned power anymore."

"So I understand, sir. The letter?" He wanted to get to the meat without tiring the old man.

"Mmm." M stretched out to the night table and took a neatly folded single sheet of paper. "Read it for yourself." He handed the paper across the bed.

It was short and to the point:

Dear Admiral,

Just in case I don't make it, a small piece of information has just reached me. It appears that Lady Tarn is not conversant with Sir Max's business, as we know it. I am unaware of her status of enlightenment, but she has left this morning for Jerusalem. I have no details of where she will be staying, but you may recall that, as Trish Nuzzi, she has made frequent visits to Israel, so it is just possible that she may have an apartment in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. It might be worthwhile following up on her. I have a vague notion that she sometimes uses an Israeli doctor, though cannot swear to it.

Hope to see you soon.

It was signed, in a neat hand, "Peter."

Bond handed back the letter. "You want me to go and take a look-see, sir?"

"I have no real authority to send you, James. By rights I should hand this straight over to The Committee, but… Well, as it was a personal letter, I thought I should handle it personally. I've been in touch with our old friend Pete Natkowitz, from Mossad. Trish Nuzzi is booked into the King David. You might just care to drop in on her. It's possible, of course, that she is looking for somewhere safe. I can't see that lady taking to her husband's dealings too kindly. If she would like safety… Well, why don't you bring her back to London?"

"I'll do all I can, sir."

"Yes." M nodded gravely. "When there's talk of peace, that little country becomes a shade heated, but you've been there before."

"I'll slip off on Friday night."

"Tomorrow? You can't manage it tonight, or in the morning?"

"Don't think that would be wise, sir. Don't worry, though, I'll report back to you personally before I bring anyone else into the charmed circle."

"Good, and in return I'll make certain you're covered at this end. Get onto the usual number if you need backup. You know how to get hold of Natkowitz?"

"No problem, sir. Now, don't you think you should get some rest?"

"I'll have plenty of time to rest in the hereafter, James. Stay and talk with me for a while. That dratted nurse has a good old naval name, but she has no heart."

As if on cue, Nurse Frobisher appeared with a tray on which she had set tea, three cups, and a plate of biscuits. "It's time for the Admiral's medicine anyway." She gave them a bright smile. "I thought tea wouldn't come amiss."

It soon became obvious to Bond that he was also part of M's medicine, for Nurse Frobisher began dropping broad hints that he should stay and talk. At one point she said quietly that it would be a good idea to tire her patient so that he would be forced to rest. In the end it was after five before he left, heading back to London.

As soon as he opened the door to the flat, he knew that Flicka was not in the best of moods.

"You didn't even have time to let me know you were going to be out?" she asked, a tincture of acid in her tone.

"It was very secure, I'm afraid, but…"

"Yes, I got that impression from Lady Muck in your office. I suppose you do know that she treats everyone as if she's the boss when the boss is away?"

"No, I -"

"Oh, yes. Acts like a wife, and has that stupid name – Chastity – which certainly doesn't go with her figure. Her skirts have been getting shorter by the day since she took over, but I don't suppose you would notice anything like that?"

"Will you shut up!" Bond shouted at her. "This is important and it concerns you."

There was a long pause, during which they seemed to smolder at each other across the room. Then:

"What concerns me?"

"Going to Jerusalem tomorrow. There's a lot to arrange."

Flicka remained silent during his explanation of the visit to M, except at the point when he mentioned Nurse Frobisher. Under her breath she muttered something about nurses' uniforms and she supposed this one was a hundred and eight.

"No, mid-twenties and very attractive, but I was there to talk with M." He cut her down.

"So we tell nobody?" she asked when he had finished relating the entire story.

"Not a soul, so you keep your pretty little mouth closed."

"Now?" she asked, sidling up to him and lifting her face to be kissed.

Whenever he arrived at Ben Gurion International, Bond felt the same paradoxical sensation. Around him couples greeted each other with kisses, hugs, and even tears. These were people returning to the homeland, and they emanated a huge sense of joy. Yet mixed with the joy there was always a feeling of danger. Every time he flew into this part of the world he felt it like a dark cloud around him, and saw it in the faces of the soldiers and police on duty at the airport. It epitomized the way this tiny country had clung like a lion to the small strip of land it called its own, the homeland, the hope, Israel.

"James." The familiar figure of Pete Natkowitz – that most un-Israeli-looking of men – came striding from the crowd waiting for passengers on the El Al flight from London's Heathrow. "James, it's good to see you." He embraced Bond like a long-lost brother, then turned to Flicka.

"And you must be the famous 'Fearless Flicka.'" Natkowitz gave her a beaming, all-embracing, and infectious grin.

"Who in heaven calls me 'Fearless Flicka'?" She looked genuinely baffled.

"James's old boss. Called you that over the telephone to me. Mind you, it was a secure line."

He led them outside where a car waited to take them into Jerusalem.

"I hope the King David's okay for you, James." Natkowitz had an unfortunate habit of driving as though the traffic would take care of itself, for he constantly took his eyes off the road, even turned right around in his seat while traveling at speed.

"Still as noisy as ever, I presume?"

"Terrible, but if you build a hotel in the middle of Jerusalem, what can you expect? You've stayed at the King David, Flicka?"

"I haven't had that pleasure."

"Oh, then you're in for a treat. It's faded Victorian England at its best. Well, perhaps not at its best, because it's a sort of mixture – Victorian elegance with a blend of the Orient. The pool and Oriental gardens make me forget I'm in the middle of a city as old as Jerusalem. Nothing fazes them, either. I sometimes think the staff all imagine they're still living under the British Mandate." He launched into the old story, perfectly true, that while the war of independence was at its height a telephoned bomb threat to the King David was taken with typical British sangfroid – with disastrous results. They simply did not see it fitting to warn guests or take any precautions, but simply waited for the blast, which, when it came, did a great deal of damage and killed dozens of people.

Pete waited in the lobby as they were taken up to their room. Together they went into the famous Regency Grill, where they could have been eating in the heart of London – the menu was more British than most of the hotel restaurants in the capital of the U.K., but by the same token it also included the best of Jewish food.

They talked like any old friends meeting for the first time in a couple of years, and Pete Natkowitz made certain that Flicka was not left out. It was not until they were about to leave that Pete said quietly, "She's in suite 510. I can provide any help you might need, if she wants to go back to London with you. A very beautiful lady, and her companions are equally exciting."

"Companions?" Bond queried.

"Couple of girls she's traveling with. They seem to be very close, but they're a pair of stunners."

Natkowitz gave Flicka his charming smile, and a promise to call them in the morning.

"I think we should try her straightaway." Bond explained that, with the limited time they had available, it might be best to see what Lady Tarn could add to the information they already had in their possession. "If she feels under any threat from Max, she might like to know that she has our support."

Flicka simply grunted as they got into the lift, and Bond stood back to let two young women – a blonde and a brunette – into the cage. As the doors closed, he took a quick look in the direction of the two girls; there was something inexplicably familiar about them. They were dressed in a similar manner in stylishly designed pant suits, one in gray, the other scarlet, and both with white silk shirts. It was only when they all walked out of the lift on the fifth floor that he saw the bandaged hand on the blonde.

At the same moment, the brunette spoke in a low, husky voice. "How nice to see you, Mr. Bond. We thought we'd never meet again."

"But we have," the blonde added. "And with the lovely Flicka as well."

Flicka's mouth dropped open as the truth hit her.

"It's really us," said Cuthbert.

"In the flesh and in our true personas. You didn't even guess that we were girls, did you? I'm Anna – my proper name as well – and this is Cathy. We presume you've come to visit our boss, Trish Nuzzi. Well, just step this way. She's going to be so excited."

"Almost as excited as us," chimed Cathy. "We've all been absolutely dying to see you again, haven't we, Anna?"

"Going out of our minds." Anna gave a tinkling little giggle.