Seafire

18 – Apocalypse

It quickly became clear that this was official business. A sleek Jaguar pulled up in front of the terminal and their luggage was stowed away in the trunk, while the two escorts helped them into the back of the car. They both seemed to be in good humor, which was more than could be said for Bond or Flicka.

"Cheer up, it could be raining." One of their custodians climbed into the back of the car with them. The other rode shotgun in the front passenger seat. The driver had given them a pleasant and polite greeting of "'Morning sir, ma'am."

Bond glared at nobody in particular, his face a thundercloud. "This had better be good," he muttered angrily to the officer in the back.

"No idea if it's good, bad, or indifferent. I'm just obeying orders."

The one in the front chuckled. "That's what we do for a living these days. A lot of the fun's gone out of life."

"Like hell it has." Bond knew that he should keep his mouth shut. He also knew that the real problem was getting caught, and that the fury he felt was aimed at himself, not his captors. "We all like to pretend it's over now that the Soviet Union seems to be a dead issue," he snapped. "People don't like to think we're still doing the work."

"Well, you'd know all about that, Captain Bond, wouldn't you?"

It was a short drive back into London, and Bill Tanner stood outside the door that they used at the Home Office.

"Sorry about this." He also appeared to be in good spirits.

"We were going on a little holiday, Bill." Flicka did not even try to disguise her anger.

"So we were told." Tanner ushered them into the building, instructing the Security Service men to make themselves comfortable. "It might be a long wait," he told them as though this were the happiest news he had to convey.

The whole Committee was there, except, of course, for M. They looked spry and in good humor also. They were certainly very polite, showing Bond and Flicka to their seats at the far end of the table, seeing they had coffee, asking if they wanted anything else. Finally Lord Harvey brought the meeting to order.

"I presume that M's Chief of Staff has offered our apologies." He smiled. Charm will get you anywhere, Bond thought. "Really we had no option after we spoke with our cousins in the United States, but I'll let Tanner put you in the picture."

Bill Tanner opened with information that made Bond curse himself for being so lax. "I should tell you that Nurse Frobisher, looking after M, is one of us." He smiled, rather like the Chairman. "After your meeting with the Chief yesterday she called, so His Lordship went down and had a chat with him. He has great fondness for you, James, and for Fredericka. Hardly told us anything. However, we do have his bedroom taped, so we already knew what you were up to." The smile again as he picked up a sheaf of notes. "But that's not the real reason you're here. Yesterday, as the Chairman said, we had some lengthy discussions with the Americans. It turns out that we were wrong. In fact, they'll happily allow you to work on their turf. They'll also provide a bit of backup if it's necessary."

"Couldn't you just have got word to us, instead of hauling us back?"

"Ah." It was Lord Harvey who replied. "Would that we could. Captain Bond. Unhappily you were in a technical breach of our instructions, and we also have quite a lot to tell you. The Americans really want Max Tarn as much as we do. It was something they shared with us. In truth, they're pretty happy about the possibility of nabbing him in Puerto Rico. They hadn't actually put the finger on Tarn – that's their expression, not mine. What we told them was music to their ears. We gave them some information, practically everything, as it happens – except for the Nazi connection, of course – and then they recognized him straightaway."

"How so?"

"Our evidence on Tarn fits the profile of someone they've been searching for. Their code name is apt, so we've taken it upon ourselves to share it."

"And the code name is?"

"Apocalypse. That's what they've been calling the shadow they've been chasing. Good, Apocalypse?"

"Very original." He could not keep the satirical edge out of his tone.

"Thought you'd like it." Harvey raised an eyebrow, indicating that he fully agreed with Bond.

Tanner took over and told them the long story. The United Nations had been looking into the murky business of what they called the "international arms bazaar," and its Disarmament Commission had already made some progress within the American and British Connections.

"So far, the United States have been more concerned with the guns which have found their way onto the streets of their cities, but that's a domestic issue, and a very serious one for them." Tanner glanced at his notes again. "They now realize that the trade in weapons through America has reached incredible proportions. We have also been able to give them evidence that Max Tarn is behind at least two-thirds of the deals, making America, and his base in Puerto Rico, a kind of convenience store for small arms – pistols, assault rifles, semiautomatics, explosives, and ammunition.

"These items are being farmed out to a whole slew of organizations and countries. We've talked about that in connection with Tarn already, and the Americans sat up and took notice when we showed them what we've got on him. Already we know that among his clients he has the Colombian drug lords, the Irish gunrunners, the Japanese crime bosses, and – no surprise – the embargo-busters of Croatia. The Americans, in turn, have linked him to the off-limits countries in the Middle East.

"Tarn's really been working overtime. Only last month half a million firearms were licensed by the U.S. Federal Government for export to Argentina. Those weapons went nowhere near Argentina, but were neatly diverted by the Tarn organization and split between the Colombians and buyers in Europe."

Tanner went on to say that Max Tarn's people had gone further than any other illegal arms dealers. They had even managed to infiltrate the government computers in Washington and, with high-tech cunning, had sanctioned hundreds of deals that resulted in the diversion of weapons and military materiel.

"The U.S. Defense Trade Controls offices have been seriously undermanned during the past few years," Tanner continued. "Recently they've tracked down not only the question of small arms shipped out to Argentina, but also large amounts of artillery shells, fighter aircraft, fuses, and missiles licensed by the State Department for Jordan but ending up in Iraq. The entire business has reached incredible proportions. We were able to supply a lot of information."

"Which means you're actually going to allow us into the field?" It was all Bond was interested in: getting back into action.

"Among other things, yes." The Chairman spoke from the far end of the table. "Yesterday we didn't imagine in our wildest dreams that the U.S. authorities would embrace such a plan. So things have altered dramatically, and while I cannot praise you for trying to override our orders, I now have the authority to change those orders. Netting Max Tarn would be a triumph as far as we're concerned."

"So we can get on with it and go with your blessing?"

"Not so fast, Bond. Yes, you are going to be allowed into Puerto Rico – possibly along with one or two other people who you aren't likely to see – but I should warn you that, as of this morning, the American agencies have no trace of Tarn being anywhere near the Caribbean. He is, in fact, still in Germany – Tarnenwerder and Wasserburg."

"I didn't expect him to be in San Juan when we arrived." Bond raised his voice, almost shouting. "I told you he would certainly be going there soon."

"Oh, yes, we have no doubt about that, providing nobody tips him off and tells him to stay clear. We've even got an address for you. He keeps a fair-sized villa on the island. Near the town of Ponce, on the Caribbean side. His facilities in San Juan are confined to a small flat and, most important, his warehouses in the port area. These are almost certainly stockpiled with enough military equipment to start World War III, and they're used exclusively by his container ships. But for relaxation he has all the trappings of luxury in what our American friends refer to as his compound near Ponce – tennis courts, swimming pools, servants. Tarn does not stint himself when he's off duty."

"With the money he's making by dealing in death, he can afford to be a bit lavish."

"Yes." Harvey raised his eyes and gave Bond a withering look. "Yes, I was told that you preferred luxury to a more suburban way of life."

He ignored the remark. "So what're we waiting for now?"

A short pause was followed by a nod from the Chairman toward the head of the Security Service. "I'm told, Captain Bond, that you seem to have a way with our own personal penetration agent, the former Junior Minister."

"I spoke with him yesterday."

"Yes, to great effect. You made him some very unauthorized promises, though."

"They were based on the realities of life. You know as well as I do, ma'am, that nobody in this room wants to see the little rat in court, with every newspaper and television reporter at his heels. Put the ex-Minister in front of a judge and some of you become laughingstocks. A few decades ago he would have probably caught the measles – I think that was the term we used in those days. We'd have a little suicide on our hands, and someone in high places would trot out evidence that he had been under incredible strain. Nowadays we don't do things like that, so we have to offer him a deal. After all, very few people know what's been going on."

"I, for one, cannot comment on any deals, Captain Bond. We do have to consider the law. None of us is above it."

"Or below it."

"If you say so. Now, Captain, we have a deal to offer you. We feel that, whatever the final outcome and its effect on our former lord and master's life, he does appear to trust you. Nobody in Tarn's camp can have any idea that we've turned him, so we want you to arrange that he passes on a little information to his former master."

"What kind of information, ma'am?"

"Oh, simple stuff. The fact that our search continues in the U.K. and in Germany where he was last spotted, plus anything else that comes from your fertile imagination. I'm sure you'll give him the right words. Incidentally, he's being kept in one of our few remaining safe flats not fifteen minutes' drive from here."

"You said you had a deal to offer me."

"Certainly. You get him to say the right words, hold his hand, stay with him while he passes on the information, and we'll let you and Fräulein von Grüsse leave for Puerto Rico first thing tomorrow morning."

"Done." He glanced at Flicka, who nodded back. "I presume Fräulein von Grüsse can be present?"

"We'll all be present, Captain Bond. You won't see us, but we'll be there." She gave him a knowing look. "Oh, by the way, they're all on first-name terms. Our former Minister is called Christopher."

The safe flat was known to him, high on the fourth floor of a block of service apartments on the corner of Marylebone High Street and New Cavendish Street. They had made the Minister very comfortable.

"Got everything you want, Christopher?" Bond greeted him. "Hot and cold running security, good takeaway Chinese and Indian?"

"I hate Chinese food, but the curry's good." He looked much better than when they had last seen him during the interrogation at the Home Office. "You come to give me a pardon?"

Bond shook his head, and Flicka said she was sorry but they couldn't do that just yet.

"I've told them that I'll give evidence against Tarn in camera. Time we had a good witness-protection program over here, like they do in the States."

"We can't have everything, Christopher." He turned to the two Security Service officers who were minding the prisoner, asked them if they could leave them alone with him. "Man talk, you know the kind of thing."

With a somewhat hammy reluctance – for they already had orders – the two men withdrew.

"So what's the deal?" Not unnaturally, the man could only think about himself and his future.

"Nothing's been decided yet, Christopher. We've talked to a lot of people and, as I told you yesterday, I don't for a minute think you're going to see the inside of a courtroom. Mind you, it's possible that you'll spend the rest of your life in some godforsaken part of the world with a pair of minders who'll be changed every three months. If you want total freedom you'll have to cooperate."

"I've already told them I'll -!"

"Yes, yes, Christopher, we know what you've promised. Believe me we know, and as far as that goes, everyone's going to show gratitude. However, there is gratitude and gratitude. It comes in many disguises, and in different packages. Now, there is one thing you might be able to do for us that will move you up a few notches."

"Anything."

Christopher, Bond considered, was a pushover.

"Tell me, the telephone number in Wasserburg, was that your only method of contact with Max Tarn and his unsavory friends?"

"Took a leaf out of your book. Bond. We used various dead drops and false telephone codes."

"Nothing else direct?"

"Only the telephone you managed to spike. Tarn's end has been ultra-secure, until that last time. I suspect it's some kind of patch through electronics, because sometimes I get a pickup and talk with that piece of rubbish, Maurice Goodwin. We're even on first-name terms. I was able to use it when I wanted to set up a proper meeting with one of them."

"So you sometimes used it when you wanted a meeting with some intermediary who handed you money, right?"

"Well, occasionally."

"Usually."

"Not always, no."

"Would you care to make a call on that line for us?"

"I said I'd do anything."

"Your end would be scripted."

"I'm not absolutely stupid. I understand that."

"We can even do it from here, Christopher, Mind you, any deviation from the script and I'll put a bullet through your head. We can do that kind of thing, you know."

"I believe you. What's in the script?"

"We'll work on it together."

Christopher waited for at least fifteen seconds before he asked if they could get on with it.

What they worked out in the end was aimed at putting Tarn into an even higher state of folie de grandeur, and it was an hour later that Christopher dialed the number. They had taken the extra precaution of attaching a speaker to the instrument, linked to headphones so that Bond could hear everything. Flicka passed the time by playing solitaire, and her future husband noticed that she handled a pack of cards rather like an experienced gambler.

"Yes," came from the distant end, and he immediately recognized the voice of Tarn's fixer, Maurice Goodwin. So the instrument in the offices of Saal, Saal u. Rollen was capable of patching in to another line.

"Maurice, it's Christopher," the ex-Minister read from the pad on which his script was jotted down in his own clear, and rather schoolboyish, handwriting.

"So what can we do for you, Christopher? Don't expect any money for the time being. We're a shade busy."

"I'm sorry to trouble you, but I thought I'd better pass on the latest. It is rather important."

"Shoot."

"They were pretty angry about your little disappearing act in London. Now Sir Max is wanted for murder, though they're not issuing anything to the press. As far as they're concerned, Lady Tarn died in the car accident, so the authorities are keeping quiet. In fact, there's still a search going on for Sir Max in Germany as well as here. The agent, Bond, went missing as well."

Goodwin chuckled. "He ended up dead. Very nasty. Bad business about Lady T, but it had to be done. Poor Trish went right off her rocker. Threatened the Chief, and she wasn't joking. Anyway, good to know that she won't make the funny pages again. Anything else?"

"Yes, the man Bond isn't dead. He pulled a fast one on you and turned up back here yesterday."

Goodwin cursed violently. "What about him, then? What's happening?"

"He's been fired – him and his girlfriend. Well, they've been suspended from duty. I think he wanted to go after you with guns blazing. I'm supposed to be keeping them under surveillance – that's a laugh. I've got complete control over the whole thing. Everything comes back to me, as usual."

"And?"

"And guess what? The pair of them have been dashing around London getting money and buying airline tickets."

"Going anywhere in particular?"

"Right into Sir Max's arms, I should think. They leave tomorrow. Gatwick/Atlanta, Georgia; then on to San Juan. I can pull the police and Security off, and let them out if you'd like another crack at them."

"What a coincidence." Goodwin gave a bray of laughter at the distant end. "When winter comes, then spring's not far behind. Thanks, Christopher. Maybe you'll get a bonus for this. Let 'em out."

"Just earning my keep, Maurice." The distant line went dead, and Christopher slowly put down the handset. "How did I do?"

"Best actor of the year. Oscar and our grateful thanks." Bond even managed to grin at the unpleasant man.

On the following morning, there was no holdup as they went through the routine passport check at Gatwick, and the flight to Atlanta took off on time.

Flicka seemed preoccupied as she looked out of the window next to her seat.

"You okay, Flick?" he asked.

"Sure, my dear. Sure. I think someone just walked over my grave and I got a bit maudlin. Wondered if I'd ever see this view again."

"Of course you will." He looked away, for if he had told the truth, he also had a lurking fear, an echo of his own mortality, something he rarely thought about.