Win, Lose Or Die

Win, Lose or die by John Gardner

WIN in the Gulf

An hour before dawn, in the Straits of Hormuz: a dark and dangerous time and place. The air was a chill mixture of sea and sweetness, giving no hint of the heat that would be generated once day took over. The massive Japanese-registered oil-tanker Son of Takashani slowly ploughed its way towards the Gulf of Oman and comparative safety. Its vast deck rolled gently; the tall superstructure, rising from the stern, looking like a block of flats, appeared to tip more violently than the deck because of its height.

Every officer and rating aboard could feel a tightening of the stomach muscles, the sense of urgency, and the absurd detached feeling which people experience when they know any minute could bring death by fire, explosion, bullet or water. Many had died of these along this stretch of water over the years of the Gulf war.

Both the Americans and British had helped by minesweeping, and escorting the oil-tankers. But, on this occasion, the Son of Takashoni had been forced to make the trip without the assistance of either the Amen can Fleet or the Royal Navy, The Japanese did, however, take precautions.

Armed men were on the bridge, at vantage points in the superstructure, and even on the deck. Some were always there during the journey from the Iraqi oil-fields through the Gulf, but, at the hours of dawn and dusk, extra hands with weapons kept a look-out.

These were the hours of high risk.

On the bridge the men carried small, lethal Beretta 12S - the model S versions, with metal stocks and a cyclic rate of 00-plus rounds per minute. The heavier General Purpose Machine-Guns were set on swivel mountings: two to port, and another pair to starboard on the deck; while four more were set in the superstructure, giving a wide field of fire, both fore and aft. These were all .50 calibre Browning M2 HBs, unequalled in their class for both range and firepower, their ammunition belts sprinkled with tracer rounds.

The Son of Takashani’s Master, Kiyoshi Akashi, never missed being on the bridge at this time of day. He rather enjoyed the sense of tension and danger.

The radar on the bridge searched the sea for other shipping, and the air for any hostile planes. They could do little against mines, but at least they stood a chance if the so-called Iranian Revolutionaries made one of their hit and run attacks in small motorised craft.

Reaching upwards, this same radar could pinpoint aircraft up to ten miles away at around 10,000 feet. Above that height the invisible beams could not reach, but aircraft attacks in the Gulf usually came in low. It was unfortunate that, on this particular dawn, the attack would come from the unexpected height of around 25,000 feet.

Unknown to the officers and men of the Son of Takashani, a giant C-130 Hercules transport aircraft was flying through the dawn sky some fifty miles East of them. The Hercules was painted an overall matt black, and bore no markings: neither serial numbers nor insignia. On the flight deck the navigator gave a terse instruction to the pilot.

The seven turbo-prop engines were throttled back, and the 136,000 pounds of aeroplane began to descend from 30,000 to 25,000 feet.

The navigator put a hand to his earphones, straining to hear the constant voice which came in on their frequency, giving vital information on wind strength and direction through the various heights right down to sea level. These reports came via an ocean-going yacht equipped with the most sophisticated meteorological equipment and radio as the vessel cruised off Khaimah, on the coast of the United Arab Emirates. The data was rapidly fed into the navigator’s computer.

Seconds later he was able to tell the pilot the exact points at which they should release their load. “Exactly 25,000 feet. First stick fifteen miles behind target; second stick two points to starboard, third stick four points port.”

The pilot acknowledged, levelled out at 25,000 feet and repeated the instructions to the jumpmaster, who, like the twenty other men in the cargo bay, wore a woollen helmet, goggles and an oxygen mask. A throat mike carried his query to the pilot “How long, skipper?”

“Five minutes. Opening cargo doors now.” There was a whine of hydraulics as the doors slid back and the loading bay went down like a drawbridge. At 25,000 feet dawn had already broken, the pink pearly light visible behind them. Below there was still darkness, while at the Hercules’ altitude it was freezing cold in the thin air. Every man in the cargo bay had any bare flesh covered against frostbite.

The jumpmaster gave a signal, and the twenty men who sat, facing inwards on the hard metal benches stood up, responding to hand signals.

They were dressed in black: black jump suits, boots, gloves, helmets and the oxygen masks and goggles, together with an assortment of weaponry, including AK47 Kalashnikovs, Galil automatic assault rifles, and Skorpion sub-machine-guns; grenades and, in two cases, clumsy grenade launchers, all firmly clamped onto black webbing covering their chests.

Above them, running the length of the cargo bay, what looked like huge black bats hung from oiled tracks which ended twenty feet short of the cargo ramp. The men now formed a line under these sinister shapes, which were large hang-gliders, unpowered and with near-rigid wings made of strengthened canvas, impregnated with a high-powered, long-lasting solution of de-icing fluid.

From each set of wings hung a light alloy framework onto which each man now strapped himself, using a harness specially designed with a quick release lock, similar to those used on parachutes. The harnesses had been adjusted before take-off, and allowed for interchangeable hanging and sitting positions on the light frameworks.

These men had rehearsed and practised with the craft over deserts and lonely tracts of land in all kinds and conditions of weather. They were a hand-picked and well-trained band who could, after their six months of hard testing, launch themselves from heights of 25,000 feet and spiral down to land within a carefully marked and prescribed area.

The cargo bay was filled with noise, the clamour of the engines and the rush of air filtering back through the open doors.

Instructions were reduced to hand signals and the jumpmaster banged his right palm flat on his chest, then lifted both hands, spreading the fingers wide - ten; then another ten; followed by five.

The men, standing in the framework of their hang-gliders, bent their heads to the small altimeters attached to their right wrists, setting them to 25,000 feet. In a minute or so their lives would depend on the accurate settings above sea level. Most of them also glanced at the small compasses attached to their left wrists.

These two simple instruments were the only devices which would assist them in the long glide down to the sea, and in what they had dubbed Operation WIN.

“Prepare for stick one.” The pilot’s voice filled the jumpmaster’s ears, and he signalled for the first group of ten men to stand by. They walked steadily towards the open doors at the rear of the aircraft, their gliders moving above them smoothly on the twin tracks of rail.

“All sticks stand by,” the pilot said. Again the jumpmaster signalled and the further two groups of five men took up their places.

“Stand by stick one. Stick one go.

The jumpmaster’s hand came down and the first ten men launched themselves, at ten-second intervals, into space.

The Hercules banked sharply to the left.

“Stand by stick two. Stick two go.

Another signal and five men glided down towards the film of darkness below as the Hercules banked right. Stick three went out smack on time, at the jump master’s signal. The cargo doors closed as the aircraft turned and climbed steeply, heading back to its secret home.

The hang-gliders fell away, dropping for 1,000 feet or so until the wings bit into the air, and their pilots shifted their bodies so that they slowed, made contact with other members of their particular stick, then, in a loose formation, began to glide towards the first streaks of dawn below. The men’s bodies seemed to hang motionless in the thin air, and, during the early stages of the descent they were all forced to bring up their gloved hands to wipe the ice and rime from their goggles, altimeters and compasses. It was an exhilarating business, but they were hardly aware of the motion until they passed through the 10,000-feet level. There, the air thickened and they all had greater control of their flimsy craft.

The Son of Takashani had no warning. True, the radar operator caught a sprinkle of minute blips on his screen, but they meant nothing to him. Birds possibly, or specks of dust or static on the screen.

At exactly 10,000 feet above the tanker, the three groups brought their hang-gliders into the attack position. The two men armed with grenade launchers were well to the rear of the tanker, hanging in their harnesses, hands free to manipulate weapons.

Two grenades arched from the air, one smashing its way into the bridge, the other exploding further down the superstructure, leaving a gaping hole.

The explosion on the bridge was like a sudden blast of white hot flame. Everyone died instantly.

Seaman Ogawa, one of the gunners on the superstructure, could not believe his eyes and ears. He heard the double explosion, felt the ship quake under him, then saw, forward, two creatures that looked like prehistoric birds approaching the bows.

Flame leaped from them and he saw one of the deck gun crews scattered like a nest of mice hit by a shotgun blast. He squeezed the Browning’s trigger almost as a reflex action, and his mind registered surprise as he watched the two incoming birds turn into mangled flesh, blood and shattered canvas as the heavy bullets tore them apart.

The two men who had started everything, exactly as planned, by releasing the grenades had also come to grief. Once they had established hits on the superstructure, both men dropped the launchers into the sea and, swinging violently, unclipped Skorpion sub-machine-guns from their chests. In a matter of seconds they were streaking down towards the Son of Takashani’s stern, manoeuvring their gliders, pulling them into a more shallow and slower descent, ready to release their harness the moment their rubber-soled boots struck the deck. They were only some fifty feet away from landing when a short burst of fire from another part of the superstructure took off the legs of the man on the right. He sagged in his harness and the wings above him tilted so that the entire glider side-slipped into his partner.

This second man was thrown to one side, knocked unconscious, swinging out of control so that the angle of attack of his wings increased sharply, and he smashed into the stern of the tanker.

The initial shock and surprise were gone in less than two minutes.

The gunners who were left, both on deck and in the battered superstructure, were now assessing the situation. The drills that the Master had insisted on paid off. None of the crew of the Son of Takashani showed regard for his own safety. Several big hang-gliders, spitting flame and death, circled the ship, looking for openings to land on the main deck while desperately trying to maintain height. Two swooped in from starboard, knocking out another heavy machine-gun crew as they came, only to be mangled and ripped apart from fire directed from the superstructure. Four men actually managed to land safely on the stern, seeking what cover they could abaft the superstructure, unhooking grenades from their webbing equipment. Three more died as they rode the air down onto the port side.

Both the gun crews forward on the deck were now out of action, and, with a withering fire, another pair of hang-gliders reached the deck. The remainder were now either blasted out of the sky, or killed by smashing into the ship’s hull. The seven who remained fought on.

Smoke grenades gave some cover to the trio who had landed on the forward part of the deck, while the four men who were attacking from the stern managed, with grenade and gun, to gain a foothold in the superstructure itself.

The fighting lasted for almost half an hour. At the end of that bloody dawn there were several bodies of the glider-borne force strewn around the tanker; eighteen officers and men of the Son of Takashani were dead, and a further seven wounded.

The radio officer had continued to put out a distress signal throughout the whole battle, but it was an hour later before a US Navy frigate arrived at the scene, and by then, the Japanese, being an orderly people, had tipped the bodies of the attackers overboard, washed down the deck, seen to their own dead and wounded, and reorganised the tanker so that it could continue on its way.

The most senior officer, twenty-two year old Zenzo Yamada, who had taken the place of the dead Master, was able to give the American frigate’s captain a graphic, blow by blow account of the action. The American officer was perturbed by the lack of evidence left by the Japanese crew, but Yamada did not appear to be worried. “I helped one of them die,” he told the frigate’s captain.

“How?” The US officer was thirty years of age, a Lieutenant Commander called Ed Potts, and a man who appreciated order himself.

“He was dying. I finish him off.”

The American nodded. “He say anything?”

“One word, only.’ “Yeah?”

“He say, win.” The Japanese officer laughed at the thought.

“Win, huh? Well, he didn’t, did he?”

“Man not win. He lost, and died.” The Japanese officer laughed again, as though it was the funniest thing he had heard in a long time.

Later, others did not find it so amusing.

The repercussions which sprang from the strange attack on the tanker, Son of Takashani, were predictable. Japan accused first Iran, then Iraq. Both countries denied complicity. No terrorist organisation owned up, though the Intelligence communities of the West kept their eyes and ears open.

Much of the traffic concerning the Japanese tanker passed across James Bond’s desk in that faceless building overlooking Regent’s Park where he was, to his frustration, chained to an administrative job. He could not know that he would, eventually, become deeply involved in the business.

In these days of high-tech electronics, it is not unusual for people, who should know better, to claim that HUMINT - the gathering of intelligence by human agents in the field - is either dead, or lives only on borrowed time. Bond had recently laughed aloud when hearing a writer of adventure stories claim that the spy novel was dead, because: “These days, it’s all done by satellites.”

Certainly those electronic wizards girdling the earth can pluck photographs, and even military transmissions, from the air, but there was far more to it than that. The satellite in war can give armies, navies and air forces the edge, but in peace, when there is more time at the disposal of intelligence agencies, the back-up analysis of photographs and spoken information can only be achieved by the man or woman in the field. Apart from that, there are often delicate covert operations which cannot be accomplished by whole echelons of electronics, only by humans.

In one area, that of ELINT, the collection of intelligence by electronic means, both the human agent, the COMSATS (Communications Satellites), and ELINT itself were welded together as a team. In recent years the micro bug, used so successfully to tap into telephone and other conversations, was sparingly taken into the field, usually only on close-quarter covert operations.

Indeed, the new buzzword is ELINT. Entire areas of towns, cities, and even the countryside can be monitored, world-wide.

No person is safe from the listeners, for eavesdropping has become part of life, necessary because of that other horror with which all countries and peoples are forced to cohabit - terrorism, in its many faces and forms.

Every twenty-four hours, electronic listening devices scan sensitive areas and, as they scan, so the giant memories of computers, at hundreds of installations, will strain to pick up particular trigger words and phrases. In parts of certain cities which are considered sensitive, if you talk to your girlfriend about Semtex, or accidentally speak a code word or phrase used by known terrorists, your conversation will almost certainly be monitored until the listeners decide your idle chatter is harmless.

Only human beings can install the small, very powerful listening stations at prescribed points; and other humans insert the key words and phrases into the computer databases. After that, the machines take over, making decisions to transcribe conversations, pinpoint their locations, even name those who are talking by identifying voice prints.

More human beings analyse these transcripts, sometimes at leisure, more often at speed, lest the advantage is lost.

Just over a month after the Son of Takashani incident, two men met in a villa overlooking the Mediterranean. They were smooth-skinned, immaculately turned out, and, to all intents and purposes, businessmen taking coffee on a vine-covered patio from which they had an uninterrupted view of spectacular beauty: cypresses, olive groves, rough grazing land for sheep and goats, the twinkling sea, and, in the distance, the baked red and white roofs of a small village. Neither of the men could have known that a powerful receiver was hidden in that village which looked so peaceful and secluded.

The receiver scanned an area of some fifty miles, shooting a million or so words a second, spoken in streets, bars, private houses and on telephones, through one of the COMSATS and on into the computers of two large listening-posts. One of the computers picked up an entire phrase, spoken by one of the two men as they drank their sweet coffee.

The phrase was, “Health depends on strength.” It was spoken as a toast, and the computer memories metaphorically sat up and took notice as the four words were repeated. They had only recently been inserted into the word scan programs.

“Health depends on strength,” the younger, dark-haired man smiled as he lifted his cup towards his older companion - a sleek, olive-skinned fellow with broad shoulders and a distinguished grey flecking his temples.

“WIN was a spectacular disaster,” the older man said. There was no hint of criticism in his voice, only a trace of distaste.

“I apologise,” his companion bowed his head slightly, “I had great confidence. The training was exceptional “And cost a small fortune “True. But it does prove that if we are to take all of them, when they’re aboard what they like to call Birdsnest Two, we require a much more subtle approach. Even if we had doubled, or maybe trebled the force for WIN there would have been carnage. Birdsnest Two is geared for any kind of attack. They would have taken out our hang-gliders long before they came within 500 feet of the target. Also it will probably have to be done in hard winter weather.”

The older man nodded, “Which means the attack can really only come from within.”

“You mean we should have people on board?” The dark-haired one sounded alarmed.

“Can you think of a better way?”

“It’s impossible. How can you infiltrate such a service at short notice? We’ve less than twelve months to go. If that had ever been an option we’d have used it, saved a lot of time, and also a great deal of money.” On the tapes that were finally studied, the listeners strained their ears through a long pause. In the distance came the sound of an aircraft high and a long way off. Nearer at hand, a dog barked angrily. Then the older man spoke “Ah, my friend, so often we go for a complex solution; how would it be if we made this more simple? One man. One man aboard Birdsnest Two would be all we need, for one man could unlock the gates, and let others in. Or even someone in the retinue, a discontented Flag Officer, for instance. One is all we require. A single Trojan Horse.”

“Even one would be .

“Difficult? No, not if he is already there, in place.”

“But we have nobody who.

“Maybe we do have somebody already in place; and maybe even he does not yet know it. Your people are skilled, surely they could tell who this man is, and bring pressure to bear?”

Again a pause, complete with the barking dog. Then “Compromise.

Yes, an obvious solution.”

“So obvious that you had to waste the lives of twenty mercenaries, not to mention the finance of training and equipping them. Now, go and find the agent we need. Officer, or enlisted man. Crew or visitor.

It doesn’t matter which. Just find him.”

M tossed the transcript back onto his desk and looked up at his Chief of Stall Bill Tanner, who appeared to be studying the old Admiral’s face as a strategist would examine the terrain of battle.

“Well,” M said. It was a grunt from the throat rather than a word clearly spoken. “Well, we know who these people are, and we know the target, what we don’t know is the full objective.

Any comments, Tanner?”

“Only the obvious, sir.”

“Meaning?” M was in an unashamedly bellicose mood today.

“Meaning, sir, that we can have things altered. We can have the brass hats moved at the last moment. Put them on a cruiser instead of Birdsnest Two . .

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tanner, we know Birdsnest Two’s HMS Invincible, so say Invincible.” HMS Invincible is one of the three remaining aircraft-carriers - capital ships - of the Royal Navy: in fact three of the largest gas turbine-powered warships in the world.

All are designated as TDCs - “Through Deck Cruiser” of the Invincible class, and all had gone through major refits of electronics, weapons and aircraft capabilities since the lessons learned in the Falklands war.

With only the slightest pause, Tanner continued, “Put them in another ship … at the last minute . .

“What other ship? A destroyer, or a frigate? There are three of them, Tanner. Three top brass, complete with their staff. I’d say around twelve or fifteen bodies at the least. Use your sense, man, they’d have to share bunks on a frigate or destroyer, and that might be all very well for the Russkies, but I cannot see our American friends, or Sir Geoffrey Gould taking kindly to that.”

“Call it off’ sir?”

“I think there would be rumblings everywhere, including our wonderful Press and TV Defence Correspondents. They’d be asking “why?” before we even concocted a story. In any case, Landsea “89 is essential. All our combined exercises are essential, and what with this wretched business of glasnost and perestroika, NATO feels it’s doing the decent thing. Letting the Russians in on our war games, eh?”

“We’re not supposed to call them “war games anymore, sir “I know that!” M thumped his desk heavily. “It’s the thin end of the wedge, though, letting the Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Fleet in on a combined exercise as complex as this.”

Bill Tanner sighed, “At least our people won’t have to dodge their spy shiws all the time. You know, sir, even Churchill thought a sharing of information might be a good thing.”

“That, Chief of Staff, was before the First World War. It was also a sharing with the Germans. Russians are different creatures.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I don’t approve of it.”

“Quite, sir.”

“I’ve been very outspoken with the Joint Intelligence Committee, though a fat lot of good it did me. All friends together, now - so they say. One idiot even quoted Kipling at me: Sisters under their skins and that kind of stuff. No, we have to do something positive.

Tanner had walked to the window, and stood looking out at the rain beating down on Regent’s Park. “Bodyguards, sir?

Well-briefed bodyguards?”

M made a grumbling noise. Then - “We know what these people’re after, Tanner, but we don’t want to tell the world, if only because we don’t know the reason why. Bodyguards would mean widening the circle of knowledge, and as you very well know that’s the first rule in our business - keep the circle small.” He stopped suddenly, as though struck by a new thought, then said, “No!” loudly, and not to anyone in particular.

The rain continued to fall on the grass, trees and umbrellas below. In his head Tanner had started to try and recite a piece of doggerel somebody had told him. It was a common theme about security and rumour dating back to the Second World War and it always made him smile “Actual evidence I have none But my aunt’s charwoman’s sister’s son, Heard a policeman on his beat, Say to a nursemaid in Downing Street, That he had a cousin, who had a friend, who knows when the war is going to end.”

It was not until he reached the last line, that Bill Tanner realised he had quoted the lines aloud.

“That’s it!” M almost bellowed.

“What, sir?”

“Nursemaid, Chief of Staff. We’ll give them a nursemaid. A good Naval man. Sound as a bell. A man willing to put his life before the lives of his charges.” M’s hand reached for the internal telephone which put him directly in touch with his devoted, though long-suffering private secretary. “Moneypenny,” he all but shouted loud enough for her to hear on the other side of the padded door. “Get Double-O Seven up here fast.”

Within ten minutes, James Bond was sitting in M’s holy of holies with his old Chief giving him what he thought of as the “fish eye”, and Bill Tanner looking a little uneasy.

“It’s a job,” M announced. “An operation that calls for more than the usual discretion; and certainly one that’ll require you to alter your circumstances a great deal.”

“I’ve worked undercover before, sir.”

Bond leaned back in the armchair in which M had invited him to sit.

It was a chair Bond knew well. If you were asked to sit in this, the most comfortable chair in M’s office, the news could only be bad.

“Undercover’s one thing, 007, but how would you feel about going back into the Royal Navy?”

“With respect, sir, I’ve never left the RNVR.”

M growled again, and James Bond thought he saw a gleam of unusual malice in the old Chief’s eyes. “Really?” M raised his eyes towards the ceiling. “How long is it since you stood a Duty Watch, 007? Or had to deal with defaulters; live day and night with the routine and discipline within a capital ship; or even felt a quarterdeck rise and fall sixty feet in a gale?”

“Well, sir .

“The job, 007, will require you to go back to active duty. In turn that’ll mean you’ll have to go on a course, several courses in fact, to bring you up to date with life and warfare in our present-day Royal Navy.”

The thought struck home. Bond’s life in the Service had, many times, caused him to work at full-stretch, but on the whole there were long periods of relaxation. To go back to active service in the Royal Navy would be a return to the old disciplines, and a re-honing of skills almost forgotten. A series of pictures flickered through his head. They were rather what he had always imagined a dying man saw: his life many years ago, in the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve on active service. The images in his brain did not attract him as much as they had done when he was a young midshipman. “Why?” he asked lamely. “I mean why should I go back to active service, sir?”

M smiled and nodded, “Because, 007, in the late winter of next year, the Royal Navy, together with elite troops, air forces, and the navies of all the NATO powers, including the United States Navy, will be carrying out an exercise: Landsea “89. There will be observers: Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Geoffrey Gould; Admiral Gudeon, United States Navy; and Admiral Sergei Yevgennevich Pauker, Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Navy - a post unknown in any other navy in the world.” M took a deep breath. “The latter has been invited because of the current thawing in relationships between East and West. Glasnost, perestroika, that kind of thing.”

“They will be Bond began.

“They will be in Invincible. Theywill have with them, like Gilbert and Sullivan’s Sir Joseph Porter, all their sisters and their cousins and their aunts. They will also be in danger. Almost certainly attempted abduction. At worst, murder. You will be there, in Invincible, to see it does not happen.”

“Can you explain about the danger, sir?” The trigger of magnetic interest had been squeezed deep in Bond’s mind.

M smiled like a man who has just hooked the biggest fish in the river. “Certainly, James. Bill and I will a tale unfold. It begins with that little problem in the Straits of Hormuz - the Japanese tanker, Son of Hitachi, or whatever it’s called . .

The Chief of Staff corrected the tanker’s name, and for his pains received a venomous glare from M, who barked, “You want to tell it, Tanner?”

“No, sir, you carry on, sir.”

“Good of you, Tanner. Thank you.” M’s mood was not only bellicose this morning, but sarcastic. He fixed Bond with the same, cold fish-eye look. “Ever heard of BAST?”

“Anagram for stab, sir?”

“No, 007, I mean BAST. B-A-S-T, and this is no laughing matter.”

The smile on Bond’s face disappeared quickly. M was being too serious and prickly for jokes. “No, sir. BAST is news to me.

What is it?”

With a wave of his hand and a vocal sound meant to signify deep displeasure, M motioned to his Chief of Staff to explain.

“James,” Tanner came over and. leaned against the desk, “this really is a very serious and alarming business. BAST is a group; an organisation. The name hasn’t been circulated as yet, simply because we didn’t have many leads or details at first. The name’s pretty puerile, that’s why nobody took it very seriously to begin with. But BAST appears to be an acronym for Brotherhood of Anarchy and Secret Terror.”

“Sounds like a poor man’s SPECTRE to me.” Bond’s brow wrinkled and there was concern in his eyes.

“At first we thought it might be a splinter group of the old SPECTRE, but it appears this is something new, and oddly unpleasant,” Tanner continued. “You recall the small bomb incidents in October of “87? All on one day; all coordinated?

There were fire bombs in a couple of London stores .

“The ones put down to animal rights activists?”

Tanner nodded, “But the others were not so easily explained.

One small plastique near the Vatican; another one which destroyed an American military transport - on the ground at Edwards Airforce Base: no casualties; one in Madrid; another, a car bomb, premature, shattering the French Minister of Defence’s car; and a large one in Moscow: near the Kremlin Gate, and not generally reported.”

“Yes, I saw the file.”

“Then you know the file said it was coordinated, but nobody had taken responsibility.”

Bond nodded.

“The file was lying by omission,” Tanner sounded grave now.

“There was a long letter, circulated to all the countries concerned.

In brief it said the incidents had been coordinated by the Brotherhood of Anarchy and Secret Terror, to be referred to as BAST.

Everyone did some back-tracking, because these kinds of groups do have a tendency to choose highfalutin names. The damage from those first incidents was small and there were no deaths, but those who advise on international terrorism told us to take them damned seriously, if only because BAST is a demonic name. BAST, it seems, is a word that comes from Ancient Egypt: sometimes known as Aim or Ayin. BAST is said to appear as a three-headed demon - head of a snake, head of a cat, head of a man - mounted on a viper. The demon BAST is connected with incendiarism, and we now have little doubt that the Brotherhood chose the name because of its demonic connotations.”

“Demons?” Bond raised his eyes towards the ceiling.

“Yes, demons.” M, who was far from being a superstitious man, appeared to be taking the entire thing very seriously. “A lot of research has been done on this. Now, we know that there are indeed three leaders - like the snake, man and cat - and a prime leader upon which they all ride and exist. The viper, if you like, comes by t’\e name of Bassam Baradj, a former ranking member of the PLO, a former friend of Arafat’s, and a wealthy man in his own right. Baradj is certainly paymaster and mastermind.”

Tanner nodded and said that other intelligence had pinpointed three associates of Baradj, all one-time members of Middle Eastern paramilitary political groups. “Abou Hamarik; All Al Adwan; and a young woman, Saphii Boudai - the man, the snake and the cat.

Apparently those are their key names: street names.

They’re all experienced in the arts of terrorism, they’re also disenchanted with all the old causes.

“They’ve embraced the idea of anarchy with one thought only.

They believe that Napoleon’s definition of anarchy is the one and only true definition - “Anarchy is the stepping stone to absolute power Bond felt a tingling chill down his spine. He had fought against fanatical shadows before.

“Y’see, James,” M appeared to have softened, “these people who sound so childish with their BAST signature, are far from childish.

Baradj can lay his hands on billions; he is also a shrewd and cunning strategist. The other leaders are trained soldiers in the terrorist wars. They can teach skills, and, through Baradj, they can buy and sell as many mercenaries as they need. Mad as it might seem, these people are pledged against practically all political and religious ideologies. They have their own ideal - to gain absolute power. What they do with that power once they’ve got it, heaven only knows. But that’s what they’re after, and, if recent activities are anything to go by, they’re going to be a nasty poisoned thorn in the sides of all nations and all types and conditions of government for some time to come.”

“And how do we know they’re after the little band of naval brass?”

Bond asked.

M explained. He spoke at length about the voice prints they had on three of the leading members of BAST; how they had also stumbled across the organisation’s call-sign or password, “Health depends on strength.”

“The problem is,” M went on, “that these people appear to be so flaky, as our American brothers-in-arms would say, that one is inclined not to take them seriously. We have to take them seriously. That strange and almost ridiculous attack on the Japanese tanker was their doing, and that was a rehearsal, carried out in cold blood. A supertanker,James, is not altogether unlike an aircraft-carrier. They wanted to see if they could take out a tanker, in order to test the feasibility of a similar assault on Invincible.”

“But how do we know that?” Bond pressed.

“We plucked two voices from the air.” M smiled for the first time since Bond had entered the room. “We got voice prints on Baradj and Abou Hamarik. It appears the latter organised the event - they coded it Operation WIN, incidentally - and Hamarik’s trying to plant, or compromise someone either already serving in Invincible, or on the staff of one of our visiting Admirals. The ones to whom you, 007, will act as Nanny.”

“Delighted, sir.” Bond’s lips curved into one of the cruellest smiles M had ever seen. Later the Chief was to say that, to use a Biblical expression, “Iron had entered into 007’s soul.” He was not far wrong.

Bond’s thoughts turned to Napoleon again and he remembered that he had also said, “A love of country, a spirit of enthusiasm, and a sense of honour, will operate upon young soldiers with advantage.” Not only young soldiers, James Bond considered, but Naval officers with a history of matters secret as well.

Many people in the intelligence world who knew Bond, were surprised a month later to read in the London Gazette BOND, James Commander RNVR. Relieved of current liaison duties at the Foreign Office. Promoted to the substantive rank of Captain RN and returned to active service forthwith.

Reflections in a Harrier

The Sea Harrier taxied to the foot of the so-called ski ramp - a wide metal hill, sweeping upwards at 120 - and the nose-wheel rolled into perfect alignment with the dark painted strip that was the centre line.

The legendary V/STOL (Vertical/Short Take-Off& Landing) pronounced “Veestol” - aircraft responded to the tiny throttle movement and climbed so that the entire fuselage became positioned into the upward configuration.

Bond went through the take-off checks for the last time: brakes on, flaps OUT, ASI (Air Speed Indicator) “bug” to lift-off speed.

The aircraft was alive, trembling to the idling of the Rolls-Royce (Bristol) Pegasus 104 turbofan which could generate an impressive 21,500 pounds of thrust.

On the Sea Harrier the thrust is channelled through two engine propulsion nozzles, set at port and starboard, capable of being rotated, from the aft horizontal position, through some 98.50. This is the Harrier’s great advantage over conventional fixed-wing aircraft, for the jet nozzles allow vertical lift plus horizontal flight, together with all the other variables in between, such as hover and backward flight.

Bond’s hand moved to the nozzle lever, and he glanced down to confirm that it was set to short take-off position at the 500 stop mark. He lifted his right hand into the clear thumbs-up position, which would be seen by the deck control handling officer in his “bubble” on the starboard side, and who Bond, strapped into the cockpit and angled towards a squally grey sky, could not see. At the same moment he heard the Commander (Air) give him the “Go” - “Bluebird cleared for take-off.”

Bond opened the throttle to 55 percent RPM, released the brakes, then slammed the throttle hard into fully-open. The Pegasus engine roared behind him, and he could feel himself pushed back against the padded metal seat as though a pair of giant hands were pressing his chest and face.

The Sea Harrier rocketed from the ramp, and as it did so, Bond flipped the gear into the “up” position, hardly noticing the whine and thump as the wheels came up into their housings, for in the first fifteen seconds or so of the ramp take-off the Harrier was not actually flying, but was shot, ballistically, into a high, fast trajectory.

Only when the ASI “bug” flashed and beeped did Bond set the nozzles to horizontal flight, and click flaps to IN. The head-up-display (HUD) showed that he was climbing at an angle of almost 600 at a speed in excess of 640 knots.

If the take-off had been from a carrier, or similar ship, the sea would lie directly below, but this, Bond’s first real take-off from the ski-ramp, was from the Royal Naval Air Station, Yeovilton in Somerset, among some of the West Country’s most beautiful landscapes. Not that he had any view of the ground now, for his Harrier had shot above the mile-high cloudbase and was still climbing as he set course for the bombing range in the Irish Sea, not far from the Isle of Man.

Though this was his first real ski-run take-off’ Bond had already done it a couple of dozen times on the simulator. He was now into the third week of his Harrier conversion course, and eight months into his return to active duty with the Royal Navy.

His promotion to Captain was a quantum leap, as it is for any Naval officer. Not that the new rank had made much difference over the past months. On all the courses Bond had taken, rank was well-nigh forgotten, and a Captain under instruction rated at about the same level as a Sub-Lieutenant.

Since starting the courses, he had studied the new advanced strategies of naval warfare which seemed to alter at alarming speed; another course on communications; a third on ciphers and an important fourth concerning advanced weaponry, including hands-on experience with the latest 3-D radar, Sea Darts and SAM missiles, together with new electronic weapons control systems operating the American Phalanx and Goalkeeper CIWS - Close In Weapon Systems: “sea-whizz” as they are known which have now become standard following the horrifying lessons learned during the Falklands Campaign.

Bond had always kept up his flying hours and instrument ratings, on jets and helicopters, in order to remain qualified as a naval pilot, but he had now reached the final and most testing course - conversion to the Sea Harrier.

After some twenty hours in Yeovilton in the flight simulator, he had flown Harriers in normal configuration of rolling take-offs and landings. The ski-jump take-off marked the beginning of the air combat and tactical weapons course. The whole thing appealed mightily to Bond, who revelled in learning and honing new skills. In any case, the Sea Harrier was a wonderful machine to fly: exciting and very different.

He now checked the HUD which showed him on course and cruising at around 900 knots along the military airway. Glancing down at the HDD the Head-Down-Display - he could see the visual map, the magic eye which gives the modern pilot a ground map view even through the thickest and most murky cloud. He was crossing the coast, just above Southport on the north-west seaboard, right on a heading for the bombing range. Now he would require total concentration as he lowered the Harrier’s nose towards the perceptible cloudscape below, the horizontal bars on the HUD sliding upwards to show he had the aircraft in a ten degree dive. Down the left hand side of the HUD he watched the speed begin to increase and blipped his airbrakes open for a second to control the dive. The altitude figures streamed down the left hand edge of the HUD showing a steady decrease in height - 30,000 … 25

… 20 … 15… By now he was in cloud, still going fast, his eyes flicking between airspeed, altitude, and the HDD, while his fret on the rudder bars made slight corrections.

He broke cloud at 3,000 feet and clicked on the air-to-ground sights, thumbing down on the button which would arm the pair of 100-pound clusterbombs which hung, one under each wing.

Below, the sea slashed by as he held an altitude of around 500 feet. Far ahead he glimpsed the first anchored marker flashing to lead him onto the bombing range where a series of similar markers were set in a diamond shape, which was the target.

It came up very fast and the HUD flashed the IN RANGE signal almost before it had registered from Bond’s eyes to his brain.

Instinctively he triggered the bombs and pulled up into a 300 climb, pushing the throttle fully open and pulling a hard 5G turn left, then right, so that his body felt like lead for a second before he turned, at speed, but more gently, to see the clusterbombs explode from their small parachutes directly across the diamond of buoys.

“Don’t hang about,” the young Commander had told them in the briefing room. “There are four of you at five-minute intervals, so just do the job, then get out fast.”

Altogether, there were eight naval pilots on the conversion course: three more Royal Navy men, a US Marine Corps pilot on liaison, two Indian Navy pilots and one from the Spanish Navy. All but Bond had already done several hours on Harriers with their home units and were at Yeovilton to sharpen their skills, with some weapons and tactical training. That afternoon, Bond had been first man away and was followed by the Spanish officer - a sullen young man called Felipe Pantano, who kept very much to himself-one of the Royal Navy Lieutenants, and the American.

To comply with safety regulations, there was a predetermined flight path to and from the target, and Bond swept his Harrier into a long climbing turn, then gave her full throttle, stood the aeroplane on its tail and, looking down at the small radar screen on the starboard side of his cockpit, swept the skies immediately above his return course, to be certain none of the other aircraft had strayed.

The radar showed nothing out of the ordinary, so he dropped the nose to a gentle 200 climb. He had hardly stabilised the Harrier in its ascent when a completely unexpected sound seemed to fill the cockpit. So surprised was Bond that it took at least two seconds for him to realise what was happening.

As the sound became louder in his ears, Bond woke to the danger.

So far he had only experienced this in the simulator: the harsh, rasping neep-neep-neep quickening all the time. There was a missile locked on to him -judging by its tone, a Sidewinder.

Just under thirty pounds of high-explosive fragmentation was being guided towards the engine heat of his Harrier.

Bond had reacted slowly, and that was the way people got blown out of the sky. He pushed the stick forward, putting the Harrier into a power dive,jinking to left and right, pulling about seven Gs to each jink, holding it for a second or two, then going the other way. At the same time, he hit the button which would release four flares to confuse the missile’s heat-seeking guidance system, then, for luck, followed it with a bundle of chaff radar-confusing metal strips. It was another safety regulation that all aircraft using the bombing range should carry both flares and chaff’ housed in special pods - another lesson of the Falklands where chaff had been stuffed in bundles inside the airbrakes.

The neep-neeping was still there, quickening as the missile gained on the Harrier. He lifted the nose, jinked again and, at a thousand feet, performed a rate five turn, pulling a lot of G, then rolling and putting the Harrier into a second dive. His body felt like lead, his throat was dust-dry and the controls felt stiff as he pushed the Harrier to its limit.

He had the aircraft right down almost to sea level before the growling signal suddenly stopped. There was a flash far off to the starboard, in the direction of the target range. Bond took a deep breath, lifted the Harrier’s nose, reset his course and climbed to 30,000 feet with the throttle right forward. As he went up so he switched his radio to transmit - “Bluebird to Homespun.

Some idiot almost put a Sidewinder up my six.” Taking the points of a standard clock, “six” meant directly behind.

“Say again, Bluebird.”

Bond repeated and Yeovilton asked him to confirm no damage, which he did, adding that it was more luck than judgment. Of the four aircraft detailed for the bombing range that afternoon, no one carried anything but clusterbombs. The range, however, belonged to the RAF, though its use and timings were strictly monitored. It was just possible that a Royal Air Force jet had accidentally been scheduled and had arrived either early or late.

“Bluebird, are you certain it was a missile?”

“Chased me all around the sky. Of course I’m sure.”

Bond reached Yeovilton without further incident and, once landed and out of his flying gear, he stormed into the office of Commander (Air) - known to most as Wings - set in the control tower.

“Who was the fool?” Bond snapped, then he stopped, for Commander Bernie Brazier, an experienced officer, looked both angry and shaken.

He motioned Bond to sit. “There’ll be an investigation, sir.” His eyes had the weary look of a man who had seen it all and never really got used to it. “There’s a problem.

Nobody from here was carrying missiles, and the RAF say they were not using the range today. We’re checking your Harrier for possible malfunction of detection electronics.”

“That wasn’t a malfunction, for God’s sake. It was a real missile, Bernie. I’m filing a report to that effect and heaven help the cretin who loosed one off in my direction.”

Commander Brazier still looked unhappy. Quietly he said, “There’s another problem.”

“What?”

“We’ve lost an aircraft.”

“Who?”

“Captain Pantano. The Spanish officer. He was second away, bombed on time then went off the radar during his climb out.

Nobody’s reported seeing him go down and we’ve got S and R out looking for him, or wreckage.”

“Perhaps a Sidewinder popped him.” There was a large segment of sarcasm in Bond’s voice.

“There were no missile-carrying aircraft around, sir, as I’ve already told you.”

“Well, what do you think the one up my backside was, Wings?

A Scotch mist?” Now, quite angry, James Bond turned on his heel and left.

In the wardroom bar that night before dinner, the atmosphere was only slightly subdued. It was always a bit of a shaker losing a pilot, but the strange circumstances surrounding this loss, coupled with the fact that the Spanish pilot had not been a natural mixer, helped to calm what often causes a slight twitch among young pilots.

So, when Bond entered the wardroom, the bar hummed with near enough the usual high-spirited pre-dinner chatter. He was about to go over and join two of the other Navy pilots from the course, when his eyes landed on someone he had been watching from afar since reporting to RNAS Yeovilton. She was tall and very slim; a WRNS First Officer (Women’s Royal Naval Service - “Wrens” as they were referred to) who was always much in demand, as she had the kind of looks and figure that make middle-aged men regret their lost youth: a sloe-eyed combination of self-confidence, together with a hint of complete indifference to the many officers who paid court to her, “Like hornets around a honeypot,” as one crusty old visiting Admiral commented. Her name was Clover Pennington, though she was known to many, in spite of her upbringing in the bosom of a well-connected west country family, as “Irish Penny”.

Now this dark-haired, black-eyed beauty had the usual quota of three young Lieutenants toasting her, but, on seeing Bond, she stepped away from the bar towards him. “I hear you had a near-miss today, sir.” Her smile lacked the cautious deference her rank demanded when approaching a much senior officer.

“Not as close as our Spanish pilot it would seem, Miss er, First Officer Bond let it trail off. Recently, he had not been given the chance of spending much of his time with women, a fact which would have gladdened M’s heart.

“First Officer Pennington, sir. Clover Pennington.”

“Well, Miss Pennington, how about joining me for dinner?

The name’s Bond, by the way, James Bond.”

“Delighted, sir.” She gave him a dazzling smile and turned towards the wardroom. Daggers were invisibly hurled in Bond’s direction from the eyes of the three young officers still at the bar.

Tonight was not a formal wardroom dinner, so Bond seized the chance while it was on offer. “Not here, First Officer Pennington.”

His hand brushed her uniformed arm with the three blue stripes, denoting her rank, low on the sleeve. “I know a reasonable restaurant about a quarter of an hour’s drive away, near Wedmore. Give you ten minutes to change.” Another smile which spoke of a more than usually pleasant evening, “Oh, good, sir. I always feel better out of uniform.”

Bond thought unpardonable thoughts and followed her from the bar.

He gave her twenty minutes, knowing the ways of women when changing for an evening out. In any case, Bond also wanted to get into civilian clothes, even though it would have to be almost another kind of uniform, Dunhill slacks and blazer complete with RN crest on the breast pocket.

Before taking up his new duties, M had advised, “Shouldn’t take that damned great Bentley with you, 007.”

“How am I supposed to get around, sir?” he had asked.

“Oh, take something upmarket from the car pool - they’ve a nice little BMW 520i, in an unobtrusive dark-blue, free at the moment. Use that as your runabout until you set sail for distant shores.” M, Bond would have sworn, was humming “Drake’s Drum” as he left the office.

So it was that the dark-blue BMW pulled up in front of the officers’ Wrennery, as the women’s quarters were known, twenty minutes later. To Bond’s surprise she was there, waiting outside wearing a fetching trench-coat over civilian clothes. The coat was tightly belted, showing off the neat waist and adding a touch of sensuality.

She slid into the passenger seat next to him, her skirt riding up to expose around four inches of thigh. As Bond swung the car out through the Wrennery gates he noticed that she did not even bother to adjust the coat and skirt as she pulled on the obligatory seat-belt.

“So where’re we going, Captain Bond?” (Did he imagine the throatiness of her voice, or had it always been there?) “Little pub I know. Good food. The owner’s wife is French and they do a very passable boeuf Beauceronne, almost like the real thing. Off duty, the name’s James, by the way.”

He heard the smile in her voice, “You have a choice -James.

My nickname’s “Irish Penny’, so most of the girls call me Penny.

I prefer my real name, Clover.”

“Clover it is, then. Nice name.

Unusual.”

“My father always used to say that mother was frightened by a bull in a clover field when she was carrying me, but I prefer the more romantic version.”

“Which was?”

Again, the smile in her voice, “That I was conceived in a patch of clover - and my father a respectable clergyman at that.”

“Still a nice name,” Bond paused to negotiate a long bend.

“Only heard it once before, and she was married to someone very big in intelligence matters.” The reference to Mrs. Allan Dulles was a calculated come-on: almost a code to attract Clover into the light in case they were both in the same business. M had said there would be other officers around, on this deep cover assignment. But Clover Pennington did not rise to the bait.

“Is it true about this afternoon, James?”

“Is what true?”

“That someone tried to put a Sidewinder up your six.”

“Felt that way. How did you come to hear about it? The incident’s supposed to be low-profile.”

“Oh, didn’t you know? I’m in charge of the girls who maintain the Harriers.” On most stone frigates, as shore stations are called by the Royal Navy, maintenance and arming was, to a large extent, performed by Wrens. “Bernie - Wings that is - passed me a curt little memo. He writes memos rather as he speaks, words of one syllable, especially to the Wrens. I always imagine he regards us as having very limited vocabularies. We’re checking on all your aircraft’s electronics, just to be sure you weren’t getting some odd fredhack.”

“It was a missile, Clover. I’ve been at the receiving end of those bloody things before today. I know what they sound like.” “We have to check. You know what the Commander (Air) is Though it has only been hinted at, and never admitted in print, Bond almost certainly saw action during the Falklands War. It has been said that he was the man landed secretly to assist and help train civilians before the real shooting war started.

like: always accusing us of infesting his precious Harriers with Wrenlins.” She laughed. Throaty and infectious, Bond thought, something he would not really mind catching himself.

“Wrenlins,” he repeated half aloud. He had almost forgotten that old Fleet Air-Arm slang, culled and altered from the RAF’s “gremlins”.

Today’s young people, he presumed, would take for granted that gremlins were creatures conjured from Spielberg’s brain for a popular, if zany, movie.

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting at a table in the quiet, neat restaurant ordering the pate and the boeuf Beauceronne that delightful and simple dish of rump steak cooked with bacon, potatoes and onions. Within an hour they were talking like old friends, and, indeed knew people in common, for it turned out that, while Clover’s father had been what she called “a humble man of the cloth”, his elder brother was Sir Arthur Pennington, Sixth Baronet and master of Pennington Nab, a stately home which Bond had enjoyed, in more ways than one. “Oh, you’ll know my cousins, Emma and Jane, then?” Clover asked, looking up sharply.

“Intimately,” Bond replied flatly, and with a completely straight face.

Clover let it pass and they discussed everything from the Hunt Balls at Pennington Nab, to life in the Royal Navy, taking in, on the way, jazz - “My bro’, Julian, introduced me to trad jazz when he was up at Cambridge and I’ve been an addict ever since fishing in the Caribbean, a favorite for both of them; skiing; and, finally, the novels of Eric Ambler and Graham Greene.

“I feel I’ve known you for a lifetime, James,” she said as they drove slowly back towards the RNAS.

It was, Bond thought, a somewhat trite remark, but possibly one of invitation. He pulled the BMW into a lay-by and cut the engine.

“The feeling’s mutual, Clover, my dear.” He reached for her in the darkness and she responded to his first rough kiss, though pulled away when he began to move in closer.

“No,James. No, not yet. It might become difficult, particularly as we’re going to be shipmates.”

“What d’you mean, shipmates?” Bond nuzzled her hair.

“Invincible, of course.”

“What about Invincible?” He gently backed off.

“Well, we’re both being drafted there for Landsea “89, aren’t we?”

“First I’ve heard of it.” Bond’s voice remained steady, while a snake of worry began to curl around his stomach. “First I’ve heard of Wrens going to sea as well - particularly during an exercise like Landsea

“89.”

“Well, it’s all over the place. In fact I’ve been told officially.

Fifteen of us. Me, and fourteen ratings - apart from the other ladies who’ll be on board.”

“And what about me?” Deep within him, Bond was more than concerned now. If it was common knowledge that he was being drafted to Invincible it would not take much intelligence for the unscrupulous to put two and two together, particularly if they had got hold of the information that three senior Admirals, including the C-in-C of the Russian Navy, were going to be aboard. His mind jumped back to the near-miss that afternoon, and he wondered if somebody was already trying to take evasive action and cut him out of the baby-sitting business.

Clover continued to talk, saying that she wouldn’t have said anything if she did not already know he was involved. “Of course it’s classified,” she sounded a shade defensive. “But security’s for those without need-to-know, surely.”

“And I have need-to-know?”

“Your name is on the list, James. Of course you have clearance.

“And these other women. Who are they?”

“We haven’t been told. All I know is that there are to be other women.

“Okay, from the top, you tell me all you know, Clover.”

Bond listened, and became more concerned. Concerned enough to make a very secure call for a crash meeting with M during the coming weekend.

“I shouldn’t go blabbing about this to all and sundry, Clover,” he admonished. “Not even good to talk to me about it,” he told her when they got back to the Wrennery.

“Well, kiss me goodnight, at least, James,” she pouted.

He smiled and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Not just yet,” he said solemnly. “Especially if we’re going to be shipmates.”

Though he laughed as he drove away, the entire events of the day were more than worrying. Bond made his crash call to M from a telephone box a mile up the road, off the Base. The Duty Officer, using a scrambler, arranged the meeting for Sunday.

The search for the Spanish pilot, Felipe Pantano, and his missing Sea Harrier had been called off at dusk, but would be resumed in the morning. Yet, long before the S and R helicopter teams had clattered out to look for wreckage and, possibly, a signal emitting life raft, Captain Pantano was sitting comfortably in the captain’s cabin of a small freighter, two hundred miles off the coast of his own country, Spain.

The freighter was registered in Oporto, Portugal. Indeed, Oporto, the harbour city famous for that most clubbable of wines, was where she was headed, and she sported the name Estado Novo on bows and stern.

Low in the water, the Estado Novo obviously carried a heavy cargo in her hold and a large container secured forward taking up the bulk of her deck space. On the ship’s manifest, the container showed as engineering equipment destined for Gibraltar, from a well-known British firm, and would not be subject to any customs scrutiny in Oporto where they would only stop for twenty-four hours to refuel.

Sitting opposite Pantano in the cabin was not the captain but Abou Hamarik, the strategist of BAST, who sat smiling and nodding as the swarthy little pilot told of how well the plan had gone.

“I’m sure nobody noticed that I had gone off the plot,” Pantano spoke in rapid Spanish, “and your people were waiting right on time.

It took less than five minutes.” He had taken off as number two in the quartet of Harriers, climbed to the correct height and had been careful to continue on the obligatory course.

The operation had been set up only ten days before, even though there was already a plan to filch the Harrier: in fact that was originally the reason for Pantano being sent on the course. For weeks, through their carefully planted penetration agents within the Spanish Navy, BAST had forced Pantano onto the Harrier course with the elegant expertise of a theatrical magician making a member of the audience take the Ace of Spades from a clean deck of cards. The unscheduled addition, to destroy Captain Bond, had only been slipped into place when another of their agents had confirmed what that officer’s role was to be during the all-important Landsea “89 exercise.

Just north of Shrewsbury, over a densely wooded area, Pantano had literally dropped his Harrier from the sky, using the vectored thrust of his engine and coming down vertically like an express lift. No pilot would have faulted his skill, for the Harrier had dropped at the exact, planned point, into a small clearing of trees. Pantano had only to make minor adjustments - moving forward and sideways - to slow down and gently bring the Harrier to rest in the clearing. There was a Land Rover parked nearby, and four men waiting for him. As Pantano had already suggested, the work of wiring up, fusing and fitting the Sidewinder AIM-qj missile (one of three stolen some four months earlier from an RAF base in West Germany) to the starboard outer pylon, would only take a very short time. Five minutes twenty seconds later Pantano’s Sea Harrier was rising fast from the trees, putting on forward speed and climbing away, back on course, but increasing his airspeed, going flat out. It was essential for him to catch up with the lead aircraft, piloted by Bond, and stay well ahead of the number three.

“I think we’d have heard if the radar at Yeovilton actually lost me at any point,” he smiled confidently at Hamarik who gave a gentle nod.

The Spaniard’s Harrier had come within three miles of Bond just as the latter was making his bombing run. “I locked on to him, and let the missile go,” he told Hamarik. “After that I was busy with my own bombing run, and the little bit of deviousness which followed.” Hamarik shrugged, making an open-handed gesture. “I fear friend Bond escaped,” he smiled, as if to say “it is difficult to win every battle.

Pantano gave a heavy sigh, obviously annoyed with himself.

“I’m sorry. I did all I could. Damn. Damn the man.”

“Please do not concern yourself. There is plenty of time for us to deal with Captain Bond. A pity we could not combine two birds with the one proverbial stone. But, I promise you, Felipe, he will go. In fact that is essential.”

Pantano smiled, showing a small goldmine of fillings, before he went through the final phase. His bombing run had been normal up to the time when he climbed away. “I simply pulled into a 300 climb to show myself to the radar. At 1,000 feet I let all the flares go, switched off my radar and banged on the ECM.” The ECM (the Electronic Counter Measures Pod) is used to confuse ground radar and missiles.

“This was not foolproof, of course, but I went down to zero feet and set the course you had given me. It was pretty exciting, I can tell you. I was just feet above the water. There were times when I was getting salt spray on the wind shield, and even with the heater and wipers going full blast I couldn’t budge all of it. Also, I had the throttle banged wide open and the altimeter “bug’ was screaming at me.

I had it set to minimum - one hundred feet - and it went crazy. It was more like a boat ride than flying.” The Harrier had run right out into the Atlantic, then turned towards the Bay of Biscay. Two hundred miles later, Pantano had slowed to a hover beside the waiting Estado Novo.

There was ample room to make a vertical landing, and almost before he was out of the cockpit, the crew had started to erect false sides which eventually made up the huge container standing on the forward deck.

“Good,” Hamarik’s oily smile greased over his face. “You have done well. Now, all we have to do is make certain the machine is fully fuelled, overhauled, and fitted with the other weapons. Then, you will be ready for stage two of your part in the operation we are to call LOSE. There is meant to be humour in that. Operation LOSE means that the major powers lose all that is dear to them, for what country can function without their personal gyroscopes?”

“I don’t follow that part of it.” Pantano did not press the point, though he was obviously intrigued.

“You don’t follow it because you do not know what is really at stake.” The greased smile again. Then Hamarik rose from his chair.

“Come, let us eat and talk of good things. We have a small gift for you on board. She is from Egypt and, I am told, enjoys the same kind of trivial pursuit as yourself. Food first, for you will require energy.

James Bond was flying for most of the Saturday and the wardroom was almost empty when he went in to dine at around eight in the evening. He entered the ante-room and was surprised to see Clover, in a smart, almost military-looking dress - beige with brass buttons and darker beige piping around the shoulders and collar.

“How are you tonight, then, Clover?” He smiled, as though the lencing of the previous evening was now well forgotten.

“I’m fine, sir.” She returned the smile though she spoke formally. “I was waiting to try and get a word with you.”

“Right. How about dinner?”

“That’s really nice. I’ll get my coat, can we Bond shook his head, putting an arm out to stop her. “There are few people in the wardroom on a Saturday night, Clover.

Let’s see what they have for us there. I seem to remember that on the ratings’ messdecks of a Saturday evening, it was always “Herrings in’.” He recalled it well enough from the days when, as Officer of the Watch, he had to do rounds of the messdecks. “Herrings in” was the name they always gave to the large tins of herrings in tomato sauce, a favourite among both ratings and Petty Officers. Bond could never understand it. The food looked and smelled revolting to him, but there were never any complaints on Saturday nights. He presumed things had changed since then.

The only people dining in at that time were the Officer of the Watch and the Royal Marines Duty Officer, who both nodded deferentially to Bond as he led Clover to a couple of chairs distant to the other two officers. The Wren stewards served them with the only choice on the Saturday night menu - smoked salmon, followed by grilled steak. Bond took his steak rare and, refusing the pommesfrites, ordered a small green salad.

They talked idly, circling the problem both knew existed, until the main course had been served. It was Clover Pennington who took the lead “I wanted to apologise for last night.” She turned her eyes away and blushed as she spoke.

“Apologise for what?” Bond stared at her until she had to make eye contact.

“I broke all security regulations, sir. I shouldn’t have mentioned either invincible or Landsea “89. I’m sorry, it just seemed natural, particularly as I knew you were being drafted as well.”

“You’re quite right.” Bond was almost sharp with her. “To have gained the rank of First Officer you should really have learned all the lessons of security by now. I have to be honest with you, Clover, I’ve always had great reservations about young women with either loud voices, or runaway tongues. The Royal Navy isn’t known as the Silent Service for nothing. We’ve an almost unblemished reputation for keeping mouths closed and ears open.

“I know, sir. I’m sorry. I just thought that if I got my apology out of the way, perhaps Bond could not make up his mind whether she was just a garrulous woman, or an upper-class gold digger.

“Perhaps what?”

“Well, last night we “I think you’d do well to forget about last night. At least until the matters on your conscience are over.” In case he was being too harsh, Bond gave her a tight smile. “Let’s see how it all goes.

After that, anything’s possible. We could meet socially. No problem there.”

Clover Pennington looked suitably crestfallen, pushed her plate away, made a muttered excuse and left the wardroom.

Bond quietly finished his meal, went into the ante-room, took a small brandy with his coffee, then headed back to his quarters.

Tomorrow was a free day, but for him it would be a full one.

He left the Royal Naval Air Station just after eight, having eaten his usual breakfast. Bond was beginning to realise what had attracted him to the Navy in the first place. He was a man of routine, and enjoyed the privileges that came with rank. But now, rank was put to one side. He wore civilian clothes, and drove the BMW with caution, keeping his eyes on the rear-view mirror. Even though he was in England, this was an operation and any contact with his real Service was a clandestine matter where Field Rules applied.

He drove to Cheddar, pleased that on this late autumn Sunday there were few other people on the road. Certainly he appeared to be free of any surveillance as he turned off the main road and headed towards a modern house on the edge of an upmarket estate.

The double garage-doors were open and Bill Tanner stood by the crimson Lancia already drawn back from the automatic doors. It took Bond less than a minute to change cars, reversing the Lancia out while Tanner nodded and drove the BMW into the garage. No other cars came near and Bond crammed an unlikely fishing hat on his head, and slipped dark glasses over his eyes. No words were exchanged, but, as he turned the Lancia back towards the main road, Bond saw the garage-door coming down to hide his own car.

An hour later he had negotiated the M5 Motorway, and taken the M4

fork which led him towards London. It took about fifty minutes for him to reach the Windsor exit, after which he circled the smaller roads, still watching for a possible tail. It was a lengthy, painstaking business so he did not reach his destination until after eleven, purring across the Windsor-Bagshot road and looking out for the Squirrel public house on his left, then the gateway of simple stone on the right.

He turned the Lancia through the gateway to see the familiar, well-manicured drive, the screen of silver birch, beech, pine and oak trees which stood guard over the rectangular Regency manor house of weathered Bath stone.

He pulled the Lancia around the side of the main house, parking so that it would also be screened by the trees which, as he knew from the past, were not the only protection that guarded M’s beautiful country house called, nostalgically, Quarterdeck.

His feet crunched on the gravel as he approached the portico and grasped the thong attached to the gleaming brass bell, once that of some long-forgotten ship, and clanged it to and fro.

Seconds later the stout door was unbolted from inside and opened to reveal M’s servant, Davison, who had replaced the faithful ex-Chief Petty Officer Hammond.

“And Mrs. Davison? She well?” Bond stepped into the hall, taking in the familiar scene - the smell of polish from the pine panelling; the Victorian hall stand, with M’s old Ulster hanging from it, and Wellington boots set nearby; the table with its wonderfully-detailed 1944 scale model of the battle cruiser Repulse, M’s last command.

“Mrs. Davison’s fit as a flea, sir - and twice as nippy, if you follow my drift.”

“Indeed I do, Davison.” Bond inclined his head towards the model.

“Much more beautiful than the present one, eh?”

“Don’t know what to make of the Andrew any more, sir.

Carriers that aren’t carriers, and no real ships. Not like in the old days, anyhow.” The Andrew’ is naval slang for the Royal Navy, and has been since the mid-nineteenth century. Before that the word usually described one ship.

The present Repulse is the S23, one of the Royal Navy’s first “Resolution’ class SSBN, Polaris-armed submarines.

“anyway, sir, the admiral is expecting you.

“Good. Lead the way, Davison.”

The former CPO knocked loudly on the thick, heavy Spanish mahogany door and M s voice sounded, sharp, from behind it “Come.”

“Captain James Bond, sir.”

“Permission to come aboard, sir?” Bond smiled, but immediately realised that his smile was not returned.

M did not open the conversation until the door was closed behind them but, in those few seconds, Bond took in the entire room. It was still as neat as ever. The table near the window, with water-colour materials laid out in what looked like a parade ground precision; the old naval prints, neatly aligned along the walls and M’s desk, with papers, an old ink-stand, leather blotter, calendar, the two telephones, one ivory, the other red, all in perfect order.

“Well,” M began, “this had better be good, Bond. There was a specific arrangement. No contacts unless you fired a distress signal.”

“Sir, I was .

“If you’re going to tell me someone had a pot shot at you with a missile, I know about that; just as I know it could have been an electronic fault in your aircraft .

“With respect, sir. That was no electronic fault. There are other matters also. I wouldn’t break field rules if there were no reason.

M motioned to an armchair. Bond sat, and M took his usual place behind the desk. “You’d better… he was cut short by the red telephone purring. He lifted it to his ear saying nothing.

Then M grunted twice, nodded at the receiver and recradled it.

“There was nobody on your back, anyway. We’re sure of that.

Now, if you’re certain about the missile - and I’m not - what did you come to talk about?”

Bond started at the beginning - the Sidewinder doing its best to blow him out of the sky, then, without a pause he went on with the story of First Officer Clover Pennington. “She says there are fifteen Wrens slated for attachment in Invincible, says it’s common knowledge,just as she says it’s common knowledge that I’m going to be there as well. I felt it vital that I talk directly to you, sir. This is a security matter, and I don’t like details being known to all and sundry. Particularly as you were so adamant that we kept to strict field rules, and I was to operate under deep cover. If a Wren First Officer’s blabbing about it, how do we know these BAST people haven’t got everything already?

Knowledge that the three admirals are going to be in Invincible, knowing I’m their Nanny, responsible for their safety? Damn it, sir, they can take me out any time they want. For all we know that Sidewinder was an attempt to remove me.” NI remained silent for a full minute, then cleared his throat.

The best thing would be to remove young First Officer Penington from the draft,” he growled. “But, if she’s not on the side of the angels, it might be best to leave her in play, where you can keep an eye on her. It’s all very interesting though, especially in view of this.” He opened a plain buff file and carefully removed two stapled pages, handing them over to Bond.

They were a standard maintenance form, dated the previous day and referring to a detailed examination of the Harrier in which he had flown on the day of the missile incident. Bond’s eyes moved down the pages, taking in the technical detail as he went. Most of it referred to a pair of faulty transponders, part of the internal warning system.

The summary and conclusion were written in a neat hand towards the bottom of the second page insert writing here.

“Nice to know who’s on your side, sir. I can assure you there was no transponder failure. That was a missile, and First Officer Pennington seems to be doing her best to play it down. To cover her own pretty little backside do you think, sir?”

M grunted, took back the report then looked at Bond with his unflinching damnably clear grey eyes. “You are absolute4, one hundred percent certain, 007.”

“Stake my life on it, sir.

M nodded. “In the circumstances, while it would appear to be normal security to have this young woman removed from the draft going to Invincible, I prefer to leave things as they are. At least you’re alerted.”

A tap at the door brought Davison in to announce that luncheon was served. “Nothing much, even for a Sunday.” M pulled himself from his chair. “Kind of thing you like though, 007. Cold roast beef, new potatoes and a little salad. That do you?”

“Make a change from wardroom food, sir.”

“I’ll be bound,” M gave an imitation which came as near to a laugh as you would ever get from him. “Good for you. Get all the more unpleasant chemicals out of your bloodstream. Those chi-chi meals you’re always eating’ll be the death of you yet.”

Mrs. Davison assisted her husband to serve the modest meal which was very much to Bond’s taste - particularly the horseradish sauce, rough-cut and made by Mrs. Davison herself.

“Calculated to clear the sinuses,” M commented. “Can’t do with that namby-pamby creamed stuff they’re always serving these days. Sans taste, sans bite, sans everything horseradish should be.”

When they were alone once more, Bond slowly introduced the question that had been most on his mind - “Might I know, sir, exactly why we have to put up with fifteen Wrens in Invincible?

I’m only as superstitious as the next sailor, so I personally think of it as bad luck - women on a naval vessel.”

“Not simply superstitious, but a solid male chauvinist pig, I’d say, Bond - whatever male chauvinist pig means, dratted bad use of language if you ask me. But you’ve asked me something more tricky.

Something you shouldn’t even know, and I’m not sure if this is the right time to tell you. I was going to do it before you went on draft to Invincible, of course.” He helped himself to more of the beef and a large spoonful of the horseradish. “My story was going to be that the Russkies’re bringing at least one female Naval Attache with them. But one Russian woman does not equal fifteen Wrens, does it?”

“Hardly.” Bond followed his Chief’s lead and took some more beef.

“Then here goes, 007, and remember, this really is high security stuff’ classified possibly as nothing has ever been classified before not in time of peace anyway.

He talked for over half an hour, and Bond’s initial surprise at what M said, turned into a whole world of churning worries which were to haunt him for many weeks to come.

At six o’clock that evening, James Bond made the return journey to the RNAS at Yeovilton, via a small car-changing charade in Cheddar.

Now he knew the entire enterprise and could see that the covert action which appeared to be in motion via BAST had pushed him into one of the most difficult and dangerous assignments he had ever been forced to undertake.

While Bond and M were meeting in the house near Windsor Great Park, another fortuitous meeting was taking place in Plymouth. A Petty Officer Engineer, on twenty-four-hour leave, spent the lunchtime in an unfamiliar public house. It was Sunday and drinking men often go over the limit during a normal pre-lunch session, but this particular man only took his usual number of pints. When it was time to leave, he was, if anything, only slightly “merry”, full of good cheer, and not given to making an exhibition of himself.

He had also made two new friends.

The Petty Officer did not live in Plymouth, but knew the city well, like many a sailor before him. Plymouth on a Sunday can often be lonely for a sailor without a girl in port and this particular man’s girl was his wife of fifteen years who lived in London because she had a good job there. The new friends were a pair of civilians who started to make conversation with him at the bar of the pub. One, called Harry, was the representative for a firm that provided some essential components for turbines, so he had something in common with the Petty Officer; the other, Bill, was also a rep - for a company that specialised in fibre optics. Harry and Bill were old friends, for they often met at the same hotel when work brought them to Plymouth.

The Petty Officer was glad of their company, and found the conversation, mainly of wine, women and ships, exceptionally stimulating. So much so that he invited the two men to have a bite to eat with him. “After that, me old mates, I’m going to find a good-looking young pusher.” Freely translated a “pusher” had nothing to do with drugs. The tem was old Navy for girl; usually one of easy virtue and who did most things for money. Professional or amateur.

“Now, there we can really help you,” said Harry. “Bill and me, we stay here often. And guess what our hobby is?”

They lunched well, their conversation rarely straying from matters below the navel. “What’d your wife say if she ever caught you at it?”

Bill asked the Petty Officer.

“Give me bloody “ell. She’d set her brothers on me that’s for sure, and they’re big bastards.”

They took him to a small private club where they both had membership. There, the Petty Officer was shown a series of young girls, all of whom were highly desirable. So much so that the PO commented on the fact that he had never seen “pushers” like that in clubs or on the streets of Plymouth in the whole of his life.

“That’s because you don’t know the right places to go, Harry said with a smile. “Take your pick, “Blackie’. Any one of them.

“Or more if you’re feeling greedy. This is on us, mate.” Bill laughed.

The Petty Officer chose a blonde who looked about sixteen, but had the credentials of someone far more experienced than any teenager.

The cameras were hidden behind a pair of two-way mirrors, often used in this particular establishment. The PO spent nearly two hours with the girl and left, as he said, “suitably impressed”.

Harry and Bill invited him to dinner at their hotel. Over dinner they all planned to spend the following Sunday together. Then the conversation turned to the big Naval turbine engines, on which the Petty Officer was an expert.

The Christmas Horse The phrase “health depends on strength” was picked up once more by the listening-posts towards the end of November.

The computers locked on and the transcript was on M’s desk within twenty-four hours.

Again it was Bassam Baradj and Abou Hamarik who spoke.

“Surely you don’t think this Naval man, Bond, will be any threat to an operation as complex as ours?” Baradj said.

“I like to be sure of my enemies.” Hamarik’s voice was almost a whisper. “Bond isn’t merely a simple officer of the Royal Navy: not that there are any simple Royal Naval officers. This man has a curious and impressive record, and my informants tell me he is to be drafted to the ship as a special liaison officer.”

“Head of a select bodyguard section?”

“Possibly.”

“And you thought he was enough of a threat to warrant removing, even in the midst of something vital to the final plan?”

saw it as a military opportunity. The chance was there. It failed.”

There was a long pause, then Baradj spoke again. “Well, Abou, I trust the other part of our Operation Lose goes well and will not be compromised. Apart from the general political aims of the Brotherhood, I have a great deal of hard currency tied up.

I’ve never disguised the fact that there are financial issues here.

While I believe ardently in the Brotherhood, and see it as the only way a new and more just world, can be established, I am also concerned with creating a financial buffer for myself, and, of course, the Brotherhood which would be nothing without my support. Pray the next segment of the plan goes without any hitches.”

“This coming weekend will see the completion of that phase.

We have our man neatly sewn up. You need not be concerned about that part. All will go well.”

“And the Bond fellow?”

“Maybe it would be a good idea to remove him from the scene.

He was formerly a member of the British Secret Intelligence Service, at one time a skilled assassin until the British had no more stomach for such things. But he is experienced, a good leader, and a man to be reckoned with. He will, doubtless, have people under his command guarding the trio who will be aboard Birdsnest Two.”

“If we get rid of him before the event?” Baradj paused. “If we dispose of him, will they bring in someone of his quality as a replacement?”

“They will replace him,” Hamarik sounded a shade diffident.

“But not with a man of like calibre. Bond is, shall we say, unique.”

Once more there was one of those long pauses, when the listening devices picked up stray noises: a goat herd or shepherd on the slopes below; people, probably servants or bodyguards, arguing.

“They have their feast of Christmas next month.” Baradj sounded suddenly hard, and threatening. “Find out where this man is to spend Christmas. I’ll give him to the Cat. That will lessen our chances of failure.”

M, in his office overlooking Regent’s Park, watched Bill Tanner reading the transcript. Tanner was a quick reader, but M was impatient, drumming his fingers on the leather skivers inlaid in his desk top.

“Well?” he asked sharply when his Chief of Staff had finished.

“They’re too well informed,” Tanner spoke decisively. “It’s become uncontrollable. I think you should advise a rethink. Call the whole thing off” M grunted. “Mmm. But, Chief of Staff’ can you see our advice being taken? Knowing what’s involved, there are risks in trying to have the thing called oiL” It was Bill Tanner’s turn to grunt as he moved to his favourite place, by the window, looking down into the Park below. “I understand the problem, sir. But if the worst happens .

“Our best chance is to stop it happening at all. Keep Bond in play. You heard what Baradj said about Christmas. Why don’t we flush “em out? Make “em vulnerable by letting them show their hand.”

“You mean use Bond as a tethered goat?”

“More a stalking-horse, Tanner. Have to ask him first, of course.

Yes, set up a meeting, and make sure it’s absolutely one hundred percent sterile. Got me?”

“I understand, sir.”

“The Cat,” M was almost musing to himself. “BAST, the three-headed monster n’ding on a viper. The heads of a man, a snake and a cat. The Cat, Tanner.”

“Saphii Boudai, yes?”

“What’s on file?”

“Precious little, sir. We know she was PLO at one time. There is a possibility that she spent a few years as a penetration agent within Mossad, but they’re either too coy, or tied too tightly into their own vengeance plans to release any photographs. Boudai, we know, is around twenty-nine, or thirty years of age; we also know she is attractive and an expert in many things clandestine.

But we have no photographs and no real description.”

M gave another grunt. “They have Bond well assessed. His weak point has always been women. He’s going to have to be briefed fully.

Try and get more information on the Boudai woman, even if you have to lean on your Mossad contacts. They’re a touchy lot, I know, but do your best - and set up that meeting with more than usual care.”

Tanner nodded and left the office looking grim and determined.

The Harrier conversion course at Yeovilton had become even more demanding. Each day Bond flew, and each day they stretched him to new limits - not just on the bombing range but also in the role of fighter pilot.

First in the simulator, then later in the more dangerous environment of reality, he practised dog-fight techniques - sometimes with other aircraft flown by instructors, or his course mates.

In one day he would go through the high-speed, stomach churning manoeuvres like the High G Yo Yo, Flip Yo Yo, Low G Yo Yo, and the old, tried and true Immelmann, modified for jet aircraft so that you changed direction by rolling the aeroplane, not at the top of a loop, as in the classic Immelmann turn, but as you shot up in a vertical climb.

There was also the manoeuvre unique to the Harrier - thrust Vectored In Forward Flight, or VIFF as it is known. The Harrier has the ability to rise vertically, or move sideways from its normal flight path. This was a technique thought to be absolutely revolutionary in air combat, but the conversion course pilots, having learned how to perform the VIFF, were put in the true picture by a veteran pilot of the Falklands campaign.

“The Press made a big deal out of VIFFing,” the pilot told them in a closed lecture. “But I don’t think any of us used it.

I’ve seen articles and drawings in magazines showing Harriers allowing an enemy aircraft to position himself for an attack directly behind their six, then whizzing upwards and blasting the attacker as he overshot.” The pilot, a young Lieutenant-Commander gave a rueful smile. “You just don’t let anyone calmly place himself at six o’clock, it’s just too bloody dangerous. Also the VIFF slows you down - that’s its one great use. Personally, I’d only use it to alter the position of my nose so that I could get a good shot at my opponent. Forget about heroic leaps upwards, and letting enemy aircraft overshoot you.

If there’s someone on your six, he’ll probably get you whatever you do - unless he fires a missile a long way out of range. These days aerial combat is still mainly Battle of Britain stuff at speed, and at a longer separation. Rely on your radar and lock-on. A well-placed heat-seeker fired from even the outer limits of range will do the job on him, or you.

So, they added VIFFing to their stockpile of manoeuvres, knowing its limits, just as they all began to feel out their own limits. Bond knew he had not operated under such stress for a long time, and was particularly concerned about Clover Pennington, who, instead of being put off by his own cold-shouldering, appeared to have become more and more interested. She would wait for him, lingering in the ante-room, or seek him out at meals, showing an unusual concern for his well-being, but careful not to overstep the mark.

“That spectacular Wren three-ringer’s really got the hots for you,” the US Navy pilot remarked one day at lunch.

“Really?” Bond gave him a surprised look. “Well, if she has, I suggest that someone tells her to take a cold shower.”

“Know what you mean, Captain. After a day chasing around the sky in these birds, I doubt if I could put on a performance, even for the most desirable two-legged bird. These Harriers sap it all out of you.”

“True,” Bond said with a tight smile as he rose and left the table.

A couple of days later he received a post card picturing the Martyrs’ Memorial in Oxford. He did not recognise the writing, but presumed it had been done by one of the cleared secretaries back at the Regent’s Park office. It was neat, short, and to the point.

Completed twenty-two pages of notes on bear-baiting in the sixteenth century; visited Blenheim Palace to take a look at the archives which kept me busy over the weekend. Hope to see you soon.

Love as ever. Judith.

Anyone with common sense could have deciphered it. Judith was the code for crash meeting. The text told Bond exactly when and where: The Bear Hotel, Woodstock, near Oxford. Room twenty~-two at eight o’clock on Sunday night - the room number was exact, the time was 16.00 hours plus four. Either something was up, or - as the course was hearing completion - plans had been altered.

The Bear Hotel, Woodstock, lies in the main square of that crowded little town which stands a few minutes’ walk from the grounds leading to Blenheim Palace, that gorgeous gift to the First Duke of Marlborough from a grateful sovereign. The Palace was designed by Vaubrugh and the magnificent grounds landscaped by Capability Brown. The main Palace doors contain a replica of the intricate locks which once graced the main gates of the city of Warsaw, and these days people travel to see it in its historic context; for one of the great leaders of the twentieth century, Winston Churchill, was not only born in the Palace, but also lies buried in nearby Bladon. Bond had often come here, driving from London on a Saturday, spending the day walking in the grounds, simply enjoying the breathtaking views. He remembered one Saturday in October, some years before, standing on the bridge which spans the main lake, and watching the autumn sun draw a golden spear in the water. The spear often returned to him in a dream, as though it was some kind of omen.

Blenheim and Woodstock are magnets for tourists from all over the world, and though the Palace is closed in November, the inordinately beautiful grounds and parkland remain open for part of the day, and now, on the Sunday, with wood-smoke in the air and the paths sprinkled with the gold and red leaves of autumn, Bond once more stood on that same bridge, watching the same red sun, low in the sky, produce a similar effect - a spear of light pointing directly at him. Now, he wondered, if that spear reflected on water was indeed an omen.

He had taken a room for the night at the nearby Feathers Hotel, partly for security, and partly because he preferred it to the more famous Bear.

He completed his walk and returned to The Feathers where he put his feet up for a few hours before taking the short stroll to The Bear.

It was with some distaste he noted that the whiff of oil and potato chips hung heavy in the evening air, coming from pubs that advertised “Pub Grub” or “Good Food”, a pair of terms Bond would have liked to see banned from the English language, just as he would, if pushed, like to see the countless young people crowding those very bars banished to some kind of National Service - preferably in the armed forces. That, he considered, would take violence off the streets of country towns, and make men out of the louts who littered pavements and got drunk at the sniff of a farm maid’s apron.

He dodged into the front entrance of The Bear, neatly keeping clear of the reception area at the rear of the narrow passage leading through from the entrance hall, and squeezing into the small elevator that would take him to Room twenty two.

Both M and his Chief of Staff were waiting.

“Q Branch have just swept the place,” M said as a form of greeting. “It appears to be clean, though nowadays who’s to know.”

Bond gave both his chief and his closest friend within the Service, friendly smiles then waited for what would doubtless be laid on him. Judging by their faces, the news was not good.

M waved to a chair, and 007 sat, still waiting until M asked, “You remember BAST?”

“How could I forget, sir. After all they seem to be our main opponents.”

“After your hide, 007. Out to get you, take you out, ice you, buy the farm for you. At least that’s what the doomsayers would have us believe.”

“I would have thought the missile incident had already pointed us in that general direction.”

“Yes,” M flapped his hand as though trying to waft bad air away from his nostrils. “But this time we have a chance to lay our hands on at least one of them.

We know when they’re going to set you up and who’s going to do it.

What we don’t know, is where.”

“Then, with due respect, sir, I would have thought we should get cracking and find out exactly where.”

Bill Tanner rubbed his hands together. “That’s really anywhere of your choosing, James.”

“Mine?”

“Yes,” M’s clear grey eyes were locked on to Bond’s face.

“We would like to send you away for a Christmas holiday, 007.

“Tethered goat,” said Bond.

“Stalking-horse,” Tanner corrected him. “Sort of Christmas horse, so that BAST can come down your chimney and knock your socks off. In this case BAST will take on the human shape of a woman.

“Ah,” said Bond with a wry smile, “You want me to play slow horses and fast women.

“Something you’ve been known to do before this, 007.” M did not even twinkle, let alone return the smile.

“I have any option?”

M shook his head. “None whatsoever. BAST already know far too much; they’re going to have a go during Landsea “89, and they regard you as a mild threat. Mind you, they don’t yet seem to know all the details: such as the six SAS people you might be commanding for the bodyguard operation.”

“Funny, I hadn’t heard about them either, sir.” Bond paused, then looked from M to Tanner and back again. “If you know all this, why can’t you deal with BAST on its own terms? Take them out before they do their bit?”

M sighed, “We know the names of their ringleaders; we have descriptions of two of them, but we have no idea how large their Brotherhood is, or really how fanatical they are. The four or so leaders are fanatical enough, though the mastermind is, we deduce, more concerned with a return for his capital investment than the political aspect.”

“We wouldn’t normally put you at risk, James Tanner began.

“Not much.”

“Not with Landsea “89 coming up,” M said firmly. “We would like to get our hands on one of their leading people, though. So what about Christmas?”

“Not my favourite time of the year.” Bond looked down his nose.

“I can’t stand all that bonhomie, and families getting together around the festive board, but that’s probably because I have no real family.”

Tracy, his wife of only a few hours, flashed through his mind.

Christmases would have been good if she had lived, he thought.

Even an uncharacteristic picture of the two of them by a log fire with presents and a tree went flickering in and out of his mind. Then he saw the reflected spear of light again and wondered how all this would end. He looked bleakly at M. “I suppose you’ve already got somewhere lined up, though, sir.

M nodded, “You recall that a few years ago I sent you for some rest and recuperation. A villa on Ischia, in the bay of Naples?”

“That was in summer …” He recalled it vividly. Secluded, beautiful setting, almost idyllic. You only had to drive a couple of miles for food. The rest of the time you were all set up by the pool, with maid service, a cook, if you wanted one, and spectacular surroundings. “The Service paid for it, I know, but they only open them up for the summer.

“I think I can persuade the owner.” M had his stubborn look grappled to his face.

After a couple of heartbeats, Bond said - “Christmas on Ischia, then, sir. Just tell me what to do.”

“First,” M began, “you’ll have to run the thing solo. We can give you only modest cover. Nothing fancy, and certainly not the local police…” He went on for the next hour, and as he progressed, Bond realised that, as ever, the whole business would be down to him. Sit there and wait for a woman out to kill him, and who would possibly have a back-up; then outwit her; and, finally, bring her back into the UK with everyone, including himself, alive and kicking.

“Run of the mill sort of job really,” he said when M stopped talking.

“The kind of thing you should be able to do, armed with a butterfly-net and a killing jar, 007.”

“I’ll settle for the killing jar.” Bond smiled. “Preferably mm with a lot of kick to it. You know, the kind of thing any Christmas stalking-horse carries around.” At just about the same moment as Bond was being apprised of how he would spend a happy Christmas, Harry and Bill were putting some bad news to their old friend the Petty Officer Engineer.

“It’s not that we don’t like you, Blackie,” Bill was saying.

“We’re under a certain amount of pressure ourselves.”

“I mean we didn’t know they took photographs in that place, and there’s a fair old collection now as you can see.” Harry laid out some thirty black and white prints on the table.

They were in Harry’s room at his usual Plymouth hotel. The photographs, with their grainy texture, looked almost as dirty as the cavortings they had captured for all time. The PO looked very miserable. “You’d send these to the wife?” It was not so much a question as a shocked statement.

“No, “course we wouldn’t,” Harry’s voice was low, soothing.

Oil on troubled waters. “We’re in the mire as much as you are, Blackie. We didn’t know.”

“And there’s all that money.” Bill tried to look as miserable as his colleague. “I mean we put things on our expense accounts.

Now, we’re both in the same boat. It’s coming to something when two companies, with two different interests, turn down your expenses.

“And we always understood that place with the girls was buckshee.

They never charged us a penny before.”

“How… How much are we talking about?” The Petty Officer was chalk-white. He could real the blood draining from his cheeks.

Harry sighed. “Seven thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five pounds.”

“And sixty-two pence,” Bill added.

“But I can’t … There’s no way. The wife’ll kill me - at best leave me - and there’s no way I can get my hands on that kind of money.

“Second mortgage on the house?” Harry asked.

“First bloody mortgage isn’t paid off yet.” The gloom was almost tangible.

Harry gathered the photographs up into a neat pile. “They have offered us a way out, but I said you’d as like do it as fly using your arms.

“What is it? The way out?”

“Well, I don’t think you’d want to hear it.”

Bill, who had poured them each a stiff whisky, interrupted.

“They’re offering money on top, though. Best tell him.”

“Well,” Harry sighed again. “Okay, it gets us all off the hook, and they’ll throw in one hundred K for you, Blackie, seeing as how you’d be taking the biggest risk.”

“A hundred grand? For me? Who’ve I got to kill?”

“It’s not a matter of killing.” Harry moved closer, and began to make the Petty Officer the offer which, in the circumstances, he could not afford to refuse.

See Naples and . Naples was not James Bond’s favourite city.

Now, sitting in a bumper-to-bumper, horn-hooting, yelling traffic jam, cramming one of the narrow streets leading down to the harbour, he placed it almost at the bottom of his list. The double-lane freeway from the airport had not been too bad, but, as ever, the city streets were crowded and in a state of chaos. To make matters worse it was raining: that fine, soaking misty rain that is even more unpleasant than an out-and-out downpour.

This was a city that time had forgotten, Bond reflected, as he eased the uncertain hired Fiat behind an unsteady lorry overloaded with bottled water. Naples had never regained its status as a tourist resort. Instead it had become a transit point.

People arrived at the airport, maybe stayed a couple of nights to “do” Pompeii, and were either whisked off to Sorrento, or made this journey down to the ferries for Capri or Ischia, the two islands that form the gate to the Bay of Naples.

Constantly the two islands were regarded as passeor out-dated, yet that was where the tourists or socialites went. The only people who stayed were the Neapolitans, or NATO sailors from the various naval vessels which tied up off the coast, in the safety of the bay. For sailors it was one hell of a city with its blatant red-light district and the area running down the foothills between the Castle Sant’Elmo and the Municipal Building. This last was crowded with bars, clip-joints and gaudy fleeting pleasures. It was known, like George V Street in the old Malta days, as The Gut. The Gut saw every possible depravity. It was, Bond thought, near enough like some parts of Pompeii must have been before Vesuvius slammed its lava down over the city. The traffic moved about six feet, and again ground to a halt, while shouts from drivers and police filtered back through the closed, steamy windows of the car.

In summer the earth-red houses and terracotta roofs of Naples soaked up the sun and filled the streets with dust; in winter the same walls seemed to blot up the rain so that the buildings took on an even more crumbling look, as though they might turn to sludge and slide into the sea. Over it all, threatening Vesuvius glowered.

At the Ischia and Capri ferry points, cars and ramshackle wagons stretched back, clogging the restricted space. A large black limo tried to jump the line, and Bond watched, amused, as a police-officer leaned into the car and backhanded the uniformed chauffeur. In London the cop would have been in big trouble.

Here, the driver probably knew he would never work in Naples again if he complained.

After the frustration of the slow shuffle from the airport, the waiting cars and wagons boarded the ferry with relative speed, though with much shouting, waving of arms and protestations to God and the Blessed Virgin.

Bond left the car on the vehicle deck, and climbed through the crowd of passengers to seek out a reasonably sheltered part of the ferry. Shouldering his way to the little bar he reluctantly bought a plastic beaker of what was supposed to be coffee. The liquid tasted like sweet, coloured water but at least it moistened his throat. Once at the Villa Capricciani he would be able to pick and choose for himself.

As the ferry began to move out into the bay, Bond looked back across the black, oily water, wondering what Naples had looked like in its days of glory. Once its beauty was inspirational.

Parthenope the Siren had thrown herself into the sea for love of Ulysses and was washed up on the golden shore that became the Bay of Naples. “See Naples and die’, Bond smiled to himself. The old Italian saying had a double edge at one time: see Naples and die for its beauty; then the second edge when the seaport had become the focal point of typhoid and cholera. Now? Well, there had been slums and depravity here for decades, with an increase since the end of World War Two. He decided that the old phrase could become triple-edged now that AIDS was spreading across the world like the new Black Death. But the same was true of most ancient ports.

Perhaps it was the thought of age and decay, of lost glory and of the current world tensions, that plunged Bond into feelings of concern and anxiety as the coastline shrank in the ferry’s wake.

Undercover once more, he knew the risks for he had gambled his life in this way on many occasions before. He was aware that the day could easily come when the odds would be stacked too heavily against him. The last time he had made this trip had been on a glorious summer day, when he was looking forward to rest and healing relaxation. This time - see Naples and… what?

Die or live? Win or lose?

So it was in a somewhat sombre mood that, an hour later, he looked out over the sea on the port beam towards the brooding Aragonese Castle, shaped like a small-scale model of Gibraltar, with its umbilical road reaching towards Ischia. Within ten minutes they were docking at Porta d’Ischia, and the whole shouting, jostling and yelling match began again. The cars and lorries made their way onto the very restricted area around the berthing point, to the accompaniment of horn blasts and more shouting. Planks were laid down to assist some of the heavier vehicles and the entire operation was made even more hazardous by the slick of rain on quayside and ramp, while the throng of pedestrians seemed to delight in walking directly in front of the slow-moving vehicles.

He had carefully checked the car before getting behind the wheel, for these people of BAST did not care about the lives of innocent victims. Then, after what seemed an eternity, he finally negotiated the Fiat off the ferry, around some makeshift stalls still selling tourist junk on the off-chance of catching some gullible holiday maker who had left home and hearth to spend the festive season here on the undeniably beautiful shambles that was Ischia, the peaceful island that had known the crack and blast of history, and seen much violent death as well as happiness in its time.

He drove west, feeling at his most vulnerable. He had carefully salted the ground for whoever was supplying BAST with information, declaring to a lot of people, in and out of the wardroom at Yeovilton RNAS, that he was heading for the Bay of Naples, to spend a quiet Christmas alone.

They knew that BAST was filching information from Yeovilton; just as they knew that the oily Baradj had fingered him, putting the Cat Saphii Boudai - in charge. As with Baradj, Hamarik, and Adwan, there were no photographic descriptions available. At best the pictures were blurred, photofits provided by people who had caught fleeting glimpses of the quartet which formed the leadership of BAST. All Bond knew for sure was that the Cat was a woman, variously reported to be short and tall, fat and thin, beautiful and repellent. The only matching feature was that she had very dark hair.

He was travelling in a rented car, which was bad security to start with, and, until he reached the Villa Capricciani, he was unarmed. It was only after M had given the final instructions that Bond had also realised, from memory, that the villa itself was a security nightmare.

As he drove the narrow, dangerous roads he constantly scanned the rear-view mirror catching sight of vehicles that had been on the ferry - a Volvo here, a VW there.

But none seemed to linger, or take any interest in him.

On the road between Lacco and Forio, respectively on the north west and west of the island, he turned off down the very narrow, metalled road which led to the villa. Nothing seemed to have changed on the island, everything was how he remembered it, from the destructive, near suicidal driving, to the sudden beautiful views that came, unexpectedly, at a turn in the road.

There were also other aspects: handfuls of peeling buildings, the open front of a cluttered shop, a dowdy petrol station. In summer these last would seem romantic. In winter they came into clear, depressing focus. Now he looked for the gates set into the high, grey stone wall to the right, hoping that nothing at the villa had fundamentally altered.

The gates were open, and he swung the Fiat into the tight turning circle inside, cut the engine and got Out. In front of him was a large and beautiful lily pond, bordered on the right by another gate which, in turn, led to steps overhung with vines and greenery. He could see the white dome of the villa above, and was half way up the steps when a voice called “Signor Bond?”

He shouted back an affirmative, and, as he reached the top, a young girl appeared. She was dressed in a tank top and jeans that were not so much cut-ofs as rip-offs, making her look as though a pair of gorgeous legs had been grafted Onto a small, exquisite body. Her face could only be described as cheeky. Dark eyes danced above a snub nose and wide smiling mouth, the whole topped by a bubbly black, tight-curled foam of hair.

She had come out of the big, sliding glass doors of the villa and now stood, smiling, by the poolside. In the palms and tropical fronds to her right a short, white statue of a young satyr thumbed its mouth and produced almost a mirror-image of the girl.

“Signor Bond,” she said again, the voice jolly and bright, “welcome to Villa Capricciani. I am Beatrice.” She pronounced it with almost cassata-flavoured Italian - Beh-ah-Tre-che. “I am here to greet you. Also to look after you. I am the maid.”

Bond thought he would not like to bet on it, but strode onto the wide terrace which was covered with a green material so that in hot weather you would not barbecue the bare soles of your feet getting to the pool which was now empty and covered. The villas were never open in the winter, so he wondered how M had pulled off the renting of this one. The answer probably lay in a close, maybe secret, arrangement with the owner. M had highly-placed friends the world over, and, Bond suspected, was able to apply pressure when required by circumstances such as these.

As though reading his thoughts, Beatrice stretched Out her hand and took his in an unexpectedly firm grasp. “The Signora is away. She go to Milano for the Natale. I remain here and guard the house and all the villas entirely.”

“And I wonder if you guard them for BAST, also?”

Bond thought.

“Come, I will show you.” Beatrice gave his hand a short tug, like a child leading him into the villa, then stopped. “Ah, I forget.

Already you know. You have before been here, yes?”

He smiled and nodded, following her into the big white room with arched ceiling and matching sofas and chairs, encased in cream covers.

There were three glass-topped tables, four lamps with surrounds of white glass shaped like Opening lilies, and four paintings - one in the style of Hockney, an unknown man leaning against the chrome surround of the pool; three others of various garden views which needed no explaining to Bond.

In spite of Beatrice’s realisation of the fact that he already knew the place, she continued to lead him around, almost at breakneck speed, showing off the three large bedrooms “You will have trouble in making your mind which to use, huh? Or possibly you use them one at a time. Different each night. You are alone, huh? A pity. One different each night would be enjoyable.” This last was followed by grandsire triples of laughter.

The villa was on one level, just the main room, with doors off to the three bedrooms, and a narrow passage - neatly contrived to store two refrigerators, food, china, pots, pans and cutlery leading to the kitchen. The rear of the main room was arched and, in turn, led to the dining area: the whole beautifully furnished with a clever mix of old and new, each room taking on a style of its own. Behind the dining area you passed through a pair of french windows on to a second terrace, on the left of which, steps led up to a flat roof, converted into an open-sided room - simply a wood and rush roof, topped by a weathercock, supported by heavy wooden beams and furnished with a long refectory table, making an excellent dining area in summer.

The view looked out towards the little white and grey town of Forio, with its ancient refurbished church of Our Lady of Succour, brilliant white, built with simple architectural lines, perched on the older grey stone projecting from the headland of Soccorso.

The rain had cleared, and there was a little winter sun which seemed to hit the church, tiny in the distance, then bounce off to sprinkle and glitter on the water. Bond looked back at the town, with its hills rising above, then returned his gaze to the promontory and the church.

“Is beautiful, eh?” Beatrice stood by his side. “This is for the help of fishermen; for all who sail. Our Lady of Soccorso takes care of them.”

“We have a hymn,” Bond unexpectedly heard himself say. “It is a prayer. Oh hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea.”’ “Is good.”

She was standing close to him, and even in the chill of this winter day he could smell the sunshine on her. A sweetness that seemed to have been trapped in the strong hot weeks of summer, mingled with a scent he could not identify.

He turned and walked back, pausing by the steps to look at this incredible wonder which lay behind the villa.

At one time, the local people had thought the Signora - who, as Beatrice had said, was now in Milan - was mad. Widow of a great artist she had bought this land: barren rock. She had arranged for some of it to be blasted away, shaping it into a kind of amphitheatre. Hard against the side of the rock she had then built a large villa which looked like a grey buttressed fortress.

The four small villas which she rented out in the summer were converted from old structures, once shepherds’ huts and barns.

But her greatest achievement had been the garden which was reflected in some of the pictures back in the Villa Capricciani.

She had gathered together men who loved growing things, as she did, and, with immense toil and frustration had built this incredible, beautiful place full of cyprus, palm, mountain flowers, flowering shrubs and bushes, shaded walks, ponds and fountains, water tricks which would hurl liquid into great archways over paths, or imitate a mountain stream pouring endlessly from bare rock into a blue pool from whence it was recycled to create the illusion of constant moving water.

The ponds were peopled by small turtles and goldfish, and even in winter there was colour from hardy plants. All year round there was some form of natural colour, and the beauty of this place stayed in Bond’s memory. Once seen, the garden lived with you, as though it had been implanted in your mind through some magic of its own creation.

He looked up along the stone-encrusted ridge at the far end of the great scooped rock, and allowed his eyes to trace their way along the zigzag of paths and walks, the trees and bushes bent, growing at angles determined by the harsh winds of winter.

Indeed, this was a work of great love and dedication. The local people had long since come to understand that the Signora should be treated with awe and reverence.

“Is a great genius, the Signora,” Beatrice said, as though speaking of a saint.

“An amazing lady.” Bond smiled at her, standing to one side to allow the girl to descend first, as he looked down at the rear terrace.

Since the moment they had met by the pool he had been careful to keep Beatrice in view. Even when she had come close to him on the Open, covered roof-top, he had made sure his body had always been turned towards her with one hand braced, stiff and tense, to be used as a cutting edge should she make a wrong move. For all he knew, the effervescent Beatrice could well be the Cat, Saphii Boudai, or at least one of her messengers.

Once back in the house, she said she would light the stove.

“It will become cold tonight, and I do not wish an invalid on my hands.” She gave him a sideways glance as though to imply that she would not mind him on her hands if he were fit and willing.

Bond merely smiled and said he would go down to the car and get his luggage. “Have you the keys?” he asked. “I should lock the gates.”

“Of course. They are in the kitchen. In their usual place.” A pause of four or five heartbeats, then, “Everything is in the kitchen as you expect.” Another pause, slightly shorter. “Evething, Signor Bond.”

“Call me James,” he threw back over his shoulder. If she was on the side of the devils and not the angels, it would be best to meet her on Christian name terms. They said that knowing the name of devil or angel always put you at the advantage.

The bunch of seven or eight keys lay on the free-standing kitchen unit. They were attached to a penlight key-ring and looked as though they had just been tossed onto the work-top, even though the smallest key stuck out separately and was aligned with the edge of the unit. He picked the whole lot up by the small key, inserting it into the lock on the drawer just below the point where the bunch had been lying. It turned easily.

Inside the drawer lay one mm Browning automatic and three spare ammunition clips. The action moved slickly, well oiled, and showed there was a round in the chamber. Later he would strip the weapon down and go through it piece by piece. “There’ll be a pistol in the locked kitchen drawer,” M had said. Had Beatrice put it there? Or had she merely been inquisitive and found the secret?

Bond hefted the pistol in his hand. The weight seemed right for a fully loaded weapon. The spare magazines also appeared to be correct, but he knew weapons and ammunition could easily be doctored to feel right. If that happened, then the last thing you ever knew was that someone had been clever, spiked the firing-pin, mechanism, or even the rounds.

For the time being he simply had to trust, slipping the spare magazines into the pockets of his windcheater, putting the Browning’s safety to “on”, and pushing it into his waistband, far to the left so that it was hidden, then pulling the butt down so that the muzzle was screwed to the left. This was always advisable. Movie cops and agents so often jammed a pistol straight into the waistband, risking a shot foot or worse - “testicide” as one leathery weapons instructor had called it.

He locked the drawer again and went out of the kitchen door, which contained a glass panel. On his way down, he went through the whole catastrophe of the Villa Capricciani’s security. The main gates, and the gate at the foot of the steps, could be taken out quickly enough, either by scaling, or the use of a lock-gun.

The pair of sliding doors which led from the villa to the front terrace would be a noisy job, but could be accomplished quickly.

The kitchen door was simplicity, particularly with the one pane of glass, while the rear french windows offered easy access using a jemmy.

Ninety seconds at the most for any of them, he reckoned as he secured the bolts on the main gate, and took his heavy case from the car.

He locked the second gate behind him and went up the stairs and in through the main sliding doors. Beatrice was standing by the telephone, checking the meter which would monitor all outgoing calls.

She looked up and gave him her cheeky smile, reading off the numbers and asking him to agree them.

“Now, I show you what food is here.” Another smile as she led him towards the kitchen. “You found all you needed?” Over her shoulder with eyecontact and the same smile.

Bond nodded. She loves me? She loves me not?

She opened the refrigerator with a flourish, and began to reel off all the provisions she had bought. Chicken, veal, eggs, butter, cheese, milk, three bottles of wine, bacon, sausage, pate, pasta.

In the other small fridge set into the opposite units of cupboards and drawers there were vegetables.

“Is enough until tomorrow?”

“Only if I’ve got an army staying overnight.”

“Tomorrow is last proper shopping before Natale.” Tomorrow was Saturday and Christmas Eve.

“Yes,” Bond mused. “Christmas is a’coming and the goose is getting fat

. .

“You wish for goose?”

He shook his head. “Old English children’s rhyme. No, Beatrice, I don’t know how I’ll celebrate Christmas - Natale.”

“In England you have snow, yes?”

“Usually only on the Christmas cards. We gather the whole family together, give each other unsuitable gifts, and eat ourselves stupid.

Turkey, as a rule. I do not like turkey.” He looked at her hard and asked how she would be spending Christmas.

“At the big villa. On my own. I told you. I am in charge.

Umberto and Franco, two of the gardeners, will come in to see all is well, and maybe one of the young girls we have to help when the villas are all occupied, or the Signora is at home, will call to see me.

“Well, I’ll probably drive into Forio and buy some kind of special feast we can share. How about that?” If she were a devil, then at least he would know where she was; if an angel, it would not matter.

“This is good, Signor Bond -James. This I would like.”

“Okay.” He found the dark eyes disconcerting, for they locked onto his like radar.

“Now I must go back to the house. The big villa. La Signora, she telephones me each day. In her slim wrist came up showing her watch.

“In about fifteen minutes. I must be there always for her.

Otherwise is lot of shouting over the telephone.

Is not good.”

Bond saw she was wearing a very functional wrist-watch. Black metal, with all the bells and whistles Middle Eastern airline pilots liked on their chronometers.

Beatrice paused by the doors leading to the rear terrace. “Look, James. I make good cannelloni. How if I come down tonight and cook for you?”

The temptation went in and out of Bond’s mind in the time it takes for an expert to slit a throat. He smiled and shook his head.

“Very kind of you, Beatrice. Perhaps tomorrow. I’m tired and want to make it an early night. Need the rest. You know, light meal and bed with a good book.”

“You’re missing one of the great delights of Ischia,” she said, the cheekiness in both face and voice.

“I’ll make up for it.” But, by the time he said it, she had disappeared. All that remained was the soft patter of her shoes on the path leading back to the main villa.

He chose the bedroom at the back of the house: the one furthest away from any of the doors and windows. It was large with a big, old-fashioned wooden bed, built-in closets fitted with doors and interiors that had once belonged to a pair of beautiful old wardrobes.

There was a complicated icon facing the bed elongated figures, a fussy combination of faith and philosophy that showed the Trinity surrounded by saints and angels. It looked like a genuine product of the Stroganov school, but who would know? A doctor friend of Bond’s could have knocked a similar piece off in a matter of weeks, then aged it over twelve months and nobody but an advanced expert would have known.

He hung up the one suit and two spare pairs of slacks, carefully put the shirts, socks and other items in the drawers which formed one side of each cupboard and laid Out the short towelling robe he had brought with him. Lastly he casually threw a heavy roll-neck sweater onto the bed, placed a little leather-cased toolkit on the night table, then went into the main room to the telephone.

The number in England picked up on the third ring.

“Predator,” said Bond.

“Hellkin,” the voice was clear from the distant line. “Repeat.

Hellkin.”

“Acknowledge.” Bond put down the receiver. “We will give what cover we can,” M had said. “There will be a daily password so that everyone knows what’s what.” The instructions were that Bond should telephone on arrival. After that he would call at a similar time every twenty-four hours. The word of the day would be given, and that would last until the next contact. “Don’t want our own people getting shot up,” M had said as though he did not give a damn who got shot up.

In the kitchen, Bond prepared a light meal: a four-egg omelette with a tomato salad. He ate alone, there in the kitchen and confined his drinking to three glasses of the red wine Beatrice had provided.

The label said it was a Vino Gran Caruso and he did not doubt it for a minute. He even toyed with the idea of taking a fourth glass, but in view of his situation he left it at three.

After the meal, he went around the entire villa to make certain every lock was applied, every bolt closed, and all curtains drawn.

Then he sat in the main room, with the toolkit beside him, and stripped the automatic, examining each part before reassembling it.

Then, carefully using two pairs of pliers, he removed the bullets from four rounds of ammunition, each taken at random from the four magazines. Once he checked that they were the real thing Bond disposed of the mutilated shells, filled one magazine and slammed it into the Browning’s butt, cocking the mechanism before readjusting the other clips - one full, the other two with a couple of rounds short.

It was almost ten o’clock by the time he was ready for the next move. In the bathroom he showered, then changed into the thick roll-neck, heavy cord slacks, and a pair of soft black moccasins. He strapped on a leather shoulder-holster from the bottom of his case, then shrugged on his windcheater before sliding the Browning in place, and distributing the spare magazines around his pockets. It was not, he considered, going to be the most comfortable Christmas week he had ever spent.

Finally, Bond moved from room to room, starting in the kitchen, altering the furniture, placing it against doors and near window-entry points bel~re strewing bottles and cans from the kitchen like mines across the floor. He worked back towards his bedroom so that anyone who managed to gain entrance would have to use a torch or cause a great deal of noise. Even with a torch, a trained man would have problems in not bumping against, or falling over, one of the obstacles. He stretched strings between chairs, tying them to pots and pans. He even fitted simple booby-traps of pans, plastic buckets and cooking utensils near doors or the smaller windows.

He then arranged the pillows in the bed, so that the impression to any intruder would be that he was quietly sleeping. It was a very old dodge, but one that worked efficiently on an assassin doing a quick in-and-out job. Lastly, Bond pulled a sleeping-bag from the bottom of his case and, still moving furniture and scattering traps, he put out the lights, carefully heading towards the french windows which led from the dining-room to the rear terrace.

The sky was clear outside, and the moon not fully up as yet.

Silently he closed and locked the windows, making his way slowly and without a sound, to the covered roof-top. The night air stung his face with cold, but, once zipped snug inside the sleeping-bag, set close to the wall near the steps, James Bond closed his eyes and drifted into a light sleep.

Sleep, for Bond, was always shallow: it came with the job.

When he woke it was suddenly, his eyes snapping open, all senses alert, ears straining for sounds. Certainly there was a soft noise, a scraping coming from below, near the french windows.

He quietly unzipped himself from the sleeping-bag, rolled away and stood up, Browning out and ready with the safety off - all in a matter of thirty or forty seconds. Crouching, he peered over the parapet at the top of the open steps leading to the rear terrace.

The moon was sinking, but still gave him enough light to see the figure, kneeling and examining the lock.

Hardly breathing, he inched towards the steps. Below, the figure rose and he could see the intruder’s shape and form coming up from the kneeling position, straightening and turning carefully. There was a weapon in the crouching figure’s hand, an automatic pistol, held with both hands, as the person moved with the proficiency of an expert.

As she turned, Bond stood up, arms stretched out, grasping his own pistol, feet apart in the classic stance.

“Don’t even think about it, Beatrice,” he said loudly. “Just drop the gun and kick it away.” The figure below tuned sharply, giving a sudden little gasp.

“Do as I say! Now!” Bond commanded.

She did not drop the pistol, but threw it into the bushes so that it made no noise.

“James. Hellkin,” she whispered. “Hellkin. There’s someone in the grounds.”

Her voice, Bond thought, had lost its broad accent, and she had given him the code, obeyed his orders, but with the care of one who wishes to avoid noise that might just be heard by some third person.

He came down the steps quickly, keeping his back to the wall.

“Hellkin” was enough for him.

“What did you see or hear?” He was close to her, whispering in her ear.

“A torch. A light. Down by the second gate. Five minutes ago.

I came straight away.”

“You saw it from where?”

“The main villa. I was on watch: the balcony at the top.”

“Find your pistol.” Bond cocked his head in the direction of the bushes.

“Then follow me down and cover me.

She dropped to her knees and then flattened her body, squirming into the undergrowth while Bond kept his back to the french windows, standing stock still, waiting for her. Hellkin, he thought.

She was on the side of the angels but the intellectuals who still chose cryptos and code names in London were being clever clever. He seemed to recall that Hellkin was one of the twelve lUrk-bearing lesser demons of Dante’s Inferno. Hellkin - Alchino, the Allurer. Well, Beh-ah-Tree-che was certainly alluring.

She was back with him now, holding up a Browning similar to his.

“Cover me,” he whispered again as he moved along the wall, flattening himself at the corner, then going around it fast, pistol up ready to take out anyone skulking near the kitchen door.

Nobody. He moved on along the wall, back flat to the stucco again, glancing behind to see that Beatrice was following. He could make out the dark shape against the white wall, inching forward, hands locked around the pistol, elbows bent so that the weapon came level with her forehead.

The next turning of the wall would bring them to the front of the villa: to the terrace and winter-covered pool. Bond threw himself forward, rolled across the tarmac, arms stretched out and pistol at the ready.

He saw the movement close to the gate at the foot of the steps and shouted, “Halt! Halt, we’re armed.”

Whoever was on the other side of the gate imagined they were in with a chance, for two bullets ripped through the water lilies and palms, gouging hunks out of the green floor covering of the terrace, all a little close to Bond for comfort. He could see nothing now, but heard the quick double bark of Beatrice’s Browning and a cry, like an animal mewing with pain.

Bond spun around just in time to see Beatrice come pounding out of the shadows in pursuit of whoever had been hit on the other side of the gate. He shouted to her to stop, seeing the dangers that could lurk below the steps. They would nOt simply send one man to deal with him.

Unless he was greatly mistaken, a whole hit team would be operational and, if anything, Beatrice had probably winged the locksmith who had not even got through the single, second, gate.

He followed her, trying to keep close to the wall in the darkness, wincing in anticipation of the fatal burst.of machine-gun fire that would surely come at any moment. Somewhere from outside, a fair way off, he heard the stutter of a car ignition, then the grind of gears.

Beatrice had reached the gate without any further shots coming out of the night, turning her head and calling, low-voiced, “The keys, James. You have the keys.”

He already had them out on the penlight ring in his left hand, running his fingers through them to select the key to the inner gate.

Beatrice had stopped with her back to the wall, trying to find cover in the slim stern of a vine as Bond passed her, fumbling with the keys. It took around twenty seconds which seemed like an hour, but, when the key turned, there was Beatrice at his back, preparing to give covering-fire.

Nobody. No movement. No sudden fire slashing through the night.

Only wet spots of blood around the gate, showing dark, like oil, in the small beam from the penlight.

They spread out, Bond moving left to the car, the girl to the right, crouching and ready, heading for the main gates.

It took thirty seconds to give the Fiat a perfunctory going over.

It was locked and untouched. They both reached the gates, and saw that they had been breached with a lock-pistol, the bolt of which had smashed out the flat oblong mechanism, as it was propelled at high speed by a carbon dioxide cartridge.

Together they even ventured into the road, Bond crossing first while Beatrice covered him. For ten minutes or so they offered themselves as targets. Nothing. Had the team been frightened off so easily? To the girl he said they should try and secure the gate.

She nodded, “I have a chain and padlock. I’ll get them now.

She moved quickly back into the turning circle within the gates, and sped up the steps towards the villa.

Bond looked over the Fiat again, then leaned against the wall.

Why all this trouble for me? he asked himself. Certainly the supposedly undercover job on The invincible had responsibilities. But taking out one man, himself, would make no lasting difference: someone would take his place. He recalled M’s words about their intelligence-gathering. “They imagine you’re unique,” the Old Man had said. “They think your presence on Invincible is very bad medicine for them.” NI had made a sarcastic one-note laugh. “I suppose BAST and its leaders are your fan club, 007.

You should send them an autographed picture.

Bond shrugged in the dark. That was not the point. He was the stalking-horse, the tethered goat who might bring BAST to him. It was a pity they had obviously managed to spirit away the member of the team Beatrice had winged. But it was thorough thinking on their part.

There was plenty of time and it would be best to move one injured man or woman to safety before they tried again. Later tonight - or morning as it was now? He looked at his watch. Three-thirty on a cold and dangerous morning, and all was not well.

He heard Beatrice come down the steps, two at a time, but wonderfully light on her feet.

Together they wrapped the chain around the gates, securing the ground bolts which went into metal and concrete holes, then clicking the large, strong padlock into place. A last look around and they turned back, through the second gate, which Bond locked, and went around the villa to the rear terrace.

“I’ll make coffee.” Her tone had something about it that you did not argue with, so he unlocked the rear windows, and let her go in first. When he turned the lights on she said something about the place looking as though gypsies had been camping there. “You were being pretty thorough. Anyone coming in here would have made quite a din.”

“That was the general idea,” Bond smiled. “I didn’t know I had a bodyguard so close. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Not in my bnel,” she said, almost curtly and in perfect English.

“I owe you my life.”

“Then you owe me mine.” She turned, smiling, putting the pistol down on one of the tables. “How can you ever repay me?”

“We’ll think of some way.” Bond’s mouth was only inches from hers. He hovered, then turned away. “Coffee,” he said.

“We must stay alert, they could be back.”

“It’ll be light soon,” Beatrice said, busying herself in the kitchen. “I doubt they’ll return in the daytime.”

“How much do you know?”

“That you’re here, and that there’s a contract out on you.”

“And how much do you know about contracts?”

“I’m fully trained.”

“That’s not the answer. I asked how much do you know about contracts?”

“I know it’s some crazy terrorist organisation called BAST.

And I’ve been told that they know where to find you, that they’ll go to great lengths .

“Suicidal lengths, Beatrice. That’s why we shouldn’t restrict ourselves. They can try to get me on the street, or here, by day or night. I’m the magnet, they are the iron filings. We want one of them. Alive if possible. So, we have to keep our guards up twenty-four hours a day.”

She remained silent for the few minutes it took her to pour boiling water over the freshly ground coffee in the tall cafeteria, adjust the lid and push down on the plunger. “Are you intimidated, James?” Her eyes did not move from the coffee-pot.

“How intimidated?”

“Because you were given a woman bodyguard.”

Bond laughed, “Far from it. Why do some women automatically think that people in our trade are anti-feminist? Well-trained women are sometimes better than men in situations like this.

You nearly took one of them Out tonight. I didn’t get near. You were also quicker than I. No. Not guilty to being intimidated.”

“Good.” She raised her head, the dark eyes flashing with something which could have been either pride or power. “Good.

Because you’re in my charge. I’m the boss, and you do as I say.

Understand?”

The smile disappeared from Bond’s face. “I have no orders.

Just act naturally, they said. We’ll have someone watching out for you, they said.”

“And that someone is me.” Beatrice was pouring the coffee.

“Black? Good. Sugar?”

“No.”

“Wise choice. If you’re worried about taking orders from a woman, why don’t you telephone London. Give them the day’s code for me and they’ll tell you.” Her eyes met his again and this time they locked.

For half a dozen heartbeats it seemed to be a battle of wills.

Then Bond nodded curtly and crossed the room to the telephone. He could not speak in clear language, but there were enough double-talk phrases for him to get at the truth.

They picked up on the third ring. “Predator for Sunray.” His anger betrayed itself in his clipped tone. He took field orders from M; or, when necessary, Bill Tanner. For Beatrice to reveal that she, as his bodyguard, was in charge scraped at the nerve ends of his considerable pride.

A second later a voice - that of the Duty Officer - said, “Sunray.

Yes?”

“Contact with Boxcar.” This last was an agreed running cipher for BAST.

“Serious?” the DO asked.

“Serious enough. Also contact with Hellkin.”

“Good.”

“Request order of battle, Sunray.”

“Hellkin leads. You follow, Predator.”

“Thank you, Sunray.”

Bond’s face was stiff with anger, but turned away from Beatrice as he recradled the telephone. He shrugged, “It appears you’re right.”

He rearranged his face, “So, Beatrice Hellkin, what’re your orders?”

She nodded toward the large mug placed on the table in front of him. “First, drink your coffee.” She was sitting on one of the big chairs, her body stretched back and a pleasant, friendly smile playing around her lips. She was dressed in black jeans and roll-neck, an ensemble that was practical and accentuated her figure. The jeans were tight, clinging to her long legs, while the roll-neck showed off her breasts, small and firm against the cotton.

“So, you don’t think they’ll have another go today?”

She shook her head. “Not here. We should watch it when we go out.”

“Go out?”

“Weren’t you going to get food as a nice surprise for Christmas?”

“Oh, yes. Natale, yes. What happened to the Italian accent, Beatrice?” Almost sarcastically he pronounced it Beh-ah-Tree-che.

“Is gone.

“I noticed. So what’re your orders?”

“I think we should rest. Then go and do the shopping - behave normally. Thy might well try while we’re out and about, but I must make a telephone call to get those damned gates fixed. I also think we should bring in the dogs.”

“Dogs?”

“We’ve got two pairs of Rottweilers at our disposal. They’re as vicious as they come, and we can let them loose at night.”

“You’re well-organised as a bodyguard. How long have you worked for La Signora?”

She gave an amused little sniff “Forty-eight hours. The Chief has some big pull with her. She’s a pretty well-connected lady, but she moved out for Christmas as a favour to M. She also moved her staff out.

The couple of guys I mentioned - Franco and Umberto - are extra heavy help. They were around when we had that little brush with the BAST team, but they’re only for support if things get really tricky.”

Franco and Umberto were at the main villa, she said. “That’s why you can rest easy.

I’ll alert them now. They can watch until we’re ready to go shopping.”

She rose, in a series of very attractive moves, and walked slowly to the telephone. Her conversation was short, to the point and in Italian. The two men should take over the watch and the dogs should only be fed the minimum this morning. They would be let out tonight.

In the mmeantime, would Franco go down and secure the main gates.

New lock and, yes, “put a screamer on it.

She left the telephone and paused behind Bond’s chair. “See, I am efficient.”

“Didn’t doubt it for a minute.”

She slid forward and sat on the arm of the chair. Once again Bond smelled that mixture of dry summer and the scent he could not identify.

“I still think you don’t like having a woman in charge.”

“What’s your real name?” He disregarded her observation.

“Like I told you. Beatrice,” she pronounced it the Italian way.

“I believe you, but what else? I mean you’re not Dante’s angel, Beatrice. You have other names?”

She giggled. “They told me you were just a blunt, well-trained instrument. A hunk. Now you’re talking literature and poetry.

Full name, Beatrice Maria da Ricci. Italian father, English mother. Educated Benenden and Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford.

Father in Italian Foreign Service. When their marriage broke up, I was handed over to Mama, who was a lush.”

“You’re pretty luscious yourself.”

“That’s not funny,” she bridled. “Have you ever had to live with a lush? It just isn’t amusing.”

“I apologise His da Ricci.” There was no side-stepping her anger.

“Okay, I’m touchy about it. I read modern languages, and took the Foreign Office examination . . “And failed.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me: a man comes around and says that perhaps they can offer you a job within the Foreign Office, and before you know it, you’re mixed up with all the paraphernalia of espionage.” She nodded, “More or less, but they wanted me for languages.

I took another degree in computer sciences and found myself in Santa’s Grotto.”

Bond nodded. In the basement, below the underground parking at that building overlooking Regent’s Park, there was a great sterile computer room they all called Santa’s Grotto. With the advent of the microchip the old Registry had been relegated to a smaller area and people were constantly transferring the paperwork onto a series of giant databases. Rumour had it that all the work would not be completed from past files until the year 2009, or thereabouts, as the crow flies. “Then they remembered you had languages,” he filled in.

“Partly. I got sinus trouble from the air-conditioning.”

“Better than a touch of Legionnaires’ Disease.”

“I asked for a transfer to the real world.”

“No such thing in our business. We’re T S Eliot’s “Hollow Men’; we are also rust-stained dinosaurs. Our day has come, and gone. I give us a decade more. After that, well we could be sitting in front of computer terminals all day and most of the night. It’s known as the invasion of the killer tomatoes syndrome.”

She nodded gravely. “Yes, the days of the Great Game are numbered.”

“The years are numbered. We’re not down to days yet. But, Beatrice Maria da Ricci, which is a classy sort of name anyway, how did a nice girl like you end up in a sordid bullet-catcher’s job like this?”

She leaned over him, her face a few inches from his. “Because I am very good at it, and part of my job, James Bond, is to keep you relaxed and happy.”

“Meaning?”

Their mouths met. Not simply lips brushing, or doing all the things graphically described in romantic novels or those historical things known in the trade as “bodice rippers”. This was real mouth-to-mouth resuscitation of other emotions. After a minute their bodies and hands also moved, and five minutes later Beatrice said, with a husky dryness that matched the delightful smell of her, “Would you like to lie down with me, Mr. Bond?”

“You’re a pleasure to work for, His da Ricci.”

“I hope so.

“Do I get a raise in salary?”

“I think you already got one, Mr. Bond.”

They barely made it to the bedroom. Outside, the sun had come up.

Franco was working on the main gates, fitting a new lock and the electronic sensors that would scream an alarm should anyone tamper with them again. In the rear bedroom of the Villa Capricciani there were low moans and little screams of joy.

In a room high in the main grey, fortress-like villa, the other hood called Umberto stood back in the shadows and scanned the garden and the rocky skyline above them. If anything were going to happen, it would probably come from that direction and not the main gates. A frontal attack had proved dangerous. He wondered if his new boss, the girl who was very much in charge, and whom he had met for the first time a couple of days ago, was vulnerable to a frontal attack. He guessed she was - but not from the hired help.

Far away, in Plymouth, three men had spent the night indulging in the sins of the flesh. They had drunk a great deal, and one of them had been with a tall black girl who had done things to, and for, him that had, until now, only been fantasies.

“It’s time for the deadline,” Harry said to the Petty Officer they called Blackie.

“Time to sell your soul and save all of us,” added Bill.

“Oh, Gawd.” Blackie had been putting off the evil day, stalling for time and knowing time was a commodity he had run out of long ago.

It was Christmas Eve and he had the rail-ticket in his pocket to return to the wife and kids for two weeks’ leave.

“It’s serious.” Bill’s face was set, engraved with concern.

“It was serious when we first told you. Now we’re all in a mess .

- - “I know; I know .

“All debts settled and one hundred thousand pictures of Her Majesty just for you, Blackie.”

“Yeah. I just.

“Look, Blackie,” Bill had wrapped his large strong fingers around the Petty Officer’s wrist, making the man wince with pain. “Look, it’s not as though you were being asked to steal anything. These people need a few hours, that’s all.”

“I know he paused, his bleary eyes moving slowly around the room.

“I know, and I ain’t got no option, have I?”

“Not really.” Harry was quiet, soft-spoken and persuasive.

The Petty Officer nodded, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“That’s a solemn promise?” from Bill.

“On my mother’s grave.

“They’ll give you time, place and the equipment before you leave.

If it happens, you’ll get the money and the slate’s wiped clean.

If you chicken out… well, I wouldn’t fancy your chances.

Harry and me? Well, we can always do a runner. Tough, but we could do it -just. You have nowhere to hide, Blackie, and they’d come looking, fast as a swarm of hornets and a lot more painful.”

“I said I’d do it.” The Petty Officer was very convincing. But, then, he was not lying. As far as he was concerned, all other options had run out.

A mm Browning automatic pistol is not the easiest thing to conceal about your person. This is why the “close protection” experts advise smaller, lighter weapons which will do just the same job.

Beatrice carried her pistol in a shoulder-bag; Bond used the shoulder-holster, adjusted so that the pistol lay directly behind his left shoulder blade.

Franco and Umberto, who had both stayed well out of sight, were left to look after matters while Bond and Beatrice went off into Forio on their shopping expedition. On this Saturday the little town, with its narrow streets and limited parking facilities, strictly controlled by the local police, was crowded with people doing their last odds and ends of Christmas shopping.

They found a place to park legally and Beatrice, who had made a list of food and other good things that would allow them a pleasant, somewhat gluttonous day, led the way to the nearest market where she shuffled Bond from aisle to aisle, knowing instinctively where the various items were to be found. They filled one large wire trolley, with a mind of its own, in a matter of twenty minutes and Bond noticed, to his pleasure, that Beatrice hardly looked at the shelves at all.

She would murmur where he should go next, and reel off the list of required items, but her eyes were alertly stabbing around the crowded market, and she kept one hand inside her shoulder-bag.

Bond felt that he had found the compleat pro in His Beatrice Maria da Ricci. Everything she did adhered to best security practice, and she appeared to have eyes in the back of her head.

At one point, while facing away from him, she murmured, “No, James. Not the Belgian ones. Take the French, they’re a few lire more but one hundred percent better.” Or, again, in similar circumstances, “The bottles, not the tins. Once you open a tin you have to use the whole lot. The bottles will seal again.”

They even bought a small tree and some gaudy baubles. “A Christmas to remember.” She smiled at him, the black eyes inviting him to return immediately to the delights of the morning.

It was the one time during the expedition that she actually looked at Bond.

They loaded their purchases into the car, and Bond insisted on going on his own to make a secret transaction. She did not like it, but agreed to stand guard in front of the shop - a jeweller’s in which he bought an exquisite gold clasp, shaped like a scutum - the old oblong or oval shield used by the early Roman army with a large diamond centre, and an edging of smaller diamonds.

It cost a ransom, but they took Amex and he would pay for it with his private money. The little jeweller smiled a lot and gift-wrapped the piece with exaggerated care. It was Only when he was back on the street again that Bond realised it had been a long time since he had bought such an extravagant gift for a woman: particularly one he had known for less than twenty-four hours. Could it really happen like this? he wondered. Women had come easily to him, but his own expertise, and the exigencies of his service life, had usually held him back from any deep involvement. Had he really broken the rule of years?

He drove, with Beatrice giving instructions. They finally reached an intersection where the traffic was blocked, held at bay or waved on by a tall, unhappy-looking police-officer.

Beatrice had her pistol on her lap, hand wound round the butt, her eyes moving everywhere at once, darting constantly to the vanity mirror on the sun-visor which she had pulled down.

Slowly the traffic crept towards the white stop-marker until it was the little Fiat’s turn. Bond had his eyes on the cop, waiting for the quick hand-signal that would wave him on, when suddenly he sensed other eyes on him to the right and directly ahead. He moved and saw, with a sense of shock, a girl turn away quickly and start to walk at speed with her back to him. But he recognised her in that one fast glance, and the movement of her body, as she stepped along the pavement.

There was a beeping of motor horns, and Beatrice testily snapped, “He’s waving you on,James. For heaven’s sake, move.”

He slid the clutch out and negotiated the turn, the traffic cop making a gesture with his eyes and head which indicated that this driver ought not to be allowed on the road at all.

He drove back to the Villa Capricciani with a troubled mind, wondering what in heaven’s name First Officer Clover Pennington, of the RNAS Yeovilton was doing on Ischia: particularly what she was doing in the town of Forio, not five miles from where he was staying.

All the Other Demons For a few seconds, James Bond wondered if it was guilt gnawing at his conscience. He had certainly shown, at the least, a sexual attraction to Clover, but this had gone cold when she proved to be an uncertain security risk. There had been something not quite right about First Officer Pennington. Now her geographic proximity to him triggered anxiety. He would tell Beatrice when the moment was right, later.

The gates were open at the Villa Capricciani, and a short, stocky young man stood near the steps. He wore jeans and a T-shirt which proclaimed The Man Who Dies With The Tost Toys Wins. His hair was golden-bleached by the, now departed, summer sun, and the muscles visible on his arms were toned to an awesome strength. Take off the T-shirt, Bond thought, and his body would give an impression of sixteenth-century armour, complete with breastplate, vambraces and pauldrons. Even from this distance, you could mark him down as a trained minder.

“Franco,” Beatrice explained.

He started to unload the car while Beatrice spoke in a soft murmur to Franco, who eventually came down, closed the gates, locked them and, with a conspiratorial wink, handed a key to Bond. He also pointed to a tiny switch set in the wall, all but covered by ivy. In almost tedious dumb show, Franco activated the switch, indicating that if anyone fiddled with the gates or lock, the “screamers” would begin wailing.

Then they all went up to the villa, and Franco disappeared through the rear french windows on his way back to the big villa.

He looked like a man who would not need to use the doors, but could walk straight through the walls, pausing only to shake brick-dust from his hair.

Leaving Beatrice to deal with the food and drink, Bond went down the steps again, locked the car, made it secure, and returned, locking the inner gate behind him.

“They’re not going to like it.” Beatrice came to him, holding him gently in her arms and pressing herself against his body.

“They’re not going to get it.” Bond smiled down at her.

She sighed. “Oh, James, be your age.

“I usually am.” He was genuinely surprised to have used such an old schoolboy piece of repartee. Beatrice seemed to have wrought an unexpected change in him.

“Listen to me. Poor old Franco and Umberto will have to spend this Christmas as watchers. The Rottweilers will prowl the grounds, and I’m not going to let you, my darling James, out of my sight, unless the bloody BAST people have another go.

“Eat your hearts out, Franco and Umberto.”

“Mmmm,” she nodded. “I’m going up to the big villa now.

Give them instructions. Make an obligatory “phone call. Then I’ll be back and the celebrations can commence.” She gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, and he felt that his face had never yet been kissed like this. Beatrice had the art of kissing a cheek, as though it were his mouth, or even his deepest secret being.

Kissing, he considered, was a lost art in this crumbling, shock ridden world. Beatrice had rediscovered it, and now practised the craft in a way that had been hidden for centuries. He stood on the rear terrace, listening to her footsteps on the stone path, wondering what had happened to him. He had never been one for quick, serious decisions of the heart. Quick, serious decisions were for operational service matters, not for women. Yet this girl had certainly worked a powerful and potent magic. He felt, after one day, that he had known her for most of his life.

It was untypical, and it worried him, for, in this short space of time, Beatrice had started to command his heart. Bond’s discipline was such that this rarely happened. Even the courting of his now dead wife had taken time. Apart from that one instance he was one of life’s natural playboy bachelors as far as women were concerned: one who had so often lived by the three Fs Find, Fornicate and Forget. It was the safest way in his job, for basically he believed Field Officers should only be married if they needed the cover. It was a cold and clinical approach, but the right one. Beatrice was turning it upside down.

He thought about this dilemma for some time, then remembered there was a new code word to collect, so lie turned back into the villa and dialled London.

The number in England picked “\?” as usual, on the third ring.

“Predator,” said Bond. “Day two.

“Dragon tooth,” the voice was clear from the distant line.

“Repeat. Dragontooth.”

“Acknowledge.” Bond put down the receiver. So, some of the intelligentsia who burrowed away in the Regent’s Park office were trying to be clever. In his extreme youth, Bond had read much, and his memory was almost photographic. He called back the lines now, from Dante’s Inftrno from The Divine Comedy.

Front and centre here, Grizzly and Hellkin .

You too, Dead dog.

Curly beard, take charge of a squad often.

Take Grafier and Dragontooth along with you.

Pigfusk, Catclaw, Cramper and Crazyred.

They were some of the named demons with forked claws and rakes who tended, and goaded, the damned in their cauldron of boiling pitch. So, those at headquarters were now deeply influenced by the strange mystic concept of the Brotherhood of Anarchy and Secret Terrorism - BAST, the three-headed monster who rode on a viper.

“Dragontooth, James.” He had not even heard her come in through the french windows behind him. She had been as silent as a cat.

“Correct. Dragontooth,” he said, thinking, “Cat”. Could the Pennington girl be the Cat of BAST - Saphii Boudai?

“Dragontooth,” he said again, giving Beatrice a sad smile.

Behind the smile his brain worked at the equation. Saphii Boudai’s file showed her as a dedicated terrorist from her teens.

The British authorities had been close to her on two occasions, yet she remained, like the other members of the BAST hierarchy, a ghost; an insubstantial, if deadly, figure with no true form or shape, of which there was no real description. The Pennington girl had a history. A good family. He even knew her uncle, Sir Arthur Pennington, Master of Pennington Nab in the West Country. Her cousins had both been close to him at one time or another. The background was impeccable. Or was it? Another thought struck him.

“What’s wrong, James?” Beatrice had come to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and looking into his face with her hypnotic black eyes. The eyes seemed almost to weaken him, and their bottomless darkness drew him into her brain so that all he could see was a possible future with her: a future free from danger and responsibility - except to her.

Bond drew back, holding Beatrice at arm’s length. “I saw someone in Forio. Someone who shouldn’t be there.”

Her face underwent a change. Just a slight twitch of concern, but enough to reveal that this delightful girl had the tough inner resources required by people in their mutual trade. She drew him over to the couch and started to question him - her queries all aimed at the heart of the problem, the reason he was here, in the villa on Ischia.

It was plain that, as well as everything else, Beatrice was a skilled interrogator.

He told her everything, in its chronological sequence. First Officer Pennington at Yeovilton, her lax sense of security, and the fact that she was to be in charge of a section of Wrens on draft to the invincible - something very much out of the norm for the Royal Navy.

“And she knew of your drafting?” Beatrice asked.

“To where?” he countered, still in control of his own sense of need-to-know, the central pin of all security matters.

“Invincible, of course. James, you don’t think they would have put me in charge of this assignment without a complete briefing.

She knew you were to be in Invincible for Landsea “89 - the Pennington girl, I mean?”

He nodded. “Yes, and she didn’t seem to think it was something she had to keep quiet about. Clover had access to all the draft orders. It was like giving classified information to a gossip columnist. She had as much idea of security, and keeping her mouth shut, as a town crier.

“Mmmm.” Beatrice frowned, and Bond thought she even looked attractive when her face became re-patterned with anxiety.

“Look, James,” she laid a hand on his thigh, which seemed to ass a current of signals to alert his most basic physical needs.

“Look, I have a secure radio-link back to the big villa. This is something I should report now, before it’s too late. It won’t take long. Are you up to some menial chores, like doing vegetables for tomorrow’s dinner?”

Bond rarely bothered himself with the preparation of food. For years it had always been something others did for you. But he simply nodded, and went into the little kitchen while Beatrice left the Villa Capricciani, hurrying, her face reflecting the fact that she considered Clover Pennington’s presence on the island, and nearby, to be something of grave concern.

In the kitchen, Bond began to prepare the vegetables, smiling wryly and thinking how M would love to see him now. He would not have been surprised to learn that M had given Beatrice Maria da Ricci instructions to “Put Bond in his place.” He could hear the Old Man telling her that 007 was sometimes a shade too conscious of his class for his own good. “Get him to do some physical jobs, like swabbing the decks of that villa.” It was the kind of devilment in which M would revel.

In England that Christmas Eve, M was down at Quarterdeck, but not at ease. An extra secure telephone link had been installed so that he could get information concerning Bond and his situation within seconds of it coming in to Headquarters.

Though M was naturally a solitary person, he did have relatives: a daughter, now married to an academic who worked on incomprehensible and obscure pieces of European history at Cambridge. They had provided M with two grandchildren, a boy and girl, whom he adored and spoiled in, for him, a most uncharacteristic manner.

The tree was trimmed, Mrs. Davison had everything ready, and, during the previous week, M had gone, with her husband, on a spending-spree, most of the purchases being extravagant playthings for the grandchildren. At Christmas, M seemed to turn into the reformed Scrooge - in fact, part of the Quarterdeck Christmas ritual was a reading from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

But, this year, M did not seem to have his heart in the preparations. He sat in his study, unmoved by the Nine Lessons and Carols, broadcast live each year from King’s College, Cambridge.

This, in itself, was also unusual, for, in spite of his crusty, sharp manner, and weather-beaten features, Christmas usually brought Out a drop of sentiment in M.

His hand seemed to leap to the telephone a second before it rang, and he answered with a crisp, “M.”

Bill Tanner was at the other secure end. “Something’s come through, sir.”

M nodded, not even speaking into the instrument. There was a brief pause, then Tanner continued, “Today we’ve had two contacts. The usual change of cipher. Then another one. A Flash.”

“Serious?”

“Not sure, sir. It’s a report from Dragontooth. It looks as though the Cat, or one of her lieutenants, is there and very much on the prowl. The query is should we pull her, or wait for her to move?”

“No idea how big her team is?”

“Impossible to tell, sir. Maybe three. Possibly more. Certainly one was wounded in the not over-zealous attempt we know about.”

NI sat, silent, for a full minute. “We need hard intelligence, Chief of Staff. Hard as nails. But, if it serves the purpose, tell Dragontooth to be utterly ruthless. Our contacts with the Italians are still holding up?”

“No problem there, sir.

“Right. Ruthless if necessary. And there’s another order . .

He spoke to Tanner for ten minutes, giving him detailed instructions. Then, with a sharp, “Keep me informed,” M closed the line, wondering why, of all the agents under his command, he worried most about 007. Was he the son the old man had always wanted?

Difficult. Something not to be dwelt upon.

Behind the rise and fall of Wassail! Wassail! he heard his daughter’s car crunch on the gravel outside. Banishing all thoughts of what was probably going on far away in Ischia, M fashioned a smile of greeting and went to the door.

They trimmed the little tree with the cheap and gaudy things bought in the Forio market, prepared everything for tomorrow’s dinner and settled down for a light snack of a soup that Beatrice had put together quickly, and allowed to simmer while they were dealing with the tree. There was also bread and a choice of a dozen cheeses, washed down with a bottle of good local wine.

Afterwards, Bond stretched out in an easy chair, with Beatrice resting her back against his legs, while his arm caressed her shoulder, occasionally dropping to finger one of her breasts.

He had purposely not asked her anything about her contact with London. Now he thought the time was right. “What was their reaction?”

“Whose?”

“London’s reaction to the Pennington girl being around.”

She twisted her body so that she could look up at him. “Better you shouldn’t know. It’ll all be taken care of, James. It’s under control.”

He nodded, trying to explain that all this was new to him.

“Normally it’s me doing the protection and giving the orders.”

“Well,” her voice took on the husky tone he had come to know and appreciate from the previous night, and what had passed between them during the morning. “Well,James, there are some orders you can give me.”

“I hadn’t noticed it. You’re a pretty dominant young woman.

Even “Even in bed? I know, but I can change all that. You want to try?”

“Soon.” He sounded very relaxed. “You know, Beatrice, I think barring anything going wrong - this is going to be one of the happiest Christmases ever.”

She took his hand from her shoulder and drew it down to her mouth, kissing it, nibbling at the vortex between thumb and forefinger, then gently sucking each finger in turn. At last she asked, “Until now, “What’s the best Christmas you can remember?”

Bond grunted and stretched. “I think the last Christmas I spent with my parents.” His voice also changed, the sentences delivered haltingly, as though he found it difficult to discuss.

“I’m a mongrel as well, Bea. Scottish father and Swiss mother.

Christmas in a little chalet on Lago Lugano.” He gave a laugh, “Odd that it was the best, because I was ill - just recovering anyway.

Chicken pox, measles, that sort of thing.”

“Why was it the best?”

He gave an almost schoolboyish smile. “I got everything I asked for. They indulged me. There was an air-pistol, as I recall it.”’ “What else?”

“I had to stay in bed, but my father opened the window and put some tin cans on the ledge. Let me pot away at them for half an hour or so. In the evening they both stayed in my room and ate Christmas dinner from trays. It was different. A final taste of love. I’ll never forget it.”

“Final? Why final?”

“My parents were killed, climbing, a few weeks later.”

“Oh, James.” She seemed shocked, as though regretting she had asked.

“A long time ago Beatrice. Your turn. Your best Christmas ever?”

She twisted around and pulled him down from the chair, close to her, on the floor. “This Christmas. I never had great Christmases, James, and I’ve never had things happen to me so quickly before. It’s it’s all strange. I don’t entirely believe it.”

She took his hand and placed it intimately against her.

Bond fumbled in his pocket and brought out the gift-wrapped package. “merry Christmas, Beatrice.”

She opened it like a child, tearing the paper from it as though she could not wait to see what lay beyond. When she lifted the lid of the box she gave a little cry. “Oh. Oh. Oh, my God, James.”

“Like it?”

She looked up a him and he could see the tears staining her cheeks.

Later, in the darkness of the bedroom, and at a crucial moment, she whispered, “Merry Christmas, James darling.” Without thinking, Bond whispered, “God bless us, every one.

Franco, Umberto and the dogs must have done their work well.

Nothing came suddenly to interrupt a blissful night, and when the lovers dropped into sleep they did so with quiet untroubled dreams.

Waking at ten-thirty, Beatrice proved to be highly domesticated and moved around the kitchen with speed, preparing their meal. Even the Browning 9mm, tucked into her waistband, did not seem out of place.

They ate chicken, not the traditional turkey. But it was a huge bird, cooked in some mystic manner which she said had been a secret of her mother’s. The trimmings were in keeping, however, and after the chicken there was a real Christmas pudding, round like those you see in Victorian drawings and very rich, with an outrageously alcoholic brandy sauce. Then came mince pies and nuts.

“What about the crackers?” Bond asked with a laugh.

“Sorry, my darling. Couldn’t lay my hands on a single Christmas cracker, nor any kind of favour.”

“I think I’ll sleep for a week.” Bond stretched his arms and yawned.

“Well, that’s not what you’re going to do.” She rose. “I’m going to let you drive me to the other side of the island, and we’re going to walk off the food and let the sea air clear our heads.

Come on.” She moved quickly to the front windows, grabbing the keys and sliding them open. “Race you to the car.”

Bond picked up his Browning, cocked it and settled it in the shoulder holster, then checked that he had the car keys, and re-lowed her. She had just unlocked the inner gate as he got to the top of the stone steps leading down to it. “Stop. Wait for me!” he called, laughing.

She giggled as he ran after her, heading for the car. Then Bond stopped, eyes widening with horror. The main front gates were drawn apart and he shouted “No!” and again, “No. Beatrice!”

as he saw her tug at the car door, hardly believing what his eyes and brain told him. “Beatrice, no! No! Don’t open .

But the car door moved and opened. As it did so, she looked up at him, laughing, happy. Then the ball of flame erupted from inside the Fiat. The wind from the explosion hit him a second later, knocking him backwards, making his ears sing, scorching his eyes as the flame leaped from the shattered car.

He reached for the pistol and had it up as someone seized him from behind.

Then life changed. There were cars and people. Men in uniform, others in plain clothes. Some dashed around to the rear of the villa, and through his singing ears, Bond thought he heard barking, then shots, from the garden.

Somehow he was back in the villa, sitting with the remnants of their Christmas meal still on the table, and a familiar figure was striding through the sliding doors.

“Dragon tooth, Captain Bond,” Clover Pennington said. “I’m sorry, but it was the only way, and it almost didn’t work. Can you hear me, sir? Dragontooth.”

Bond looked up at her with loathing and spat out, “Dragontooth, and all the other Demons of the Pit to you!” He even seemed to be cringing back against the chair, as though to get away from her.

Even though he had seen the ambulance people, firemen, and the police around the twisted and blackened shell that had once been the Fiat, James Bond could not take all of it in. Vaguely, in the far corner of his mind, he realised that he must be in shock, but every time he turned to Clover Pennington he expected to see the trim and bubbly Beatrice Maria da Ricci. He could not believe she was dead, even though Clover was spelling it out to him: slowly, as one explains to a child, and loudly as his ears still rang from the explosion.

“She was either “Cat’ or one of “Cat’s’ close accomplices,” Clover told him, time and time again. It was like being beaten over the head.

Occasionally a plainclothes man came to her, muttered in her ear and received a reply. “M had the staff here checked out. One of our people spotted there had been some kind of a switch when they saw the man called Franco in the gardens.

We went on full alert then. Nobody was sure of the situation.

That is until I spotted you with her yesterday.” Another couple of men came in through the french windows and spoke to her. Clover’s eyes flicked towards Bond, then away.

When the men left she said that, unhappily, the two men Beatrice had at the house had been killed in the firelight. “My orders were to be absolutely ruthless, though we had to try and get at least one of the team alive. Unhappily we didn’t manage it, and I’m uncertain whether the Ricci girl was the “Cat’ or not .

And she paused, embarrassed. “And I don’t know if we’ll ever get confirmation. She must have taken the full blast.

There’s nothing, or very little, left. Sorry,” she added, as though apologising.

Bond sat, staring into space as though he was taking nothing in.

“She gave me the right daily codes,” he said, his voice like that of a robot.

“They had the telephone in here wired. Picked it all up at the big villa.” Clover, in her pleated grey skirt, sweater and sensible shoes, felt she was still not really getting to him. “Captain Bond?

James? Sir?” she tried. But he still sat, staring into space.

Someone switched on the radio in the kitchen. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” the late Bing Crosby sang in English, and she saw Bond’s head lift, cocked to one side.

“Put that oft’ you clown!” Clover shouted, then turned back to Bond. “They’ve found the regular start’ and the watchers our people put in. At least they’re alive: gagged and bound in the wine cellars.

We’ll know more when our fellows provide their reports and descriptions. Now, I have to get you out of here, sir. Do you understand? We really do have to debrief you as well.”

Finally, Bond nodded, slowly, as though common sense had started to prevail. In his head, whenever someone made a noise, dropped something, or talked too loudly, he heard the deafening double-crump again, and clearly saw Beatrice smiling at him, pulling open the car door, then being engulfed by the explosion.

The ringing in his ears had turned into a permanent whine. He looked up at Clover Pennington. “I want to speak, personally, to M,” he said, coldly.

“Not yet, James - er sir. Not yet. We do have to move you on.

And we have to be very careful. M’s instructions are that you remain in deep cover. That’s essential. We have to drop you out of sight again so that you can re-emerge when you join The invincible, in just over a week.”

Bond made a gesture that signified he understood. Though this was not borne out by his next question - “If she was BAST, what happened?

Did they kill her by mistake?”

“Later, sir. Please. I really think it would be dangerous for you to stay on here. We have a helicopter coming in to pick you up.

They’ll take you to a secure base on the mainland. There’s a debriefing team standing by, and they have good doctors, in case you need medical .

“I’m not in need of doctors, First Officer Pennington.”

“With respect, sir, you need them to give you the once-over.”

There was the clattering sound of a helicopter, getting louder as it swept in from the sea to circle above the villa.

“I take the pistol, sir?” from one of the thick-set men in civilian clothes.

“Not on your life.” Bond was now becoming really angry.

“I’m not a child, nor am I about to do anything stupid.” He glared around him. “What’re we waiting for, then? Let’s go.”

Outside, hovering directly over the villa, an old Agusta chopper, carrying Italian Naval markings, began to descend.

One of Clover Pennington’s men gave hand-signals and they lowered a crewman with a harness, and winched Bond into the chopper. The last thing he looked at, as the helicopter turned away, heading for the coast, was the black, charred and twisted remains of the Fiat, and local police blockades at each end of the road.

An hour later he was inside a small military base, near Caserta.

Bond’s local geographic knowledge was enough to follow the route.

From the air, the base looked anything but military, with half a dozen oblong buildings, and a triple security perimeter: a sandwich of heavy-duty razor wire between two high chain-link fences. The guards at the main gates were armed but did not seem to be uniformed.

He was given a large, airy room, functional, with minimal comfort, a small bathroom and no TV or distracting pictures on the wall.

Somehow they had managed to pack his case at the villa and it now stood neatly just inside the door. Bond stretched out on the bed, placing the Browning within reach. At least they had not disarmed him. There were a dozen or so paperbacks in a pile on the night table, a couple of thrillers, one Deighton, a Greene, two thick Forsyths and a little assorted bunch which included Joyce’s Uljsses and a copy of War & Peace. He knew from his own strung-out state that he needed something to keep his mind working, but this was a bizarre little collection, and he felt very tired, too fatigued to read, but not enough flaked out to sleep. Anyway, he had read the lot, apart from an odd little thriller masterpiece by some unknown author boasting the title Moonlight and Bruises.

He played back the memory which blazed in his head. The Fiat, the steps, the wrought iron gates, Beatrice smiling and opening the car door, then being blotted out by the ball of fire.

No, was it his memory playing tricks? It was not really like that.

She waved and smiled. What next? The violence of the explosion throwing him back? No, something else. She was smiling and pulling the car door open. Smoke. There was a lot of smoke with the fireball, wind and crack-thump of the explosion. What kind of explosive could they have used that made so much smoke? It did not happen with Semtex or RDX. This was something he would have to report. It could be that some terrorist organisations were using a new type of explosive: or was it an old mixture which, with age, produced more smoke than usual?

Anyway, it had wiped out an unusually cold-blooded terrorist princess.

How many terrorist princesses does it take to wire up a time-bomb?

Three: one to get the wire, one to get the gold Rolex and one to call the expert. There was a tap on the door and he called “Come,” with one hand slipping off the Browning’s safety and turning the pistol towards the door.

The man was tall, dressed casually in slacks and a sweater.

He had the dark leathery looks of the Middle East, but his voice was pure Oxford English.

“Captain Bond?” he queried, though Bond got the distinct impression that he was merely adhering to some kind of ritual.

He nodded.

“Name’s Farsee.” He was in his forties, carried himself in an alert military manner, adjusting everything to make it seem as though he was pure civilian to the marrow. His laugh, when it came, lacked real humour. “Julian Farsee, though my friends call me Tomato. Play on words, kind of thing, you see. Tomato Farsee. Tomates Farcies - the old French stuffed tomatoes. See?”

“What’s bloody going on?” Bond asked, his voice brittle and with undertones of violence.

“The quacks want to give you a bit of a going over. I jut dropped in to see if you were feeling okay, and ready for that kind of thing, right?”

“And who exactly are you, Julian? Where are we; what are you; and what’s going on?”

“Well, I’m the Two I/C actually. Right?” (Two I/C was military for Second-in-Command, just like Jimmie The One, in the Royal Navy, stood for First Lieutenant, who could hold the rank of Commander or even Captain, depending on the Captain’s rank, which could even be Rear-Admiral. Some people found it confusing.) “You’re Second-in-Command of what, exactly?”

“This.” Farsee waved a hand in the direction of the window.

It was like prising a grape-pip from a peach. “And what is this?”

“Nobody told you?”

“If they had, I wouldn’t be asking you,Julian.”

“Oh, ya; right. We’re slightly irregular actually.”

“How irregular?”

“Comes under NATO installations, right? Highly classified, you might say. Very highly classified. We’re not even in the book, as they say, right?”

“More!” Bond almost shouted. He could stand Yuppies up to a point, but not Yuppie military.

“CO’s American, right?”

“CO of what?”

“We sort of handle things. Hide folk away when we don’t want the world to see them - or I should say when some of the intelligence people don’t want the world to see them.”

“Such as my self?”

“Ya. Oh, ya. Right, Captain Bond. Look, you ready for the medical examinations, eh?”

Bond gave a long sigh, then nodded. “Lead me to them.”

The doctors spent over three hours going over him. There was a general examination, and a few tests. The ENT specialist said he was lucky. “Eardrums’re intact. Miracle from what I hear.” This particular specialist was very much in the military mould.

Bond only became angry when they took him to a room in the hospital block that smelled strongly of psychiatrist. You could tell, first, by the pictures on the wall: light-grey skies and calm landscapes. Then there was the abundance of plant life. You could have been in Kew Gardens, and the young, very laid-back young man leaning in his adjustable Draberl chair, had about him an air of calm, laced heavily with deep anxiety. But it was the Rorschach test that clinched it. In his day, Bond had seen experts play with psychiatrists when they brought out the ink blots. He also knew the crazy and clever answers that gave an analyst the Rorschach protocol.

“Just look at each one, and tell me what you see.” The young man laid the ink blots on the desk one at a time. A butterfly that could be a praying mantis if you were dangerous enough; a kissing couple, which might just be a nasty weapon. Each time Bond told him the blot looked like a woman’s breasts, so when they finished the psychiatrist smiled - “You’re extracting the urine, aren’t you, Captain Bond?”

“In a word - yes. Look, doc, I’ve been through worse traumas than this in my time. Yes, I feel as most men do, after the sudden, destructive loss of a woman I’d come to care about. But I do know that it was all quick. Too quick. Immediately afterwards there was sorrow, and a little self-pity. Shock, if you like. Now I just feel very angry, Angry with myself for being such a prat.

Angry with them, for setting me up. Natural, isn’t it?”

The psychiatrist smiled and nodded. “On your way, Captain Bond.

Anger’s the healthiest reaction, so let’s not waste each other’s time.”

Bond did not reveal that he had a sneaking suspicion that another few strands of wool were being pulled over his eyes. That would come out in time. Give them enough rope, or wool for that matter.

Julian was waiting for him. “CO would like a word, I think, sir.

“A word, or several sentences?”

Julian whinnied, “Oh, ya,jolly good. Right. Ya.”

The buildings were quite long, brick structures, set as though some designer had just thrown six models at random inside the perimeter fencing. They were single storey and, while there were windows down each side, Bond had noted that the interior rooms had no windows at all, the natural light flowing only into corridors. In both the living-quarters and hospital there had been notices in several languages commanding people not to talk in the corridors. The conclusion was obvious. The inner rooms were shielded against all types of sound-stealing.

As they crossed the compound, he tried to identify the obvious uses of the buildings. One for staff’ one for senior staff’ the hospital; one sprouting every kind of antenna known to man, therefore the communications centre; a possible guest suite (the one in which he was quartered) and, at the furthest point from the entrance, the executive offices.

It sounded about right, as Julian was leading him towards this last building. Julian, Bond thought, was not such a stupid idiot as he had first appeared.

The Commanding Officer had a large room tucked neatly in the centre of a nest of other rooms within the executive offices.

Julian tapped at the door and a voice, distinctly American, possibly southern, called “Okay.” The voice was as slow and smooth as molasses.

“Captain James Bond, Royal Navy, sir.“Julian brayed. Bond painted a smile on his face and found himself alone in the room with the door closed and Julian left on the outside.

There were no potted plants here; and no soothing paintings.

Two maps covered one large wall - one of the local Italian area, and another of Europe. The second was highly detailed and contained a lot of military symbols. The remaining pictures were very United States gung-ho. Blackhawk and Chinook helicopters figured largely, and the Chinooks had combat-ready troops pouring out of the doors, while mortar bombs burst nearby.

“Come on in, Captain Bond. Pleased to have you here.” As he came around the desk, the CO looked as though he had stepped straight out of a glossy ad from some very smart magazine which sold clothes in the megadollar bracket. The beige suit had the look of a genuine Battistoni, which you cannot buy on army pay, and certainly not on what you get from any of the Intelligence Services; the shirt was identifiably Jermyn Street irregular; the silk tie was probably made up specially, maybe by Gucci, in the stripes of some United States Army Regiment. The shoes needed no second-guessing: hand-stitched Gucci.

No guessing, one hundred out of a possible fifty.

The man inside the clothes was short, sleek, balding, and, as they say in the sub-titles, some tough hombre, even though he was surrounded by a hint of Hermes cologne. “Real good to see you, Captain. Sorry about your trouble earlier today. Not exactly the way to spend the holiday season, but I guess in our business we work, even a few hours, on Christmas Day. I once heard some author say he did that, but maybe he was exaggerating. Anyways, welcome to Northanger.”

“Northanger?”

Bond repeated, his tone suggesting disbelief.

“That’s what the secret guidebooks call us. Name’s Toby Lellenberg by the way.” In spite of his stature it was like shaking hands with a gorilla. “Sit down, Captain, we have a couple of things to talk about.”