Win, Lose Or Die

Bond sat. The chair had been converted from an Fl4 pilot’s seat, and he had to admit it was comfortable. “What kind of things, Mr…

. er.

“No rank. Langley don’t really like rank. Just call me Toby.

Anyway, this is one of those sideways career offers - Officer Commanding Northanger. All I do is sit on my butt, shiver in winter, sweat in summer and view the passing spies. You, Captain, are one of our VIP passing spies.”

“I really need some evidence of that, Toby. People can get burned by being identified as passing spies.

“No problem. I call you James, by the way?”

“Why not?”

Toby went behind his desk and tackled a large, solid steel filing cabinet which appeared to require three keys and two digital touch-pads to open it. For a moment of sheer hellishness, Bond had the urge to sing “I did but see a passing spy” to the tune of”There was a lady sweet and kind.” He managed to quell the urge. The whole set-up in this place was so interesting, and unlikely, that it helped to soothe any pain that might still be raging in his emotions.

“There you go. Both versions. Cipher and the en clair I punched out on my own little gizmo in that safe.”

He took the two proffered sheets and saw the double-check failsafe on the original cipher. It was, undoubtedly, straight from M. The failsafe was unfakeable. The text read FROM CSSUK TO OC NORTHANGER BASE MESSAGE CONTINUES THANK YOU FOR ASSISTANCE REFERENCE OUR PREDATOR STOP WOULD APPRECIATE A DEBRIEF COPY ME ONLY STOP THIS OFFICER MUST BE KEPT IN DOWNLOAD UNTIL JANUARY TWO STOP WILL SIGNAL HOW HE IS TO PROCEED AND JOIN HIS SHIP ON JANUARY THREE STOP. CSS FINIS.

“Happy about that, James?” The smooth little map was smiling.

“You obviously have the facilities for a debrief.”

“I don’t get the best men in the business, but we do have a representative team here, yes. One of your own guys: fella called Draycott, know him?”

“Heard of but not known.”

“Well, out to grass, like the two guys we got from Langley.

One of them’s called Mac - built like a fire-plug - and the other one’s just known as Walter. Walter knows where all the bodies’re buried and won’t tell a soul. Guess that’s why they’ve sent him here. When you get a posting to Northanger don’t expect to see any further active duty. Backwater. But you’ll get a good debrief.”

“Fine, as long as Julian’s not involved.”

“Ha!” Toby put a brown hand on the corner of his desk, raised his head and barked out a one-note laugh of derision. “Julian Tomato.

Ha!” He pronounced it “Tom-ay-toe” like any other red-blooded American, so the play on words did not really work.

“That Julian. Y’know he couldn’t pour piss outa a boot, even if the instructions was written on the heel. You fancy some chow, James?

We’re havin’ a full old-fashioned Christmas dinner tonight. Turkey “n’ all the trimmings, plum pudding, the entire works.”

“Sounds fun.” He looked at his watch. “But first I should make a call.”

“Yeah?” Was the suspicion imagined?

“Change of contact code for the day. It’s past time.”

“Of course it is. Sure, use the “phone here.” He pointed to one of five different coloured telephones on his desk. “You want me to leave?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Bond was already dialling.

This time London picked up on the fourth ring. “Predator,” said Bond. “Day three.”

“Catclaw,” the voice said from the distant line. “Repeat.

Catclaw.”

“Acknowledge.” Bond was about to put down the receiver when the distant voice asked, “Is everything smooth?”

“They tell me it is.”

“Acknowledge,” and the line went dead. So they were still being clever. But this time the code was very much tied to the situation. Dante’s lines once more went through his head Front and centre here, Grizzly and Hellkin .

You too, Dead dog.

Curlybeard, take charge of a squad often.

Take Grafter and Dragontooth along with you.

Pigfusk, Catclaw, Cramper and Crazyred.

“You want an okay from me?” Toby was adjusting his tie in a wall-mirror overprinted with the cover of Time magazine, so that you got on that coveted cover every time you looked.

“Be mighty civil of you, Toby.” Lellenberg gave him a little leer, “You being’ funny, son?”

“Good,” he grinned. “My money today’s on Catclaw.”

“And you’d be right,” Bond laughed, and they left the office together.

The party was held in a large room which was obviously used as the officers’ canteen in the senior ranks’ hut. They had it decorated with the kind of stuff you picked up for a small fortune at stores in the US with names like Ito Oor ma. It all looked lovely and unreal. Magnificent angels held unknown wind instruments to their lips as they shimmered on trees dripping snow; piles of gifts were heaped under the largest, and most magical tree which had “Victorian” trimmings hanging from it, and electric lights that looked like real candles with moving flames.

Clover Pennington was the only woman present and, when she saw Bond, she detached herself from a handful of young officers and came over to him. She wore a tight little black number that had probably come from Marks and Spencer but looked quite good among the suits.

“Forgive me, sir,” she said, kissing him, a little hard and on the lips. “It’s allowed.” She pointed above him at the dangling mistletoe.

“You’re going to do sterling service tonight, First Officer Pennington.” Bond smiled but did not unbend.

“Catclaw,” she said quietly.

“Correct. Catclaw.”

“They’ve put me next to you at dinner, sir. Hope you don’t mind.

“As long as we don’t talk shop.” She nodded, bit her lip, and, together they moved into the crowd.

During the meal, he did not do much talking. In his time, James Bond had learned around four hundred ways of killing: four hundred and three if you counted gun, knife and strangling rope. He was also aufait with the art of paper-tripping- supplying oneself with necessary documents to survive in a foreign country.

Now, he figured out what he could recall of the number of ways he could fake a death. Die, yet not die, at home or abroad. Privately or in full, plain sight. They added up to around a score, though he was in two minds whether he now knew the twenty-first way of doing it. Or was it still wishful thinking?

The dinner was excellent, and Bond watched his intake of alcohol, though others did not. Julian Farsee was well away, while one or two of the other staff became rowdy. One couple of heavy, battered men even had a row which almost led to a full-scale fight until Toby Lellenberg stepped in, his slow drawl taking on a whiplash quality.

“Just like Christmas at home,” Bond said, unsmiling, to Clover.

“You staying here long, by the way?”

“I leave on thirty-first to get the Wren draft ready.”

“Back to RNAS Yeovilton?”

She nodded, “I thought this was a no-shop evening.” Then, quite suddenly, “Can’t we make it up, sir? Sort of start again James?

Please.”

“Maybe, when it’s all over. Not yet though. Not until you know-what’s out of the way.

She nodded and looked miserable, though not as miserable as some of the faces Bond saw at breakfast the next morning. The party, they told him, had gone on quite late.

Braying Julian came over during breakfast and said it would be nice if he could be in Suite Number Three at ten-thirty. “The debrief,” he explained.

So, at ten-thirty on the dot Bond met the two American officers Mac and Walter - and the man from his own Service, Draycott, who was not quite what he expected.

The debrief was exceptionally thorough. Much more so than he had anticipated. Walter was elderly, but had the knack of slipping off into tributary questions which suddenly ended up becoming very searching. Mac, who was, as Toby had suggested, “built like a fire-plug”, had one of those faces that remained permanently impassive.

Though he did smile a great deal, the face and eyes remained blank, and rather tough: impossible to read. Mac was inclined to chip in with subsidiary questions which turned out to add a lot to Bond’s testimony.

Draycott was also deceptive, in the mould of the legendary Scardon: a man who looked very ordinary, as though he would be happier in the English countryside. He smoked a pipe, used to great effect - to add in pauses when he fiddled with it, or to break questions in two halves when he smoked.

They took Bond back to the beginning, telling him the stalking-horse theory of the operation,just so that he would know they were pretty well-briefed themselves. On the fifth day, the trio walked off with practically every second Bond had spent in Ischia accounted for: naughties and all.

When the debrief was complete all three of his interrogators seemed to vanish. At least Bond did not set eyes on them again.

On December 31st, Clover came to his quarters to announce that she was leaving. He did not keep her long, though she obviously wanted to linger. “See you on board, then,” was his final, sharp word, and he thought Clover’s eyes were moist. She was either very much for real, or had become one hell of an actor.

Two days later it was Bond’s turn. Toby showed him M’s latest signal and he repeated the contents so that Northanger’s CO was satisfied he was word perfect.

They took him in the elderly helicopter to Rome where he went to the Alitalia desk and they provided him with tickets and a baggage claim check.

The flight from Rome to Stockholm was uneventful. He had one hour’s wait for the military transport that ferried him to the West German naval base at Bremmerhaven where he stayed for one night.

On the morning of January 3rd, James Bond, in uniform, stepped aboard a Sea King helicopter which took him out to invincible and her gaggle of escorts which lay twenty miles offshore.

By the following night they were one hundred miles into the North Sea, cruising slowly.and waiting for the orders to be opened which would start Operation Landsea.

They were loading staff at Northanger into innocent-looking buses within four hours of Bond’s departure. Julian Farsee, dressed in olive drab trousers and a military sweater complete with reinforced shoulder and elbow pads, walked into the CO’s office, not even knocking. The CO was shredding documents and hardly turned to look at his Second-in-Command as he came and sat on the desk.

“Well? You think they bought it?” asked All Al Adwan, Farsee’s true name. In the hierarchy of BAST, Adwan was the “Snake” to Bassam Baradj’s “Viper”.

“Of course. All the incoming signals were dealt with. Nobody queried a thing.

Adwan scowled. “Except me. I query your judgment.”

Baradj smiled and fed more paper into the shredder. “Yes? I thought you were unhappy, though you played your part to perfection.

What really worried you, All?”

“You know what worried me. Bond should have been killed.

Here, on the spot, while we had him. What was the point of bringing him here at all, if not to kill him?”

“Already we have made two botched attempts on Bond’s life.

The first was one of those things that just went wrong - the wrong kind of missile, the fact that Bond is obviously a good pilot.” He shrugged, a wide, unhappy gesture. “Then, All, we tried again, and that was disaster. We went for Bond and killed This time his lips clamped together as though he had become upset at the thought. Then, throwing it off, he spoke again. “I made the decision, All. No more assassination attempts until we get nearer to our true targets. There will be plenty of chances then. His sudden death, after the wretched Ischia business, might even have jeopardised the entire operation. They could even have called it off.”

“Then why bring people like him here at all?”

Baradj smiled, patiently. “It was necessary. After Ischia they would have moved him here anyway. They would have wanted him close and confined. We want him confident, so that the blow will fall very unexpectedly. This has been excellent psychology.

We have had a chance to know him and be close. Don’t you think that you know the man better?”

“I know he’s dangerous, but yes. Yes, I think I know him now.

But have we really deceived everyone?”

“All who had to be deceived were deceived. Nobody from any other base, or from London showed any sign that they were concerned. The other regular staff will wake from their enforced sleep in the morning, and I don’t suppose they will question the strange loss of time they will all have suffered. They will eventually realise that in some strange way they all missed Christmas and the week after, but the hypnotics Hamarik supplied should keep the true facts at bay for a week, maybe even ten days. By then, my dear friend, we will have the superpowers, the United States of America and Russia, together with the United Kingdom, on their knees begging for mercy.

Adwan, whose leathery dark complexion seemed now more apparent, smiled and nodded: his attitude changing. “Yes, you are right. In the end of it all we will have a great deal to thank you for, Bassam.”

“What is money compared to this?”

“Ah, but you proved to be a fine actor also.”

Bassam Baradj chuckled, “You were very convincing yourself.”

A smile crossed Adwan’s face. “Oh, ya. Ya. Right,” he said.

Monarchs of the Sea James Bond felt the slight tremor under his feet, and with it the old feeling returned. There was nothing in the world like being at sea in a capital ship: the ordered routine, the feeling of men working as a quiet, well-trained team, the regularity of events, even in a crisis. To Bond, all this returned in a warm shower of nostalgia. No, it was better, because of the very special feeling of serving in this ship.

HMS invincible was a relatively recent addition to the Royal Navy’s history. In some ways she had already become a legend: certainly the first kind of ship of her type-19,500 tons of platform from which to launch practically any type of operation, including the nuclear option with the Green Parrot variable-yield weapons, capable of being carried by the Sea Harriers, to the ikt versions, which could be dropped by Sea Kings as anti-submarine bombs.

The invincible could also carry a Commando for armed assault, and, at this moment, 42 Commando, Royal Marines, was on board.

The ship’s air group consisted of ten Sea Harriers, eleven anti-submarine warfare (ASW) Sea Kings, two anti-electronic warfare (AEW) Sea Kings and one Lynx helicopter, configured for Exocet-type decoy duties. invincible was a very full ship, though officially, and technically, it was not even classed as an aircraft-carrier.

invincible was a Through Deck Cruiser (TDC).

Back in 1966, the then British government had cancelled a new building programme which would give the Royal Navy a number of conventional carriers for fixed-wing aircraft. In the following year a new programme went into action. What they required were light command cruisers with facilities for a number of helicopters. The whole political subject, mainly involving costing and pulling back on defence expenditure, was sensitive, but the success of the V/STOL Harrier aircraft changed things in a dramatic manner.

Plans were again changed, though the politicians still clung to the name TDC as opposed to aircraft-carrier. Three such ships were commissioned, and the success and lessons learned during the Falklands War had made for even further alterations. The exercise, Operation Landsea “89, was to be the first chance for invincible to show her paces following the extensive refit, which included new armament, electronics, communications and the 120 Harrier ski jump which had replaced the original 70 ramp.

The “Through Deck” principle remained, for practically all the ship’s equipment was carried below decks, apart from the complexities in the long, almost conventional island which ran along the centre of the starboard side using over half of the main deck’s 677 feet, bristling with tall antennae, radar dishes, and other domed detection devices. Most of the information required in the island was accessed from electronics buried deep below the flight-deck.

invincible and her sister ships illustrious and Ark Royal, were powered by four mighty Rolls-Royce TM3B twin-shaft gas turbines, designed on a modular principle, making maintenance and repair an easier job. invincible, illustrious and Ark Royal were quite simply the largest gas-turbine-powered ships in the world.

Once more he felt the slight tremor and rise under his feet. Bond sat down on his bunk, took out the Browning and began to clean it.

Apart from the Royal Marine detachment on board, he was the only officer who carried a personal hand-gun: though he was most conscious that two armed marines stood only a few feet forward of his cabin, stationed there, on the port side, as a guard on the series of cabins that would be used by the visiting VIP brass, and already partially inhabited by the Wren detachment.

As he sat down, so there was the tell-tale click all sea-going members of the Royal Navy recognise as the Tannoy system about to braudcast either one of the many routine orders, or bugle calls, which tell off the time in a similar manner to the religious “hours” in a monastery.

But this was not a normal message. “D’ye hear there! D’ye hear there! This is the Captain.” Throughout the ship, Bond knew that all ranks would stop everything but the most necessary duties to listen.

“As you all know,” the Captain - Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley continued, “the land, sea and air exercise called Operation Landsea “89, will commence at 23.59 hours. You will have already been briefed about this exercise by your Divisional Commanders, so you know it’s not in the normal run of similar training such as Ocean Safari. I want to remind you that, as from 23.59, we will be operating under actual rules of war and rules of engagement, apart from using the big bangs, of course.

This message is to be relayed to all other ships in what is to be known as Taskforce Kiev, and we will darken ship at exactly 23.59. You are also aware that this evening we will be receiving aboard three very senior officers and their staffs. There will be women among the staffs, and there is a detachment of Wrens aboard at this moment. I have no reason to repeat what your divisional officers will have already told you, though I will: fraternisation with the female officers and ratings aboard, apart from normal and obvious duties, is strictly forbidden. Anyone either attempting to, or actually fraternising can expect the harshest possible penalty. Apart from that there was a long pause: the Rear-Admiral had a quirky sense of humour, “good luck to you all.”

Bond smiled to himself. The entire message had been blandly understated, for this certainly was a different type of exercise, if only for the strange mixture of who were Red Side, and who were Blue.

To inject an even deeper than usual “fog of war” some units of the NATO powers remained in their real-life situations; while others were split in half - some Red and some Blue. For instance this very Taskforce consisted of ships of the Royal Navy, but were Red, other ships, particularly submarines of the Royal Navy, were Blue.

Bond had read his own sealed orders, after coming aboard, and had sat in on Walmsley’s briefing to the Executive Staff.

The Exercise briefing was in three parts. Political situation; current strategic situation at the commencement of Landsea “89; objective of all parties involved, with an accent on their own powerful Taskforce Kiev.

The fictional scenario was shrewd and complex: shortly before Christmas there had been a major military attempt to take over Chairman Gorbachev’s ruling power in the USSR. This action, spearheaded by high-ranking officers of the Russian Army, Navy and Air Force, coupled with some ambitious members of the Politburo - all disenchanted with Gorbachev’s glasnost - had gone off at half-cock, but was far from being a failure.

The bulk of the military power remained anti-Gorbachev and now threatened to take their own idealism out of Russia, and draw world attention to the changing events in the Soviet Union, by engaging the NATO powers in a series of tactical operations designed to show they could rattle sabres as loudly as anybody.

The USSR was, as Gorbachev had known from the first, heading towards a huge, possibly catastrophic, financial and economic crash.

Gorbachev’s way had been a more open system of government which would assist in his begging-bowl diplomacy.

The military, and more hawkish members of the regime still held to the idea that one could bargain only from power. Glasnost was, to them, a watered down version of a great political ideology.

The USSR had to show strength, and, they argued, the only way to get help from the class-ridden, consumer-orientated West was to show strength and ability. They wanted to threaten the West - blackmail by force to get assistance.

That night, elements of Red Side - representing Soviet forces would cross into the West, and start aggressive covert military operations against NATO bases, throughout Europe. These actions would be carefully limited and controlled. In reality, the troops would be members of the United States Tenth Special Forces Group (Airborne), and two troops of Delta Force - each troop consisting of four four-man squads. The choices had not been arbitrary, for the units bore a close resemblance to the Soviet Airborne Force, which does not come directly under the Red Army chain of command; and highly trained Spetsnaz “Forces at Designation” - who come directly under the GRU (the elitist Military Intelligence) and are also known as “diversionary troops US Air Force facilities within the NATO boundaries could provide air back-up to Red Side if things got out of hand, though no USAF bases in the UK were to be used. The Royal Air Force, and remaining British and US Forces in Europe, would act as their real selves, as would United States Naval forces. They would be Blue Side - the goodies - while the British and Parachute Regiment; the Special Air Service; 42 Commando, together with Taskforce Kiev would be Red Side - the baddies.

At 23.59 hours - which is a Naval euphemism for midnight Taskforce Kiev would be approximately fifteen miles off the Belgian coast, steaming west. The Force was made up of the flagship, invincible; six Type 42 destroyers; and four Type 21 frigates.

They would, at the start of the exercise, be aware that they had been shadowed since leaving their Russian bases - their main opponents being their own Royal Naval colleagues, the submariners. So, Taskforce Kiev would be hard-pressed to make their dash through the narrow English Channel, around the Bay of Biscay, heading for Gibraltar, where they were to land Commando and, with their considerable presence, seal off the Mediterranean. All this was a calculated risk. Red Side did not believe the Western forces would precipitate matters by escalating the crisis.

The final objective of both sides was to come to a successful cessation of hostilities, not allowing actions to escalate into anything more than a tactical show of force and guerrilla warfare.

For the first time, politicians of the NATO powers would be called upon to make true political decisions. The ideal ending would be the withdrawal of all Soviet units, and a move to the bargaining table, where Gorbachev’s future - indeed the future of the Soviet Union - would be thrashed out.

The scenario was neat and interesting, apart from one facet.

Bond, and some of the intelligence chiefs, already knew that playing games with real army, air force and naval units, in this realistic manner, made some form of terrorist intrusion a heady temptation. BAST were poised for some specific action against invincible, and that was no surprise to 007 when he thought of who would eventually be aboard the ship, for this was the tightest secret of all, the final box of a Chinese puzzle of boxes. This last secret of Landsea “89 was coded Stewards’ Meeting, and this was Bond’s true reason for being in charge of security aboard invincible.

Already, his brushes with BAST had proved they were a ruthless and determined organisation. What nobody knew was their size, true efficiency in a critical situation, and the final aims of their possible assault on invincible.

Bassam Baradj, most recently in the guise of the smooth Toby Lellenberg, station chief of Northanger, was the only person who could have told Bond, or anyone else, the real truth about BAST: its strength, and, more particularly, its true aims.

Baradj was certainly all the things the many dossiers said about him - and they all said the same thing: immense wealth, former close friend of Arafat, ex-member of the PLO; no photographs; could not be tied into any known terrorist operation in the past twenty years.

Indeed that was the sum total of the man, apart from the varied number of descriptions taken from a variety of sources.

True, he was, as they suspected, the Viper of BAST, on the Win, Lose or Die Monarchs of the Sea back of which rode the Snake, the N‘4an and the Cat. If it had been possible to ask any, or all, of these last three, each would have given slightly different answers to the questions, what is BAST? what are its true aims?

Only the short, sleek man known as Bassam Baradj was in a position to give the correct answers; though it was unlikely he would do so, for they were locked tightly in his head.

In a couple of words, the answers were Bassam Baradj and Bassam Baradj. He was BAST and he was its true aim. If you asked the further question, how did Baradj gain his truly immense wealth? it was plain to see, but only if you had the eyes to see it.

It was not strictly true that there were no available photographs of Bassam Baradj. There were many. The New York Police Department had several, as did the Los Angeles Police Department, and Seattle, Washington, New Orleans, Paris and Scotland Yard, London. Most were filed under F - for Fraud; and they carried varied names: Bennie Benjamin aka Ben Brostov, Vince Phillips and Conrad Decca: and those were only for starters in the files of the NYPD.

Over the past twenty years Baradj had gained quite a reputation, but under many different guises and modus operandi.

Bassam Baradj had been born plain Robert Besavitsky, in the old Hell’s Kitchen area of New York. His father, Roman Besavitsky, was of mongrel immigrant stock, part-Russian, part Rumanian, with a strange dash of Scottish via his great-great grandfather on his mother’s side.

Eva Besavitsky, Robert’s mother, was of a similar mixture: part Irish, part French, with a tincture of Arab - not that you would have guessed it from her maiden name, which was Evangeline Shottwood.

Robert Besavitsky was, therefore, the product of half a dozen other mongrels, and, as such, was born with two great talents: ambition and the ability to sense when it was time to move on.

As a growing boy, Robert was well and truly streetwise by the age of ten. By the time he reached fourteen he knew exactly what one needed to survive in this world - money; for money was the direct route to power. If he could make money, the power would come later. He made his first million by the age of twenty-one.

It started with the seemingly accidental find of an automatic pistol, shoved into a garbage can in a back alley off Mulberry Street in the Italian area. It was a Luger and had a full magazine, but for one bullet. Twenty-four hours after finding this weapon, Robert had carried out four quick stick-up jobs on Liquor Stores, which netted him six hundred dollars. The following day he sold the weapon for a further one hundred dollars. Then he set about spending wisely. He bought clothes: two good suits, four shirts, three ties, underwear and two pairs of shoes.

While on the buying spree, he also lifted a silver cigarette case and lighter, a pigskin briefcase and matching wallet. This left him with one hundred and fifty dollars. Fifty went into his pocket, the remaining hundred opened his first bank account. What followed would have been legend if the cops and the Feds had ever managed to interconnect him with all the fiddles, some of which were not just fiddles, but fully orchestrated capital crimes.

During the past two decades, Robert had been married twice, under different names. Both women were obscenely wealthy, and both apparently died accidentally within a year of the marriage.

The first was a widow. Robert, under the name of William Deeds, had managed to ingratiate himself with a stockbroker called Finestone.Jerry Finestone knew all the tricks of the stock market, and took a liking to young Bill Deeds, who proved to be an apt pupil.

After six months poor old Jerry walked into an elevator that was not there, but thirty floors down. Later the coroner heard there had been a wiring fault which had allowed the doors to open. It just so happened that Robert, or Bill or whatever you chose to call him, was by way of being an electrical expert, but who knew? Good old Jerry left three and a half million to his widow, Ruth, who, after an appropriate period of mourning married Bill Deeds. Sadly, she followed her first husband within the year: a nasty business which involved a Cadillac and an unmarked road which led to a sheer drop. The contractors, who swore this cul-de-cliff had been well marked, lost the case when Bill Deeds sued them for one and a quarter million.

Thus set up, Bill Deeds moved on - to Los Angeles, where he made the money work for him, and married a movie star. By this time his name had changed to Vince Phillips. The movie star was a big name and the headlines were even bigger when they found her accidentally electrocuted in her Malibu beach house.

Another one and a half million passed to Vince Phillips formerly Bill Deeds, in reality Robert Besavitsky.

Two out of two was enough of that game. Robert altered his name yearly from then on, and was involved in several dozen stock-market frauds - hence the name changes - before he turned his hand to buying and selling. He would sell anything as long as he could buy cheap and sell at a profit, and he certainly never asked questions about the things he purchased. That was how he became a good friend to Yasser Arafat, and even a member of the PLO.

It was at the time when the PLO needed a regular supply of arms and, as it turned out, Bennie Benjamin tka (truly known as) Robert Besavitsky had made a good friend of an unscrupulous Quartermaster with an Infantry regiment. This was how Bennie got hold of hundreds of assault rifles and automatic pistols, together with thousands of rounds of ammunition and four large drums of Composition C-4 disguised as drilling mud. Ninety percent of C-4 is RDX, the most powerful plastique explosive in the world, the rest was a binding material. It is known by various names these days, including its Czechoslovak clone, Semtex. All the arms and explosives ended up with the PLO during the time when that organisation was branded as a terrorist army.

It was then that Besavitsky saw there could be a possible future in terrorism. He spent time with the PLO and learned a few tips, then went back to buying and selling-world-wide, under dozens of aliases, dealing in anything from stolen paintings to rare collectors’ motor cars. For many years he stayed well ahead of the law. But he was no fool. He liked a luxurious lifestyle and knew that it was possible the time might eventually come when they could catch up with him. Just as he knew that one really major killing could set him up for life and allow him to retire in exceptional luxury, and never have to look over his shoulder again.

This was in 1985: the year he decided to make international terrorism work in his favour. It was also the year when his name changed to Bassam Baradj, and it was as Baradj that he went out into the streets and hiding-holes of Europe and the Middle East in search of converts. He had links with a number of disenchanted terrorists and, in turn, they had other links.

Baradj had always had an unhealthy interest in demonology.

Now he used it to his own purpose and founded BAST, dragging into his net the three very experienced people who would act as his staff Saphii Boudai, All Al Adwan, and Abou Hamarik.

Bait for them was twofold. First, a blow of huge dimensions against the corrupt Superpowers, plus the United Kingdom.

Second, a very large financial gain which would, of course, assist the cause of true freedom everywhere. The Brotherhood of Anarchy and Secret Terrorism had a nice ring to it, but Baradj saw it as one of those meaningless titles that would draw a certain type of person.

His three lieutenants trawled the terrorist backwaters and, by the end of 1986, they had over four hundred men and women on their books.

The Viper - Baradj - gave them the first orders. No member of BAST was to take part in any terrorist operation until he had cleared it. He okayed several small bombings,just to get BAST’s name on the map. But as far as the overall plan went, there would be one, and only one, operation he would fund. This would take time to mature, but the returns would be enormous: billions, maybe trillions, of dollars.

Bassam Baradj, cheapskate, big-time fraud merchant, buyer and seller extraordinary, spent the next years gaining information with which he could prepare the plan he was about to play out on the international stage. When it was over, BAST could fall apart for all he cared; for Baradj intended to take the proceeds, run, change his name, paper and possibly his face, with a little help from a plastic surgeon. Now he was nearly at the most sensitive point in his operation, for he alone - outside of the tiny circle of Navy and intelligence officers - knew the secret of what they called Stewards’ Meeting. Apart from the dupe Petty Officer whom his men had enlisted, Baradj had at least two agents aboard invincible. One had provided the essential clue to Stewards’ Meeting, the other had people who would obey during the plot that lay ahead. Once the clock began to run on his operation, Baradj considered the entire business would take only forty-eight hours, maybe sixty at the outside, for the Superpowers would cave in very quickly. After that, Baradj would cease to exist, and BAST would be penniless.

When he had abandoned Northanger, Baradj had gone to Rome for a couple of days. From Rome he flew into London, Gatwick as a transfer passenger to Gibraltar. There, Abou Hamarik, “The Man”, waited for him at that British home from home, The Rock Hotel. For once the men did not exchange the BAST password, “Health depends on strength” - a password taken very seriously by all BAST members except Baradj who thought it to be gobbledegook, and did not, therefore, realise that it was one of the tiny clues that had leaked to Intelligence and Security services world-wide, who also took it seriously: to the point of analyzing variations on its possible meaning.

But, this time, for no other reason than laxity, the words were not exchanged, therefore none of the listening-post computers picked it up. The advent of a pair of high-ranking members of BAST went undetected in Gibraltar. If they had exchanged this profoundly nonsensical form of greeting things might well have been different.

James Bond saw Clover Pennington for the first time since their meeting over Christmas, in the wardroom of invincible. Certain sea-going regulations had been altered to allow the Wrens and their officer to do their job with ease, and First Officer Pennington was, as the bearded Sir John Walmsley put it, “A delightful adornment to our ship’s company.” Not one officer in the wardroom missed the slightly lascivious look in the Captain’s eyes as he gallantly kissed Clover’s hand and lingered over releasing it.

Eventually, Clover escaped from the senior officers and came over to Bond, who was nursing a glass of Badoit, having forsworn alcohol until the operation had been successfully concluded. She looked fit, relaxed and very fetching in the trousers and short jacket Wren officers wore, for the sake of modesty, when on harbour or shipboard duty, and aircraft maintenance.

“You all right, sir?” Clover smiled at him, her dark eyes wide and stirring with pleasure, leaving no doubt that she was happy to see him.

“Fine, Clover. Ready for the fray?”

“I hope it’s not going to be a fray. I just want it all over and done with. I gather that I defer to you in all security matters.”

“That’s what the rules say. They also say it to the Americans and the Russians, though I really can’t see either of them deferring to anyone.

The Old Man tells me he’s going to make it plain to the whole lot.

They might well obey for the first part, but, when we come to Stewards’ Meeting, I don’t see them budging from their respective charges and telling me anything.” The cipher, Stewards’ Meeting, was, as far as invincible was concerned, known only to Sir John Walmsley, Clover Pennington,James Bond, the three visiting Admirals and their bodyguards, to whom the information was essential. Even when they got to that particular phase the present circle of knowledge would not be considerably widened. The entire ship’s company might see things, and guess others, but would never be formally told.

“We know who the minders are, Jame … sir?”

He nodded, glancing around as officers drifted in to dinner.

“Our people’re easy, just a pair of heavies from the Branch both ex-Navy and done up as Flag Officers; the Yanks’ve got their Secret Service bodyguards. Four of them. As for the Russians, almost certainly KGB, four in all, including a woman who’s described as a Naval Attache’.”

“Any names?”

“Yes. All unmemorable, apart from the Russian lady who’s called Nikola Ratnikov, a name to conjure with .

“I’ve already marked her card, sir.” Clover gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence. “Whatever she’s like, I’ll think of her as “Nikki The Rat’.”

Bond allowed her one of his neon-sign smiles: on and off. “Let’s eat,” he said. “I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a long hard night.” One of the Sea Kings hovered off the port bow. This was normal operational practice during flying operations. One helicopter was always airborne to act as a search-and-rescue machine should an aircraft end up in the drink.

From Flight Operations, high on the superstructure known to all as the island, Bond could see the helicopter’s warning lights blinking as it drifted forward keeping in station with the ship.

“Here they come.” The Commander in charge of Flight Ops snapped his night glasses up and swept the sky behind the stern.

“Our man’s leading them In.

You could see them with the naked eye - not their shapes, but the warning lights of three hells stacked from around five hundred feet, at a good thousand-yard intervals, up to about a thousand feet.

“Rulers of their own nay-vee-s,” Bond parodied the Gilbert and Sullivan song from HMS Pinafore.

A young officer chuckled, and, as the first chopper, another Sea King, came in and put down, taxiing forward at the instructions from the deck-handling officer, the Commander joined in, singing, “For they are monarchs of the sea.”

The second machine touched the deck, it was a big Mil Mi-i4

in the Soviet Naval livery of white and grey (NATO designation Haze) making a din they could hear up on the bridge above Flight Operations. Bond repeated his line, “Rulers of their own Nay-vee-s,” adding, “I think that one really ha,s, brought along all of his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts.

As the rotors slowed to idle, so the final craft did a rather fancy rolling-landing, touching down right on the stern threshold.

This looked like an update of the Bell model 212, and carried US markings, but no designation and no Navy livery. Nobody in Flight Operations had seen anything like it. “I want those choppers off my deck fast,” the Commander barked at the young officer acting as communications link with the deck-handling officer. Then he turned back to Bond, “We’ve got two Sea Harriers out there, fully juiced and carrying operational equipment: real bangs, Sidewinders, tomm cannon, the works. Don’t know what’s behind it, but the Captain gave the orders. Round the clock readiness, with a four-minute ability to switch them for unarmed Harriers. Bloody dangerous if you ask me.”

The three helicopters were discharging their passengers with speed, each machine being met by a senior officer, a bosun, and several ratings: the senior officer to salute, the bosun to pipe the admiral aboard, and the ratings to secure any luggage. Admiral of the Fleet Sir Geoffrey Gould; Admiral Edwin Gudeon, United States Navy; and Admiral Sergei Yevgennevich Pauker, Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Navy, together with their staffs and bodyguards were aboard invincible.

Half an hour later, Bond was ushered into the Captain’s day cabin.

The three admirals were standing in the centre of the cabin, each nursing a drink, and Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley greeted Bond with a smile, turning to the assorted brass from the Royal Navy, United States Navy and the Soviet Navy. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Captain Bond who is in charge of your security arrangements while you’re aboard invincible. Bond, this is Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Geoffrey Gould.” Bond stood to attention in front of the smooth-looking, impeccable officer. “Captain Bond,” Gould had a voice which matched his looks: he was one of those people who always look neat and freshly barbered.

“I’m sure we’ll all be safe in your care. I have two Flag Officers who have had experience in these matters . .

“Gentlemen, Captain Bond is to meet your personal start’ as soon as I’ve introduced him to you,” Walmsley broke in quickly.

“I must stress that while you are guests aboard my flagship, your people will take their orders directly from Captain Bond. This is essential to your well-being, and the safety of those who will, eventually, be part of Stewards’ Meeting.”

“Sure, if that’s the way you want to play it. But I’ve got four guys with me,” Admiral Gudeon’s voice was the unpleasant growl of a cantankerous man who always liked his own way, and was never wrong. “I guess they’ll be able to look after me without you doin’ much to help them.” Bond did not know if the Admiral meant to be rude, or whether it was merely a long-cultivated manner. “Bond? Bond…?” the American continued. “I knew a Bond, way back at Annapolis. You got any American relatives?”

“I think not, sir. Many friends, but no relatives - not as far as I know, anyway.” Rear-Admiral Walmsley moved a foot, kicking Bond’s ankle sharply. But Gudeon seemed oblivious to the tongue-in-cheek answer.

“And,” Walmsley quickly pushed Bond along the line, “our most senior officer here. Admiral Sergei Pauker, Commander-in -Chief of the Soviet Navy.”

“An honour, sir.” Bond looked the man straight in the eyes.

Pauker had the rosy cheeks of a Mr. Pickwick, but there the likeness ended. The eyes were grey and cold, showing no emotion.

Dead eyes, overhung by frosty eyebrows. He had a small mouth, but it did form itself into a surprisingly friendly smile. The main feature of the face, ruddy cheeks apart, was a huge aquiline nose.

“Bond,” he pronounced it “Bound”. “I think somewhere I have heard the name before. Have you, perhaps, served in your embassy in Moscow?”

He spoke excellent English.

“Not exactly in the embassy, sir.” Bond gave an almost imperceptible smile.

“But you are known there, I think. In Moscow, I mean.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, sir.”

“Good. Good.” The humour disappeared from his face and the eyes glazed over.

There was no offer of a drink, and Rear-Admiral Walmsley ushered Bond out of the room, like a farmer getting an errant sheep into a van.

“The security people are in Briefing One,” he whispered.

Briefing One was Qe primary Air-Group Briefing-Room on the port side, amidships and two decks below the officers’ quarters. It had been cleared for an hour, so that the security teams could get together, and Bond entered it quickly, going straight into his prepared routine. “My name’s Bond, James Bond. Captain, Royal Navy,” he began, then stopped abruptly. The one woman among the ten large men, was enough to stop anyone or anything.

She also spoke before anyone else. “Captain Bond. I am First Naval Attache to Admiral Pauker. My name is Nikola Ratnikov.

My friends call me Nikki. I hope you are to be my friend.

You could feel the unsettling tension spark through the room, and it was obvious that Nikola Ratnikov had been showing the cold-shoulder to the rest of her colleagues, which must have been irritating to say the least. Comrade Attache’ Ratnikov would have given a tweak to the loins of even a devout monk, and it would not matter whether the monk was Roman Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, or Russian Orthodox. She had that indefinable quality about her manner, features and body which made all heterosexual men turn to look twice, and, possibly a third time, if they had the energy left.

Nikki Ratnikov wore a well-tailored Soviet Naval Woman Officer’s uniform, which is not flattering to all. There again, Nikki could have made sackcloth and ashes look like Dior. When she moved towards him, hand extended, even Bond felt his knees tremble slightly. She had short, ash-blonde hair, cut in what used to be called a pageboy style, but, from where he stood, it looked like a tempting golden helmet, framing a face of classic beauty.

It was not the kind of face that Bond usually went for. He preferred slightly blemished good looks, but Nikki’s eyes held his for almost a minute, and it was longer before he let go of her hand.

“Hallo, Captain Bond, we’ve met before.” It was one of the Special Branch men, all done up in a Lieutenant’s uniform, complete with the gold trimmings of a Flag Officer. “Brinkley,” he added.

“Yes, of course. Yes, I remember you. Ted Brinkley, right?”

“On the button, sir.” The Special Branch man looked for all the world like a Special Branch man in fancy dress, as did his partner, Martin - “My friends call me “Moggy”’ - Camm.

He did the rounds of the other security men. Few had resorted to the bad disguises of the Branch men, and they looked like a very heavy team. The Americans introduced themselves as Joe, Stan, Edgar and Bruce. Bruce was a very tall black officer with an exceptionally bone-crushing handshake, and looked as though he could probably stop a tank with his chest. Joe and Stan seemed to be made-to-measure, off the peg, standard issue “bullet catchers”. Edgar - “Call me Ed” - was in a different mould: lean, mean, tense with obvious staying power and taut muscles, he had the battered good looks of one who had seen plenty of action in his time. Bond had him down as the brains of the outfit.

The other three Russians were simply Ivan, Yevgeny and Gennady.

Three nice boys. The kind of nice boys you saw popping in and out of KGB facilities, looking after more senior officers.

Bond had once seen a trio like this coming out of a building after six men had died - none of them through natural causes.

He tried to engage all of them in polite conversation, unveiling a plan that had been set up on an easel, showing exactly where they were to be stationed, in relation to their charges. Outside, three Petty Officers stood by with cards giving details of the several decks, and their geographic relationship to those parts of invincible tagged for the visiting VIPs and the bodyguards. Bond explained this to them, went through the emergency drills, making certain the Russian-speakers understood, then wished them a good night’s rest, and began to hand them over to the POs.

A light hand rested on his sleeve, “I think, me you take to my quarters, Captain Bond?” Nikki stood beside him, close enough for him to catch the hint of Bal de Versailles she wore.

“You, I think, get special treatment, Comrade Attache’ Nikki.”

She gave him a glittering smile and he noticed her perfect teeth and the inviting mouth. “Yes, you’re quite near my quarters as it happens. I have to hand you over to one of the lady officers we have on board, but it’s a nice little walk up to my cabin.” He turned.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, sir.” Clover Pennington stood by the door, her face looking like the wrath of God. “I have instructions to escort the Comrade Attache’ to her quarters. Show her the ropes, sir.

“Which ropes?” Nikki s voice sounded as though she was genuinely puzzled.

“An English saying. Means she’s going to show you the way around the ship. This is First Officer Pennington, Nikki. She’ll see that you’re well looked after.”

“Oh, but Captain Bond, I was thinking you could look after me.”

“Not in a million years,” muttered Clover so that Bond could hear.

“Best go with her, Nikki. Protocol, really. Perhaps we can talk later on.

Win, Lose or Die Monarchs of the Sea “I also would like that. In your cabin, maybe, yes?” Reluctantly, she allowed Clover to guide her towards the companionway. Nikki looked back and smiled invitingly.

First Officer Pennington kept her eyes to the front.

Bond had just turned in for the night when they darkened ship, right on 23.59 hours. Ten minutes later, he realised few people were going to get much sleep while the exercise was running, for the klaxon began to blare while the orders came blasting out of the Tannoy system.

“All hands to action stations. Close up, all watches.” Shortly after this, the Captain calmly announced that the whole force had been spread into their approved battle formation, a huge, rough diamond shape, as they were entering the English Channel at full speed. “Our escorts report a wolf-pack of submarines trying to get inside the screen,” Walmsley’s voice was calm, dispassionate, and Bond imagined it would be just the same if this were the real thing. “One of our escorts on the starboard side has been challenged by a submarine, and ordered to stop.

I’m putting four helicopters into the air on submarine search. If the subs fire on our force, or become more belligerent, our helicopters will go into search-and-destroy mode.” Bond stretched back on the small bunk, fully dressed. It was almost one-thirty in the morning. He could give it five more minutes before he would need to check out his charges, and make certain all was well.

Thirty seconds later, he was on his feet, springing to the cabin door, answering the pounding on it.

A flushed Royal Marine sentry stood there, almost breathless.

“Captain Bond, sir, you’re needed. It’s bad, sir. Very bad He was about to add more when Clover Pennington appeared behind the marine. “It’s one of the Americans, Jame - sir.” She looked as though she was about to throw up. “The one I believe they call Ed. The slim, very tough, good-looking one, with sandy hair.”

“Yes? That’s Ed. What’s wrong?”

“One of my girls … One of my Wrens found him. He’s dead. A lot of blood. I think … I … Well, I know … he’s been murdered, sir. Someone’s cut his throat. The heads are like an abattoir.” Bond felt his stomach churn as he reached for the webbing-belt with the big holster hanging from it. Then, buckling it on, he nodded, following the marine and First Officer Pennington into the VIP area. The belt, with the heavy pistol bouncing against his side, made him feel like a Western gun-slinger. Unreal. But it was not ever> day of the week you get an American Secret Service bodyguard murdered aboard one of Her Majesty’s ships.

Death’s Heads

Bond paused for a second before the bulkhead, with its fire-door bolted open. Below decks there was always a familiar smell, difficult to describe, dry, filtered air, a little oil, tiny mixed scents of machinery and humans. The paintwork was light-grey and a mass of piping ran high along each side of the passageway, with electrical ducts carrying wiring down to the deck itself. The ar-conditioning, plumbing and electronics hummed. This was what always assaulted the senses, when the ship was alive and at sea.

Ahead of him there were the other cabin doors, usually used by executive officers, who were now forced to double-up on messdecks and in other areas of the ship. Beyond, there was a further bulkhead where another marine stood on duty. Through there, he knew were the cabins occupied by the Wren detachment, who had ousted the junior officers.

Before stepping over the first bulkhead, Bond gave rapid orders to the flushed marine who had banged on his door - “I don’t care who it is, Admirals or special duty staff who came aboard with them, you are to check who is in each of these cabins, and also have a list ready for me. I want to know who was where over the past hour at least. And get one of the doctors as quickly as you can. You’d best get your sergeant down here to give you a hand. My authority. You know who I am?”

The young marine nodded, and Bond turned to Clover, “Right, the body’s where? In the heads used for your Wrens?”

She gave him a sickly, “Yes,” and Bond brushed past her and started to run down the passageway. Behind him he heard the young marine banging on the first cabin door with his rifle butt.

At the second bulkhead he told the marine on duty to stay alert and asked him if any of the officers, or their men, had gone past him into the prohibited area where the Wrens were.

“I’ve only been here for fifteen minutes, sir. We had to reorganise the guard duties when the Captain called all hands to close up.

“So how long was the area unguarded?”

“Not sure, sir. Fifteen minutes at the most.”

Clover led him through the passageway adjacent to the ept occupied by the Wrens. A rather startled girl in pajamas poked her head out of one of the doors. “Back inside, Deeley,” Clover snapped sharply, and the figure disappeared.

There was a trail of bloody footprints, ending abruptly in a spatter of blood, around twelve feet from the closed bulkhead door which led to the heads. For some reason a query ran through Bond’s mind. The ablutions and lavatories on Royal Navy ships were always known as the “heads” - plural - while the US Navy called them “head” singular. It was the other way around with the HUD in fighter aircraft. The Americans called it the Heads-up-Display; the Brits translated it as Head-up-Display. Any odd thoughts on British and American semantics were cleared from his mind as he opened the bulkhead door.

Clover had been right, the place was like an abattoir, awash with blood, and the body on the tiled floor rolled with the ship, giving the horrific illusion that the blood was still pumping from it.

“You touch him?”

Clover shook her head, lips closed tightly as though she was fighting the urge to vomit.

Better get out. Go back and tell one of those marines that the Doc should bring down a couple of Sick Bay ratings to help clean up the mess.”

“I’ll do that from the nearest “phone.” A tall, grey-haired figure stood behind them. “Surgeon Commander Grant. Let’s take a look at the cadaver.

Bond had met Grant for a few seconds in the wardroom on his arrival aboard. The Doc appeared to be a no-nonsense man of few words.

He was in uniform but with his trousers tucked into green surgeon’s boots. “Leave him to me, then I’ll get one of my boys down with a spare set of wellies for you, Captain Bond. Blood’s the very devil to get off.”

Bond nodded and stood at the door as Grant splashed across the gore-swilled tiled deck. He bent over to examine the body, giving a little grunt of disgust. He shook his head, plodded back and picked up the telephone intercom on the wall in the passageway, dialling the Sick Bay number. “Barnes? Right, get down to 406. Wellies and rubber aprons. One spare pair of wellies, and rustle up a couple of lads with strong stomachs, squeegees and buckets. Quick as you can.” He turned to Bond, “Whoever did it wasn’t taking any chances, Captain Bond.

They’ve nearly taken his head off. Neat slit. Ear to ear. By the look of it, someone took him from behind, grabbed his hair and reached over with something very sharp. Who is he?”

“One of the American security. Head boy, I think. Nasty.”

“It would be stupid to ask if he had any enemies, because he obviously had at least one He trailed off as his two Sick Bay attendants arrived, followed by a pair of Ordinary Seamen carrying mopping-up gear.

“Oh, hell!” One of the Sick Bay attendants looked into the heads, then backed away.

“Just give Captain Bond the boots,” the Surgeon Commander said quietly. “Keep the cleaning up people away until he’s finished. Best get a gurney while you’re at it, we’ll have to put this one in the freezer.” Bond kicked off his shoes, pulled on the boots and made his way towards the body. It was Ed, no doubt about it, and he had died atrociously. Bond was even concerned about moving the body: afraid the head would part from the neck, for the slash across the throat had been long, hard and deep.

Pulling back the sleeves of his own navy blue RN issue pullover, Bond turned the body onto its side. His hands were wet with blood, but he reached into the dead man’s pockets, removing a wallet and two other pieces of ID. He was about to let the body drop back in place when he heard a minute scraping sound coming, it seemed, from under the Secret Service man’s right shoulder. Blood up to his elbow, Bond searched with his hand which connected with metal. He pulled, bringing out a small, battery-operated dictating-machine.

At the door again, arms held away from his body, Bond told the surgeon commander that he could get the place cleared up.

One of the Sick Bay attendants thoughtfully came forward to wipe the blood from his arms. He nodded thanks and set off back towards his own quarters.

There was some uproar in the section of passageway where the Admirals and their respective staffs were quartered. A marine sergeant raised his eyebrows as Bond approached. “Captain Bond, sir then he saw the blood, and the dripping miniature dictating-machine, “You all right, sir? Blimey, that genuine claret, sir?”

“Freshly bottled, sergeant, I’m afraid. We have a murder on our hands. What’s the situation here?”

“All playing up nasty, sir. All three Admirals are on the bridge with the Captain. Admiral Gould has one of his Flag Officers with him, a Lieutenant Brinkley; Lieutenant Camm wants permission to leave his quarters .

“Nobody leaves …” It was like a whip crack command.

“That’s what I’ve told them, sir. Posted extra sentries.”

“Good.

What other problems have we got?”

“Admiral Gudeon has one of his security people with him on the bridge, the other two, Mr. Stanley Hare and Mr. Bruce Trimble, the black gentleman - they’re playing merry hell.

They say they should be with their man at the whiff of any incident.”

“But they’re in their cabin?”

“Sir,” the sergeant acknowledged.

“Okay, keep them there. Tell them I’ll see them in due course.

The Russians?”

The sergeant sighed. “Very difficult, sir. All speak English, but they’re not being helpful.”

“The lady?”

“Miss Ratnikov? She seems a bit distraught. Seems as how she walked into the Wrens’ heads just after the body was . .

“Did she now. You will inform all of them that I’ll see them, independently, in my cabin within the hour.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“Just keep them quiet, sarge, and put one of your men on my cabin. I’ll be going up to the bridge soon. Nobody goes into my quarters, and I mean nobody, not even your Captain of Marines, without my saying so.

Particularly while I’m seeing the Captain on the bridge.”

The sergeant nodded. “Good as done, sir.”

Bond washed the blood off himself, then cleaned the dictating machine, and took a quick look at the victim’s ID. His name had been Edgar Morgan, and it was clear that he was the senior officer of the Secret Service team. He shuffled through the wallet, and found a second laminated ID card, tucked deep into a zippered pocket, so he looked at the photograph of Morgan and read the magic words. Mr. Morgan was not regular Secret Service.

He was only on attachment from other duties in Naval Intelligence, where he held the rank of Commander.

He dried off the dictating-machine and saw that the one small cassette had run all the way through. He checked the batteries, then operated the rewind. The tiny tape scrolled back and he pressed the Play button, saw the red light come on, and then adjusted the volume.

The dead Ed Morgan’s voice came out clear from the tiny speaker.

“Report Four. To be translated in plain cipher and squirted at first opportunity via HMS ThvThdbk. Number 23X5. Request all detailed background on following names. First, Russian officers, possible KGB or GRU. Nikola Ratnikov, assigned as Russian Naval Attache; Yevgeny Stura, Gennady Novikov and Ivan Tiblashin. Also request further information on the following members of the British Royal Navy Bond’s eyes widened as he listened to this particular roll of honour. “If all cleared and genuine,” the voice continued, “I suggest Dancer cleared for RV as arranged. If not cleared, will definitely advise abort Stewards’ Meeting. Repeat Then came the other sounds: the cry, the thump as the small metal recorder hit the floor, the final horrible sounds of Morgan’s death, followed by the muffled tape still running, and behind it other noises. A woman’s voice, then another. They were unclear, but he also thought he could hear a noIse, as though someone were trying to move the body. There was the muffled sound of footsteps on the tiles. Then silence.

The problem that concerned James Bond was the list of Royal Navy personnel that the late Ed Morgan was trying to have cleared with Washington. It was quite obvious that there was some communications arrangement with Invincible - probably an American cipher machine had been installed. The whole thing would have been automatic: the dictating-machine’s tape would be fed onto a cipher tape which would translate it into whatever random jumble they were using, and the entire message would be squirted to Washington in a fraction of a second. That was a secondary business, though. The real worry lay in the list of people Morgan wanted checked out.

Bond picked up the “phone and dialled the bridge. A young midshipman came on, and, in a few seconds, following some urgent instructions, Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley spoke, “Be quick about it, Bond. I’m trying to get this force through the Channel without Blue Side’s submarines blowing us all to hell.

Bond took less than a minute. There was a long silence, then Walmsley said, “Get up here. You’d best break the bad news to Admiral Gudeon himself. Get up here now.

“Aye-Aye, sir.” Bond stowed away the late Ed Morgan’s ID and the dictating-machine, grabbed his cap and left the cabin at a run.

“I am not pulling out of this exercise, Bond. Not for you, not for anyone. It’s all far too important. Particularly what’s due to happen tomorrow night when we should be in the Bay of Biscay.

That’s too important, politically.” Sir John Walmsley’s bearded jaw stuck forward, giving him an awesomely stubborn look. They were in the Rear-Admiral’s night cabin.

Bond shrugged. “At least the Stewards’ Meeting team has to be informed.”

“As security liaison are you telling me to do this? Or is it merely a suggestion?”

“I think you should do it, sir.”

“I wouldn’t need to make any fuss if you nailed whoever did this.”

“And, with respect, sir, I’m not Sherlock Holmes.”

“I thought you people could be all things to all men - and women.

“Then I’ll try to be a Sherlock, sir. I suppose I’d better break the news to Admiral Gudeon, and his man .

“Mr. Israel the Rear-Admiral filled in for him.

“Yes. Joe Israel. Both of them together, I think, sir.”

Walmsley paused by the door. “Cantankerous old bugger, Gudeon.

Even tried to tell me how to run my own ship.

“Doesn’t surprise me in the least, sir.” Bond gave him a bland smile, and Walmsley did not catch on to the fact that he had been mildly insulted by this officer who was a “funny”.

Five minutes later, Admiral Gudeon and Joe Israel arrived at Bond’s cabin. Israel was tall, somewhere around six-four, Bond guessed. He had a shock of greying hair and that lazy, cultivated walk and stance so often used by bullet-catchers to disguise their constant alertness. When he came in, leading the way for Admiral Gudeon, he gave one of his special smiles. Joe Israel smiled a lot; a kind of overbite smile which lit up his eyes. He also had a spontaneous laugh: loud, open-mouthed and infectious.Joe Israel did not laugh during the first part of the interview.

“John Walmsley said you needed to see both of us, Bond.”

Gudeon sounded disgruntled, like a child called away from playing with his train set - which in some ways he had been as all hell was breaking loose on the bridge as Invincible went through fast turns and changes of course. The submarines were still positioning themselves around the Task Force, warning but not firing.

“I suggest you sit down, sir. I have some pretty serious, and bad, news for both of you.”

“Oh?” Gudeon sounded as though all news to him was bad news.

“The senior officer in your bodyguard .

“Morgan?” Gudeon dropped into a chair. Joe Israel stood directly behind him.

“Ed Morgan,” Bond nodded, “I’m afraid Ed Morgan is dead.”

He noted that Joe Israel looked shocked. Gudeon’s mouth opened.

“Oh, my God,” he said, this time sounding genuinely concerned. “How, in heaven’s name?”

“He was murdered.”

“Murdered?” They both spoke together, Israel a touch before his boss. Then Gudeon spoke alone. “How murdered? People don’t get murdered on one of Her Majesty’s capital ships.”

“This one did.”

“How?”

“He got his throat cut. In the Wrens’ heads. Very unpleasant.”

Gudeon just stared ahead. Israel made a sound like the word “But!”

“I have a couple of questions for Mr. Israel, here. Then I’d like to talk alone with you, sir.” The Admiral just nodded an okay. He suddenly looked older and shocked.

“Joe? I can call you Joe?”

“Sure, sir.

“Okay. Had you ever worked with Ed Morgan before?”

“Never. He was very new to me. Never even met him before this assignment. But he was sharp.” The way he said it, Israel sounded as though he meant Ed Morgan was too sharp.

“And he came to a sharp end, I fear.”

Israel shook his head. There was just a mite of sadness, or shock. “It’s tough.” Then he looked down at the Admiral, “Who takes charge, sir?”

Gudeon cleared his throat. “Well. Well, you’re senior aren’t you?”

“It’s why I asked, sir.”

“Okay, you take over until we clear it all with Dancer’s people.” His eyes flicked up to Bond, as though he had said something wrong.

“It’s okay, Admiral Gudeon. I am in overall charge of security.

I know who Dancer is, and I know he’s not one of Santa’s reindeer.

Now, I just want to check times with Mr. Israel.” He looked up at the big man. “You were minding the Admiral tonight.”

“With him all the time?”

“Had dinner with him, sir. Yes. Then we both changed and I accompanied him to the bridge.”

“What time was that?”

“23.40, around twenty minutes before the war started.”

“And you’ve been with him all the time, since then?”

“Up there until we were asked to get down here.”

“Is there anything we should do about getting details back to Washington? You have special procedures?”

“Yes. I’ll deal with all that.”

“Okay.” Bond pretended to be lost in thought for a couple of seconds. “Not straight away, though, if you don’t mind. I want you to wait outside with the marine guard. I need a little time with the Admiral. Then we’ll get the whole of this done officially.

Excuse me.” This last to Gudeon as Bond went to the cabin door and spoke to the marine guard, telling him that Mr. Israel would wait outside, and go nowhere else until the Admiral came out.

“Ed Morgan?” Bond phrased it as a question, back again behind his desk. Gudeon looked worried, and he did not seem to be the kind of man who got worried easily.

“What about him?”

“I need some answers, sir. I’m entitled to answers, particularly as I’m going to be handling all this security for Stewards’ Meeting.

I’m not altogether happy about dealing with personal bodyguards on an international scale. Now, Ed Morgan wasn’t a Secret Service bodyguard in the true sense of the word, was he?”

“How in hell do you know that?”

“It’s my job to know it, sir.”

“Nobody was supposed to have wind of it.”

“I’ve been in the business some time. You like to tell me about him?”

Gudeon sighed. “Guess so.” He now looked truly older and greyer.

If it were not for the uniform he could have been just right for some guy sitting in a rocker on the stoop of a house in a Norman Rockwell illustration.

“Ed was my nominee. We’d worked together before, and I figured him as the best man for the job. He was a Commander, by the way. Navy Intelligence-which included some field work.”

“Okay. Do you know how he was handling communications with Washington?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Was it directly through our communications staff on board?”

A lengthy pause. “No. I have a closed channel micro transmitter in my cabin. When Ed wanted to transmit he was to get onto me, and I’d give him the okay.”

“How does it work?”

“How does any of this stuff work? All damned magic to me.

There’s a place for a small tape in the thing. I gather simply inserted a tape with his message encoded, locked on to the FLATSCOM we used, and the message was squirted in cipher to another ship. They would pass it on to Washington. That’s the basics anyhow.”

“FLATSCOM is generic for US Navy satellite communications, right, sir?”

Gudeon gave a tiny nod, like someone had pricked him on the back of the neck.

“Did he use it when you came aboard?”

“No,” a little tight-lipped. “Look, Captain Bond, I’m trying to cooperate, but! have quite a problem on my hands. Morgan wanted to use our communications link around dawn. I said I’d be down to unlock it and put the keys in. He didn’t confide in me, but he was concerned about something, something on board.

Wanted it checked out by Washington before he would okay Dancer coming in for Stewards’ Meeting. Now I’m in the cold.

I have to make the decision. And I have to make it without knowing what Morgan wanted.

“I really shouldn’t worry too much about The telephone buzzed and Bond excused himself to take the call. It was Surgeon Commander Grant.

“The place is cleaned up, sir; and I took the liberty of having some photographs done - you know the kind of thing: body in situ, face, wound, all that stuff Seen it on the moving pictures. Can’t be accurate about time of death, but I’d say it was within an hour of my seeing the body.”

“Mmm-huu. It wasn’t long before I saw it. Just keep everything on ice. I’ll see you later.” He cradled the telephone and turned back to Gudeon. “Don’t bother yourself too much, sir. I’d okay Dancer coming in on schedule.”

“Easy as that?”

“Just as easy. I think I know what he wanted checked out. I think it was why he got chopped.”

“If you know, then it’s your duty to share it with me.”

“I said I think I know, sir, and that’s a long way from knowing.”

“And you won’t even “Sorry, Admiral Gudeon, but, no. I carry the ball on this one.

I think I know, and I’ll take steps to make certain and even secure matters before Dancer gets here. Anything strange, and I’ll have Stewards’ Meeting waved off. In the meantime, I’d suggest that you go back to the bridge and take Mr. Israel with you. Also, I’d be grateful if you don’t talk to anyone else about this. And I do mean anyone, sir.

“If you say so, Bond.” Gudeon did not look happy, but 007

wanted to leave it there. There was a lot for him to do before he could do something definite about the operation they called Stewards’ Meeting. First, he had to do his Sherlock Holmes imitation, and see everybody concerned, then it was essential for him to get his own people to check on the names Edgar Morgan had listed on the tape - even the Royal Navy people. He sat back, making quick decisions on whom he would speak to next.

It was three o’clock in the morning. Nobody was going to be happy, but he considered it best for him to stick with people he knew were awake. He called the bridge and asked to see Admiral of the Fleet Sir Geoffrey Gould and his Flag Lieutenant, Mr. Brinkley. They were with him in five minutes, and he broke the news, followed by the standard questions - had Brinkley been with the Admiral since dinner?

Had they parted company at any time? The answers were yes, and no, respectively.

Gould was shaken. “You do not get murdered on one of HMs ships,” he said, echoing Gudeon.

“It seems that we are the exception that proves the rule,” Bond said briskly.

“Could we be of any help, James?” Ted Brinkley asked.

“Possibly, but not yet. I gather all the Russians are English speakers.”

“Yes.” Brinkley had got to that information very quickly.

“First thing Moggy and I did. Try out their English. Bit funny, though.”

“How funny?”

“The leader of their pack - Stura, Yevgeny Stura. Fellow with the scar and the vodka nose.”

“What about him?”

“He tried to play silly buggers. Pretended he had no English.”

“But he has?”

“He’s been up with Admiral Pauker on the bridge all night.

Speaks English like a native. Slight American accent, but he speaks and understands. Just wouldn’t let on to us when we were with them. The Attache’ with all the honeypot trappings, aimed at you, did the translating. Rum.”

“Not really,” Bond cocked an eyebrow. “KGB games. They often try that kind of thing on. It’s almost a standard dnll.” He asked them to get back on the bridge, talk to nobody and ask the Captain if he would request, most respectfully, if Admiral Pauker and Yevgeny, he with the vodka nose, would come down to see him.

They arrived a few minutes later, and Bond went through the same routine. Oddly, Yevgeny Stura went through the charade of being a non-English speaker with the connivance of Pauker until Bond reminded them forcibly that they were on British territory and he, for one, would see to it that the most important part of Landsea “89, namely Stewards’ Meeting, would be called off if they were not honest with him.

Admiral Pauker became belligerent, shouting at Bond, telling him that he was the highest-ranking officer on board - “I am the entire head of the Soviet Navy. I will have you stripped of rank, ground to dust, for speaking like this!” he ended.

“Do as you will, Admiral, but as I am in charge of security for the whole of Stewards’ Meeting, I can also make demands, and I’m not putting up with Mr. Stura’s games. He speaks English and understands it. I know it, he knows it. We all know it. So, no more games.

The Russians disappeared, slightly cowed, and Bond sent the marine guard to get Mr. Camm.

Moggy Camm bore out his partner’s story, and answered all the questions quickly and with no hesitation. They had agreed that Ted Brinkley would take tonight’s duty with Gould. Moggy was due to relieve him at dawn. He had seen and heard nothing out of the ordinary until the activity outside his cabin, then the marine and his sergeant wakening him.

There were other obligatory questions. What time had he turned in? About eleven. Did you see anyone or anything before then? He had taken a drink with the other two Russians, and Bruce Trimble, the black American. They had a special little messdeck, with alcohol on tap one of the small CPO messdecks which had been set aside for their relaxation. They had all retired about the same time. You all come down together? Yes.

One at a time he went through the other bodyguards. Bruce Trimble backed Moggy and the two Russians. The Russians backed everybody else.

The other American Secret Service man, Stanley Hare, had turned in early, “At the same time as Ed. We talked a while; Trimble came back and we all grabbed a few Zs.” No, he had not heard Ed leave the cabin.

In spite of the noise from the Tannoy system, Stan had heard nothing until the marine banged on the door. “In our job, you learn to sleep on a clothes line.”

Everyone was exceptionally helpful, so he sent for the marine sergeant.

Sergeant Harvey was your typical Royal Marines sergeant with no time for messing around with excuses.

Bond put it to him straight, and he answered just as clearly.

“I understand there was a problem over who was doing the guard duty down here, Sam’t Harvey.”

“Considerable problem, yes, sir.”

“How considerable?”

“When the balloon went up, as expected, at 23.59, all marines went to their action stations, sir. I, as duty sergeant, should have spotted the problem at once. I didn’t, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Around 00.20 hours, I realised we had nobody down here.

We’re stretched as it is - 42 Commando not having to do anything unless there’s a real flap on - so I sent two marines down with instructions to do one hour, then report to me. I had meant to sort out a couple more, but I didn’t, sir. My fault, I take any blame. The two on duty down here were authorised to go back to their normal posts.

When I remembered, I gave the orders on the bulkhead telephone. My fault, sir. Easy as that. I’ve questioned all concerned. Between them they reckon the posts were left without guard for ten minutes.

Me, being what I am, would add another five for luck.”

“There’s no blame, sam’t. One of those things, but what you’re saying is that people would be free to come and go between the prohibited areas for at least fifteen minutes. From around what?

01.15 and 01.30 hours?”

“About that, sir.”

“Right. Thank you.

There were still three people he needed to talk with. Clover, the luscious Nikki, and one other mentioned in the disturbing list of naval personnel the late Ed Morgan had wanted checking out. He could leave getting reports back on the Russians, but his own kind would have to be looked into now.

He was dog-tired, and there was little likelihood of getting any sleep for at least another twenty-four hours, so he stretched, jammed his cap on and went up to the highly secure holy of holies, the Communications Room, set on the first deck, directly below Flight Operations and the bridge. An aggressive marine challenged him and he showed the pass which had been issued to him, together with other materials on joining Invincible. Apart from Sir John Walmsley, the communications staff would probably be the only ones who realised their special Security Officer was really a disguised “funny”. The Duty Communications Officer certainly did, you could tell by his eyes, and the quick flick of his head when Bond showed him his authority for using the Intelligence Computer which had a direct satellite link with GCHQ, Cheltenham.

They exchanged code words, and a few heads were raised as the Communications Officer took him across the busy room to the little sealed-off area, opening the door and following him in to boot up the big Cray Computer. Once done, the DCO tactfully left him alone.

The beast’s screen shimmered green, and Bond typed in the first set of digits that would wake up the lads in Cheltenham.

STATE AUTHORITY the computer asked him in large black letters.

Bond typed in MERRY-GO-ROUND.

GIVE BACK-UP flashed on to the computer.

26980/8 Bond typed.

TYPE OF INFORMATION REQUIRED? queried the silent machine.

DATA ON ROYAL NAVY PERSONNEL SERVING NOW BIRDSNEST TWO he told it.

WHAT OPS? it asked.

LANDSEA “89 AND POSSIBLY STEWARDS’ MEETING.

SPECIFICS: STATE FULL DOSSIERS OR RELEVANT SECURITY CLEARANCE BOTH INPUT NAMES - SURNAME FOLLOWED BY GIVEN NAME AND RANK IF KNOWN Bond methodically typed in the list recalled from Ed Morgan’s last words on earth.

In a matter of seconds, the machine began to throw dossiers at him on the screen. One at a time they came, and he could scroll up and down them, reading the official lives of all those Morgan had requested. He went through six dossiers and selected the “OK” on each when he had finished.

The seventh was LEADING WREN DEELEY, SARAH.

The response came up, fast and flashing NO LEAD! NC WREN DEELEY, SARAH ATTACHED TO BJRDSNEST flVO PLEASE WAIT He waited. Then NO LEADING WREN DEELEY, SARAH SHOWS ON RECORD. PLEASE REPORT YOUR SUPERIOR OFFICER IMMEDIATELY The name had rung a bell. Yes, he recalled the pyjamad figure as he hurried towards the heads with Clover. Clover had sharply told her to get back into her cabin.

So, he would now see Clover and Nikki. Then, last of all, the non-existent Leading Wren Sarah Deeley; There was no way he could report anything to his superior officer.

Bond went back to his cabin and sent a message out that he required to see First Officer Pennington WRNS, immediately.

Will you Join the Dance?

He had sent for coffee, and now sat sipping the strong, black brew. Across the desk, Clover Pennington, looking nervous, picked up her cup - white; no sugar.

“Clover, the situation is quite simple. The guards were off for about ten minutes. I know that. Then one of them, with you in tow, came banging at my door just after twenty-five past one.

So, in those ten minutes two things happened. First Ed Morgan left the cabin he was sharing with two other American bodyguards and went to the Wrens’ heads. We don’t know why. Maybe he had a date.

Maybe he wanted to be somewhere he was unlikely to be disturbed, the Wrens’ heads was the most likely place he could be alone.” The second choice, Bond knew, was the most probable truth.

“While he was there, someone came in behind him and slit his throat. Quickly, quietly, and very efficiently. It could have been one of his buddies, or one of the Russians, even Moggy Camm, one of Admiral Sir Geoffrey Gould’s Flag Lieueys. On the other hand, it could have been the Russian lady .

“Nikki the Rat?” she said it with no trace of humour.

“Nikki, yes. Or, First Officer Pennington, it could have been you, or one of your girls. We still have to discuss the question of how Morgan’s body was found. You said it was one of your Wrens. Which one?”

“Leading Wren Deeley.” Her hand shook, shaking the cup. So much so that she had to put her other hand up to steady it.

“Okay, Clover. We both know whose side you’re on, because you came storming into the villa on Ischia, having almost had me killed .

She suddenly appeared to steady herself. “I saved your life as it happens. We blew the BAST girl to hell and gone. You were there. We triggered that explosion before you could get close. It was, as they say, a button job.”

“Right, Clover. after spending time with me at Northanger you went back to Yeovilton and collected your girls. Girls you’d already worked with.”

“Yes.”

“Then how do you explain Leading Wren Deeley? The girl who found friend Morgan’s body?”

She took another sip of coffee, then said, “James, I just can’t explain her. Those last few weeks at Yeovilton were spent going through all the drills with the girls - all the stuff we would have to do for Stewards’ Meeting. I came back from Northanger and one of my Leading Wrens had gone sick. They had simply put Deeley in her place.

I had a bit of a row with the Executive Officer about it. I also had to go through the training with Deeley on her own. Thank God, she’s smart and a quick study, as they say in the theatre.” Bond looked into her eyes. They were steady and nothing stirred or moved within them.

“You baby-sat me in Ischia with a team, right?”

“You know it’s right.”

“And you’re still watching my back here, in Invincible?”

“Part of my orders, yes. It isn’t easy, James.”

He let the pause hang between them for almost a minute.

“I’ve checked you out, Clover. You appear to be absolutely clean.”

“What d’you mean? Checked me out?”

“I’ve been onto our records in London with a list of names.

You come out clean, and you’ve done all the courses for my particular service.

“Of course I have. Damn it, I’ve been in the Royal Navy for six years.

“Then why didn’t you run a check on Deeley?”

“I didn’t think it .

Bond hit the desk with the flat of his palm. “Who do you think was responsible for Ed Morgan’s death?”

She gave a long sigh, “Nikki the Rat. She arrived in the heads very conveniently, just after Deeley found the body.”

“Don’t be naive, Clover. You saw the state of those heads, they were awash with blood. We made one hell of a mess in the corridors just getting the body looked at and moved. Footprints all over the place. When we arrived - you, me and the marine there was one set of smudged footprints leading out. Deeley, you say, found the body, followed quickly by Nikki Ratnikov. Deeley actually went into the heads, yes?”

“Yes.” A very small voice.

“Nikki stood outside the bulkhead and screamed her head off, right?”

She nodded.

“Then Deeley came out. In a state? You haven’t told me any of this, yet. But I’m presuming it. Am I right?”

She took a long sip of coffee. “The screaming woke me. After all, my cabin’s almost opposite the heads.”

“Yes?”

“I came out and there was Nikki screaming - “Standing just outside the bulkhead?”

“Yes.”

“And Deeley was inside, with her feet paddling in blood?”

A quick, almost reluctant, nod. “She was in a state. Just standing there looking at the body and the blood. Frozen there.

I thought she’d have hysterics. She could have caught them quite easily from the Russian, who was making one hell of a din.”

“Then?”

“The marine guard came running. He said something about reporting to you.

“Which he did, with you on his heels. You got to me a couple of minutes after him. What happened in that couple of minutes?”

“Nikki faded away, sobbing her heart out.”

“And you told Deeley to come out?”

“Yes.” Again the little nod.

“You saw she was dripping blood all over the place from her feet?”

“I told her to wait a minute and got a towel from my cabin.

She wiped off her feet and I told her to get back to her cabin. I said I’d talk to her later.”

“And have you?”

“Yes, I’ve seen her. She seems to be in shock. There are three other girls in her cabin, they’re helping to calm her down.

Actually I got the doc to give her something. Sedative.”

“You realise that, unless the killer got out very quickly, Deeley’s your main suspect? One set of smudged, bloody footprints, which ended suddenly along the passage, when we got there. Deeley’s, we presume, with her feet wiped off with your towel. What was she wearing?”

“A robe. Towelling robe, most of the girls find those convenient.”

“Carrying anything?”

“Then there’s another problem. We haven’t recovered the murder weapon. Somewhere, someone’s got a very sharp knife.

And there’s the other matter of you not having Deeley security cleared when they gave her to you at Yeovilton.”

“She was Grade 3 cleared. On her documents. She’s been working on classified stuff at Fleet HQ, Northwood.”

“It actually says that?”

“You want to see it?”

“Later. It’s all a forgery anyway.

“What… ?”

He didn’t let her finish. “Leading Wren Sarah Deeley does not exist, Clover.”

“What d’you - - Again he stopped her, by completing the question.

“What do I mean? I mean what I say. No Leading Wren Deeley exists in your branch of the service. I’ve had it from London. She’s a plant, and I suspect that Ed Morgan knew it, or, at least suspected it. He had other suspicions as well.”

“This is crazy!”

“No, you’ve made a terrible mistake, Clover. You were in charge.

You should have personally seen to it that all security clearances matched up and were for real.”

“Oh, my God.” There was no denying the shock in her voice and on her face. “What do we do, James?”

“You mean what do I do? I’ll tell you.” He spoke for ten minutes, saying that he would feel safer if she was out of the way.

“I’ll arrange a marine guard and have you kept somewhere out of sight. It’ll make matters easier. Then I want to talk to the Captain.

After that, I’ll see Nikki Ratnikov. I want an independent identification of the Deeley girl. Then I’ll question her, and she’ll probably be taken into custody and held until it’s all over and we’re in Gib. I’m not going to bother my people as yet. More secure to do it directly from Gib. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, James.” As he rose, so she came towards him, one hand reaching out and grasping his sleeve. “James, my career’s at risk. I’ve played everything by the book, even saved your life from that wretched girl who, I’m certain, was going to see you dead before Christmas Day was out. You owe me.

And you, Clover, owe me now. I’ll do whatever I can for you.” She came closer, her young body thrusting against his.

Bond pulled away, holding her at arm’s length. “Later, Clover.

When it’s all over we’ll talk. Just wait.” He went to the cabin door, opened it and spoke to the marine on duty. While they waited, the Tannoy blasted out - the Captain saying that they had now cleared the English Channel. “There are still submarines shadowing us,” he boomed, “but they tell me they’ve been ordered not to attack. The political situation is that both sides are talking, in spite of the fact that seven NATO air bases on the European Continent were attacked, with varying degrees of damage and success, during the night. I’m going to stand down Red Watch for two hours, but you are all on an immediate response alert. I shall keep you informed of any change in the situation.”

The click that ended the message coincided with the knock on his cabin door. It was the marine sergeant Harvey. The man was tired, like everyone else on board, and it showed. Bond lost no time asking questions and then issuing orders - “Have you anywhere we can Stow First Officer Pennington while I make a couple of enquiries?”

“Yes, sir. The duty marine sergeant’s cabin. I’m still there for the next hour or so.”

“Right, take her there, and make sure she’s under guard.

There’s the possibility she could be attacked, like our American friend last night - at least until I’ve finished my job.”

“If you’ll come with me, Ma’am,” Sergeant Harvey appeared to be very considerate. To Bond he said, “I’ll see she’s guarded every minute, sir.” Clover gave Bond a weak smile, the look of someone with a lot on her mind, and departed with the sergeant. Before he could close the cabin door, a young midshipman appeared in the corridor, which, like all the other passageways below the flight deck, was only wide enough for two people to pass by brushing against each other. In the US Navy, Bond remembered, they called them “knee-touchers”.

“Captain’s compliments, sir. Could you join him in his day cabin as quickly as possible?”

“Tell him I’m on my way. I wanted to see him in any case.”

Bond turned back into his cabin, opened up the little cupboard which stowed away a small handbasin and mirror. He looked unshaven, but that could be dealt with later. For now, he sloshed cold water over his face, cleaned his teeth and ran a comb through his hair.

“You look dog-rough, Bond, if I ma)’ say so.” Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley did not look too hot himself, but you don’t tell Rear-Admirals that kind of thing - unless you’re a Vice-Admiral or above. Walmsley was obviously in a foul mood. “Well, you got anything to tell me?”

Bond wondered why a man of Walmsley’s station could so easily murder the English language. “Such as what, sir?” He bordered on that armed forces’ crime called dumb insolence.

“Such as your detective work; your gumshoeing. Such as whether we can all sleep safely in our bunks? Whether we have a band of Thugs aboard, or a crew of cut-throat pirates. Have you caught the bastard who cut the American’s throat?”

“Not yet, sir. But it shouldn’t be too long. Within the next half-hour or so, unless I’m being led up the garden path.”

“And, when you’ve caught this fellow, do you think it’s safe to continue with Stewards’ Meeting? Last night, early this morning anyhow, you were all for chucking it away.”

“I needed to talk to you about that, sir. Might I ask you what arrangements were made with the US Navy about communications?”

The Rear-Admiral nodded, and repeated, almost word for word, what Admiral Gudeon had told him.

“And the Russians?”

“Not quite as cryptic.” Walmsley was down to giving shorthand answers.

“Can you expand on that?”

“Yes. They can use our main Communications Room, but not with much freedom. The Americans had their own gear on board, as you know.

The Russians’ve been okayed to pass en clair signals through our transmitters. I suspect their signals aren’t quite as straightforward as they appear. I should tell you they’ve reported Morgan’s death.”

“What I really need to know, sir, is how long have we got before there’s any question of an abort?”

“At the moment we’re in a readiness state for Stewards’ Meeting, Bond. Things are going ahead exactly as planned. It all starts to happen at around ten tonight. If I recommend an abort after six, then I’ll get a right old rollicking from the powers that be. What’s worrying you? The threat by these BAST hooligans? There’s no way they can possibly have information on Stewards’ Meeting.”

Bond took in a deep breath. “Surely, sir, you must know they have some intelligence. I was nearly taken out; there was some loose talk at the RNAS Yeovilton. We’ve had a very serious incident aboard. I really don’t know the security risks .

Walmsley ran a hand across his brow. “I let fly at you after the incident, Bond. I’m sorry about that, but I don’t want to abort. As I said to you before, this is of great political importance. He repeated himself with a stronger accent, “Of great political importance. Now, give me your Sunday punch. If you get the fellow who killed Morgan, do you reckon we’re in the clear?”

“It might be just that little bit safer.” Bond said, allowing his tone to take on a grave-side seriousness. “But we cannot be one hundred percent sure.

“Give me the odds.”

“That an attempt will be made to compromise Stewards’ Meeting?”

Walmsley nodded.

“Fifty-fifty. If I get the killer or not, sir, it’s always been fifty-fifty. We don’t know enough about this damned group BAST. We never have. The seriousness of a threat has always been high. I mean, if our people are right, BAST lost men, and spent a great deal of money organising some form of assault.

We’ve assumed it was aimed at Stewards’ Meeting, but we can’t be sure.”

Sir John Walmsley waited for a minute or so. “If you get the person who killed Morgan, and if he can be interrogated, it will help?”

“If it’s who I think, then I would imagine interrogation isn’t going to be of much assistance. If, as I suspect, it’s a BAST job, done to protect their own, on board this ship, then the culprit will be highly trained. Won’t break under any normal interrogation. And there will just not be time to bring in any specialists.

In any case, sir, I would suspect that the killer knows very little.

BAST appears to be well drilled. If so, they’ll work in the usual manner of terrorist groups: cells, cut-outs, all that kind of thing.

It’ll all be very much need-to-know.”

Walmsley stood up and paced the small cabin. “Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance? I’ll tell you, Bond. Unless something comes up - hard intelligence, I mean - I shall go ahead with Stewards’ Meeting once you have the killer under lock and key. I can’t afford to abort.”

“As you say, sir. But, if I might suggest that all parties are given some kind of warning .

“They’ve already had the main warning, Bond. They already know these BAST clowns might just make some kind of attempt to compromise the operation. All three parties have stated that the risk is calculated. In other words, they all want Stewards’ Meeting to go ahead as arranged.”

“They know about Morgan?”

Walmsley gave an unspoken “No”. shaking his head and pursing his lips.

“Then on their own heads be it.”

“Easy to say, Bond. But people like that tend to lash out if something does happen. And if your worst fears are realised, then it will be our balls they’ll cut off. We both know that.”

Bond grunted.

“We’re on a hiding to nothing, Captain Bond. Whatever steps we take, they’ll have us for breakfast - fried, with a little tomato and bacon, I suspect.”

“Then I’d best get on with putting my one suspect away; then doing some grilling of my own - without bacon and tomato.”

“Let me know.” Walmsley’s tone became belligerent again.

“Just let me know the results. But, after five, local, this afternoon all bets are off. We go ahead.”

“Aye-Aye, sir.” Bond left the cabin. Time to see the lovely Nikki Ratnikov, and the Wren who was not a Wren, Sarah Deeley.

“James, can call you James, yes?” Nikki Ratnikov shook her head.

The shining ash-blonde hair swirled and settled naturally, with not a strand out of place. Bond could see why other women would take a natural dislike to Nikki.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, call me James.”

“I am a little - distressed distraite. Oh, that is French. How you say it in English?”

“Distressed? Upset?”

“Yes, this is so. I, James, have seen many bad things in my time.

Many, you cannot do my kind of work and avoid these things. But this was like maniac. This was like your old English Jim the Ripper, is right?”

“Jack,” Bond corrected. “Jack the Ripper.”

“Unnecessary violence. That poor man. He looked as though head had been removed, decapitalised? Yes?”

“Decapitated.”

“So. Decapitated. And the blood. It was all so sudden.

Frightening.”

“Right, Nikki. Tell me. Tell me exactly what happened.”

In spite of the protestations of being upset and distressed, Nikki Ratnikov was very lucid: matter-of-fact. “So. Yes. I wake up. I do not look at the time. I just wake up. Not much sleep I am getting with the noise. But I wake up and realise I need to go to I need the bathroom, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I put on my robe and leave my cabin. I am a little asleep still, James, you understand?”

“Yes, Nikki. Right, Nikki, I understand.”

I get to the bathrooms. I am looking at my feet to climb over the little step.”

“To climb over the bulkhead, yes.”

“My foot is lifted even, then I look up and there is red water on the floor. Then I see the Navy girl and the body. My God, it is shock. I move back and scream.”

“You screamed a lot, Nikki.”

“It was so sudden, the horrible wound and all the blood on the floor. Then the Navy girl start to also scream.”

Bond had collected the clues as they were presented to him.

“Tell me exactly what you saw, Nikki.” The body had been face down when he had arrived with the marine and Clover Pennington.

“Exactly.”

“The Navy girl - what do you call them the Jenny Wren, yes?”

“Wren will do.”

“Okay. The Wren was leaning over this poor man. She had one hand on his shoulder pushing him back, as if she had just found him. His head was back and I could see the terrible gash.

Red, and the throat slashed - is that so, slashed?”

Bond nodded her on.

“It was horrible. She saw me and let go of the man’s shoulder.

He fell on his face, then I think she began screaming.”

“What was she wearing, the Wren?”

“She had the sleeping clothes on, and a white robe. Like made from towels, yes?”

“Did she not get blood on the robe? If she was leaning…?”

“She was like, how you say, squatting. She had the robe pulled up so it would not get in the blood.”

“And what happened next?”

“We were both screaming, and a man came, then the Wren officer.

She was telling me to go to my cabin, and the other girl to come out quickly.”

“You saw her coming out?”

“Yes.”

“Remember anything in particular?”

“No. Then I left.”

“Think, Nikki. Did you notice anything else at all? How did she come out. Did she lift up her robe so that it wouldn’t trail in the blood?”

“Yes, that I remember. She came out with it lifted up, but it was strange There was blood on it. She had blood on the chest. On the front of the robe. High up.”

“Ah. Good. You would recognise this girl again, Nikki?”

“Of course. Anywhere I would recognise her.”

“Right. Just wait one moment, please.”

“For you, James, much more than one moment.”

He ignored the obvious pass, went over to the cabin door and beckoned the marine on duty outside.

“I want you to take Miss Ratnikov into the passage. Then go and find Leading Wren Deeley.

“Sir.”

“Nikki,” he turned back to the Russian girl. “I want you to wait outside until you see this marine coming back down the passage with the Wren. If it is the girl you saw last night, you will smile at her. If not, look away. You understand?”

“Is not difficult. Smile if I recognise. Ignore if I don’t recognise?”

“Right,” he turned to the marine. “When you bring Leading Wren Deeley in here you either say “Yes’ or “No’. “Yes’ if Miss Ratnikov smiles. “No’ if she doesn’t. Get it?”

“Yes, sir. No difficulty.”

“Go ahead, then.”

Bond laid a hand on Nikki’s shoulder. “Go now, and please, Nikki, get it right.”

Win, Lose or Die Will you Join the Dance?

“Is no problem. I smile or look away. Thank you, James.”

Before he could stop her, Nikki had reached up and kissed his cheek before leaving the cabin. For some reason he thought of Beatrice and the kiss she had first given him. How it had seemed to burn his cheek. A tiny black cloud of depression came into his mind, and he shook his head, as though trying to rid himself of the last picture he had of Beatrice da Ricci. The smoke, flash and explosion that had left very little of her alive.

The picture would not go away, even when he picked up the telephone and asked for the Master-at-Arms - the “Jaundy” as they called him: the senior non-commissioned officer who had almost the power of God over the ratings, for, in some ways, he was the ship’s chief of police. Bond gave him some quick, crisp orders and put the telephone down.

It was not until he heard the knock on his cabin door that Bond realised that he should really have had Clover present, but it was too late now.

The marine opened the door to Bond’s “Come.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. So Nikki had identified the girl as being the Wren who was with the body in the heads.

“Leading Wren Deeley, sir.” The marine announced, and the girl came through the cabin door which closed behind her.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” She was on the short side. Stocky and obviously fit. Her face remained placid and her eyes centred on Bond in full contact. He took in the face, not pretty: slightly angular, oddly masculine.

“Yes, Leading Wren Sarah Deeley.” He paused. “That is your name and rank?”

“Yes sir.” She showed no trace of fear.

“And your division and number?”

“Plymouth. 762845, sir.”

“Right. Can you tell me, Deeley, why there is no record of you as a member of the Women’s Royal Naval Service?”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Well you’d best understand, and quickly, Deeley. There is no record of you. Further He rose and began to walk around the small desk, “I have sent for the Master-at-Arms. You will regard yourself as under arrest.”

Her face did not alter. “Under arrest for what, sir?”

“For the murder of Edgar Morgan, a member of the United States Secret Service.” He did not even see her hand move. He was aware only of the quick glint, and the knife flicking upwards, raised above her.

Even then, all that registered was the hatred in her eyes.

Desperate Dan

For Bond it was pure instinct and training. Deeley’s movement had been so fast that the flash of the blade just registered. Then he moved automatically. The girl’s arm had passed across her body, the knife, blade outwards, ready to slash across his throat.

As his left arm came up to block the stroke, he even registered that the knife was a US Marines K-Bar with a seven-inch razor-sharp blade.

Who would have thought a small woman like this would have so much strength? Their forearms met as he blocked the slash, and it was like banging his own arm against a steel rod. She was closing now, stepping right forward into his body, twisting her arm to free herself.

If she managed it, the next knife stroke would come fast, and from another direction. For a second her eyes, blazing with a fanatical anger, locked with Bond’s. She pushed in hard, then stepped away, leaving herself free for the second stroke: it was the old close-combat trick, using her opponent’s body for leverage, and Bond should not have fallen for it. This time she had turned the blade, so that the knife protruded from the thumb end of her fist, ready to come from below in the classic knife-fighting manner.

She came slowly, weaving in the confined space of the cabin, side-stepping and whipping in from Bond’s open left flank.

He blocked her again, with his left forearm, bringing his right hand across to grasp her wrist, pushing down, twisting the wrist, in an attempt to force her to drop the weapon, but she pulled down on his thumb, her strength so great that his right hand slipped away as though it had been smeared with butter.

Now she was weaving again. Two steps back, a feint with a third step, changing to a jump to her right, then another feint to the left and straight in, bending her knees and springing up.

Bond saw the knife coming in from below and he turned his body to the left - right around, like a matador performing a reholera. The blade must have missed by inches, Deeley’s hand slamming the point against the steel cabin wall.

But the girl whirled back before Bond even had a chance to grab, and she was coming for him again, the knife still low in her strong balled fist. Once more Bond blocked, and, this time caught her firmly by the wrist with his right hand, pushing solidly with his left forearm.

With every ounce of strength he could muster he pulled up, and then down, frit her arm move and heard the gasp of pain as he slammed her hand into the metal wall. The knife dropped, but she was still panting and fighting: her knee coming up to his groin.

He felt the crushing flash of pure pain as she connected, and heard himself cry out, doubling over, grabbing at himself and seeing her hand snake down, fingers reaching for the knife on the cabin floor.

His cry must have been loud, and sharp enough to save him.

The cabin door was flung open and the young marine, dropping his rifle, threw himself on the Wren’s back, taking her in an arm-lock around her neck. A split second later, a pair of burly sailors had the spitting and struggling girl by both arms and were leading her out.

“You okay, sir?” The young marine helped Bond into his chair. He was still bent double and the area around his manhood seemed to be on fire.

“I think I’ll have a short word with the quack,” he breathed heavily, then looked up and saw the Master-at-Arms standing in the doorway.

“You’ll have to restrain her,” Bond panted. “Just put her in the cells, under restraint.” The Royal Navy did not use the tem “brig”, so popular with the United States Navy. “Get the Chief Regulating Officer to charge her.” With attacking a senior officer sir?” The Master-at-Arms raised his eyebrows at the end of the query, in a manner that suggested this was a facial expression he used habitually when asking questions.

“Murder,” Bond corrected. His voice seemed a long way oIl, for the pain in his groin seemed to take precedence over everything else.

“Murder, sir? The American?”

Bond nodded. “Just keep her well under restraint. I think she’s some kind of psycho, and well-trained at that. A killer, who would obey orders and take out someone with about as much emotion as any of us would feel in treading on a bug. I’ll be down to see her shortly.

The murder charge will, eventually, be a police criminal matter.” As the Master-at-Arms departed, Bond suddenly thought of his own words, just uttered - “a killer, who would obey orders Whose orders? he wondered. “Orders from outside, or some given to her on board?”

Someone had called Surgeon Commander Grant, who seemed quite amused at Bond’s pain. “There’ll probably be some swelling, he said examining the damaged area. “I’ll give you some pills to reduce the pain .

“As long as they don’t make me dopey.” In spite of the small agony, Bond put his job first.

“You’ll get no side effects. I have a salve as well. It’ll deaden the area and you won’t feel like playing with the ladies for an hour or so, but maybe that’s not a bad thing.” Bond realised that he felt a little embarrassed about the whole business.

“You’d be surprised,” the doctor continued, “really surprised how many cases of this I have to deal with these days. Lads go ashore, won’t take no for an answer and get a hefty knee in the gonads. Serve “em right. Bloody MCPs.”

“I got this delending myself” Bond muttered grudgingly, trying to sort his mind out, deciding what had to be done next.

Half an hour later he stood in front of the entire section of personal bodyguards for the three Admirals. They were gathered in the small messdeck that had been put aside for their use and relaxation the one in which Moggy Camm, two of the Russians and Bruce Trimble had joined in a drink before turning in on the previous night. Now the place seemed crowded. Nikki Ratnikov sat apart from her colleagues, Ivan, Yevgeny and Gennady; Brinkley and Camm sat together, still in their fancy dress, among Joe Israel, Bruce Trimble and Stan Hare.

Their three VIP charges were in the cabins set aside for them, each with an armed marine at the door.

“Right,” Bond began. “We all know what this is about.

Our Captain, the Rear-Admiral, is determined to carry on with Stewards’ Meeting. My job is to coordinate security, and I want to get your feelings on the matter before I make a recommendation to Sir John - not that he’ll take my advice, but I’d rather we worked as a team, and a team has to be one hundred percent in accord on a business like this. We’ve had one death, and we don’t want any more.

Nikki spoke up for the Russians. “James, you must advise us.

We have a sacred duty here. The strain will be on us as from tonight. Do you think that the killing of the American agent should make us fear for the lives of those we have to guard?”

“It certainly means that this little terrorist outfit - if it is them - has managed to penetrate Invincible with at least one person.

If there is one can there be others? I must reveal to all of you that Edgar Morgan was a worried man. As far as I can tell, he slipped into the Wrens’ heads to record a series of names - names of people in this ship. He wanted a security check run on them.

Well, I ran the check through London. The only one that came out badly was the girl we arrested this morning.”

Joe Israel looked up, with interest. “This is the first any of us have heard of Ed having doubts. Can you be sure he was not just doing a random test? A sampling? Or was he in possession of intelligence not revealed to any of us?”

“I’ve no idea.” There was no point in Bond not being open and candid. “I still have to talk with the girl we arrested. She was what some people would call a “Stone Killer’. It’s not an expression I’m proud of. But that’s what she was, and is.”

“Can you give us the other names Morgan had on his list?”

Ted Brinkley asked.

“I don’t think that would be fair at this stage. They all came out ultra-clean from London.”

Brinkley conferred with his partner for a minute, in urgent whispers. Then Brinkley said that, as far as they were concerned, things could go ahead. “It would have been very difficult for any terrorist organisation to infiltrate a Royal Navy ship. That they got one in is a kind of miracle. Barring any outside attack, we consider it ninety-nine percent safe. We vote that things go ahead as planned.”

Bond nodded. In his head he still remained unhappy. They had thought of BAST as a bit of a tinpot outfit, yet they certainly had resources, and even one penetration worried him. He looked over at Joe Israel, “What about our United States contingent?”

“I guess we go along with you Brit,5. Sure there’s danger, but that comes with the job. We vote in.

“You’re one man short.”

“I gather that’s being taken care of. Admiral Gudeon’s been active and we’ve got another guy on the way.”

Bond made a mental note that he should speak with the Captain about this turn of events. Now he looked at Nikki.

“You’re senior officer of our Russian comrades, Nikki. What do you say?”

“Our people are the best in the world. We say go ahead.”

“Then we’re all agreed?”

Around the little messdeck there were murmurs of consent.

So be it, Bond thought. They all seemed to be good, tried and tested people. Now, he had to speak with Sir John Walmsley.

After that there was the girl, Deeley, though he did not have any high hopes of breaking her down.

“So, you’ve decided not to fight me on this?” Sir John Walmsley looked pleased, like a man who had won a great battle.

“It’s not a question of fighting you, sir.” Bond spoke with almost exaggerated calmness. “We weighed up the chances of this being a one-off incident. We’re not entirely convinced, but everyone here in the three bodyguard sections seems to think the risk is even.

“A sensible decision,” growled Walmsley, who knew he would have overridden any attempt to abort Stewards’ Meeting.

“I need answers to a couple of questions before I talk to the girl, Deeley Bond began.

“Yes?” the Rear-Admiral snapped. “If I’m allowed to answer, I’ll cooperate. Go ahead.”

“First, there’s one thing I have to know about Edgar Morgan.”

“He wasn’t US Secret Service, but I presume you know that already.”

“Yes, I realise he wasn’t just part of the normal bodyguard service. I’m pretty certain he was Naval Intelligence, and came aboard with a special brief.” Bond had not shown all his cards.

“That’s true.”

“Can you tell me anything about the special brief” Walmsley pretended to think for a moment. “Well, he had authority to go through the records of everyone aboard this ship.”

“Was there time for him to do that?”

“Mmmm.” It was non-committal, but the Rear-Admiral was playing Bond. Walmsley was the kind of man who liked showing his authority and, had the truth been known, he looked forward to a very rapid promotion if the Operation called Stewards’ Meeting went off without a hitch. Finally, he decided it would be safer to tell the truth. “He came aboard two days before Landsea “89 started.”

“Two days?”

Walmsley nodded. “He left the ship shortly before you arrived.

Then came on with Gudeon and the others, But, in those two days, he went through all the files. He was very interested in you, Captain Bond. Very interested.”

“And he carried on looking through the individual dossiers on his return?”

“He did. Now, anything else?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been told that the Americans are sending a replacement. True or false?”

“True. He’ll be here before Stewards’ Meeting.”

“We have a name?”

“Dan Woodward. US Naval Intelligence. As you would expect, he’s known to his friends and colleagues as Desperate Dan. Now, Captain Bond, anything else?”

“Only a minor point. The Wren detachment aboard.”

“Damned women in the ship, I didn’t approve of it.”

“Sir, we both know why they’re here. We know it’ll make things easier when Stewards’ Meeting gets under way. Until then, could I ask you, sir, what duties have been assigned to them?”

“This because one of them turned out to be a dummy?”

“Partly.”

“Why not ask their officer, what’s her name? First Officer Pennington?”

“Because I’d rather have an independent source.

Rear-Admiral Walmsley sucked his teeth. “You know they’re all cleared at a very high security level?”

“I do, sir, and it worries me. The one intruder came in through them. I know London says they’re all cleared, but I want to check it out again.

“Right. We’re making good use of them, Bond. They’re doing everything they’ve been trained to do. We’ve allotted them shifts in Communications; in writers’ departments; and, just to keep their domestic hands in, some are daily assigned to galley duties.

I made that a condition of the draft coming aboard. Now, anything else?”

Bond shook his head. So, the Wrens were all over the place.

In the galleys, communications and writers. A writer is Royal Navy for clerk or secretarial duties.

“Good, because we’re still very much a part of Landsea “89, and we’ve still got three nuclear subs shadowing us. I have to get back to work. Can’t leave it all to Jimmy the One.”

After leaving the Rear-Admiral, Bond sought out Joe Israel, who was resting in the cabin occupied by the three US Secret Service men.

Bruce Trimble was with him, while Stan Hare had taken over normal bodyguard duties to Admiral Gudeon.

“You know who’s taking Ed Morgan’s place?” he asked the pair of them.

“Another guy from Naval Int,” Israel said, sounding none too pleased.

“Name of Woodward. Dan Woodward.” Trimble grinned.

“They call him Desperate Dan, we hear.”

“You hear?”

“The Admiral sent a signal to Washington last night - after Ed’s death. The reply was very fast, I guess Desperate Dan must be in London. He’s close by anyhow, because they’re expecting him by early evening.”

“You know him?” Bond asked.

“The name only. Never worked with him,” from Israel.

“You?” to Trimble who shook his head.

“What about Stan?”

“What about Stan?” Israel laughed.

“Does he know the Woodward fellow?”

“No. None of us know him.”

“Okay,” Bond pinched the top of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I would suggest, when he does come aboard, that you do a little verbal check on him. Usual kind of things.

Americana; people in Washington; people any of you know in Naval Intelligence.”

“You don’t think he’s clean?”

“I’ve no idea,” Bond shrugged. “I just think we should take precautions, that’s all.”

In his room at The Rock Hotel, Gibraltar, Bassam Baradj was receiving blow-by-blow accounts of what was going on in Invincible.

His short-wave radio, with a recording device attached, picked up signals from his main source aboard the ship, though the final news, which had come through in the early hours of the morning, made him wonder if this flow of intelligence would last out much longer. He knew of the death of the American NI officer, and of the possible consequences. He also knew that the Americans had signalled to Washington and that Washington’s return signal referred them to the Embassy in London. Since then there had been no other signal and he feared the worst. The only other source connected with BAST was one Engineer Petty Officer, and Baradj knew that everything really lay with this one blackmailed man.

Immediately he had listened in to the message concerning the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, London, Baradj had taken the only course of action available to him. A long telephone call to London was followed by a lengthy meeting with his colleague, Abou Hamarik.

Together they decided the risk was worth the final reward, even though Hamarik had no idea that Baradj had no plans to cut him, or any other member of BAST, in on the eventual riches.

It would not have mattered either way, for Baradj had already set the plan in motion, and it was essential for him to use Hamarik. He thought it was a lucky decision that had made him choose “The Man” Abou Hamarik - for the work in Gibraltar, All Al Adwan, his only other possible choice, had been seen already by the man Bond, at the camp they had called Northanger. In all, Baradj was happy. The two men he had in London were both good, and well equipped to carry out what had to be done.

Daniel Woodward had a pleasant flat in Knightsbridge. Nothing luxurious, but, with his pay as Assistant Naval Attache’ (Intelligence) to the Embassy, he could afford it. He also found it was an address which stood well with the ladies he dated regularly.

It was as though they felt quite safe going back with him to the Knightsbridge address.

The one beside him in bed at three in the morning, only grumbled in her sleep when the telephone rang. She grumbled even more when he woke her to say he had to report to the Embassy immediately.

“Oh, God, what’s the time, darling.” She was a stunning redhead who worked in the Embassy Secretariat.

“It’s fifteen after three. I’m sorry, honey, but I’m gonna have to take you home. I don’t know how long I’m gonna be away.

They said I should bring a bag with me, which means I’m probably going Stateside. Sorry, but I just can’t leave you here.

You know what Embassy instructions’re like about people leaving their property with all the alarms on if they’re out of the country.”

He was dashing about, filling a small case with clothes.

She was still half asleep when he drove her back to her own flat off Great Russell Street. The whole business meant that, though he had been alerted at three-fifteen in the morning, he did not get to the Embassy until almost four-thirty.

The Naval Attache’ (Intelligence) was already waiting for him, and that gentleman did not like being kept waiting so he expected a full broadside when he walked into the office. Instead, the Attachi was mild. “It’s okay, Dan.” The Naval Intelligence Attachi was a ramrod straight, tall and silver-grey man. “You’ve plenty of time. We’ve already dealt with the documents. All I have to do is brief you. Your flight doesn’t leave London Gatwick until ten o’clock, so we have time.”

The slow response Dan Woodward had been forced into, by the presence of the redhead at his apartment, had caused troubles nobody else knew about. A taxi, with its For Hire sign unlit, had already been in one of the parking slots, which run around the centre of Grosvenor Square, for fifteen minutes by the time Woodward arrived.

The driver appeared to be taking a quiet nap. Nobody was visible in the back.

“That must be him. Unless his boss is going with him. Got a case and all,” the driver said.

The other occupant, on the floor in the rear of the cab, muttered something about the passport photograph.

“If we’re lucky we’ll have time to take care of that. First sign of movement in the Embassy lobby, my light goes on and we pick him up.

If they’ve laid on a cab for him, we know his name and we’ll probably beat their cab. If it’s an Embassy car, then we’ll just have to do something embarrassingly naughty.”

Woodward, having been given the most exciting briefing of his career, came out onto the steps of the Embassy at six-forty-five, clutching a suitcase and looking for the cab they had obviously called for him.

The cab that had been parked since the early hours backed out quickly and turned in front of the Embassy, its driver peering out and calling, “Mr. Woodward?”

Dan Woodward responded with a wave and a smile and came hurrying down the steps. There were few people about, and nobody had seen the second man slide from the back of the cab, just as it pulled out, and make his way around the corner into Upper Grosvenor Street.

The driver was very fast, taking Dan Woodward’s bag and stowing it away in the front section. “Where’s it to, guy’?” the cabbie asked.

“Nobody tells me nothing.”

“Gatwick. Departures. North Terminal.”

“How long we got, then?” The taxi moved away quickly, circling the Square, preparing to head along Upper Grosvenor Street.

“My flight leaves at ten. So, nine-thirty at the latest.”

“All the time in the world,” said the cabbie, sashaying to the left, where his colleague was walking slowly up towards Park lane.

““Scuse me, guy’nor.” The cabbie leaned back with the little sliding window open. “There’s a mate of mine. I’d like to give him a message.

“Be my guest.”

The taxi pulled over in front of the pedestrian, and the cabbie leaned out and called, “Nobby, can you give Di a message for me. I’ve got to go out to Gatwick. I’ll give her a bell from there.” The man came abreast of the cab, as though straining to hear the driver. Then, as he reached the passenger door, he yanked it open, and Dan Woodward found himself staring into the wrong end of a Heckler and Koch nine millimetre, modified to take a noise reduction assembly.

“One wrong move and you’re dead,” the pedestrian smiled and got into the cab next to the startled Woodward, and the cab drew smoothly away. By the time they reached the T-junction which led them onto Park Lane, Woodward was unconscious.

He had not even felt the hypo go through his coat and into his arm.

The cab headed towards Notting Hill, where it would need to make a detour to get onto the M25 and on to Gatwick. In the Bayswater Road it turned right into a cul-de-sac, and pulled up in front of one of those quiet little mews houses that now cost an arm and two legs in London.

The cab parked very close to the door and the driver and his companion got out. A woman in the uniform of a nurse was already waiting, the door of the house open. Within two minutes they had the unconscious Woodward inside, the driver coming out to get his case and carry it indoors.

They dumped the unconscious man on a sofa.

“He’ll be out for twenty-four hours,” the driver said to the woman, as he went through Woodward’s pockets, while his partner worked the locks on the case. “We’ll help you get him into the secure room.

I need him quiet for around four or five days. Ah He removed a bunch of papers which included a passport, and an official-looking batch of documents.

He sat down at the foot of the sofa and began going through the papers. Frowning, he got up, went to the telephone and dialled the Gibraltar code and The Rock Hotel, asking to be put through to Mr. Underwood’s room. “Very urgent,” he said.

In Gibraltar, both Baradj and Hamarik were waiting. “Okay,” the man in London said. “You’ll need a United States Diplomatic Passport.

Is that difficult?”

“That, we can fix here. Just read off the details.”

The London man then went through the rest of the information.

“We have one problem. They’re supposed to be meeting him off BA498 which gets in at local 13.45. They actually wrote down a contact procedure, which means they don’t know him at that end.”

“Is there a contact number?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Give it to me.

The London man rattled off the string of numbers, and Baradj replied, “Okay. Are the documents essential?”

“Yes. They’re his orders, and there’s a paper he has to show to the guys meeting him.”

“Right. Use your own passport, but check in as Woodward.

They never know the difference there. As long as the number of passports tallies with the number of people: and it’s no offence to travel under an alias - unless you’re up to something criminal, which, of course, you’re not. You come through into the concourse it’s small and usually busy. On the right side, when you come through you’ll find the Men’s Room. It’s poky and unpleasant, but my man will be waiting.

He’ll have a Woodward passport. He’ll take the papers and case from you, come out and run through the contact procedure. Now, Bob,you do it. Nobody else. I trust you to go through all this. Now, you’ll have to get a move on. Go.”

Bond had been correct, the girl who called herself Sarah Deeley simply refused to answer any questions. She sat in the cell, restrained by what amounted to a strait-jacket, and looked Bond in the eyes, unflinching, as he poured question after question at her. She even smiled at him a couple of times. After an hour of this, he gave up. Best leave her to the professionals when they got to Gibraltar.

The Rear-Admiral was on the bridge when he reported his lack of success.

“You people got any specialists in Gib?” Walmsley asked, “Why, sir?”

“I’ve got a Sea King going off to Gib in twenty minutes, It’ll just make it there and back, if they juice her up in Gib. They’re bringing in Morgan’s replacement.”

“Desperate Dan?”

Walmsley seemed to have lost any humour that might have lurked behind his cold blue eyes. “I believe they call him that.

You got anyone in GibLet

me check it out sir. If the answer S yes, I’ll see he’s brought back.”

“Let me know before take-off. You only have twenty minutes.”

It took Bond fifteen minutes to make contact. Yes, they had an interrogation specialist with the unlikely name, for his skills, of Donald Speaker who would be delighted to have a go.

So it was that when Flight BA498 landed, slightly late, at two o’clock that afternoon, the Sea King from invincible was sitting, juiced up, on the helipad away from the terminal building. Its crew of three were aboard, plus Donald Speaker, a red-bearded, casually-dressed little man with the sharp look of a bank inspector about him.

The Lieutenant Commander from Invincible’s Executive Officer’s staff waited in the arrivals’ terminal - which, in Gibraltar, is also the departure terminal. He did not notice that one passenger from BA498 came through the gates, lugging his flight-bag, and made straight for the Men’s Room; while a few seconds later another man came out, carrying the same flight-bag, and with his passport in his left hand, held over his breast pocket. To the Lieutenant Commander this was simply the man for whom he had been waiting, giving all the signals bag in right hand, passport in left hand, held high just under his breast pocket where his boarding card stuck out almost a couple of inches.

The Lieutenant Commander smiled and approached the civilian. “Mr. Woodward?”

“Yes, I’m Dan Woodward,” said Abou Hamarik. “Want to see the ID?”

“Better take a quick look. My name’s Hallam, by the way,” the Lieutenant Commander grinned. “Your diplomatic status stamp looks damned impressive. Well, welcome aboard Mr. Woodward.”

“Just call me Dan.”

They crossed the metalled apron, walking quickly towards the Sea King. As they did so they saw the stop lights come on, and traffic grind to a halt on the road that ran straight across the runway. A Royal Air Force Tornado came hurtling in with its droops and spoilers fully extended. Their ears sang but cleared by the time they reached the Sea King. The crewman helped them up, and Hallam introduced him to everyone. Speaker just gave him a nod, as though he did not approve of Americans being given free rides on Royal Navy helicopters.

“Great,” Hallam said, just before the rotors began to turn.

“We’ll be back in very good time for Stewards’ Meeting.”

“W~at’s Stewards’ Meeting?” Speaker asked. He had a slight, unidentifiable accent, and a suspicious nasal tone in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Hallam turned to him with a smile. “If you don’t know what it is, you’re not cleared for it. Right, Dan?”

“Most definitely right,” Abou Hamarik said. Soon, he thought, the whole world will know about Stewards’ Meeting. And there will be things the whole world will not wish to know.

The Sea King rose from the pad, lowered its nose, turned away from the Spanish mainland, banked and set course out to sea and HMS Invincible.

“D’you hear there! D’you hear there! This is the Captain.” Sir John Walmsley’s voice rang out through the ship’s Tannoy system, and, as ever, all ranks stopped what they were doing and raised their heads to listen.

Invincible had slowed down to a point where she was hardly moving in the light sea. Outside, at 22.00 hours, it was black as pitch, but the flight-deck was fully lit and an S and R Sea King hovered off the port side.

“I want all ranks to listen out, and listen carefully. We still have the submarine wolf pack with us, though I am assured that they will in no way impede our progress to Gibraltar. Regarding Exercise Landsea “89 there is a political stalemate, and talks between various countries will restart tomorrow morning. So far no further incidents have been reported within the boundaries of the European continent, though our forces - Red Side - are still known to be operating behind enemy lines. That is the report, and assessment, with regard to Landsea “89.

“Now I must talk seriously about the real world, and what is happening aboard Invincible tonight. I am standing down all watches at this moment, except for officers and ratings who have been given special instructions to be present on the main deck, Flight Operations, and the bridge. This is for security purposes, and anyone not ordered to be on the main deck, in Flight Operations, or on the bridge will meet with stiff penalties if found there. In fact they could well suffer injury. Marines have been posted on all companionways and bulkheads leading to the prohibited areas. They are armed and there is a password sequence known only to those authorised to work on the main deck.

“You will hear helicopters landing and taking off. This is because the VIP officers we’ve had aboard, since Landsea “89

began, will be taking their leave of us. However, other VIPs will be coming aboard, and this is now classified information. Until you’re informed of its declassification, no officer, Petty Officer, Warrant Officer, rating or marine will speak of anything seen aboard Invincible over the next few days. If anyone does talk, outside this ship, I should remind you that to do so will be regarded as a breach of the Official Secrets Act; punishable accordingly.

“To underline the seriousness of this situation, you should know that, until we reach Gibraltar, there will be four Sea Harriers, fully armed and ready to fly, on and around the ski-ramp, forward. There will be two pilots from the Air Group at five minute readiness, twenty-four hours a day, starting now.

That is all.”

In Flight Operations, Bond could see that was not all, for the first two Sea Harriers were not only in place but also had pilots in the cockpits and their engines on at idle. Apart from that, there was a sense of de{ja vu in the lights flashing from three helicopters stacked, one behind the other, closing on the stern.

The cloud cover was high so he could only see the red and green rotating lights against the darkness. But he knew, from the Commander (Air), that the first chopper was about one mile away, closing at a speed of around fifty knots; and the other two were stacked at one thousand feet intervals.

The Sea King was visible now, a shaft of light coming from its nose as the halogen spot came on. It closed, then hovered as the Flight-Deck Controller and his men signalled it in to land some hundred yards behind the pair of back-up Sea Harriers, parked together well behind the ski-ramp.

Nobody approached the Sea King as its rotors gently slowed down.

They were still whisking the air as the US Navy helicopter rolled in behind it, followed by the big, twin-finned Kamove

which nosed onto the deck with its two huge contrarotating rotors whirling fast and its turbines giving a final dying roar.

Bond just caught a glimpse of the three VIP officers, the British, American and Russian Admirals, being hustled towards their respective helicopters. Then the main deck lights went out, leaving only dim blue guiding lights leading from the helicopters to the main bulkhead doors in the island.

“Time you joined the reception committee, Captain Bond.”

The Commander glanced towards him. Bond nodded and with a “Good luck!” left Flight Ops, turning his body sideways, rattling down the companionway, heading towards the section of cabins recently vacated by the trio of Admirals and their bodyguards.

In the hour that had passed since he had last been in this part of the ship, a great deal had taken place. The passageway floors were now covered in thick red carpeting, and three sections of the long corridor, which led from James Bond’s cabin to the turning into the Wrens’ quarters, had been separated by neat wooden doors, the jambs screwed into bulkhead cross-sections.

The doors were open, and he could see right down to the end, where the entire draft of Wrens were drawn up, with Clover Pennington pacing anxiously. In the middle portion, the new Naval Intelligence man, Woodward, was accompanied by two armed marines. Woodward gave Bond a wink, lifting his right hand and following with a thumbs-up, to which Bond replied in kind. through the door nearest to him Nikki Ratnikov and Yevgeny Stura were also accompanied by two Royal Marines, while another pair, with Sergeant Harvey in tow, waited patiently to one side of Bond’s cabin door.

Bond nodded to the sergeant. “Any minute now,” he said, and the words were hardly out of his mouth when he heard the sounds of feet on the uncarpeted section of the passageway leading to the spruced up VIP quarters.

They came at a brisk pace: Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley, Ted Brinkley and a civilian who could only be from one service, for he had all the smooth and tough, alert looks of an officer of the Special Branch Close Protection Squad. At the centre of this group, Bond saw the first of the VIPs who had come aboard from the helicopter which had picked up Sir Geoffrey Gould.

The Rear-Admiral stopped in front of Bond. “Prime Minister,” he said to the almost regally dressed Mrs. Margaret Hilda Thatcher. “I’d like to present Captain James Bond, who is in total charge of security for Stewards’ Meeting.”

The Prime Minister smiled and firmly shook Bond’s hand.

“It’s nice to see you again, and congratulations on your promotion.” She turned to Walmsley. “Captain Bond and I are already old friends,” she said. “I couldn’t have better protection, and it’s not generally known that Captain Bond was instrumental in saving not only my life, but that of ex-President Reagan, some time ago.” Then back to Bond. “I couldn’t be in better hands.

Just see that we’re left alone for a full four days, Captain Bond.

We shall need every minute of it, if we’re going to get through a tough agenda. And it is a very tough, and important agenda. I’m sure you are already aware of that.”

“Yes, Prime Minister. I’ll do everything possible. If your people require anything, they should get in touch with me personally.”

“Very kind of you, Captain Bond,” and with her best electorial smile, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom marched away with her retinue.

Bond’s eyes followed her, and he ignored Sergeant Harvey’s muttered, “I wouldn’t like to be on her defaulters’ parade.”

From the far end of the passageway, he heard the Rear-Admiral introduce the PM to First Officer Pennington, and then make his excuses.

He came striding back, glaring at Bond. “You said nothing about saving her life! Anything else I should know?”

“She exaggerated,” Bond did not smile. “The information’s restricted anyhow, so I shouldn’t let it go any further, sir.”

“Hrrumph!” Walmsley said - or something very like it - and went off to meet the next arrival.

President George Herbert Walker Bush, surrounded by his Secret Service men -Joe Israel, Stan Hare and Bruce Trimble and with a small man carrying a briefcase chained to his wrist, had been met at the foot of the companionway by Walmsley.

The President was tall, smiling, greying and very open-faced.

“Captain Bond,” he acknowledged as the Rear-Admiral made the introduction, “I know I’m in good hands. A close friend of mine told me what a help you’d been to him, and I believe we have another friend in common.”

“We probably have, sir.”

“Yes, Felix served under me when I was DC IA. A good man. Hope to see more of you, Bond, but you’ll appreciate the schedule’s tight as a drumskin. Good to meet you.”

The President of the United States had a firm handshake, almost as firm as Mrs. Thatcher’s, and, as he walked away, Sergeant Harvey muttered, “Nor his.”

“Nor his what?” Bond said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Wouldn’t like to be on his defaulters’ parade either.”

“If you were, they’d call it a masthead, Sergeant Harvey.

That’s what the US Navy call defaulters -just as the Royal Navy did a long time ago.

Sir John Walmsley gave Bond another dirty look as he hurried past, again heading for the companionway and the final VIP.

Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev, General Secretary of the CPSU and President of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet was dressed in a camel-hair overcoat that he had not bought at GUM.

He held a grey frit hat, which could have been purchased at Lock’s in Jermyn Street, and wore a broad smile. He was neat, burly, broad-shouldered and relaxed, thanks to all the goodwill that seemed to flow out of him.

Walmsley introduced them, and, to Bond’s surprise, Mr. Gorbachev replied in English, “Captain Bond, it is a great pleasure to meet you.

I hope you mingle with those who look after me in a true spirit of glasnost.” The short man’s handshake was positively bone-crushing and left Bond speechless as the Russian passed on towards his quarters.

“Ho dear, sir,” Harvey whispered. “He hasn’t brought Raisa with him. Hope he’s got an Amex card as well.”

“Be fair, Harvey. The Prez hasn’t brought Barbara, and Mrs. T’s without Denis. It’s reasonable enough.”

Walmsley returned, looking flustered. “Well, at least one of them didn’t seem to know you, Bond.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it, sir.”

“No, well … All senior officers, divisional officers and the Chief Regulating Officer in my day cabin in fifteen minutes.

We’re not using the PA to warn you, so tell me now if you’re happy about arrangements - I mean happy enough to leave this section of the ship for an hour or so.

“I’ll be there, sir. If I’m at all concerned, I’ll let you know, personally, and give you my reasons.

The Rear-Admiral gave a curt nod and left, his long, important strides indicating that he was well pleased with the final transfer of probably the three most powerful people in the world to his ship.

Bond thought this was one hell of a responsibility, and Walmsley should not show any cockiness until it was all safely over.

Petty Officer “Blackie” Blackstone looked at the great turbines whining strongly in the Engine Room of Invincible. When he had first joined the Royal Navy, the Engine Rooms were hot, dirty, sweaty and noisy places. Invincible’s Engine Room was brilliantly clean, and only a few people were actually needed close to the turbines, for they were monitored from a separate room, full of dials, VDUs and switches.

Blackstone was probably the only man on Invincible, outside the Captain, senior officers and security people, who knew what was going on. He did not question how his two “friends” Harry and Bill had got hold of the information, nor did he have any moral qualms about what he was to do. After all, it would get him off the hook, both financially and domestically. In any case, they had told him it was really a Greenpeace operation, timed to cause great embarrassment to the Americans and Russians, also to the British Establishment, and “Blackie” had always had a lot of sympathy for Greenpeace.

He had thought for a long time about the job, but once he weighed the positive and negative sides, he realised there was no real danger.

“Blackie” had gone to a lot of trouble in arranging his shifts.

The first one just after these nobs come aboard, they had told him. Then the second one would require action in the middle of the following forenoon. “Blackie” Blackstone would have access to the turbines on both required shifts. He had seen to that, just as he knew the other men on the watch were content to let him do the physical check on the turbines. Even now, just after the visitors had arrived on board, he was alone in the Engine Room, while a Chief Petty Officer, another Petty Officer, like himself, and a “Killick” - a Leading Seaman, so called because of the anchor-badge he wore: killick being the old slang tem for anchor - lounged their way through the watch, occasionally checking the pressures and speeds of the turbines.

The Second Engineering Officer was, as ever, in the officers’ caboose, just behind the control room. Nobody would require him unless something went terribly wrong. Changes of speed, and other such things could be accomplished at the touch of a button, or a couple of clicks on the small levers which acted as throttles. So the Lieutenant who was the Second Engineering Officer was left to do a little “Egyptian Physical Training” as they called it. In other words, the Lieutenant was sleeping.

Petty Officer Blackstone quietly moved to the far side of Number One Turbine. He pulled a screwdriver from a leather toolkit attached to his belt, and tucked away behind his right hip. He then removed a cylinder, wrapped in Kleenex, from his pocket. The cylinder, which was made of strong wire gauze, had an opening at one end and was rounded at the other. Anyone, from Midshipman to Ordinary Seaman, could have identified the cylinder, as a straightforward filter for the turbine’s oil system.

Blackstone quickly unscrewed the two lugs that held down a small panel, roughly six inches by six, and lifted it on its hinge.

Above the panel the words Filter One were stencilled.

Quietly, he placed the screwdriver on the deck, by his feet, and took an abnormally long pair of tweezers from the toolkit on his belt, at the same time gathering another wod of Kleenex into his left hand.

Gently, Petty Officer Blackstone inserted the tweezers into the open panel of Filter One, extracting the identical heavy, dirty, gauze cylinder from within - though this one was hot and dripping with oil.

He placed it into the wod of Kleenex and put it carefully on the deck, beside the screwdriver.

It would take three minutes for any sign of the change to be registered on the instruments in the control room, and it took less than thirty seconds to slide the new filter into place, and another minute to close the panel and screw the lugs back in place.

Blackstone next returned the screwdriver and tweezers to his toolkit, picked up the bunched Kleenex which held the recently removed filter, and made his way through the bulkhead door, aft and leading to the Engine Room heads.

There he unbolted one of the ports, opened it up and hurled the filter and Kleenex out to be whipped away by the wind. He closed up the round port, washed his hands, clearing away all traces of oil, and returned to the Engine Room, casually walking around all the turbines, taking his time before returning to the Control Room.

“They all still running, Blackie?” the CPO asked with a grin.

“Difficult to say, Chiefy. I went and had a smoke in the heads.”

“You jammy bugger,” the other Petty Officer said. “I was just telling them about how you sloped off that time when we last docked in Gib. She was a corker, wasn’t she? Black-haired beauty, that one.

“You’re full of shit,” said Blackie, and the conversation continued on this high intellectual plane for the next hour or so.

The turbines all ran smoothly, but Blackie knew that it wouldn’t be smooth running at about eleven in the forenoon tomorrow. For one thing, the oil temperature on Number One turbine would start to rise spectacularly, and he would be there to deal with it.

* “Gentlemen, thank you for your time. I’ll be as quick as possible; though it’s essential that you all know exactly what’s at stake here.” Sir John Walmsley was full of himself: sitting back in his chair in the crowded day cabin, with all his senior officers around him, he almost overflowed with his own responsibility. Bond viewed the man with pity rather than awe. Walmsley was a pompous ass, full of self-importance, and, therefore, from Bond’s viewpoint, not really suitable for the job he had to do. “Now, Stewards’ Meeting. This is a very clear name for what is happening aboard invincible.”

The Rear-Admiral cleared his throat and continued. “You all know who’s on board. The three most powerful heads of state in the world, and they see themselves attending a real Stewards’ Meeting, for they regard themselves as true Stewards, Stewards in whom the world puts its trust. Two men and a woman who can truly hold the world in their hands.” This, Bond concluded, was going to be a sermon, not a briefing. Nor would it be a sermon to the wholly converted.

Walmsley was still talking. “You’ll also realise one important factor. They are all here with close protection squads but without their normal advisers - apart from the sinister bagman, with President Bush, who is required to have the nuclear alert codes with him at all times.”

He paused, as though pleased with his own knowledge and the ability for him to share it. Then he continued, “As some of you already know, they are here under highly classified code names.

The PM is Shalott Lady of, I presume, not just because she knows her onions.” He paused again for the obligatory chuckle to pass around the room. “The President of the United States is Dancer; and Secretary Gorbachev is October. You will refer to them by those names, both in conversation and any radio messages you might be called upon to give.

But, as I have said, the one unique thing is that they’re here with no advisers, or assistants. As far as their colleagues are concerned, Shalott has a touch of the “flu; October is resting in his country dacha, and has left orders that he should not be disturbed for five days; Dancer has requested no Press, and no calls to his hunting-lodge where he is quail-shooting.”

Again he waited for a laugh, but the jest was, if not dying, at least fatally ill. “The point is that all three chose to meet in secure conditions so that they could carry out four whole days of highly personal, one-on-one - or, I suppose it could be one-on-two talks without the usual interference from the throngs of experts from both government, military, financial and social levels who often advise more caution over sensitive issues.

“There will be no official statements regarding Stewards’ Meeting.

Nobody is to know, unless they feel they have accomplished some incredible breakthrough that can be announced. Their main objective is to set some ground rules on world finance, security against terrorism, and the acceleration of solving that thorny question regarding the quick phasing out of nuclear weapons.

“Our job is to see they have the next four days to themselves.

They will be eating and working together in the forward lecture room, which has been made more presentable than usual. So, with the help of the Wren detachment to see they get decent food, and good service, and the assistance of security, they will be following a very tight schedule which, even in the midst of Landsea “89, we must see is adhered to. They have got to be given four whole days, no matter what.

If you have any questions come straight to me. Understand?”

Yes, Bond thought. Go straight to him, and he will pass you straight on to me. He left, went back to his cabin and sent for Donald Speaker, the interrogator who had come in from Gibraltar with the new American, Woodward.

He had never met Speaker before, but knew his reputation as a hard investigator who rarely gave an inch, so it was, when the man came into his cabin and sat down without even being asked, that Bond took an almost irrational dislike to him.

If Speaker had made any progress with Deeley he was not going to tell Bond. In fact it was just the opposite, for, within minutes, he realised that the interrogator was asking questions of him.

“I don’t altogether trust those two Branch men in fancy dress,” Speaker said of Brinkley and Camm.

“Oh?”

“Not cut out for the kind of job they’re doing on this ship. I’m highly dubious of their motives, Mr., er Captain, Bond.”

“Interesting, but what about Deeley?”

“I’ll report when I have anything to report.”

The gingery beard, Bond decided, covered a weak chin. The man was, in a sense, hiding from himself. “You have only a very limited time. You realise that?”

“How so?”

“It becomes a non-Service matter, once we get to Gib. She has to be handed over to the Civil Police.”

“What are we, two days from Gib?”

“We’re taking four actually. For operational reasons which don’t concern you.

“Well,” the lips curled under the beard, “well, that’s plenty of time for me to whop some kind of story out of her. Don’t worry. ” He rose.

“Sit down!” Bond all but shouted. “Sit down! I haven’t said you can leave.”

“I didn’t know you were my keeper on this ship.”

“Well, you had better know, Mr. Speaker. You don’t move on this ship without my saying so.”

“You’re not trying to tell me you’re SIS?” The leer again.

“I am telling you just that.”

“Very interesting, in view of what seems to have happened on board this ship. I think we’ll have a little talk when we’re back in London.

I can be a very suspicious man, Bond, and they trust me at the interrogation centre. I can reach into your file and come up with something, I’m sure. Everyone has at least one thing they want to hide. We’ll discover yours, then I can embroider it a little and they’ll drop you into a well and forget about you. I’ve broken stronger men than you, Bond. Goodnight,” and he walked from the cabin, leaving Bond floundering. The man was some kind of a nutter, he thought. Best get a signal off to London about him.

He went out and toured the passageway, speaking to all the varied security men, British, American and Russian. All seemed in good order, so he decided to leave the signal until after dinner, which he took quietly in the wardroom.

Later, as he was about to go up to Communications, the Tannoy clicked on. “D’you hear there! D’you hear there! Would Captain Bond please take a message in his cabin? Captain Bond to his cabin please.”

Nikki, looking pale and uncomfortable, was waiting for him.

“What can I do for you, Nikki?”

“Oh, please don’t tempt me, James, but I have a terrible concern.

A worry.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Pour it all out.”

“This is about the new American. The one called Woodward, Dan Woodward.”

“Desperate Dan,” Bond smiled. “Has he been desperate with you?

He comes complete with a reputation that he likes the ladies.”

“No, James. No. This is not funny. I am suspect that this man is not American. That he is not truly the Dan Woodward he claims.”

“What?” He sat up, a little twitch of anxiety deep in his stomach. “Why do you say this, Nikki?”

“How do I tell you? It is difficult. Look, is operational secret, but we must share it. Three years ago, I was assigned to work in Afghanistan. With KGB. We had a dossier on terrorists operating in the Gulf. You know the kind of thing. A mixed bag of names and suspicions. The man who says he is Dan Woodward. His picture was there in dossier. I forget what he was called then.

Hamarik, or Homarak. Something. James, you should take a look.”

“Keep quiet for now, Nikki. I’ll run it through London. Play it gently. I know how we can check it out.”

He went up to Communications and went through the same, inquisition by a different, armed marine, then got on with the job in hand. First a cipher concerning Speaker, followed by a second one to liaison with Grosvenor Square, requesting a photograph to be sent over the wires. When unbuttoned, the text read PLEASE HAVE PHOTOGRAPH OF DANIEL WOODWARD YOUR NI OFFICER STOP SEND MY EYES ONLY URGENT AND HIGHEST PRIORITY STOP PREDATOR STOP It had been a long, tiring day, so he hoped it would come in before he went to sleep.

He had just got into his bunk when there was a tap at the door.

He opened up, and Nikki slipped past him into the cabin.

“James, I’m sorry. I feel so alone. So afraid. It is like a feeling of doom. Please don’t send me away.” She wore a towelling robe which she slipped from her shoulders. There was nothing underneath. Bond’s mind travelled back to the villa on Ischia.

Once more he saw the doomed and treacherous Beatrice and realised that, whatever she had been, it would take a long time for her to be expunged from his emotions.

Now, looking at the young body of Nikki Ratnikov he realised that he was also lonely, worried, and in need of comfort. He turned the lock in the cabin door, and took her in his arms. For a long time she just clung to him, then, lifting her head, Bond put his own lips to hers, and they moved to the bunk, then drowned in each other as though this was the first and last time they would ever meet.

She left him at dawn, and he lay on the bunk alone, thinking they had both given and taken from each other. It was the most, except for dying, that any two humans could give.

Communications did not come back to him until almost ten thirty the next morning. There were two messages waiting for him. First, a flash from Regent’s Park authorising him to remove Speaker from the interrogation of Deeley if he was not happy.

The second was almost an afterthought, but in cipher.

PHOTOGRAPH OF USNI OFFICER WOODWARD FOIIOWS PAGE TWO And, sure enough, there was Daniel Woodward’s photograph with a number stamped beneath it. He looked into the face to see clearly that the Americans’ Daniel Woodward was certainly not the Woodward they had on board The invincible.

Bond went back to his cabin, clipped the holster to his belt, behind his right hip, inserted the Browning mm and sent for Bruce Trimble, Sergeant Harvey and four marines. Trimble arrived first, and Bond wasted no time in telling him they had at least an impostor, at worst a terrorist, in the shape of Dan Woodward.

“Was going to talk with you anyhow.” The massive Trimble looked menacing. “I been worned about that guy. Doesn’t mix, won’t be drawn.

Best get him in the brig.”

They went together - four marines with loaded weapons, Sergeant Harvey, Bond and Bruce Trimble who looked as though he would rather do the job single-handed.

Stan Hare told them that Woodward was in the cabin they all shared, so they took up assault positions and Bond raised his hand to knock. If possible he wanted to take the man clean, and with little violence, but, before his knuckles could tap on the metal door, the whole ship seemed to tremble under their feet, as though it had suddenly hit unexpected, and very rough water.

The jolt was so great that they were all thrown to one side. The explosion was not loud, more like a heavy-duty grenade exploding a long way off.

Then the warning klaxons started to wail.

The Rain in Spain Half an hour earlier, Petty Officer Blackie Blackstone sat in the Engine Room Control module, passing the time with the other members of his watch. None of them noticed that Blackstone idly kept scanning one particular section of the turbine controls those which would give indications of oil-temperature rise.

They had told him to expect the temperature on Number One turbine to start going up rapidly sometime between nine and eleven o’clock.

He spotted the first indicator at 09.45. Number One was showing a minute rise. By 10.00 it was really going up, and at 10.05 Blackie was able to give a startled cry - “Oil temp on Number One going into the red!” He moved towards the controls, checking off item by item, trying to locate any obvious fault. In fact he let his Chief Petty Officer discover the problem. It took less than a minute.

“It’s the bloody filters. Change Filter One on Number One Turbine, Blackie.”

“Done.” Blackstone went into the little store room behind the Control Room, signed for one filter and took a sealed package from the spare module rack.

“Want some help, Blackie?” the Killick asked.

“Nab. Take me a couple of minutes.” Blackie went into the Engine Room, making his way to the far side of the first turbine.

In case of accidents, he had already put the new, but doctored, filter, in its packaging on the shelf which held filters in the store room. As it was first in line, the filter would, naturally, be the one to be used if any emergency arose. They had told him that within five minutes, this filter would produce thick smoke and do a very small amount of damage which would cause the turbine to be shut down. The small pencil mark he had inscribed to identify this doctored package was there, so he had no worries.

Change the filter, he thought, then go back and wait for the panic.

Petty Officer Blackstone went through exactly the same sequence of events as he had done on the previous night: unscrewing the lugs and lifting the filter out with his long tweezers. He took the second, doctored filter in the tweezers and dropped it in place.

There was a great deal of smoke, then an explosion which lifted Blackstone off his feet, hurling him against the metal wall behind him and removing parts of his body as it did so. His last thought before his final sleep descended on him was “They said it would only be smoke.

They said there was no risk.” Orders were coming through the Tannoy system, spoken calmly but giving essentials - all fireproof doors to be closed up; damage control to their stations; all firefighting crews to the Engine Room. “This is not a drill! This is not a drill!” the disembodied voice repeated several times.

James Bond and his party were thrown around the passageway in front of the cabin door where they were preparing to take the substitute Dan Woodward into custody. Bond had been knocked off his feet by the lurch of the ship, and was just picking himself up, when the cabin door opened to reveal Joe Israel, looking puzzled. “Hey, what the hell’s going on? I was just He was cut off by Dan Woodward’s arm snaking around his neck.

“I think they want to have words with me, Joe.” Woodward was pressing against Israel. “Tell them I have a gun in your back.” He spoke loudly, but with confidence.

Israel let out a long sigh. “Okay. Yes, James, he’s pushing a large piece into my back, and I’ve no doubt he’ll take me out. I presume he’s not really “Desperate Dan Woodward? No, I’m not,” Abou Hamarik hissed. “This is most unfortunate, because I must now get off this ship alive. I would suggest Captain Bond takes me, unless he would like to see this wretched man blown apart. Now, just put down your weapons, all of you. Gently does it.Just put them down on the deck. This is really most inconvenient.”

“Okay.” Bond’s face was like stone. “Just do as he says. I don’t want to endanger Joe in any way.”

As he bent at the knees to place the Browning on the carpeted deck, he caught a slight movement out of the corner of his left eye.

Someone pressed against the bulkhead in the Russian section of cabins.

Around him the marines and Bruce Trimble also put down their weapons.

“Okay,” Hamarik whispered. “Now move away from the door.

I’m bringing the American out.”

Bond did not dare to even allow his eyes to flicker in the direction of the Russian section. He did not know which way this fake Woodward wanted to go, so he simply stood back against the far wall of the narrow passageway. “Do as I do,” he told the others. “Backs against the wall here.” They obeyed - a line of seven men against the wall, and a small arsenal of weapons on the deck. They frit stupid and there was not one of them who felt he should make some kind of move.

Bond sensed it and said loudly, “I don’t want any heroics. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Then, to Hamarik, “Where do you want to go?”

“Off this ship, but I would like to take another guest with me.

You have a girl called Deeley in custody, I think.”

“Yes.”

I will take her also, and you, Bond, will lead us.”

“Okay,” Bond shrugged. “If you want to get Deeley you’ll have to turn left out of the cabin door. You want me to lead you?”

“I want all of you in front of me. Move, the lot of you.”

“Do as he says.” It was a risk Bond had to take. Someone would now be behind the so-called Woodward, so maybe they could do something, even though, in the confined space, it would be a risk.

“Wait!” Hamarik snapped. “Just shuffle along the wall. When I’m out into the open, with Israel, I’ll tell you to turn and go in front of me. I shall want you in single file so you block off the entire passage ahead of me. Okay! Move!”

They shuffled along the wall, leaving the area in front of the cabin completely free. It made things easier for Bond for he now had an excuse to turn his head towards the cabin door, his eyes seeking the movement in the Russian section.

He had hardly moved his eyes when Hamarik pushed Israel in front of him and came into the open, turning left. As he came out, he glanced to his right and saw what Bond had already spotted.

Standing in the doorway separating the Russian and American quarters, was Nikki Ratnikov, her legs apart and a small automatic pistol held in front of her with both hands.

Hamarik gave a little curse, pushed Israel around, trying to get his body between himself and Nikki. Keeping Israel in a hard neck-choke he pulled in hard, pushing him to the left, and realising he had no option but to fire at the girl.

The shots crashed out, echoing like cannon blasts in the confined space. Both fired twice, and both hit their marks.

Hamarik’s left arm dropped from Israel’s throat as he cried out, took a pace backwards, tried to lift his pistol again, but was forced to clutch at his right shoulder which had suddenly spouted blood. He cried again, dropped the pistol and sank to his knees.

It was Bruce Trimble who got to him first, snatching his own weapon from the deck and holding it at arm’s length. “Stay where you are, you damned honky fraud!” But Hamarik was already unconscious, keeling over and sprawling onto the deck.

Bond moved forward towards Nikki. She stood like a statue in the doorway, pistol still extended, arms rigid, and feet apart. But the white roll-neck sweater she wore had turned crimson: a great, ugly spreading stain.

Bond was only two paces from her when he heard the ghastly rattle from her throat, saw the blood gush from her mouth and her body crumple to the deck. He knelt over the girl, his fingers feeling for a pulse in her neck. Nothing. “She’s dead,” Bond said, bleakly. He had liked Nikki, in spite of some suspicions, and all sudden deaths of young people were sad moments, particularly in this case, for Nikki Ratnikov had put her own life at risk for their lives.

“Well, this bastard’s still alive, and I reckon he can be patched up and made to talk.” There was no bitterness in Bruce Trimble’s voice as he walked towards the nearest bulkhead telephone to call the Sick Bay. Over his shoulder he said they would need a marine guard around the clock.

Bond got to his feet. “Take care of it for me, Bruce. I’ve got to see what’s going on.” Even in the few minutes of stand off and death, they were all aware that there had been some serious problem on the ship. The Tannoy had been active, and Sir John Walmsley, himself, had been issuing some orders. Bond made his way along the passage, turned the corner and climbed the companionway. Whatever else had occurred, he now had to break the news of Nikki’s death, and the fact that they had a second presumed terrorist on board.

Bassam Baradj scanned the sea with his binoculars. All being well, the operation would have started by now, and soon he expected to hear what course of action the Captain of Invincible would take.

He refocused the glasses on the freighter, Estado Novo, which was, at this moment, passing through the Straits of Gibraltar.

The large crate was still in place on the main deck, shielding the stolen Sea Harrier from view, and he knew the pilot, Felipe Pantano, was also aboard.

The freighter had followed instructions to the letter and Baradj had been in constant, ciphered, contact with the ship since it had made its short visit to Oporto. From there the Estado Novo had passed through the Straits and headed for Tangier, where, with much bribery and considerable ingenuity, Baradj had arranged for other cargo to be taken on board: mainly four AIM-J air-to-air Sidewinder missiles, and a large quantity of 10mm ammunition, belted and ready for installation for use by the two Aden guns already resting in their pods on both port and starboard of the Harrier’s fuselage. They had also taken on a considerable amount of fuel.

By tonight, Baradj thought, the freighter would be in place. If needed, the stolen Sea Harrier could be airborne, by using the vertical take-off technique, within five minutes of an order being received.

Baradj took one more look, then put the glasses in their case, turned and began to walk quietly back to The Rock Hotel. Earlier he had looked down on the airport to make certain his private helicopter had arrived safely. The pilot was to stay with the craft and Baradj knew it would take part in the final piece of his plan - the recovery of the huge ransom he expected to pick up from the sea. Of course the pilot had no idea that he was doomed,just as all members of his brainchild, BAST, were doomed, to the extent that they would have done the dangerous and difficult work with no reward. Twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours, Baradj smiled, after that he would have a veritable king’s ransom.

He would also have disappeared from the face of the earth. He actually laughed out loud, thinking of the fanatics who would have given their souls for an opportunity like this, and how they would have wasted the money on guns and bombs, bringing more danger to their lives. He, Bassam Baradj - or to be truthful, Robert Besavitsky would use it for a really decent purpose: his own pleasure and security. Not yet, but in a year or so, he would emerge, with a new face and identity. He would own houses, estates, cars, yachts, private jets, companies which might even do some good for the world. He would make gifts: a new library here, or a museum there; maybe even scholarships. Yes, that was a new idea. Some good things must come out of the great crock of gold that waited for him. This would only be fair.

The sun shone and Baradj was happy. The sun was set fair for Gibraltar, though the weather report for the rest of the Spanish coast was not so good. Never mind, it would be good enough to do what needed to be done.

“I, for one, Sir John, do not care about what has happened. This is a unique meeting, and we do need a clear four days to complete our talks. Do I have to make it plain again? Four … clear .

days. That is what was arranged, and that is what we all expect.”

The Prime Minister looked towards the President of the United States and Secretary Gorbachev. An interpreter whispered the translation in Gorbachev’s ear. He nodded gravely, the birthmark on his forehead coming into view as the head bobbed and he repeated, “Da .

. . Da …

“Prime Minister,” George Bush spoke quietly. “I understand the problem, and I see you’re anxious because we are your guests. I agree wholly with you. We should stay aboard, we’ve lost almost one hour already. But I’d like to hear the options again.”

Sir John Walmsley gave a tiny sigh and nudged James Bond, who stood beside him. “I think Captain Bond should give you a little rundown,” he said, his voice that of a desperate man. “He is in complete control of your security, so he, as it were, carries the can.”

“Oh yes?” Bond thought before he spoke. “I think Sir John’s explained it very clearly.” He kept his voice deliberately low, and slow enough for the translator to do his work for Chairman Gorbachev.

“This morning, one of the main turbines which drive this ship, had a serious malfunction. One man, a Petty Officer, was killed and there was no further damage. The turbine has been inspected and, so far, there are no signs of sabotage. One thing is clear, though - we should not attempt to make Gibraltar without getting the turbine running again. Also, because the other turbines were produced at the same time as the one which blew, it is essential that they have a complete overhaul. This will take several days.” He paused to let all this sink in, and Mrs. Thatcher showed slight annoyance, looking at him as if to say, “Get on with it, man.”

“There is a US Naval Base, near Cadiz, and within a few hours’ sailing time from here, but there are problems about this place “You’re talking about Rota?” the PM asked.

“Precisely, Prime Minister. Until a few years ago Rota was a base for US ships. In particular for the nuclear submarine fleets.

However, this was discontinued at the request of the Spanish Government. Now it is solely used for Spanish ships, though the United States use it as an airfield - to support the US Navy, as a staging post for US personnel returning home, or going to other NATO bases in Europe. It is also, I am told, used for more sensitive matters.”

“So what are you telling us, Captain Bond?” President Bush asked, a little sharply.

“Permission has been given for The invincible to put into Rota. In fact it has now been included in the exercise in which we are supposed to be engaged, Landsea “89. A new turbine is being flown out, in several sections, and a special team of engineers are coming in from Rolls-Royce. The problem there is that we shall be called upon to allow more civilians on board .

“Can they not wait for the four days, which, I must remind you, Captain Bond, are shrinking fast?” The Prime Minister was getting more irritated and Bond already knew that it was unlikely they would budge her from her avowed intention of spending the full four days with President Bush and Secretary Gorbachev.

“There is one other problem,” Bond continued. “Yes, I expect the engineers can be kept at bay, but I am concerned for your safety.

While we cannot prove the gas-turbine accident was an act of sabotage, we have had two incidents since we commenced Landsea “89. Both, we suspect, are connected to a little-known terrorist group called BAST.

One took place before you joined us - that concerned murder, and the resultant discovery that one of the Wren detachment on board was not what she seemed. She was a very definite penetration agent, we think linked to BAST.

Also, this morning, one of your protectors, Chairman Gorbachev, was killed while we were trying to arrest a second man we think is also a BAST penetration.”

The Russian leader spoke a few words to the interpreter who said, “Mr. Gorbachev is already aware that Nikola Ratnikov has given her life for his personal protection. She is to be posthumously awarded the highest honour the Soviet Union can give to a brave soldier.”

Bond acknowledged the statement, then continued, “I have also been threatened by BAST. Over Christmas I was personally attacked, and my car was bombed on the island of Ischia. This was definitely a BAST operation, which seems to indicate that the whole of Stewards’ Meeting is known to them.

“Our only option is to limp into Rota tonight, and get you all off the ship, under cover of darkness. The USNB at Rota has agreed to take people off but, as yet, they do not, of course, know who you are.

“Then that will take up a little time, Captain Bond,” Mrs. Thatcher said frostily. “I would suggest that you get on with moving us into Rota, and arranging for us to fly back to our respective countries under the utmost secrecy.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister. That’s what we see as the most viable course .

But the PM had not finished. “This will, of course, not be possible to accomplish in the next four days. We started our talks this morning. We will leave, secretly from Rota, in four days. I am sure we’ll all be quite safe in your hands. Thank you, Sir John, thank you, Captain Bond. Now we must really get on with our work.

“It’s like trying to argue with an Exocet,” Sir John Walmsley said angrily once they were outside. “So be it. We make for Rota.

The rest of the Task Force will have to stay outside the harbour, as a defensive wall, while we, Bond, will just have to make the best of it. How’s the fellow who got shot this morning?”

“He’ll be okay, but we can’t even think of questioning him yet.”

“Come up to the bridge with me.” The Rear-Admiral had already set off at a brisk pace. “When’ll you be able to interrogate the man?”

“Probably some,time tomorrow. I have an armed guard on him round the clock.

“You going to leave him to the tender mercies of the inquisitor you had flown in from Gib?”

Bond sighed. “As it happens, I was going to have him relieved because I didn’t think him suitable for the Deeley girl. He’s got a paranoid personality, and jumps at every shadow. He’s not the most pleasant interrigator I’ve met, and he sees plots behind every uniform and every bulkhead, though I think he might just be the type to deal with this joker.”

“Your province, Bond. Your province. You must do as you see fit.” They had reached the bridge. “Oh, merciful heavens, look what we have here!” Walmsley exploded. Outside the weather had closed in, with low cloud and driving rain.

“It’ll take me until tonight to get into Rota. Maybe late tonight.

You get on with what you have to do, Bond, and I’ll try and make it in the shortest possible time. The Task Force will have to close up, and that’s not going to be easy in the circumstances.

We’ll talk later. Right?”

“Aye-Aye, sir.” Bond went below, found the sick bay and spoke to Surgeon Commander Grant.

“He’s weak and unconscious,” the doctor told him, “though one of the Flag Lieutenants guarding Mrs. T came down and shot off some photographs to send to London for identification. The marines will keep an eye on him, and, I assure you that, unless he’s subject to a miracle, there’s no way he can get out of here.

Lost too much blood.” Next, Bond summoned Donald Speaker to his cabin. The man showed no sign of relaxing his near-paranoid unpleasant stance and arrived late, without knocking at the door.

“Sit down.” Bond knew he sounded like a headmaster who had summoned a recalcitrant boy to his study.

“What is it now? More shady business?”

“In a word, yes. But you’d better know that I had London’s clearance to have you taken ashore and sent home, after last night.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. But another job’s come up that might just be right for your unpleasant talents.” He instructed the interrogator regarding the wounded prisoner. “You’ll have a word with the Surgeon Commander tomorrow morning, and you will take his advice, and his advice only, as to when you can start. Now, I don’t want to see hide nor hair of you until you’ve got a result.”

In the wardroom at lunchtime, Clover Pennington came over and said she was sorry to hear about the Russian girl. “You’d grown quite fond of her, hadn’t you?” she asked.

“In a professional way only, Clover. She was good at her job.”

“And aren’t I any good at mine?”

“You’re excellent, Clover. But let it all lie till we’ve got the next few days behind us.”

They made Rota just before midnight. A boat went ashore with Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley, who stayed on the US Base until three in the morning, having made all arrangements for the base to house the inbound Rolls-Royce technicians.

The ship’s routine went on as usual, and, after doing his rounds of the secure areas for the heads-of-state and their bodyguards, Bond turned in a good hour before Walmsley was back in the ship.

His bedside communications telephone woke him at just before six.

“Captain’s compliments, sir. Could you go to his night cabin immediately?” It was the Officer of the Watch.

Bond shaved and dressed at the speed of light, and presented himself at the Captain’s night cabin ten minutes later.

Walmsley was in his bunk, looking tired, propped on one elbow, sipping a large mug of coffee with one hand and holding a signal in the other. “They give me no peace,” he said. “This is, I think, for you, Bond.” He waggled the flimsy signal. “Coffee?”

“No, I’ll get some later, sir.” Bond quickly read the flimsy.

FROM OC USNB ROTA SPAIN TO CAPTAIN HMS INVINCIBLE STOP IF YOU HAVE A CAPTAIN JAMES BOND ON BOARD HE IS REQUESTED TO COME ASHORE IMMEDIATELY TO TAKE URGENT INSTRUCTIONS FROM HIS SUPERIORS STOP PLEASE ADVISE SO HE CAN BE MET STOP CAPTAIN BOND IS ADVISED SONGBIRD STOP “I trust this was in cipher, sir?” The use of the word Songbird authenticated the signal for Bond.

“With you fellows it’s always in cipher. My writer unbuttoned it under absolute security. Gravestone security.”

“I think I’d better go, then, sir.”

“Thought you might. I’ve got a boat standing by. Only one rating to take you in. I don’t want to send a lot of people off the ship at the moment. Should he wait for you?”

Bond thought for a moment. “No, sir. But, as a precaution, I’ll signal you when I’m ready to return and I’ll use the word Songbird. If everything is normal, could you use Tawny Owl at the end of your signal?”

“Oh lord, must I, Bond?”

“My signal to you will assure you of my safety. You should also respond in kind.”

“Very well. Off you go. Your boat’s waiting at the forward gangway, port side.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As Bond left the cabin, so the Rear-Admiral leaned forward and began to write on the pad by his bed.

The rain had eased oIl, but Bond had muffled himself in his greatcoat, as the wind still carried rain and it was bitterly cold at seven in the morning. Also the Leading Seaman who steered them in did not seem to be completely awake. Altogether, Bond was glad when they reached the jetty. A civilian car was parked nearby and, as he came up the stone steps, a United States Navy Commander stepped from the driving side.

“Captain Bond?” He saluted.

“The same.

“Anything else to tell me, sir?”

“Predator,” Bond snapped back.

“Fine, sir. My name’s Carter. Mike Carter, and I’m acting on behalf of Songbird. If you’d like to get in, we have someone waiting for you on the base, sir.

They drove through the early morning mist, and the rain started up gain.

Finally, the American Commander stopped the car by a well guarded gateway. A black guard stepped forward and scrutinised the laminated card proffered by the Commander, looked at Bond and asked who he was.

Commander Carter handed him another piece of paper which, to his amazement, Bond saw had his photograph attached to it.

“Okay.” For the first time the guard saluted, and they drove on.

It was like any other base, apart from an area in the distance which contained two huge communications spheres, made from angled panels, making them look like enormous white golf-balls.

From between them other equipment sprouted - a very tall aerial, and three rotating dishes.

Over to his left, Bond saw another communications ball with some of the panels missing.

“That one not functioning?” he asked.

“Hell, no.” Carter smiled. “We share this place with the K Spanish Navy. That was going to be for them, so we built the sphere, then they couldn’t afford the gizmos that go inside. Tell you what, though, on Halloween we put lights in it and move the panels around.

It looks great as a pumpkin.”

They pulled up outside a low office building which had a marine armed guard at the door.

“Okay, here we are. Terminus, as they say. Just follow me, sir.

He showed the ID to the marine and they went through a small reception area, and along a passage. “In here, sir.” Carter opened a door. “Can I get you anything?”

“I haven’t had breakfast and I’m pretty dry.”

“Bacon, eggs, coffee.”

“Why not?” Bond smiled.

“Be back in a few minutes then, Captain Bond, sir.”

Bond nodded, and went into the room.

“Hello, my darling, I thought I’d never see you again,” said Beatrice Maria da Ricci, who was sitting at a table with a large mug of coffee in front of her.

Batsblood

For once, Bond was lost for words. “But he croaked, “you’re Beatrice,” pronouncing it as she had done, Beh-ahTree-che. As he did so, he realised that he had been mourning her since the terrible moment on Christmas afternoon when he had seen her blown to pieces in front of him at the Villa Capricciani on Ischia.

Instinctively he reached out to touch her hand. It was flesh - and blood, and he really did not care if she were the “Cat” of BAST.

She smiled up at him, the smile lighting her eyes, and the whole of her face. “It’s okay, James. I am real, not a ghost. Also I am on your side. I am not the “Cat’.”

“But how … What? - - I saw .

“You saw a very good illusion. Like a magician’s trick, like David Copperfield in America, or Paul Daniels in England.”

“How?”

“Your life was saved. So was mine, and we owe our lives to Franco whom we can never repay, because he is dead. I pleaded with M to let you know before this, but he said no, not until you could be off the ship for a little time.”

“But, how, Beatrice?”

There was a knock at the door and Carter reappeared with a tray.

Bacon, fried very crisply, the American way, two eggs, sunnyside up, a plate of toast, preserves and a huge pot of coffee.

“Don’t forget, Miss da Ricci,” Carter cautioned as he left.

“There isn’t much time. Your boss said it had to be done as quickly as possible.”

“Haven’t forgotten, Mike. Thank you.

Carter left and she told Bond to eat. “I will talk. Just like old times, eh?”

He nodded, and again asked how.

“There are two things you should know, James. First, you only met Franco and Umberto, who both gave their lives for all this.

We had more people watching out for us. Four more men, all well concealed. They were our real watchers. Second, while we showed you around the Villa we did not quite show you everything. Maybe that was wrong. I don’t know any more.”

“What didn’t you show me?” He swallowed the orange juice in one draught, then tucked in to the bacon and eggs. As fastidious as he was about breakfast, this was heaven. He had not realised how hungry he was, nor how thirsty. Unnaturally thirsty.

“You recall the turning space for the car, near the lily pond, just inside the main gates?”

He nodded.

“Well, the wall to the right, before you came to the second gate and the steps .

“What of it?”

“Describe it to me.

Bond frowned, munching on a piece of toast. “It was a wall.”

He thought again. “A wall covered with ivy.”

“You got it. A wall covered in ivy. But it was a wall that was not a wall. There was also a gate in the wall. The ivy was always clipped regularly, so that the gate could be opened and closed.