Win, Lose Or Die

The same on the other side, but when you were through the gate you were in a little metal room, like a tall box. It was used as a watchers’ point, or for quick escape and concealment. One of our other watchers spotted people getting in through the main gates in the early hours of Christmas Day. The locks and devices seemed to make no difference to them. They were very skilful people. But you know they are skilful.”

“And they …?”

She nodded. “They tampered with the car. Put a bomb underneath.”’ “Yes?”

“Franco was alerted. He told me on Christmas morning. Also, you should know that they had already put in a bugging device.

I blush, James. They heard everything.”

“you? You blush?” He leaned across the table and kissed her.

“Listen, James, there is not much time. Our other watchers saw that the intruders, the people from BAST, were lazy. They knew we would not come out, or go near the car until either late on Christmas Day, or even the next day. They left all things unguarded. They just went away.”

“And Franco had a look-see?”

“More than a look-see. It was not easy. They used C-4

plastique, with a remote detonator. A button job, as they like to call it.”

“So what did Franco do?”

“It was dangerous. Very dangerous. He bypassed their remote control, and put in a different one. He also added a few extra things for luck. The door had been left open, and their remote simply operated a little light-bulb on the steering-wheel. That was the first thing Franco put in.” She poured herself a cup of coffee, and the building shook slightly as an aircraft took off from the base.

“We had our own button job. When they operated their button, I pressed our button and this made for a great deal of smoke.

Very thick smoke, and a flash, which went off four seconds after the smoke. A big flash. The smoke was dense. It covered the whole parking area.”

Bond remembered, and saw it all again. First there was smoke, then the flash, followed by the terrible detonation.

“This is why I dashed ahead. We thought that if they believed I was dead they would make a move - which they did. As soon as I pressed our button I was able to run through the smoke, and get to the other side of the wall. In the tall metal box, there, we had another remote, linked to the real detonator. With these things there is often a time-lapse. They all thought, like you, that I was blown to pieces “But you were. They found remains.”

She did not look him in the eyes. “Yes, that was most unpleasant, and a terrible thing to do. I shall have to make many novenas.

Franco’s people robbed a grave. I don’t wish to talk about that.”

“You’re alive, Beatrice, my darling. That’s really all that matters.”

“Actually, James, it does matter, but there is something more important. You have to get back to the ship. Even now, terrible things could be happening. We have people watching but we don’t really know what they’re going to do. Or how they’ll do it.

You were followed, by the way .

“Followed here?”

“No, after the bomb. To the place they had set up on the mainland. We managed to get our first good photograph of Bassam Baradj, who we think is the “Viper’ of BAST. The leader, who is going to do something pretty terrible to those three important people you have on your ship.” She pushed a photograph across the table. It was the man he had known as Toby Lellenberg, the Commanding Officer of Northanger.

“That’s Baradj?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if all that was phoney, why in heaven’s name didn’t anyone do something about it? Why didn’t you get me out? Come to that you could have scuppered Baradj at the same time. Why, Beatrice?”

She gave him a wan smile. “Why, indeed? I tried, James. I tried very hard. To me it seemed the obvious thing to do.”

“Then why didn’t you …?”

M overruled it. You were monitored very carefully. The whole Northanger set-up was kept under close surveillance, but M said we were to let them play it out. His argument was fairly sound.

He wanted to use the information regarding your.- hijacking, and, come to that, the hijacking of all the Northanger staff as a lever.”

“What kind of a lever?”

“He thought the Prime Minister, the US President, and Gorby would abort the whole thing if they smelled danger. He that is - laid it all out to the PM; went through the dangers, and the difficulties we might have with security. But . .

“But she wouldn’t listen.” Bond supplied.

Beatrice nodded. “She waved aside everything. Even called the US President while M was there. Their argument was that this was urgent, important, and couldn’t be rescheduled. I rather gather that she just waved aside the danger, and the others followed her, like sheep.”

“That all figures. Do we know where Baradj is now?”

“We’re not sure. Maybe on Gibraltar. Maybe even nearer.

Now you know this, you have to get back. You also have to get Mrs. Thatcher, the President of the United States, and Mr. Gorbachev off the ship in time. Off and away from it.”

An expletive suddenly burst out of Bond’s mouth.

“What?” Beatrice asked.

“If you’re not the “Cat’, then .

“Of course. Did you not realise that before? It’s one of the reasons you have to get back. If we pinpoint Baradj, then I’ll be near him. Look for me near Baradj.” She had risen and pressed a button set in the wall. Mike Carter appeared in the doorway.

“Time to go?” he asked, almost gratefully.

“I have told him all we know, Mike.”

“Your boat didn’t wait for you.” Carter looked at Bond.

“No. No, I have a code sequence with Walmsley. Are you in touch with the ship?”

“Sure. No speech, just the electronics.”

“Okay, send this Songbird requests boat to come aboard.

You should receive a response with the words Tawny Owl in it.

If they don’t send Tawny Owl, then I guess we’re in for a shooting match.” He rose, and she came around the table to him. For the first time Bond noticed that she was wearing the gold and diamond clasp, shaped like a scutum, that he had given her for Christmas.

He held her close, and kissed her hair, then her lips. “If you’re going to be near Baradj, you take care, Beatrice, my darling.”

“You just get those important people off Invincible. Then we’ll go for Baradj together. I want another Christmas with you, James.”

“Maybe a lot of christmases.” Carter had returned and coughed delicately by the door.

“You’re okay, sir. The message read, “Am sending boat for Songbird stop The Tawny Owl is waiting.”’ “Thank God for that.” Bond kissed her again, then left quickly, not looking back. He rarely looked back in a situation like this.

In some ways he thought it might bring bad luck.

The little boat, with its engine throbbing, was already waiting at the steps. In the bow a Leading Wren waited to help him aboard.

“The Captain’s apologies, sir. He couldn’t send the same seaman back for you. The rnan has had to go to the Sick Bay.

He wasn’t too well.”

Bond remembered. “He didn’t seem all that brilliant on the way in.” He jumped down into the boat and waved to Carter, who waited until they were clear of the jetty and then walked to his car.

Ten minutes later, Carter was back at the low building inside the base. Beatrice was waiting outside, looking frantic and agitated.

“Oh, my God, Mike.” Her voice had risen to an almost hysterical pitch.

“What in God’s name he began.

“They’ve got them.”

“Who?”

“Thatcher, Bush and Gorbachev. The Foreign Office in London received a telephone call ten minutes ago. They’ve been told to pass it on to their opposite numbers in Washington and Moscow. The call was from a man. They think from London. He gave them a code word Batsblood and said that the three heads of state were being held in invincible. There will be no release to the Press and their demand is six hundred billion dollars: two hundred billion for each of the heads of state.”

“Just money? Nothing else? No prisoners to be released?

Nothing like that?”

She shook her head, biting her lip. “That’s it. They have until three o’clock our time to agree. If nothing by then, they’ll show us some kind of firework display. If the Task Force makes any attempt to approach invincible, they’ll kill one of the three.” She drew in air.

“How? How could they have …?”

“We tried to contact the ship?”

Again the little nod. “Absolutely no vocal response. Nothing except the electronics. invincible already signalled to the other ships, order them to keep station.”

The little boat puttered up to the companionway let down from the main deck, forward, on the port side. The Leading Wren held the craft steady with a boathook, while Bond made his way up the shaking steps.

As they had approached the invincible he seemed to sense something eerie about it. Something wrong that he couldn’t put his finger on.

Now, he reached the main deck and saw it was deserted, except for the aircraft and helicopters.

His intuition was either correct, or playing tricks with him. In any case he reached behind him for the Browning. He had not even got a hand on the butt when a familiar voice said, “I wouldn’t do that, James. Just take your hand away.”

He turned to see Clover Pennington, with a Wren on each side, coming from behind one of the Sea Harriers. All three girls carried automatic pistols.

Stay cool, he thought. Stay very cool.

“Hello, “Cat’.” He smiled.

Operation Sleeping Beauty One of the girls walked forward, reached behind him and removed the Browning.

“Cuff him, while you’re at it,” Clover told her. “Well, James, did Tawny Owl give you the go-ahead?”

“Yes, how did you manage that?” he asked, surprised that his voice appeared to be steady.

“The silly old fool made a note of it and left it on his night table. It was so easy.

Bond felt the cuffs go on; the cold steel biting into his wrists.

He was still puzzled by the silence. “How, Clover?” he asked.

“Bring him down to my cabin,” she ordered the two Wrens, who shoved him like men, leading him to the bulkhead and down the companionway, along the knee-touching passages to the Captain’s day cabin, where they roughly pushed him into a chair.

Clover told the two girls to get on with their other duties.

“I’ll call for you in about five minutes. I want this one nicely locked away in the cells.” She went behind the Captain’s desk and sat, looking at him. “You see how easy it is for women to do the job of men?” The smile was still attractive, without menace, or phoney evil.

The snarl and leer were strictly for the movies.

Clover looked like any other, nice, well-brought-up girl with a future.

“There’s nobody around, that’s obvious.” Bond’s mind hovered between thoughts of what he could do, and how in heaven’s name First Officer Pennington had managed to take over the ship. “There are over two thousand people on this ship.”

He tried a winning smile. “How do fourteen girls manage to take over, as you appear to have done?”

“Two thousand and eighteen to be correct. Oh, and fifteen girls.

We sprang Sarah Deeley. She’s a psycho, of course, but useful if it comes to any really distasteful jobs.”

“How?” he asked again.

“Because it was very well planned, and we were in a prime position to pull it off. My girls had jobs everywhere - including complete access to the galleys.”

“The food?”

She nodded, “And drink. You should not really have got off the ship, James. I was a little cross about that. Didn’t you feel very thirsty this morning?”

He remembered chug-a-lugging the orange juice on the base, and the unusual need to drink. “Ah.”

Again the nice-girl smile, “Ah, indeed. Every morsel of food, every beverage, yesterday contained a substance that would make every man jack feel thirsty this morning. A craving thirst.”

“And this morning?”

“This morning you had nothing to drink before you went off to Rota. If you had taken a swig of coffee you would have become disoriented within twenty minutes, and dropped asleep within the half-hour. We called it Operation Sleeping Beauty. There were minor problems, of course - you were one of them - but my girls had ways of dealing with it all. Everyone, but you, is cosily tucked away. Fast asleep.”

“How dangerous is this stuff?”

“Stuff? Oh, the Mickey Finn we popped into the food and drink.

Kick like a mule, James. Knocks people out cold.

There’s a lot of that old stand-by, chloral hydrate, in it, but it’s been refined, the smell removed, also the after-effects are negative. The “Viper” put a lot of money into having the stuff made to the highest standards - Oh, and there’s little or no danger.”

“The “Viper” sounds a right little charmer.”

“He is, as it happens. Anyway, James, the whole company of this ship will be out cold for at least three days.”

“And the object of the exercise?”

“Money. MoneyŤ to continue putting the world, and society to wrights.”

“A lot of money?”

“Two hundred billion for each of the VIPs Bond started to laugh, “Clover, is Bassam Baradj that naive?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Doesn’t he realise that this isn’t the ultimate hostage situation?”

“Why not? Three of the world’s most powerful politicians . .

“Quite. You want money for them, and there’s no way you’ll get it. Sure, the countries concerned will probably chase all of you to the ends of the earth and back, but nobody’s going to pay that kind of money to get politicians back. Don’t you see that?

It’ll be Et tu, Brute? time. Nights of the long knives time.

The Russians will shrug their shoulders and the anti-glasnost team’ll be in. The Americans will do something stupid, like letting the Vice-President in for a while and then starting the circus again.

The British? Well, Mrs. T has her supporters, but … well, the Cabinet will hold little crisis meetings. Then they’ll just announce a new P.M. America and us Brits never give in to hostage situations anyway, and a lot of powerful people will see it as a God-sent opportunity for a change in leadership.” Bond thought for a moment and added, “But then, perhaps not.”

She had gone a little pale, he thought. Well, he was only telling her the truth. “Eventually, death. Yes. We have a few aces up our sleeves. If the Governments don’t meet our requirements by 15.00 hours this afternoon, our time, we’ll show some power. If anyone tries an assault on the ship, Sarah will deal with the hostages. One at a time, of course. So far it’s between us and the Governments, but I don’t see that lasting if they miss our first deadline.” She looked at her watch. “Three hours to go. I don’t know what’s planned, but we’ve all been told to stay off the main deck and the island.”

“You can’t win. There’s no way. Clover, how in God’s name, did someone like you get into a situation like this?”

“Don’t talk to me like a cleric patronising a whore!” she shouted. Then very quietly she said, “Because the world’s a rotten place, run by rotten people. Our kind of anarchy is positive.

We want a fair and open society throughout the globe “You’re just like all those pipe dreamers, Clover. There’ll never be a fair, free and open society in this world. You see, people get in the way.

Ideals are for idealists, and all idealists fall from grace. No ideal works, simply because human beings cannot cope with it. The man said it all - Power tends to corrupt; and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Lord Acton, wasn’t it?

Said it all.”

“You don’t think she began. “No. No, you’re trying the old hostage rapport trick. Time for you to go quietly on your way, James.”

Even before she had said it, there was an urgent knocking at the door.

She called out and one of the Leading Wrens, who had taken him on the main deck, came in. She was a tall, angular blonde, but with the unfortunate fire and fervour of belief in her eyes. “All three countries have turned us down, Ma’am. “Viper” says everyone is to stay below at 15.00 hours. He thinks that by going public we’ll force their hands.”

Clover nodded, then cocked her head towards Bond. “You can take him down to the cells. Lock him up tight.”

“I don’t have to keep the bracelets on, do I, Clover? I mean the cells are pretty secure.

She gave it a moment’s thought. “Make sure he’s banged up tightly. Take one of the other girls down with you - armed. The cuffs can go.

Bond went quietly. He knew his only hope would be to get up onto the main deck, and, with luck, get off in the first Sea Harrier which was on the ski-ramp,juiced up and heavy with weaponry.

When in this kind of situation, go along with them. The entire business was crazy anyhow, for he fully believed all that BAST had done was to present an unexpected political bonus to those who opposed Gorbachev, Thatcher and Bush.

Another Wren joined them, cradling an H & K MP5 SD3, with which she prodded Bond. He could not but admire the organisation. Baradj might have chosen a stupid, negative target, but the operation and its methods had been excellent.

The cells were a little cluster of six, barred cubicles, deep within the ship. In a world of technology they were a tad old-fashioned. The barred doors slid back by hand and they were equipped with straightforward deadlocks. Nobody else occupied the cells and they just pushed him into the first one available.

“What about the handcuffs?” he asked, as the Leading Wren seemed about to lock him up.

“Oh, yes. Frisk him, Daphne.” The blonde with the feverish eyes had that tough, rather butch manner that you often found In service women. It did not mean that they were different from other females, but it came with the job. Soft girls hardened under military discipline.

Daphne frisked him. Very thoroughly, Bond thought, for she lingered around his crotch. A genuine FCP, he said to himself.

Finally they unlocked the cuffs, slid the bars in place and locked him away.

“Someone’ll have to bring you food, I suppose,” the blonde said, her voice irritated at the thought. “Don’t know how long that’ll be, we’re pretty heavily stretched.”

“I can wait,” Bond said politely, knowing that whatever they brought him would be well laced with their new concoction of basic chloral hydrate.

Alone now, he had decisions to make. This time he really was on his own. Up the proverbial creek without a paddle. No hidden weapons; nothing spectacular from Q Branch. Just himself, his skills, and the absolute necessity to get away.

About one hundred miles to the north-west of Rota, the freighter Es ta do Novo had stopped her engines, and the sides of the fake crate were being lowered to display the stolen Sea Harrier.

Felipe Pantano fussed around. There was a lot of arm-waving, and a good deal of shouting and talking, as he supervised the arming and refuelling of the jet. He was being given his chance.

Today he would see action for BAST and the thought never occurred to him that he just might not get back to the freighter alive. After all, the whole thing was foolproof.

Nobody on any of the other ships from the Task Force would challenge a Royal Navy Sea Harrier, and by the time he had done his work, he would be streaking back to the Estado Novo with the throttle fully open. It was certainly a great day for him.

The one word message, Dispatch, which had come in clearly by radio, had changed the entire pattern of his life.

To put it simply, Felipe Pantano was an excited man.

In Gibraltar, Baradj had been loath to send the Dispatch signal to the Estado Novo, but the American State Department, the British Foreign Office and the Kremlin had left him no alternative.

Fools, he thought, they do not know what they’re dealing with.

So he sent the signal - a telephone call to London, as before, another telephone call from his people in London to the registered owners of the ship in Oporto, and the signal sent buried in a longer message, direct from the owners.

Altogether, Baradj was pleased with the way in which he had organised the messages, by short “phone calls from himself, to longer calls from his London people, who used pay “phones and stolen credit cards - recently stolen: which meant purloined less than an hour before the calls went out. The communications were untraceable, which, once more, put him in the clear.

Baradj sat in his room at The Rock Hotel, just five minutes or so from the famous monkeys which inhabited their own territory of the Rock and were all known by name to their keepers. All of the monkeys had names, and were identifiable. Baradj found it a strange, and unnatural trait in the British that they allowed one pair of them to be called Charles and Di, and another twosome, Andy and Fergie. This was almost treason to the British Royal Family, Baradj considered. He had a great love of the British Royal Family - which meant that Baradj would really have liked to have been born into a different kind of background.

It also meant that he was trying to buy himself into the aristocracy: via terrorist activities.

Well, he thought, the balloon would go up soon enough. They would see, in less than two hours now, that they weren’t playing with any old terrorist outfit. Oh, he thought, the books are correct: it is very lonely at the top of the chain of command. One of his great troubles at this moment was that he had nobody to talk to. He had, in fact, been reduced to making quick, almost nonsensical calls to other members of the organisation, uninvolved in the present operation.

Finally, Baradj decided to call in his last lieutenant, All Al Adwan whom he had left quietly in Rome. The call was to be his undoing, for the monitors in the whole area of Spanish coastal waters, had, as the jargon would say, unwaxed their ears: which meant they were listening out with extreme diligence.

“Pronto,” Adwan answered the telephone in his Rome hotel.

“Health depends on strength,” said Bassam Baradj.

They picked up All Al Adwan an hour later outside the hotel, on his way to the airport.

It was decided, at very high level, to let Baradj remain as a sleeping dog. After all, they could monitor his telephone calls, and even run complete surveillance on him.

James Bond had decided his only chance was to make a move when they brought his food. If he ate or drank anything it would be curtains, or at least some heavy gauze that would leave him junked out for a few days.

It was going to be very dangerous, for they would never think of sending a girl down on her own. There would be a guard, and he would have to deal with the situation on the hoof. Time ticked away: half an hour; an hour. Then, at i4.3o, he heard the lock on the outer door click open.

“Room Service.” It was the unpleasant voice of Donald Speaker, who, a second later, appeared in front of the bars, a tray in one hand, keys and a Browning mm in the other. Bond thought it was probably his own Browning. On the tray was a plate of cold cuts and salad, with a large mug of steaming coffee next to it.

“I might have known you’d turn coat.”

“Oh, I had it turned a long time ago, James Bond. Money isn’t everything, but it helps the world go round. I’m not a political traitor: just avaricious.” He skilfully operated the key in the lock and Bond relaxed, trying to work out the best, and safest, move.

“Anyway, Speaker continued, “you can’t expect these girls to do it all. Girls can’t do a man’s job.” He slid back the barred entrance and stood in the opening, the tray held by his left hand and balanced on his right wrist, the Browning held tightly and pointing directly at Bond, a mite too steadily for comfort. “Just step right back against the wall. Move fast if you like. It would be a great pleasure to kill you.

“I’ll do it slowly and correctly,” Bond smiled. “I’m not quite ready for the chop yet.” He took one short step backwards, then made his move. Swivelling to his right, out of the Browning’s deadly eye, he turned and brought his left leg up in a shattering kick at the tray.

His aim was slightly off, but the effect was what he wanted for the kick lifted the tray at almost the correct point, bringing the steaming mug of coffee up in a scalding spray, straight over Speaker’s face.

The interrogator’s reaction was one of the most natural things Bond had ever seen. First, he dropped both tray and gun; second his hands flew up to his face; third, and concurrent with the first two, Speaker screamed - loudly and painfully.

Bond stepped in, grabbing at the Browning, twisting as he did so, aiming a heavy chop with the gun butt at the base of Speaker’s skull.

“Coffee,” Bond whispered to himself, “can instantly damage your health.” He was outside, sliding the gate closed, locking it and removing the keys.

He went through the outer door with care. There was nobody in the passageway, so he locked the door, and moved along the passage until he came to the first companionway which he went up at speed. He had one great advantage over the Wrens: one of the first things any officer does when reporting aboard a new ship is to make certain he knows the lay-out, and the best and quickest route to follow between any two points. Bond had spent almost an entire day learning the passages, bulkheads, companionways and catwalks of Invincible. He knew the way to the nearest heads which had ports above sea level, and he made this his first stop, unscrewing the lugs on one of the ports and hurling the key to the cells far out into the sea.

He moved as quickly as possible, taking great pains, stopping from time to time to listen for any sign of life. Wrens, he thought, should normally be identifiable at distance, but Clover Pennington’s Wrens had obviously been subjected to special training.

There were also only fifteen of them, and they would have to be well spread out across the ship.

He was making his way to the Crew Room in the forward part of the island, at main deck level. He moved by the fastest means, bypassing the more obvious places where Clover would have people posted. It was now 14.45, so, with luck, they would all be below the main deck and off the island, as they had been instructed.

It was as though the entire ship was deserted, for he saw nobody in his journey, and it was only when he got to the Crew Room that he realised Clover had left one girl on deck; though, he figured, she would have to get below on the dot of three. The door to the main deck was open, and the girl had her back towards him. It was the tall, tough blonde Leading Wren who had taken him to the cells, and it was obviously her turn with the H & K MP5 SD3. She held it as though it was her child, which was a bad sign with terrorists. Women of this persuasion were taught to regard their personal weapon as their child: and that was not just terrorism according to the top people’s espionage novelist. It was for real.

He looked around the Crew Room and finally found a G-suit and helmet which were roughly his size. Two-fifty in the afternoon. From the bulkhead door he could still see the Leading Wren, and behind her the Sea Harriers, the first of the four aircraft right on the ski-ramp, with one machine behind it, and a pair of others parked abreast. They were all obviously ready and armed, for the ribbons hung from the Sidewinders, slung under the wings.

Standing to one side of the bulkhead, his back to the deck, Bond put up the visor of his helmet and whistled loudly.

There was movement from the deck, so the Leading Wren had heard and been alerted. He whistled, shrilly again, and heard the answering footsteps as she crossed towards the Crew Room door. The footsteps stopped, and he could imagine that she was standing, uncertain, the H & K tucked into her hip and the safety off.

When she came, she moved quickly and was inside the Crew Room almost before Bond was ready for her. The only piece of luck that came his way was the fact that she moved to the right first, which is normal in right-handed people, and exactly why Bond had staked himself to the left, from her viewpoint on the main deck.

His arm went around her neck. This was one of those times when it did not pay to be squeamish, or to even think about what he was doing.

He only wished that it had been the psycho, Deeley.

She dropped the machine pistol, trying to claw at his arms, but Bond had already done the damage. Left arm around the neck from behind; push in hard; reach over and grasp the left biceps with the right hand, so that his right forearm went across her forehead. Now the pressure: fast, very hard, and lethal. He heard the neck go, and Felt her weight in sudden death. Then he grabbed at the H & K and ran out onto the deck, slipping the H & K to Safe, ducking under the wings of the aircraft until he reached the one on the ski-ramp. He went right around the aircraft, checking all control surfaces were free, nipping the warning ribbons from the Sidewinders, and pulling the caps off the front of the Aden gun pods.

The generator was in place, plugged in. He paused for a second, undecided. He could leave it in and be certain that he could start the engine first time or unplug and hope to hell there was enough charge on board. If he took the first option, there was danger in the take-off with the generator cable still attached.

He took the second way and unplugged the cord, then ran around the aircraft, climbing into the cockpit. As he lowered himself into the seat he imagined he could hear the sound of another aircraft.

He clipped the straps on and hauled down so that he was tightly secured. He lowered the canopy, and pressed the ignition, going through the pre-take-off drill in his head.

As he pressed the ignition, so there was a huge roar. Flame speared up from somewhere behind him, and he could hear the heavy thump of 10mm shells hitting parked aircraft and the deck around him.

As the engine fired, so the shape crossed directly over him. A Sea Harrier, very low, almost hugging the sea as it did a tight turn, pulling a lot of G, to circle and come in again.

In at the Kill

He did not really know if this was a full, coordinated attack on invincible, but, in the last seconds, logic told him exactly what it was - the fireworks promised by BAST if the 15.00 hours deadline was not met.

Take-off check: brakes on; flaps OUT; ASI “bug” to lift-off speed.

As always, the aircraft was alive, trembling to the idling of the Rolls-Royce turbofan.

Nozzle lever set to short take-off position at the 500 stop mark; throttle to fifty-five percent RPM; brakes off; throttle banged into fully open, and there it was, the giant hand pressing at his chest and face.

The Sea Harrier snarled off the ramp. Gear “Up”. ASI “bug” flashing and beeping; nozzles to horizontal flight; flaps to IN.

The HUD showing the climbing angle, right on 600, and a speed of 640 knots.

Bond broke left, standing on one wing as he pulled a seven G turn, the nose dropping slightly, then coming up with a twitch of the rudder.

One thousand feet, and to his right he saw Invincible, the aircraft and helicopters on her deck ablaze. Gas tanks going up to produce spectacular blooms of fire, and the other aircraft, low, almost down to the water, then putting her nose up and pulling into a hard, left turn.

Bond reached the outer edge of the turn, flipped the aircraft into a right-hand break, harder this time, his left foot pushing down on the rudder to keep level, then back on the stick to gain height as a bleep started to pulse loud in his headphones, and the trace on the radar showing another aircraft locking on behind him - behind and above.

He pulled back on the stick, put the nose towards the sky, and heard the rasping noise that warned a missile had been released.

His mind grabbed at the recent past, and the missile fired at him near the bombing range close to the Isle of Man. That could have only been an AIM-J Sidewinder. As close as this, a superior AIM-9L Sidewinder would have followed him to impact.

He punched out three flares, set his own HUD to air-to-air weapons, and flung the aircraft onto its back, easing up on the stick and feeling the red-out as the horizon disappeared below him and the sea came rushing up to meet him as he took the Harrier through an inverted roll.

The rasping beep disappeared, and the horizon came up again.

The flares had done their job, but he could not see the other Harrier and he was down to 2,000 feet again.

Turning In a wide full 3600, Bond searched sky and sea with his eyes, flicking to and fro between the view from his cockpit to the radar screen. In the far distance invincible’s deck was still littered with burning aircraft, and he thought he caught sight of a yellow fire bulldozer being handled in an attempt to clear the deck of the ravished hulks of “planes and helicopters. Then he caught the flash, on the radar, far away, thirty or so miles out to sea. The flashing dot began to wink and he adjusted his course, losing height and slamming the throttles to full power, trying to lock on to the other Sea Harrier, obviously intent on making its getaway, and evading chase.

He was pushing the Harrier to its outer limits of speed, making a shallow dive towards the sea and keeping his course level with the flashing cursor on the radar screen. Without any conscious thought he knew who he was up against: knew it was the Sea Harrier which had gone missing on the day he had nearly had a missile up his six. The pilot could only be the Spaniard, though, at this moment, with the sea flashing below him and his eyes flicking between instruments and the horizon, he could not have named him.

In seconds, Bond realised he was, in fact, gaining on the other Harrier which was about twenty miles ahead of him now. He armed one of the Sidewinders, waiting for the lock-on signal, for he might soon be in range. Then the blinking cursor vanished.

There was a slight time-lag before Bond realised the other pilot had probably pulled up to gain height, rolled over and was high above him now, heading back towards him. He lifted the nose, allowing the radar to search the air, and, sure enough, the second Harrier was above and closing.

He put the aircraft into a gentle climb, all his senses jangling and ready for the rasp or the beep which would tell him the Spaniard had released a second missile the moment he came within range - the pilot’s name returned to his memory without any conscious thought Pantano.

Fifteen miles, and the aircraft were closing at a combined speed of around 1,200 knots. Seconds later, the marker on the HUD began to pulse and the beep in his ears told him he had locked on.

Bond released the Sidewinder, and saw the flashing cursor break to his left. The rasp came into his own ears, and he knew they had both fired missiles at the same moment.

He punched out four flares and turned left, climbing. Seconds later there was an explosion behind at about a mile. Pantano’s missile had gone for the flares. Then, without warning Bond’s aircraft shuddered and cracked as 10mm shells ripped into the fuselage behind him.

He stood the Harrier on its left wing, then reversed to the right.

Pantano had Viffed, slightly above him and at a range of around 1,000 feet. Bond armed another Sidewinder, heard the lock-on signal, and pressed the button. As he did so, another withering hail of 10mm shells ripped across his left wing and the Harrier juddered again, wallowed, then seemed to leap forward towards the great blossom of fire as the Sidewinder caught Pantano’s Harrier.

It was like a slow-motion film. One minute the aircraft was there, firing a deadly swarm from its Aden guns, then the white flash filled Bond’s vision and he saw the “plane break into a dozen pieces.

He overshot the destroyed Harrier, and saw only one complete wing, twirling and fluttering down like a deformed autumn leaf.

He reduced speed and turned, to set course for the coast, and as he did so, his Harrier grumbled, juddering and shaking. He fought the controls, realising that he had no true stability. The shells from the Aden guns had probably ripped away part of his elevators, and a section of tailplane.

Altitude 10,000 feet and falling. The Harrier was in a gentle descent and Bond could just about hold her nose at a five-to-ten degree angle. He was between twenty and thirty miles from the coast and losing height rapidly, hauling back continuously on the stick to stop the nose from dropping and the entire aircraft hurtling into a dive from which he could never recover.

The engine sounded as though someone had poured a ton of sand into it, and he had switched on the auto-signal which would allow the base at Rota to track him in. He was down to 3,000 feet before he saw the coast in the distance, and by then the whole Harrier was shaking and clanking around him as though it was about to break up at any minute.

The sink-rate was becoming faster, and Bond knew there was only one thing left.

He would have to punch out, and pray that the shells from the other Harrier had not damaged the Martin Baker ejector seat.

He wrestled with the stick and rudder bar, desperately trying to get the aircraft closer to the coast before getting out. The voice in his head started to repeat the procedure and what was supposed to happen.

The Martin Baker was a Type 9A Mark 2 and the firing handle was between his legs, at the front of the seat pan. One pull and, provided everything worked, the canopy would blow and the seat would begin its journey upwards at minimum velocity, before the necket-assist fired and shot the pilot, restrained in his seat, well clear of the aircraft.

The comforting words of some instructor at Yeovilton came back to him. “The seat will save you even at zero height, and with a very high sink rate.”

Well, he had a very high sink rate now, down to about 1,000 feet and at least seven miles from the coast. The Harrier wallowed, down to around 800 feet. His port wing dropped alarmingly, and he realised that he was at the point of stalling. Almost at that moment he caught the glint of helicopter blades, and realised it was now or never. Yet, in the few seconds before reaching down to the ejector handle, Bond pushed the port rudder hard, in an attempt to swing the aircraft away from the coast. He did not want this metal brick, still carrying dangerous weaponry, to plough into the land. The nose swung wildly, then dropped.

He knew the nose would never come up again, and he felt the lurch forward as the Harrier began what could only be a death dive.

Bond pulled on the ejector lever.

For what seemed to be an eternity nothing happened, then he felt the slight kick in his backside, saw the canopy leap upwards.

The air was like a solid wall as the rocket shot him clear of the falling, crippled Harrier. There was a thump and the sudden slight jar as the parachute opened and he was swinging safe and free below the canopy.

Below to his left he saw the white churning water which marked the spot where the Harrier had gone in. Then he heard the comforting sound of the US rescue chopper nearby.

He was now separated from the seat, and seemed to be dropping faster towards the sea, which came up and exploded around him. The buoyancy gear inflated and brought him to the surface as he twisted and banged down on the quick release lock which freed him from any parachute drag.

The helicopter plucked him out of the sea five minutes later.

It was early evening and the weather had picked up, the sun red, throwing long shadows across USNB Rota.

Bond sat in a small room, with a US Marine Corps Major, a Royal Marine Special Boat Squadron Major, Commander Mike Carter and Beatrice. On the table in front of them lay a complete set of plans, showing the layout of invincible.

An jor before, he had received a complete briefing, on a secure line from London. BAST had given them until dawn, around six in the morning. Then they would kill the first of the VIP hostages. They knew the message had been relayed to London from Bassam Baradj in his suite at The Rock Hotel, Gibraltar.

Varied options had been put forward. The Rock Hotel was well-covered. They had members of the SAS and local plainclothes men, plus one senior Secret Intelligence Service man watching out in case Baradj made a move. At first it had been thought they should make a full frontal and pull Baradj, for they knew he had a helicopter and pilot standing by at the airport.

Nobody had attempted to alert Baradj or his pilot, and the final consensus of opinion was that trying to take Baradj alive was dangerous.

“Remove their leader and those women will almost certainly kill.”

That was M’s personal view, and one shared by Bond.

Baradj had given them a latitude and longitude, a precise point at sea where the money had to be dropped and marked. If anyone approached him during or after the pick-up - which was to be byhelicopter, all three hostages would be killed.

Whatever else,” Bond had said, “he’s thought out the operation, and we just cannot risk taking the fellow on the Rock. If we couldn’t get him alive, it would be curtains for Mrs. T, Gorby and President Bush.”

It had now been agreed that a rescue attempt had to be made long before anyone tried to get hold of Baradj. “We can con Baradj that we’re meeting the deadline, let him relax, then make a bid to get the hostages off.” Bond’s was the last word. The Ministry of Defence, SIS, the Pentagon and the Kremlin had agreed to a last-ditch rescue attempt. The local forces had also agreed that the planning and logistics should be left to Bond.

“Has anyone figured out how Baradj is communicating with Invincible?” he asked.

“He isn’t,” Mike Carter had said. “I suspect he’ll flash them a code word. A one time break in silence. Probably on a short wave from Gib. It’ll mean either they’re to stand by because we’ve agreed, or kill, because we’ve not agreed. Then there’s the other one - kill, we’ve doublecrossed him.”

“All we can do is listen out.” Bond’s jaw had set, and his eyes turned to that dangerous stone-like look as he tried to gauge how many things could go wrong.

Now, in the low hut on the USNB Rota, he was going through possible strategy and tactics. “It has to be a small force.” He looked around the room. I took out one of these harpies, which leaves them with fourteen - fifteen if the wretched man Speaker is active; sixteen if Baradj’s side-kick, Hamarik, is able to function, which I very much doubt. The situation will almost certainly be that their tame psycho, the woman posing as Leading Wren Deeley, will be locked in with the hostages - or, at least, close to them, with orders to start killing on a given signal. So, our first job will be to get down here.” His finger moved to the Briefing Room one deck down from the main deck. “This we must do without being detected if possible.” Then he gave a worried sigh, “I want you all to realise that I’m really only guessing. That Briefing Room is the place where they were having the conference meetings. I’d stake money on the three of them being kept in there, possibly with a guard on the bulkhead door. But it’s still only a guess. If I’m wrong and they’re being held somewhere else, then it’ll go wrong and I’ll take the blame.”

“But you believe that’s our main target?” the SBS Major nodded.

“Yes. We have to take the risk. The quickest way down is through the Flight Crew Room which is here.” He pointed to the bulkhead door he had used to get to the Harrier. It seemed days ago now, not just a handful of hours.

“So, before we decide on tactics, how many people do you think we need?” The SBS Major was putting on a little pressure, and Bond knew it. Behind the dedication of elite forces, there was always a desire to be in at the kill, to take credit. They were really in the hands of the United States Navy, so Bond had to make a very careful choice. He also had to make it with confidence and speed.

“They’re fourteen, maybe fifteen. I don’t think we have to go by the odds.” He locked eyes, first, with the US Marines Major and then with the Royal Marines Major from the Special Boat Squadron. “I lead.

We draw up the main plan together. I want five of your Marines, Major, and five SBS, Major,” turning to each man as spoke. They both nodded solemnly. “As for weapons, well, there’s likely to be killing regretful, but I see no other way - and I think some of that killing’s got to be silent.

Have we any hand-guns with silencers?”

It was Mike Carter who answered. “We can provide Brownings and H and Ks with modified noise reduction units.”

“Right,” Bond nodded.

“Everyone will carry either a Browning or an H & K. I want one man from each unit to be armed with a sub-machine-gun. Any H & K MP5s, Mike?”

“MP5s, 5Ks, Uzis, you name it, we got it.”

“K-Bar knives for the US Marines; usual Sykes-Fairhairn for SBS.

Flash-bangs?” he asked Carter, meaning stun grenades.

“Whatever you need.”

“Two each, and some tear-gas grenades. We’ll go in with masks on.

Now, the actual tactics, and here we’re going to have to guess a lot.

We have to ask where we would put people on that ship to keep watch. I know the girl in charge, and she’s no fool. But she’ll probably act predictably.”

“Then she’ll let some of the girls rest for part of the time,” the SBS officer said.

“Maybe. They’ll be highly stressed, whatever, and, therefore, more dangerous. I’d say she’d only let three of the girls rest at one time. That gives her eleven - twelve with Mr. Speaker, and I really don’t know how good he’ll be in a tangle.”

“She’ll stay on duty all the time?” the US Marine Corps officer asked.

Bond nodded, with a smile, “Clover is probably able to keep going without sleep for another forty-eight hours. So, if you were her, where would you put your troops?”

They talked it out carefully, using logic, then going back and looking at it in the most perverse manner. In the end, they decided that Bond had been right about the psycho being with the VIPs, plus a guard outside. They put two more on the main deck, one patrolling forward and one aft. Two on the bridge, probably armed with sub-machine-guns, and two, similarly armed, in Flight Operations. This way they would have the whole main deck covered, fore and aft.

There were a total of five companionways leading down from the island to the first deck, where they thought the VIPs were being held.

“One at the foot of each companionway?” Bond asked.

“Either at the foot or nearby,” the SBS officer agreed. The USMC Major nodded.

“We can probably pinpoint what kind of defence they’ve got on the main deck, even, possibly in the island and down on the first level.”

They all looked up as Mike Carter suddenly revealed this information.

Bond saw it at once. The base, he suspected, was now used for major intelligence gathering: the electronics and the massive golf-balls had told him that. “You can scan the ship for us?”

“We can try. Carter tapped a pencil against the table. “We’ve got several nice four-lanned P36s here stuffed full of the latest reconnaissance hardware. We can do a recce about an hour before you go in. They can see through anything - and it’s going to be dark tonight: low cloud. We should at least get a clear idea of where the sentries are posted on deck, and who’s in the island.”

“I wish you’d said that before,” Bond snapped. “What’ll you do? Overfly and then do a square to cover all sides?”

“Something like that. I need to know a time.”

“Quarter to four in the morning, 03.45. Nice and dark. Time for births and deaths. Lowest ebb for those under stress. Okay?”

They all nodded.

“See what I can do, then.” Carter left and they began getting down to details. Bond asked if they still had the companionway down to a boat deck, at sea level.

“They took it up after clearing the mess off the main deck,” the USNIC man said. “That Harrier pilot knew what he was doing. They said fireworks and he gave us the Fourth of July.”

“Or Guy Fawkes day,” the SBS officer added, not wanting the Brits to be left out.

“Well, he won’t do it again,” Bond said, a shade huffily. “Now, down to cases.

They went into the operation in great detail, covering all contingencies: agreeing, disagreeing and finally compromising on one or two matters. When they had the whole business sorted out, Beatrice asked why she had been left out.

“You’ll be in Gibraltar, my dear.” Bond gave her a long look.

“When we ve done the daring rescue bit, if we succeed, I’m coming to join you - providing I’m still alive. Then, together we re going to finish the job and take Baradj in.”

“Dead or alive?”

“Alive if possible. Enough folk will die tonight, and I am slowly coming to the conclusion that too much killing is bad for the health.”

“If you say so, James. But I bet Baradj isn’t one who’ll give in easily.”

“Iet’s get this little show out of the way first.” Ignoring the others, he leaned over and kissed her on each cheek, then on her lips.

The P36 had brought back some very pretty pictures with its sophisticated equipment, a lot of which relied on infra-red which picked up the heat of human bodies.

They had been almost right. There were three guards on the main deck, one forward, one aft, and a third amidships. They also knew that there were three, not two, people on the bridge, and two in Flight Operations, and at least one in Communications.

They agreed that they had been blind to that one. There had to be someone in Communications.

“Clover’ll be the third hod on the bridge,” Bond thought. It was three o’clock in the morning, and they were all gathered by two matt black inflatables. One for the USMC contingent and one for the SBS.

Bond would travel with the SBS, and they had arranged some distractions to go down at zero hour, 03.45. All were dressed in black and with blackened faces, the weaponry slung about them from black webbing harnesses.

They made their approach on the ship’s relatively blind side, the port quarter. It took half an hour of steady, quiet paddling to bring them under the darkness of the ship’s hull, keeping close together, only parting company, moving fore and aft once they reached the ship.

The men in both inflatables now put on their respirators, and readied the other equipment, waiting, glancing at their luminous watches, for the distraction to start. The first huge flash and thump came right on time from about half a mile away, in the direction of the other members of the Task Force. The explosions were made to cause maximum glare and minimum noise. They were very bright, and a lot of magnesium was being used up.

The US marines and SBS people kept their eyes down, but reckoned that nobody either on the open deck, bridge, or Flight Ops of invincible could possibly keep their eyes off the flashes.

There was hardly any sound from the spring-loaded launchers which fired a total of four grappling hooks, each wrapped and swaddled in sacking, from the inflatables. Each hook had heavy knotted rope attached, and the irons thudded up onto the guard rails with little or no noise. It was merely luck which caused the irons to be fired at the same time as another of the explosions out at sea.

Bond was the first up the forward rope. He knew the whole invading party could make it to the main deck in less than three minutes, so he moved, at speed, but silently, keeping low, seeing the girl on watch near the bows, outlined against the sky. There was no time for sentiment. The girl would kill him as soon as look at him, so Bond put her down fast and efficiently, using the blade of a Sykes-Fairhairn knife, taking her in a choke hold and letting the blade slice through the side of her neck, at the prescribed place. She went down without a sound.

At the same moment, the other two girls on deck watch went down one by knife, the other by a vicious karate chop that broke her neck.

Bond joined two of the SBS men who were standing on either side of the Crew Room bulkhead. He entered first, the other two covering him, and moved through into the passageway, deep inside the island, turning left to take the companionway up past Flight Operations, then along the catwalk leading to the bridge.

They reached the top of the companionway, and were about to move on to the catwalk when quick clicking footsteps came from their right.

All three men sank into the darkness as a Wren hurried past them, obviously on her way to the bridge.

Bond motioned them to follow him and they moved, like silent shadows behind the hurrying Wren. By the main bulkhead to the bridge, they paused.

“They’ve really agreed?” It was Clover Pennington’s voice.

“The message says Scratch, Ma’am. You said that was agreement, and that we should stand by. If they try anything funny when Viper moves in, we’ll get Desecrate, and, once he’s picked up the money, it’ll be Off Caps, which means we get out as planned.”

“Well lover began. Then Bond nodded, tossed a stun grenade onto the bridge, waited for its disorientating, but nonlethal flash and bang, and then sprang in, the two SBS men at his heels.

The girls over by one of the open screens, covering the deck below, whirled around, their machine-pistols coming up, as though, in spite of the flash-bang, they had reacted automatically.

There were four phud-phud sounds, and both girls dropped their weapons reeling back against the screen before falling heavily on the deck.

The Wren from Communications took two bullets in the neck, and Bond was on Clover, spinning her around and jamming his pistol in her side. “Right, Clover. You take us to them, or you’re meat, like the others. The whole ship’s covered. We’re everywhere.” He pushed her towards the bulkhead, catching the glint of sudden fear in her eyes as she nodded, and, at that moment, all hell broke loose.

The tear-gas grenades had gone down the companionways as they had arranged, and the remaining members of the assault force were sweeping the passageways clear. Bond pushed Clover along the catwalk. There was a US marine standing by the Flight Ops bulkhead, and you could glimpse a body on the deck. The marine nodded and followed up Bond’s party.

“You lead. Tell me where they are,” Bond muttered as they went down the companionway.

“Probably dead,” Clover choked. “My orders to Deeley were to chop them if anything happened.”

“Well get a move on.

At the bottom of the companionway, an SBS man loomed out of the tear-gas, motioning them to avoid the body that lay sprawled across the narrow passageway. Bond had to push Clover on as she was fighting For air in the stinging choking tear-gas, but there was no doubt of their destination. They were heading for the Briefing Room in which the secret summit had been held.

“Watch for the next corner!” Bond shouted, knowing it would angle around into the area which led to the Briefing Room. There would be at least one girl on watch there.

One of the SBS men leaped forward, and fired twice with a silenced H & K. They followed to see that another Wren had gone down, directly in front of the Briefing Room bulkhead.

They were half-way down the passage when there came a crack and thump from the far end. One of the SBS men was flung against the metal wall, along which he seemed to spin three times before sprawling on his back. But before the casualty even hit the deck, the American Marine fired, four times in quick succession. Peering through the smoke, Bond saw that the unspeakable Donald Speaker had said his last word.

They were at the Briefing Room bulkhead door now and Bond signalled a cover from both sides. Then, his hand slammed down on the heavy door handle and, as the metal swung back, so he pushed Clover inside.

“No! Sarah! No, it’s She was thrown back by a burst of fire from inside, then the marine leaped forward and aimed two precise shots.

Bond came from behind him, just in time to see Sarah Deeley catapult back against the metal wall, hitting it with a thump which must have broken bones, and sliding down it, taking a smear of blood with her.

Lying on camp beds, set in a neat row in front of where Deeley had been standing, were the silent, still figures of President Bush, Chairman Gorbachev, and Prime Minister Thatcher.

Bond moved forward, and felt each neck in turn. They were alive, and, it seemed, unharmed. M S Gorbachev was actually snoring.

The US Marine Corps Major came into the room. “We have control of the ship, Captain Bond,” he reported.

“Well, you’d best wake up Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley, and organise some way of getting these rather important hostages off the ship and back to their own countries without any Press interference.

I’ve got a date in Gibraltar.”

Tunnels of Love?

Bassam Baradj had not slept well. The telephone call had come in at around three in the morning, and he had gone out onto the balcony, feeling elated.

For the first time since the operation started he broke radio silence with his wonderful girls on Invincible. Even then, he did it by tape on the short-wave, high-frequency transceiver which had stood by his bed since his arrival at The Rock Hotel.

He tuned to the correct frequency, and then chose the right tape.

The Scratch tape, which would tell them that the three countries had accepted his terms and ultimatum. The girls would still listen out, and remain very alert, for had he not told the Americans, Russians, and British, that, should he be doublecrossed, or if anyone showed themselves near to him, he would have Bush, Gorbachev and Thatcher exterminated with exceptionally extreme prejudice immediately?

He stood on the chill balcony, repeating the tiny signal, Scratch-Scratch-Scratch-Scratch again and again. They would have it by now, so he went back inside, closed the balcony windows, pulled the curtains, destroyed the Scratch tape, and put the little transceiver into its imitation-leather case then made certain the other two tapes were there, ready for use.

He placed the machine back on his bedside table, then changed his mind, opened it all up again and inserted the Desecrate tape, just to be on the safe side. If they did doublecross him, make an attempt on his life, try to arrest him on the way to the airport, or come thundering down on him with jets as he picked up the money, he would at least have time to press the button. This was a very high quality machine, and, if anything went wrong - even though the thought was remote - he would be able to see things through to the end.

But how could anything go wrong? They had agreed. These people did not normally agree, but, in these special circumstances, it was the only thing they could do - give in to his demands. He lay down on the bed, but only dozed, waking again at six in such a state of elation that he might as well have been high on some drug.

He calmed down, drifting into a light sleep, waking again at seven-thirty. Outside, the sun was shining. An omen, he thought.

Baradj rang down for breakfast, which came within twenty minutes.

He ate heartily: grapefruit juice, toast, bread rolls, preserves and coffee. Then he showered, towelled himself off and looked at himself in the mirror, turning this way and that to admire his physique. He was not a vain man, nor a stupid man.

Far from it. But he had come a long way, and part of his success had been to keep fit. He might lack a six-foot stature, but his muscle tone, and high degree of fitness made up for that. Nobody could deny that Bassam Baradj - who, by tonight, would have the name and identity of someone else - was very fit for his age.

He sat, naked, on the bed and put a call through to Switzerland.

At the clinic, high in the mountains above Zurich, they confirmed his booking. Even the timing had been immaculate. He began to dress, thinking he had been foolish and paranoid yesterday.

Yesterday, when he had gone out for his walk, he thought they were watching him. There was a man in the foyer who followed him a little way, then another, different man appeared behind him. When he got back to the hotel there had been a woman, who seemed to be observing him with almost nonchalant care.

Or had he imagined it?

He dressed, the light-weight beige suit made for him in Savile Row; the cream shirt, from Jermyn Street; and the gold cufflinks he had bought in Asprey’s; the British Royal Marine tie. He laughed as he knotted the tie. This was the supreme two-fingered gesture.

Last, he took the soft pigskin shoulder-holster out of the drawer, and strapped it on, adjusting it so that it lay comfortably just under his left arm. He put on his jacket and picked up the mm Beretta 93A, slammed a magazine into the butt and worked the slide mechanism. He did not leave it on safety. Baradj had more than a passing acquaintance with pistols and he knew that, as long as you were safe, careful and practised often, there was no point in putting the weapon on safety. A man could lose precious seconds by using the safety catch. He was wrong, of course, according to the manuals and instructors, but he always played things his way.

The Beretta was comfortable under his shoulder, and he hummed a phrase from “My Way” as he slipped three spare magazines into the specially built pockets in the jacket. He picked up his wallet and credit-card folder, dumping them in the pockets he always used for them, then slung the transceiver’s thin strap over one shoulder, and his camera over the other. He was ready.

The maid could keep the pyjamas, and there was nothing to incriminate him. Another pigskin shaving-bag would cost him a great deal less than the hotel bill, so why pay the hotel bill?

It was hard to believe this was February. The sun shone and the sky was blue. A faint breeze stirred the flowers. But all was well with the world, and he had spotted no familiar figures in the hotel foyer. It must have been his imagination. So, he could walk. Walking was good, and, in the end, faster than facing the crammed Gibraltar traffic.

He started away from the hotel, with the sheer rock face on his right. Bassam Baradj was less than three minutes into his stride when the hair at the nape of his neck began to prickle.

There were steady footsteps behind him. Not just the footsteps of idle tourists, but official footsteps.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw them: a man and a woman in jeans about ten paces from him. The man wore a leather bomber jacket, the woman had a short canvas jacket.

Then he made eyecontact with the man. It was a face he knew.

A face from the files. He had ordered this man dead on at least three occasions. The man was James Bond.

Bond saw that Baradj had made him so he acted quickly, his hand going for the Browning behind his right hip, covered by the bomber jacket, his legs moving apart to take up the shooting stance.

But he was not quick enough. By the time the pistol was out, Baradj had leaped up the low mck lace and clambered out of sight.

If I am to take this man, Baradj thought, then I shall do it on my own terms.

Back on the narrnw road, Beatrice also had a pistol out and was speaking rapidly into a walkie-talkie, calling up the police and SAS reserves. Bond had insisted on going in alone. “I want to bring this guy back alive,” he had said.

“Careful, James!” Beatrice called as he jumped from the road into the rocks. Boulders like sculpture, huge and rough, were strewn everywhere up the slope, but he could see no sign of Baradj.

Beatrice him and they fanned out, watching each other’s backs. In this terrain it would be relatively simple for Baradj to outflank them and take a shot from behind. But, when the shot came, it was from high up, and nothing thumped or ricocheted near either Bond or Beatrice.

Still spread out, they moved forward until they came to a wide-arched opening, like a man-made cave in the face of the rock. It had been barred by a large iron gate, fastened with a padlock. The padlock had been shot away, and one of the gates was half open.

“The tunnels!” Beatrice whispered, and Bond nodded, “Yes, the tunnels, and we have no idea how well he knows them.”

“What about you?”

Bond shook his head, whispenng, “I’ve only ever been in the galleries open to the public. But, where he goes we’ll have to follow.”

The phrase “As Solid as the Rock of Gibraltar” is a misnomer, for the great Rock is, in reality, like a huge, giant ants’ nest of tunnels. All of them were military in nature, and the public were allowed to see the first true feats of engineering - the Upper and Middle Galleries, built under the instruction of Sergeant Major Ince of the Sappers in the 1780s. These faced Spain, were installed with cannon, and were largely responsible for holding the Rock during the Great Siege. But that was far from the end of the story. Later tunnelling played a key role during World War Two, and sections of the tunnels were still very much in use now.

Unless you knew the way, you could get lost very easily inside the Rock of Gibraltar.

Bond and Beatrice edged their way in, trying not to allow their bodies to be highlighted against the exterior.

Inside, the lights, drilled into the ceiling, were on, and they found themselves in a high, curved vault, big enough to take a three-lane highway.

They spread out, one taking each side of the rough-chiselled wall, their eyes straining ahead for any sign of movement. There was none, and the lights seemed to go on for ever.

They stopped beside two curved nissen huts, built into a cavern carved from the rock-face. But they were locked and empty, so they continued, moving slowly, very aware of the fact that, should Baradj find a hiding-place - some dug-out in the rock - he could pick them off as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

The tunnel branched oft’ and within a hundred yards Bond and Beatrice found themselves in the remains of what had once been a field hospital. Parts of tiled operating theatres remained, the sluices and lavatories were intact. But the hospital led nowhere and, in minutes, they were back in the wide main route.

Bond remembered now, that these tunnels were once full of men, tanks, lorries, field guns, and jeeps. Indeed, they had been used as one of the main staging posts for Operation Torch, the allied invasion of French North Africa in 1942, the force commanded by Eisenhower, way back when he was still only a Lieutenant-General. There were many ghosts in this dank and cold place, and Bond could feel them all closing in on him now as water dripped from the roof of this incredible stone highway.

“Over here,” Beatrice whispered, and he saw that there was another tunnel leading off, only large enough to drive a jeep into, and possibly reverse out again. They stopped, listened and went down the branch tunnel. The far end was blanked off by a high metal wall, into which a door had been set. Bond tried the door and it swung open easily.

Beatrice covered him while he leaped inside and was met by such an incredible sight that he almost forgot to follow the routine. He heard Beatrice gasp as she passed through the door, then the shot, echoing through this incredible place, and the bullet shattering only inches from Beatrice. They both dived for cover, and there was plenty of that.

They appeared to be in natural light, on what could have been a large film set, only the place as it appeared was so real it would be easy to imagine you were dreaming. There were streets, houses, shops, even a church in the distance.

It took Bond a few moments to realise what it was, for he had heard of this place, though never seen it before. Graffiti was daubed on walls. Jibes at the police and military.

It was all so real that it took time for the truth to sink in.

This was a training ground for troops resting in Gibraltar. A place where they could practise street fighting: the kind of work that was so often required in times of civil unrest. He had heard a rumour that some members of the quick-response teams, police and army, were sometimes flown here for training.

They were lying on a pavement, sheltering behind a wall which was part of The King’s Head, a pub that looked so real you could almost smell the beer.

Bond tried to assess where the shot had come from. “You work left,” he whispered. “I’ll cross the street and go right. Yell if you see him, or if he fires at you. Give it ten minutes.” He held up his watch. “Then we meet back here.” She nodded, and crouching low, scuttled along the wall, while Bond readied himself and made a crouching run for it, across the street to the far side, along the blank wall of Jack Berry, Family Butcher. The shop front, in the main street, was decorated with meat, carcasses hanging inside. He was almost at the angle of the wall on the far side, when two bullets came down, flinging shards off the pavement. He thought he saw the muzzle flash, from a doorway, three houses up the cramped, terraced street, and, still running, he fired, two lots of two shots, from the hip.

Bond was sure he had seen a figure duck back into the doorway.

He was panting, his back flat against the wall, working out the next move. If he went behind the butcher’s shop he should be able to make his way down the back of the parallel street, and head for the rear door opposite the house from which he thought Baradj had last fired.

Keeping his back against the wall, he edged himself behind the shop, and along the rear of the terraced houses. One. Two.

He tried the handle on the mean little door of the third house.

It moved and he stepped into a long dark passage. There were stairs going up to the right. He leaned his right shoulder against the stairs, listening, wondering if he should try the front door ahead of him, then decided to move left, into what would be the little front room. He heard nothing before the door crashed open, and two shots ripped against the stairs, one of them clipping his Browning, sending pain dancing up his arm and the pistol flying.

He waited for death to come quickly, looking up at the figure of Bassam Baradj, silhouetted in the doorway.

“Captain Bond,” Baradj said. “I am sorry about this, but in other ways pleased that the honour of being your executioner falls to me.

Goodbye, Captain Bond.” The pistol came up in the two-handed grip, and Bond winced at the shot, but felt nothing.

Tense, unable to move, he stared at Baradj who still appeared to be looking at him, his arms outstretched, the gun aimed.

Then, as in a dream sequence, Bassam Baradj buckled at the knees and toppled forward into the narrow passage.

Bond let out a deep, long breath and heard Beatrice’s sneakers thudding across the road. She stopped in the doorway. “James?”

she asked. Then, again, “James? You okay, James?”

He nodded, his arm still shaken from the thump when the bullet had caught his pistol. “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. I guess I owe you another life, my dear Beatrice.” He stepped forward, over the dead body of Bassam Baradj, and took her in his arms. “It’s one hell of a way to make a living,” he said.

“James?” she whispered. “Ilove me?”

He held her close. “I love you very much,” and he realised that he meant it.

Together, they walked back down the unreal-real street, to the door which would take them to the tunnels and finally to the light outside.

Some Die It was summer, and an hour before dusk: hot and pleasant.

The Villa Capricciani looked lovely at this time of day. Lizards basked under the foliage, the flowers were in full bloom, and the lilies buned yellow from the pond below the house.

James Bond came onto the terrace and plunged into the pool, swimming strongly, doing a couple of lengths before climbing out, rubbing his hair with a towel which had been thrown over one of the garden chairs, into which he now sank, stretching his body like a cat.

“Cat”, he thought, suddenly shivering. It was the word in his head. He had noticed that, since the business earlier in the year, he had a tendency to tense up at certain words: cat; viper; snake.

The shnnk had told him it was not surprising. “You went through a lot during the BAST thing.”

Yes, he supposed he had gone through a lot. He thought for a moment about death. Not the quiet friend that comes to old and worn-out human beings, but that which comes suddenly and with a terrible violence.

He thought of the Fiat down in the turning circle below. There was a little BMW there now, but, in this contemplative state of mind, Bond saw it as a little Fiat. For a few seconds, he was aware of Beatrice, smiling and holding the door open, then the fearful flash and smoke, and the agony of knowing he had lost her. But there was joy also, for he had not lost the girl who could quite easily, if he did not take care, become the love of his life.

As the lights began to come on the sun went down, so the night animals began to come out. The bats started to flit to and fro, and geckos came from the daytime hiding-places, strangely seeming to bask in the electric lights around the pool.

His head began to fill with other horrors. Poor old Ed with his throat cut, head almost severed from his body; Nikki, who had sought comfort from him, then tried to save his life and had her own life taken from her; then all those girls who could have lived really useful, happy long lives: the ones he had personally taken to their graves, and Clover Pennington, whose relations he had known, cut down by her own trigger woman.

He shivered again in the warmth, feeling the goose bumps coming up on his skin. Behind him the lights came on in the villa, and he heard Beatrice flip-flapping out towards the pool.

“You okay, darling?” she said, kissing him and looking hard into his face and eyes. “James, what’s the matter? It’s not us, is it?”

Almost a frightened tremor to her voice.

“No, my dear, not us. I was just having what the shrink would call a touch of the horrors.”

“I wondered if we should come back here.”

“Oh, yes, this was the right place.”

“Good. Let’s go out to dinner. I enjoy it here.” She squatted down beside him, looking up into his face, shadowed by the lights and the night. “James, darling. You know, some you win and some you lose.”

James Bond nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “And some die.”