Win, Lose or Die (21 page)

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.