Authors: John Gardner
“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.