Authors: John Gardner
“Our best chance is to stop it happening at all. Keep Bond in play. You heard what Baradj said about Christmas. Why don’t we flush “em out? Make “em vulnerable by letting them show their hand.”
“You mean use Bond as a tethered goat?”
“More a stalking-horse, Tanner. Have to ask him first, of course.
Yes, set up a meeting, and make sure it’s absolutely one hundred percent sterile. Got me?”
“I understand, sir.”
“The Cat,” M was almost musing to himself. “BAST, the three-headed monster n’ding on a viper. The heads of a man, a snake and a cat. The Cat, Tanner.”
“Saphii Boudai, yes?”
“What’s on file?”
“Precious little, sir. We know she was PLO at one time. There is a possibility that she spent a few years as a penetration agent within Mossad, but they’re either too coy, or tied too tightly into their own vengeance plans to release any photographs. Boudai, we know, is around twenty-nine, or thirty years of age; we also know she is attractive and an expert in many things clandestine.
But we have no photographs and no real description.”
M gave another grunt. “They have Bond well assessed. His weak point has always been women. He’s going to have to be briefed fully.
Try and get more information on the Boudai woman, even if you have to lean on your Mossad contacts. They’re a touchy lot, I know, but do your best - and set up that meeting with more than usual care.”
Tanner nodded and left the office looking grim and determined.
The Harrier conversion course at Yeovilton had become even more demanding. Each day Bond flew, and each day they stretched him to new limits - not just on the bombing range but also in the role of fighter pilot.
First in the simulator, then later in the more dangerous environment of reality, he practised dog-fight techniques - sometimes with other aircraft flown by instructors, or his course mates.
In one day he would go through the high-speed, stomach churning manoeuvres like the High G Yo Yo, Flip Yo Yo, Low G Yo Yo, and the old, tried and true Immelmann, modified for jet aircraft so that you changed direction by rolling the aeroplane, not at the top of a loop, as in the classic Immelmann turn, but as you shot up in a vertical climb.
There was also the manoeuvre unique to the Harrier - thrust Vectored In Forward Flight, or VIFF as it is known. The Harrier has the ability to rise vertically, or move sideways from its normal flight path. This was a technique thought to be absolutely revolutionary in air combat, but the conversion course pilots, having learned how to perform the VIFF, were put in the true picture by a veteran pilot of the Falklands campaign.
“The Press made a big deal out of VIFFing,” the pilot told them in a closed lecture. “But I don’t think any of us used it.
I’ve seen articles and drawings in magazines showing Harriers allowing an enemy aircraft to position himself for an attack directly behind their six, then whizzing upwards and blasting the attacker as he overshot.” The pilot, a young Lieutenant-Commander gave a rueful smile. “You just don’t let anyone calmly place himself at six o’clock, it’s just too bloody dangerous. Also the VIFF slows you down - that’s its one great use. Personally, I’d only use it to alter the position of my nose so that I could get a good shot at my opponent. Forget about heroic leaps upwards, and letting enemy aircraft overshoot you.
If there’s someone on your six, he’ll probably get you whatever you do - unless he fires a missile a long way out of range. These days aerial combat is still mainly Battle of Britain stuff at speed, and at a longer separation. Rely on your radar and lock-on. A well-placed heat-seeker fired from even the outer limits of range will do the job on him, or you.
So, they added VIFFing to their stockpile of manoeuvres, knowing its limits, just as they all began to feel out their own limits. Bond knew he had not operated under such stress for a long time, and was particularly concerned about Clover Pennington, who, instead of being put off by his own cold-shouldering, appeared to have become more and more interested. She would wait for him, lingering in the ante-room, or seek him out at meals, showing an unusual concern for his well-being, but careful not to overstep the mark.
“That spectacular Wren three-ringer’s really got the hots for you,” the US Navy pilot remarked one day at lunch.
“Really?” Bond gave him a surprised look. “Well, if she has, I suggest that someone tells her to take a cold shower.”
“Know what you mean, Captain. After a day chasing around the sky in these birds, I doubt if I could put on a performance, even for the most desirable two-legged bird. These Harriers sap it all out of you.”
“True,” Bond said with a tight smile as he rose and left the table.
A couple of days later he received a post card picturing the Martyrs’ Memorial in Oxford. He did not recognise the writing, but presumed it had been done by one of the cleared secretaries back at the Regent’s Park office. It was neat, short, and to the point.
Completed twenty-two pages of notes on bear-baiting in the sixteenth century; visited Blenheim Palace to take a look at the archives which kept me busy over the weekend. Hope to see you soon.
Love as ever. Judith.
Anyone with common sense could have deciphered it. Judith was the code for crash meeting. The text told Bond exactly when and where: The Bear Hotel, Woodstock, near Oxford. Room twenty~-two at eight o’clock on Sunday night - the room number was exact, the time was 16.00 hours plus four. Either something was up, or - as the course was hearing completion - plans had been altered.
The Bear Hotel, Woodstock, lies in the main square of that crowded little town which stands a few minutes’ walk from the grounds leading to Blenheim Palace, that gorgeous gift to the First Duke of Marlborough from a grateful sovereign. The Palace was designed by Vaubrugh and the magnificent grounds landscaped by Capability Brown. The main Palace doors contain a replica of the intricate locks which once graced the main gates of the city of Warsaw, and these days people travel to see it in its historic context; for one of the great leaders of the twentieth century, Winston Churchill, was not only born in the Palace, but also lies buried in nearby Bladon. Bond had often come here, driving from London on a Saturday, spending the day walking in the grounds, simply enjoying the breathtaking views. He remembered one Saturday in October, some years before, standing on the bridge which spans the main lake, and watching the autumn sun draw a golden spear in the water. The spear often returned to him in a dream, as though it was some kind of omen.
Blenheim and Woodstock are magnets for tourists from all over the world, and though the Palace is closed in November, the inordinately beautiful grounds and parkland remain open for part of the day, and now, on the Sunday, with wood-smoke in the air and the paths sprinkled with the gold and red leaves of autumn, Bond once more stood on that same bridge, watching the same red sun, low in the sky, produce a similar effect - a spear of light pointing directly at him. Now, he wondered, if that spear reflected on water was indeed an omen.
He had taken a room for the night at the nearby Feathers Hotel, partly for security, and partly because he preferred it to the more famous Bear.
He completed his walk and returned to The Feathers where he put his feet up for a few hours before taking the short stroll to The Bear.
It was with some distaste he noted that the whiff of oil and potato chips hung heavy in the evening air, coming from pubs that advertised “Pub Grub” or “Good Food”, a pair of terms Bond would have liked to see banned from the English language, just as he would, if pushed, like to see the countless young people crowding those very bars banished to some kind of National Service - preferably in the armed forces. That, he considered, would take violence off the streets of country towns, and make men out of the louts who littered pavements and got drunk at the sniff of a farm maid’s apron.
He dodged into the front entrance of The Bear, neatly keeping clear of the reception area at the rear of the narrow passage leading through from the entrance hall, and squeezing into the small elevator that would take him to Room twenty two.
Both M and his Chief of Staff were waiting.
“Q Branch have just swept the place,” M said as a form of greeting. “It appears to be clean, though nowadays who’s to know.”
Bond gave both his chief and his closest friend within the Service, friendly smiles then waited for what would doubtless be laid on him. Judging by their faces, the news was not good.
M waved to a chair, and 007 sat, still waiting until M asked, “You remember BAST?”
“How could I forget, sir. After all they seem to be our main opponents.”
“After your hide, 007. Out to get you, take you out, ice you, buy the farm for you. At least that’s what the doomsayers would have us believe.”
“I would have thought the missile incident had already pointed us in that general direction.”
“Yes,” M flapped his hand as though trying to waft bad air away from his nostrils. “But this time we have a chance to lay our hands on at least one of them.
We know when they’re going to set you up and who’s going to do it.
What we don’t know, is where.”
“Then, with due respect, sir, I would have thought we should get cracking and find out exactly where.”
Bill Tanner rubbed his hands together. “That’s really anywhere of your choosing, James.”
“Mine?”
“Yes,” M’s clear grey eyes were locked on to Bond’s face.
“We would like to send you away for a Christmas holiday, 007.
“Tethered goat,” said Bond.
“Stalking-horse,” Tanner corrected him. “Sort of Christmas horse, so that BAST can come down your chimney and knock your socks off. In this case BAST will take on the human shape of a woman.
“Ah,” said Bond with a wry smile, “You want me to play slow horses and fast women.
“Something you’ve been known to do before this, 007.” M did not even twinkle, let alone return the smile.
“I have any option?”
M shook his head. “None whatsoever. BAST already know far too much; they’re going to have a go during Landsea “89, and they regard you as a mild threat. Mind you, they don’t yet seem to know all the details: such as the six SAS people you might be commanding for the bodyguard operation.”
“Funny, I hadn’t heard about them either, sir.” Bond paused, then looked from M to Tanner and back again. “If you know all this, why can’t you deal with BAST on its own terms? Take them out before they do their bit?”
M sighed, “We know the names of their ringleaders; we have descriptions of two of them, but we have no idea how large their Brotherhood is, or really how fanatical they are. The four or so leaders are fanatical enough, though the mastermind is, we deduce, more concerned with a return for his capital investment than the political aspect.”
“We wouldn’t normally put you at risk, James Tanner began.
“Not much.”
“Not with Landsea “89 coming up,” M said firmly. “We would like to get our hands on one of their leading people, though. So what about Christmas?”
“Not my favourite time of the year.” Bond looked down his nose.
“I can’t stand all that bonhomie, and families getting together around the festive board, but that’s probably because I have no real family.”
Tracy, his wife of only a few hours, flashed through his mind.
Christmases would have been good if she had lived, he thought.
Even an uncharacteristic picture of the two of them by a log fire with presents and a tree went flickering in and out of his mind. Then he saw the reflected spear of light again and wondered how all this would end. He looked bleakly at M. “I suppose you’ve already got somewhere lined up, though, sir.
M nodded, “You recall that a few years ago I sent you for some rest and recuperation. A villa on Ischia, in the bay of Naples?”
“That was in summer …” He recalled it vividly. Secluded, beautiful setting, almost idyllic. You only had to drive a couple of miles for food. The rest of the time you were all set up by the pool, with maid service, a cook, if you wanted one, and spectacular surroundings. “The Service paid for it, I know, but they only open them up for the summer.
“I think I can persuade the owner.” M had his stubborn look grappled to his face.
After a couple of heartbeats, Bond said - “Christmas on Ischia, then, sir. Just tell me what to do.”
“First,” M began, “you’ll have to run the thing solo. We can give you only modest cover. Nothing fancy, and certainly not the local police…” He went on for the next hour, and as he progressed, Bond realised that, as ever, the whole business would be down to him. Sit there and wait for a woman out to kill him, and who would possibly have a back-up; then outwit her; and, finally, bring her back into the UK with everyone, including himself, alive and kicking.
“Run of the mill sort of job really,” he said when M stopped talking.
“The kind of thing you should be able to do, armed with a butterfly-net and a killing jar, 007.”
“I’ll settle for the killing jar.” Bond smiled. “Preferably mm with a lot of kick to it. You know, the kind of thing any Christmas stalking-horse carries around.” At just about the same moment as Bond was being apprised of how he would spend a happy Christmas, Harry and Bill were putting some bad news to their old friend the Petty Officer Engineer.
“It’s not that we don’t like you, Blackie,” Bill was saying.
“We’re under a certain amount of pressure ourselves.”
“I mean we didn’t know they took photographs in that place, and there’s a fair old collection now as you can see.” Harry laid out some thirty black and white prints on the table.
They were in Harry’s room at his usual Plymouth hotel. The photographs, with their grainy texture, looked almost as dirty as the cavortings they had captured for all time. The PO looked very miserable. “You’d send these to the wife?” It was not so much a question as a shocked statement.
“No, “course we wouldn’t,” Harry’s voice was low, soothing.
Oil on troubled waters. “We’re in the mire as much as you are, Blackie. We didn’t know.”