Role of Honour Page 10

  Rahani finally gave in. ‘I am a soldier. I have been a mercenary in my time. I am also a highly successful businessman. We have certain things in common, I think, one of them being a liking for money. Some time ago, in co-operation with one or two like-minded people, I saw the possibility of earning some very profitable returns by going into the mercenary business. Being apolitical myself, owing nothing to ideologies or beliefs, it was easy. Plenty of countries and revolutionary groups need specialists. A particular man or a group of men – even a planning group, and the soldiery to carry out the plan.’

  ‘Rent-a-Terrorist,’ Bond said, with a touch of distaste. ‘Who does not dare, hires someone else to dare for them. A truly mercenary activity, in every sense.’

  ‘Well put. But you’d be surprised, Commander Bond. The terrorist organisations are not our only customers. Bona fide governments have approached us too. Anyway, as a former intelligence officer you cannot allow yourself the luxury of politics or ideals.’

  ‘I can allow myself the luxury of opposing certain ideals. Of disagreeing, and intensely disliking them,’ Bond put in.

  ‘And, if our information is to be believed, you have an intense dislike for the British and American method of intelligence – yes?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m disappointed that an official organisation can call me to question after so many years of loyal service.’

  ‘Don’t you ever feel that revenge could be sweet?’

  ‘I’d be a liar if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind, but it’s never been an obsession. I don’t harbour grudges.’

  ‘We shall need your co-operation, and your decision. You understand what I mean?’ Rahani made the querying, humming noise again.

  Bond nodded, and said he was no fool: having disclosed the existence and purpose of his organisation, Tamil Rahani was committed to making a decision about Bond. If he offered a job, and if Bond accepted, there would be no problem. If, however, he decided Bond was a risk, or his motives were in doubt, there could be only one answer.

  Rahani heard him out.

  ‘You won’t mind if I ask a few pertinent questions, then?’

  ‘What do you call pertinent?’

  ‘I’d like to know the things you would not discuss with the Press. The real reason for your resignation, Commander Bond. An inter-department disagreement, I believe you said. Accusations, which were withdrawn, but taken most seriously by yourself.’

  ‘If I don’t choose to tell you?’

  ‘Then we have to conclude that you are not trustworthy, my friend. A conclusion which may have unpleasant consequences.’ Rahani smiled.

  Bond went through the process of looking as though he was giving the situation some thought. With M and Bill Tanner he had put together a story that would hold water up to a point. To prove or disprove it would mean getting classified information from the Judicial Branch, which comprised a number of experienced barristers retained by the Service; also from three individuals working in the Registry, and from someone who had easy access to the documents held by S Department. After a few moments’ silence Bond gave a short nod. ‘Right. If you want the truth . . .’

  ‘Good. Tell us then, Commander Bond.’ Rahani’s voice and manner were equally bland.

  He told the story, just as they had concocted it in M’s office. Over a period of some six months it had been discovered that several highly sensitive files had been taken from the Service HQ and kept out overnight. It was an old story, and one that was technically plausible, even allowing for the stringent security spot checks, and signing in and out of files. However, the system was double-checked by an electronic bar code, appended to each file, which was scanned every time the file was taken out or returned. The files went through a machine that read the code and stored the information in the Registry databank, which was examined at the end of each month. It was impossible to alter the bar codes on the files or to duplicate them. But because the information stored away on the big computer tapes was read out only at the end of each month, anyone could return a dummy file each night, putting back the original the following night. By alternating dummy and original you could examine around twenty files in a month before the tampering would be discovered. This, Bond maintained, was what had happened, though Registry had spent so much time cross-checking and looking at the data because they imagined it to be a program error in the computer, that a further week had passed before a report went up to Head of Service.

  In all, only eight files had been at risk. But, on the relevant dates, James Bond had been one of those with access to the files. Five people were under suspicion, and they had hauled Bond in before anybody else.

  ‘Someone of my rank and experience would normally be given the courtesy of a private interview with the Head of Service,’ he said, his tone verging on anger. ‘But no. It didn’t seem to matter that the other four were junior, relatively inexperienced and without field records. It was as if I was singled out because of my position, because I had been in the field, because of my experience.’

  ‘You were actually accused?’ It was Simon who asked.

  Bond allowed the anger to boil up and break the surface. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, I was accused. Before they even talked to anyone else they carted in a couple of very good interrogators, and a QC. You removed these files from the headquarters building, Commander Bond. Why? Did you copy them? Who asked you to take them? It went on for two days.’

  ‘And did you take them from the building, Commander?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ Bond almost shouted. ‘And it took them another two days to haul in the other four, and then a day for Head of Registry to come back off leave and remember that special permission had been given to one officer to take the wretched files over for study by a Civil Service mandarin – adviser to the Ministry. They had left spaces in the records, just to keep the data neat. Head of Registry was supposed to put a special code into the databank. But he was off on leave, and forgot about it. Nobody had a go at him, or offered his head on a salver.’

  ‘So no files went missing at all. You got an apology, of course?’

  ‘Not immediately.’ Bond glowered, like a schoolboy. ‘And nobody seemed at all concerned about my feelings. Head of Service didn’t appear even to understand why I got annoyed.’

  ‘So you resigned? Just like that?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘It’s a very good story.’ Tamil Rahani looked pleased. ‘But it will be difficult to prove, if I know anything about government departments.’

  ‘Exceptionally difficult,’ Bond agreed.

  ‘Tell me, what did the files in question contain?’

  ‘Ah.’ Bond tried to look as charming as possible. ‘Now you’re really asking me to betray.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rahani was quite matter-of-fact.

  ‘Mainly updated material on the disposition of Eastern Bloc tactical forces. One concerned agents on the ground and their proximity to the Eastern bases.’

  Rahani’s eyebrows twitched. ‘Sensitive. I see. Well, Commander, I shall make a few enquiries. In the meantime, perhaps Simon will show you around Erewhon, and we’ll continue to have little talks.’

  ‘You mean interrogations?’

  Rahani shrugged. ‘If you like. Your future career depends on what you tell us now. Quite painless, I assure you.’

  As they reached the door, Bond turned back. ‘May I ask you a question, sir?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You bear a striking resemblance to a Mr Tamil Rahani, chairman of Rahani Electronics. I believe you’ve been in Monte Carlo recently?’

  Rahani’s laugh had all the genuine warmth of an angry cobra. ‘You should know, Commander. You were raising a fair amount of hell at the gaming tables on the Côte d’Azur at the time, I think.’

  ‘Touché, sir.’

  Bond followed Simon out into the sunshine. They went first to a mess hall where about eighty people were enjoying a lunch of chicken cooked with peppers, onions, almonds and garlic. Everyone wor
e the same olive uniform. Some carried side arms. There were men and women, mainly young, and from many different countries. They sat in pairs or teams of four. That was how the training went, Simon explained. They worked with a partner or in teams. Sometimes two teams would be put together, if the work demanded it. Some of the pairs were training to be loners.

  ‘Doing what?’ Bond asked.

  ‘Oh, we cover the usual spectrum. Big bang merchants, take away artists, removal men, monopoly teams. You name it, we do it – electricians, mechanics, drivers, all the necessary humdrum jobs too.’

  Bond identified a number of different tongues being spoken in the hall – German, French, Italian. There were also Israelis, Irish, and even English he was told. He almost immediately identified a pair of German terrorists whose names and details were on file with his Service, MI5 and at Scotland Yard.

  ‘If you want anonymity, I shouldn’t use those two in Europe,’ he told Simon quietly. ‘They’ve both got star billing with our people.’

  ‘That’s good. Thank you. We prefer unknowns, and I had a feeling about that couple. Everyone has had some field work behind them when they come here, but we don’t like faces.’ Simon gave a knowing grin. ‘We do need them though. Some have to be lost, you know. It comes in handy during training.’

  Throughout the afternoon, they walked around the well-equipped training area, and Bond experienced the odd sensation of having seen all this before. It took an hour or so to work out exactly what was wrong. These men and women were being trained in techniques he had seen used by the SAS, Germany’s GSG9, the French GIGN, and several other élite units dealing with anti-terrorist activities. There was one difference, however. The trainees at Erewhon were receiving expert tuition on how to counter anti-terrorist action.

  Apart from classes in weaponry of all kinds, special attention was paid to hijacking and takeover. They even had two flight simulators in the compound. One building was devoted solely to the techniques of bargaining with authorities while holding either hostages or kidnap victims. The skills were being taught extremely thoroughly.

  One of the most spectacular training aids lay around the gutted buildings Bond had noticed earlier. Here a team of four would be taught how to fight off attempted rescues employing all the known counter-terrorist techniques. It was disturbing to note that most eventualities appeared to be covered.

  That night Bond slept again in the same sparsely furnished room where he had first woken. On the following day, the interrogation began. It was conducted on a classic one-to-one basis – Tamil Rahani and James Bond – with Rahani asking seemingly ordinary questions that were, in fact, attempts to ferret out highly sensitive information about Bond’s Service.

  Rahani began with reasonably harmless stuff, such as organisation and channels of command. Soon, detail was being called for, and Bond had to use all his native ingenuity to give the appearance of telling everything, at the same time keeping back really vital information.

  Rahani was like a terrier. Just when Bond thought he had managed to avoid giving some piece of information, Rahani would change tack, going in a circle to return to the nub of the question. It became all too obvious that once they had milked him dry, Bond would be quietly thrown to the wolves.

  On the sixth day Rahani was still hammering away at the same questions concerning details of protection for heads of state, the Prime Minister, the Queen and other members of the Royal Family. This was not part of Bond’s own work, or the work of his Service, but Rahani quite rightly assumed that Bond would know a great deal about it. He even wanted names, possible weaknesses in those assigned to such duties, and the kind of schedules they worked. At about five o’clock in the afternoon, a message was brought in. Rahani read it, then slowly folded the paper and looked at Bond.

  ‘Well, Commander, it seems your days here are numbered. There is a job for you back in England. Something very important is at last coming to fruition, and you are to be part of it. You are on salary as from now.’

  He picked up one of his telephones and asked for Simon to come over as quickly as possible. Bond had learnt by now that they used first names at Erewhon for everyone except the Officer Commanding.

  ‘Commander Bond is with us,’ he told Simon. ‘There’s work for him, and he leaves for England tomorrow. You will escort him.’ An odd look passed between the two men before Rahani continued. ‘But, Simon, we have yet to see the gallant Commander in action. Would it be a good idea to put him through the Charnel House?’

  ‘He’d like that, I’m sure, sir.’

  The Charnel House was a gallows-humour nickname for the gutted buildings they used for training against counter-terrorist forces. Simon said he would set things up, and they walked the short distance to the area, where Simon left to make the arrangements. Ten minutes later, he returned, taking Bond inside the house.

  Though the place was gutted and bore the marks of many simulated battles, it had been remarkably well built. There was a large entrance hall inside the solid main door. Two short passages to left and right led to large rooms, which were uncarpeted, but contained one or two pieces of furniture. At the top of a solid staircase was a wide landing with one door. Through this a long passage ran the length of the house with doors on the facing wall leading into two rooms built directly above those on the ground floor. Simon led Bond upstairs. ‘There will be a team of four. Blank ammunition, of course, but real flash-bangs.’ Flash-bangs were stun grenades, not the most pleasant thing to be near on detonation. ‘The brief is that they know you are somewhere upstairs.’ Simon pulled out the ASP 9mm. ‘Nice weapon, James. Very nice. Who would think it has the power of a .44 Magnum?’

  ‘You’ve been playing with my toys.’

  ‘Couldn’t resist it. There – one magazine of blanks, and one spare. Use your initiative, James. Good luck.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You have three minutes.’

  Bond quickly reconnoitred the building and placed himself in the upper corridor, since it had no windows. He stayed close to the door which opened on to the landing, but was well shielded by the corridor wall. He was crouched against the wall when the stun grenades exploded in the hallway below – two ear-splitting crumps, followed by several bursts of automatic fire. Bullets hacked and chipped into the plaster and brickwork on the other side of the wall, while another burst almost took the door beside him off its hinges.

  They were not using blanks. This was for real, and he knew with sudden shock, that it was as he had earlier deduced. He was being thrown to the wolves.

  12

  RETURN TO SENDER

  Two more explosions came from below, followed by another heavy burst of fire. The second team of two men was clearing the ground floor. Bond could hear the feet of the first team on the stairs. In a few seconds there would be the dance of death on the landing – a couple of stun grenades or smoke canisters would be thrown through the door to his right, then lead would hose down the passage, taking him on that short trip into eternity.

  Simon’s voice kept running in his head like a looped tape: ‘Use your initiative . . . Use your initiative . . .’ Was that a hint? A clue? There was certainly something of a nudge in the tone he had adopted.

  Move. Bond was off down the corridor, making for the room to his left. He had some vague idea that he might leap from the window. Anything to remove himself from the vicious hailstorm of bullets.

  He took rapid strides into the room and, trying to make as little noise as possible, closed the door, automatically sliding a small bolt above the handle. He started to cross the floor, heading for the windows, clutching the useless ASP as though his life depended on it. As he sidestepped a chair, he saw them – two ASP magazines, cutaway matt black oblongs, lying on a rickety table between the high windows. Grabbing at the first, he saw immediately that they were his own reserves, both full, loaded with Glasers.

  There is a fast routine for reloading the ASP, a fluent movement that quickly jettisons an empty magazine, replacing it with a full one.
Bond went through the reload procedure in a matter of five seconds, including dropping his eyes to check that a live round had entered the chamber.

  He performed the reloading on the move, finally positioning himself hard against the wall to the left of the door. The team would leap in after the grenades had accomplished their disorientating effect, one to the left and one right. They would be firing as they came, but Bond gambled on their first bursts going wide across the room.

  Flattening himself against the wall, he held the powerful little weapon at arm’s length in the two-handed grip, at the same time clutching the spare magazine almost as an extension to the butt.

  They were making straight for this room. As he reloaded, Bond had been conscious of the bangs and rattle of their textbook assault through the landing door. Bullets spat and splintered the woodwork to his right. A boot smashed in the handle and broke the flimsy bolt, while a pair of stun grenades hit the bare boards, making a heavy clunk, one of them rolling for a split second before detonation.

  He closed his eyes, head turning slightly to avoid the worst effect – the flash that temporarily blinds – though nothing could stop the noise which seemed to explode from within his own cranium, putting his head in a vice, and ringing in his ears like a magnified bell. It blotted out all external sounds, even that of his own pistol as he fired, and the death-rattle of the submachine guns as the two-man team stepped through the lingering smoke.

  Bond acted purely by intuition. At the first movement through the door he sighted the three little yellow triangles on the dark moving shape. He squeezed the trigger twice, resighted and squeezed again. In all the four bullets were off in less than three seconds – though the whole business appeared to be frozen in time, slowed down like a cinematic trick so that everything happened with a ponderous, even clumsy, brutality.

  The man nearest Bond came through, leaping to his left, the wicked little automatic weapon tucked between upper arm and ribcage, the muzzle already spitting fire as he identified and turned towards his target. Bond’s first bullet caught him in the neck, tearing through flesh, bone, arteries and sinews, hurling the man sideways, pushing him, the head lolling, as though it was being torn away from its body. The second slug entered the head, which exploded, leaving a cloud of fine pink and grey matter hanging in the air. The third and fourth bullets both caught the second man in the chest, a couple of inches below the windpipe. He was swinging outwards, and to his right, realising too late where the target was situated, the gun in his hand spraying bullets towards the window.