Role of Honour Page 2

  ‘No? Well, why should you? They’ve been very discreet. Not a twenty-four-hour surveillance or anything like that, but our people on the street have reported that you’re under observation. Odd days, occasional nights, questions in unlikely places.’

  Bond swore silently. He felt foolish. Even at home, behave as though you’re in the field, they taught. Elementary, and he had not even noticed. ‘Where’s this leading, then?’ he asked, dreading the answer.

  ‘To the dangle.’ Tanner gave a half-smile. ‘To a small charade, with you as the central character, James.’

  Bond nodded. ‘Like I said, I’m going to be the bait.’

  ‘It seems resonable enough.’ M turned his attention to his pipe. ‘The situation is ideal . . .’

  This time Bond did explode, voicing his feelings with some force. It was the most stupid ploy he had ever heard of. No recruiting officer from any foreign agency would seriously consider him – and, if any did, their masters would put a blight on it in ten seconds flat. ‘You’re not really serious about this, are you?’ he ended lamely.

  ‘Absolutely, 007. I agree, on the face of it they’ll steer clear of you. But we have to look at the facts – they are more than interested already . . .’

  ‘Never in a thousand years . . .’ Bond started again.

  ‘We’ve already formulated the plan, 007, and we’re proceeding with it. Do I have to remind you that you’re under my orders?’

  There were no options, and Bond, feeling the whole business was sheer madness, could only sit and listen to the dialogue as M and Tanner outlined the bare bones of the scheme, like a pair of theatrical directors explaining motivation to a rather dull actor.

  ‘At an appropriate moment we haul you in,’ said M with a sour smile.

  ‘Enquiry in camera,’ counterpointed Bill Tanner.

  ‘Making certain the Press are tipped off.’

  ‘Questions in the House.’

  ‘Hints of scandal. Corruption in the Service.’

  ‘And you resign.’

  ‘Giving the impression that, in reality, we’ve cast you into outer darkness. And if that doesn’t lure the ambulance chasers, then there’s something else in the wind. Wait and do as I say, 007.’

  And so it had happened – though not because of the ambulance chasers, as they had told him. Rumours ran along the corridors of power; there was gossip in the clubs, tattle in the powder rooms of government departments, hints to the Press, hints by the Press, even questions in the House of Commons, and finally the resignation of Commander James Bond.

  3

  RIOTOUS LIVING

  In the month before the Kruxator robbery Bond himself had been following a hedonistic routine. He stayed in bed until noon and ventured forth only in the evenings, to restaurants, clubs and gaming houses, usually with a pretty girl in tow. Since the Paymaster General’s lamentable performance in the House, attempting to make light of certain scandals associated with one of the Foreign Office’s field operators and to dismiss Opposition charges of a security cover-up, the Press had, perhaps surprisingly, hardly approached Bond again. He had no contact at all with his former employers. In fact, they went out of their way to avoid him. One evening he found himself at the Inn on the Park seated only two tables from Anne Reilly, the attractive and talented assistant to the Armourer in Q Branch. Bond caught her eye and smiled but she merely looked through him as though he did not exist.

  Then, towards the end of April, around noon one mild, bright Thursday, the telephone rang in Bond’s flat. Bond, who had been shaving, grabbed at the handset, as though he would have liked to strangle the trilling.

  ‘Yes?’ he growled.

  ‘Oh!’ The voice was female, and surprised. ‘Is that 59 Dean Street? The Record Shop?’

  ‘It’s not 59 anything.’ Bond did not even smile.

  ‘But I’m sure I dialled 734 8777 . . .’

  ‘Well, you didn’t get it.’ He slammed the receiver back, irritated by what appeared to be a misrouted call.

  Later in the afternoon, he telephoned his date, a favourite blonde stewardess with British Airways, to cancel their evening out. Instead of dinner for two at the Connaught, Bond went alone to Veeraswamy’s, that most excellent Indian restaurant in Swallow Street, where he ate a chicken vindaloo with all the trimmings, lingered over his coffee, then paid the bill and left on the dot of nine-fifteen. The magnificent uniformed and bearded doorman gave him a quivering salute, then loudly hailed a cab. Bond tipped the doorman and gave the driver his home address, but at the top of St James’s he paid off the taxi and set out on foot, to follow an apparently aimless route, turning into side streets, crossing roads suddenly, doubling back on himself a number of times, loitering at corners, making certain he was not being followed.

  Eventually, clinging to this devious routine, he ended up in a doorway near St Martin’s Lane. For two minutes Bond stood looking up at a lighted window across the road. At precisely ten o’clock the oblong of light turned black, then lit again, went black, lit and stayed on.

  Quickly Bond crossed the road. He disappeared through another doorway, took a narrow flight of stairs, went across a landing and up four more steps to a door labelled Rich Photography Ltd. Models available. When he pressed the small button to the right of the lintel the chimes associated with a well-known brand of cosmetics ding-donged from far away inside. There were faint footsteps and the click of bolts being drawn.

  The door opened to reveal Bill Tanner who nodded, indicating that Bond should enter. He followed Tanner along a small passage, its paintwork peeling and with a cloying smell of cheap scent hanging in the air, and through the door at the far end. The room was very small and cluttered. A bed partially masked by a hideously patterned coverlet stood in one corner, and a mangy teddy bear lounged on a bright orange, heart-shaped imitation silk nightdress case. A small wardrobe faced the bed, its door half open, displaying a pathetic row of women’s clothes. The tiny dressing table was crammed with bottles and jars of cosmetics. Above a popping gas fire, a print of The Green Lady looked down from a plastic frame upon a pair of easy chairs which would not have been out of place in a child’s Wendy house.

  ‘Come in, 007. Glad to see you can do simple mathematics.’ The figure in one of the chairs turned, and Bond found himself looking into the familiar cold grey eyes of his Head of Service.

  Tanner closed the door and crossed to a table on which were set several bottles and glasses.

  ‘Good to see you, sir,’ Bond said with a smile, holding out a hand. ‘Seven and three equals ten. Even I can manage that.’

  ‘Nobody in tow?’ the Chief-of-Staff asked anxiously, sidling towards the window which Bond had viewed from the far side of the street.

  ‘Not unless they’ve got a team of a hundred or so footpads and about twenty cars on me. The traffic’s as thick as treacle tonight. Always bad on Thursdays – late night shopping, and the commuters staying up to meet their wives and girlfriends.’

  The telephone gave a good old-fashioned ring and Tanner got to it in two strides.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, then, again, ‘Yes . . . Good . . . Right.’ Replacing the receiver, he looked up with a smile. ‘He’s clear, sir. All the way.’

  ‘I told you . . .’ Bond began, but Tanner cut him short with an invitation to take a gin and tonic with them. Bond scowled, shaking his head. ‘I’ve had enough alcohol to float several small ships in the past few weeks . . .’

  ‘So we all noticed,’ M grunted.

  ‘Your instructions, sir. I could remind you that I said at the outset nothing would come of it. Nobody in our business would even begin to believe I’d left the Service, just like that. The silence has been deafening.’

  M grunted again. ‘Sit down, 007. Sit down and listen. The silence has not been so deafening. On the contrary, the isle is full of noises, only you have been on a different frequency. I’m afraid we’ve kept you in the dark, but it was necessary – that is, until we had established to the various intellige
nce communities that you were persona non grata as far as we’re concerned. Forget what we told you during our last meeting. Now we have the real target. Look at this picture – and at this, and this.’

  Like an experienced poker player, M laid out three photographs, of one man and two women.

  ‘The man,’ he said at last, ‘is presumed dead. His name was Dr Jay Autem Holy.’ M’s finger touched one photograph, then moved on to the next. ‘This lady is his widow, and this’ – the finger prodded towards the third photograph – ‘this is the same lady. Looks so different that should her husband come back from the dead, which is on the cards, he would never recognise her.’ M picked up the final photograph. ‘She will give you the details. In fact, she’ll give you a little training as well. She answers to the name of Proud. Persephone Proud. Ms.’

  Proud was plump, with mousy brown hair, thick-lensed spectacles, thin lips and a sharp nose too big for her rather chubby face. At least that was how she looked in the photograph taken some years ago when she was married to Jay Autem Holy. M maintained that Bond would not recognise her now either. That did not surprise him when he studied the third photograph.

  ‘You’re sending me on another course?’ Bond mused rather absently without looking up.

  ‘Something like that. She’s waiting for you now.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘In Monaco. Monte Carlo. Hotel de Paris. Now listen carefully, 007. There’s a good deal for you to absorb, and I want you on the road early next week. You must, naturally, still consider yourself as one cast into outer darkness. But this is what we, together with our American cousins, planned from the start.’

  M talked earnestly for about fifteen minutes, allowing no interruptions, before Bond was escorted through another elaborate security routine to get him safely clear of the building and on his way home in a taxi without being followed. Not for the first time, Bond had been given another life, a double identity. But of the many dubious parts he had played for his country, this was to appear more than any as a role of dishonour.

  4

  PROUD PERCY

  Bond particularly enjoyed the drive through France, down to the South, for it was the first time he had been able to let the huge Mulsanne Turbo off the leash. The car seemed to revel in the business of doing its job with perfection. Bentley had certainly produced another true thoroughbred from their stable. The Mulsanne pushed its long, elegant snout forward, and then, like some runner in peak condition, gathered itself together, effortlessly reaching well in excess of the 100 miles per hour mark and eating up road without fuss or noise, as if it were floating over the tarmac on a silent cushion of air.

  Bond had left London early on the Monday morning, and he had been told Ms Proud would be in the Casino each evening, from the Tuesday, between ten and eleven.

  At a little after six on Tuesday the Mulsanne slid into Monaco’s Place Casino, and up to the entrance of the Hotel de Paris. It was a splendid, clear spring evening, with hardly a breath of wind to stir the palm trees in the gardens which front the Grand Casino. As he switched off the ignition, Bond checked that the small hidden weapon compartment below the polished wooden dashboard to the right of the wheel, was locked and that the safety key was turned on the powerful Super 1000 telephone housed between the front seats. Stepping out, he glanced around the Place, nostrils filling with a mixture of mimosa, heavy French tobacco and the soft sea air.

  Monte Carlo, like the neighbouring cities and towns along the Côte d’Azur, had a smell that was all its own. Bond reckoned a fortune could be made if someone could only bottle it, to provide nostalgic memories for those who had known the principality in its heyday. For the one-time gambling legend of Europe was no longer the great romantic fairytale place remembered by those who had won, and lost, fortunes and hearts there. The package holiday, the weekend break and the charter flight had put an end to that. Monaco managed to keep up its veneer of sophistication only through the presence of its royal family and the high prices speculators, hoteliers, restaurateurs and shopkeepers charged. Even those had not created a safe buffer against some of the more garish encroachments of the 1980s. On his last visit, Bond had been horrified to find one-armed bandits installed in the exclusive Salles Privées of the Casino. Now he would not be surprised if there were space invader games there as well.

  His room faced the sea and, before taking a shower and preparing for the evening, he stood on the balcony, looking out at the twinkling lights and sipping a martini. For a moment he wondered if it were possible to recapture the sounds and laughter of former, brighter days.

  After a modest dinner – chilled consommé, grilled sole, and a mousse au chocolat – he went down to check the car, then walked over to the Casino, paid the entrance fee to admit him to the fabled Salles Privées and bought 50,000 francs’ worth of chips – around £4,000 sterling.

  There was play at only one of the tables. As Bond crossed the floor, he saw Persephone Proud for the first time. M had understated the case when he said even her husband would not recognise her. Bond, who had hardly credited the ‘after’ photograph, as M had called it, found it difficult to believe that this woman, undeniably the one from that photograph, could ever have been either plump or mousy.

  She stood, bare-shouldered, her back against the bar, a tall, almost willowy figure, head tilted, small breasts thrusting into relief against the flimsy material of her blue dress. Long ash-blonde hair just touched the tanned skin at the nape of her neck, and her light blue-grey eyes, twinkling with amusement, were intent on the play at the table. A half-smile hovered around her mouth, full lips having replaced the original, while the angular nose was now almost a snub.

  Fascinating, Bond thought. Fascinating to see what strict diet, a nose job, contact lenses and a dedicated course of beauty treatment could accomplish.

  He did not pause on his way to the table, where he took a seat, acknowledging the croupier, and studying the game for three turns before dropping 25,000 francs on Impair.

  The croupier called an almost ritual ‘Faites vos jeux’. All eyes watched, as the little ball bounced into the spinning wheel.

  ‘Rien ne va plus.’ Bond glanced at the three other players – a smooth, American-looking man, late forties, blue-jowled and with the steely look of a professional gambler; a woman in her early seventies, he judged, dressed in last season’s fashions; and a heavy-set Chinese whose face would never give away his age. Everyone followed the wheel now as the ball bounced twice and settled into a slot. ‘Dix-sept, rouge, impair et manque,’ the croupier intoned in that particular plainchant of the tables. Seventeen, red, odd and low.

  The rake swung efficiently over the green baize, taking in the house winnings, and pushing out plaques to the winners, including Bond, whose Impair bet had netted him even money. At the call, he again placed 25,000 on Impair. Once more he won, eleven coming up. Impair for a third time, and the ball rolled into fifteen. In three turns of the wheel, Bond had made 75,000 francs. He was playing the easy way, high stakes for even returns. The other players were betting complex patterns – A Cheval, Carré, and Colonne – which made for higher odds. Bond pushed the whole of his 75,000 francs on to Pair and fourteen – red came up. Stake plus 75,000 francs. Time to call it a night. He flipped a 5,000 franc chip across the table, muttering ‘Pour les employés,’ and pushed back the chair. There was a little squeal as it touched the girl’s legs, and Bond felt liquid run down his left cheek where her drink spilled. It was a natural enough incident, for the Englishman had not sensed her standing behind him. The move had been carefully pre-arranged far away in London, in the safe flat near St Martin’s Lane.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry . . . Pardon, madame, je . . .’

  ‘It’s okay, I speak English.’ The voice was pitched low, the accent clear and without nasality. ‘It was my fault, I shouldn’t have been standing so close. The game was very . . .’

  ‘Well, at least let me get you a fresh drink.’

  Bond finished drying his face a
nd took her elbow, steering her towards the small bar. One of the dinner-jacketed security men smiled as he watched them go. Hadn’t he seen women pick up men like this many times? No harm in it, as long as the women were straight, and this one was an American visitor. Silently he wished them luck.

  ‘Mr . . . ?’ She raised her champagne cocktail to his.

  ‘James Bond. My friends call me James.’

  ‘And mine call me Percy. Persephone Proud’s too much of a mouthful.’

  Bond’s eyes smiled over the rim of the glass. ‘Percy Proud,’ he said, an eyebrow cocked, ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Percy was a relaxed young woman, an easy communicator blessed with a sense of humour, and of the ridiculous.

  ‘Okay, James . . .’ they were at last seated in her room at the Hotel de Paris, armed with champagne cocktails ‘. . . down to details. How much have you been told?’

  ‘Very little.’ She’ll give you the fine print, M had said. Play up to her; trust her; let her teach you. She knows more about all this than anyone.

  ‘You’ve seen this picture?’ She extracted a small photograph from her handbag. ‘I just have to show it to you and then destroy it. I don’t want to be caught with it on me.’

  The photograph was a smaller print of the one they had shown Bond in the St Martin’s Lane flat.

  ‘Jay Autem Holy,’ Bond said. The man looked very tall, his thinning hair failing to disguise a domed head, and he had a large, beaky nose.

  ‘Doctor Jay Autem Holy,’ she corrected.

  ‘Deceased. And you are the widow – though I wouldn’t have recognised you after some of the photos I’ve seen.’

  She gave a quick, infectious giggle. ‘There have been some changes made.’

  ‘I’ll say. The other identity would not have been attractive in black . . . You’d look good in anything.’

  ‘Flattery could get you everywhere, James Bond. But I don’t really think Mrs Jay Autem Holy ever needed widow’s weeds. You see, he never died.’