For Special Services Page 4

  ans should, of course, be destroyed. But he wished

  make certain you had full knowledge of our substan-

  l backing, world-wide. The initial thrust will

  most telling in Europe, and the Mid-East. But,

  ntually, it will leave the United States wide

  pen. With careful manipulation we can successfu

  ivide and rule – or at least

  I look forward to our next meeting.

  Then the scrawled, but plainly decipherable, signature:

  Blofeld

  Bond felt a clawing at his intestines. ‘Where . . . ?’ he began.

  ‘In the rotting lining of our CIA girl’s clothes. Taken from the body,’ Cedar answered, her voice level. ‘The analysts at Langley think Bismaquer’s working in conjunction with a terrorist organisation known as SPECTRE. I was told you are an expert, Mr Bond . . .’

  ‘Blofeld’s dead.’ Bond was equally cool.

  ‘Unless, 007,’ M removed the pipe from his mouth, ‘unless there was progeny? Or a brother? Or someone else? You’ve spent considerable time convincing me that SPECTRE’S active again, and behind these wretched hijackings. Now there comes evidence that a Blofeld, of some kind, is still around and consorting with a very rich, mad Texan. That piece of paper’ – he gestured towards the photostat – ‘suggests that Bismaquer, and SPECTRE, are embarking on some kind of venture that may set the world ablaze. God knows, there’s enough danger of that with the governments, unrest, political ineptitude, recession, and the draining of resources – on an official level. Some big freelance operation could be catastrophic; and we already know, from past experience, that SPECTRE can cause international problems.’

  As he finished there was a tap at the door and Bill Tanner entered to M’s firm ‘Come’.

  ‘Checks out, sir. Just had the Embassy signal back. They don’t know what it means but said it had to be something special because it was returned with considerable priority and the Presidential cipher. Their people got a little nosey, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I hope you put their noses out of joint, Chief-of-Staff.’

  Tanner smiled, giving Bond a welcome nod.

  M took a draw on his pipe, tapping his teeth with the stem before continuing, ‘One of the other documents, 007, is a personal letter to me from the President of the United States. In it, he says the information is, in his opinion, so sensitive that he does not want to go through normal channels: hence the use of Miss Leiter. He asks for special help. In other words he wants someone from this Service to accompany Miss Leiter to the United States and infiltrate the Bismaquer set-up. Can you suggest anyone, 007? Anyone with a good working knowledge of that pustule SPECTRE?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bond already felt the adrenalin stirring. ‘Yes, of course I’ll go. But I’ve a couple of questions for Miss Leiter. What’s Bismaquer’s marital status?’

  ‘Married three times,’ she answered. ‘First two died. Natural causes – an automobile accident and a brain tumour. His present wife’s considerably younger than him. Stunning, elegant: Nena Bismaquer, formerly Nena Clavert. French by birth. Lived in Paris, where she first met Bismaquer.’

  ‘Can we check if that’s absolutely snow white?’

  M nodded, giving Tanner a quick glance – an order without words.

  ‘And the second question?’ Cedar unwound her legs.

  ‘How did Bismaquer make his first million? I presume the rest followed by careful investment.’

  ‘Ice cream.’ Cedar grinned. ‘He was the first great ice cream king. Came up with things you’d never believe. One of the big chains finally bought him out, but it’s still a passion with him. He even has a lab out at the ranch. Apparently he’s determined to find a completely new, untried method of making the stuff. Always coming up with elaborate recipes and flavours.’

  M cleared his throat. ‘Getting close is going to be the problem, that’s obvious.’

  ‘Apart from his wife and ice cream, Bismaquer has one other weak point,’ Cedar offered.

  They looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Prints. Rare prints. He has a terrific collection – or so the information goes. And it really is a weakness. I understand the top brass at Langley interrogated one of the few clean people ever to get into, and out of, Rancho Bismaquer in recent years. He was a well-known dealer in rare prints.’

  ‘Know anything about rare prints, 007?’ M looked cheerful for the first time since Bond had entered the office.

  ‘Not at the moment, sir.’ Bond lit another cigarette. ‘But I’ve got a feeling I’m going to learn quite quickly.’

  ‘So is Miss Leiter.’ M allowed himself a rare smile as he reached for the telephone.

  6

  RARE PRINTS FOR SALE

  James Bond was always amazed by New York. Other people said it was getting worse, going downhill fast. They talked about how dirty and dangerous it was. Yet, every time Bond was sent there on an assignment, he found New York little changed from when he first knew it. Certainly, there were more buildings, and – like every city – more places you kept away from at night. But there was no denying that, as a city, it gave him more of an emotional charge than his beloved London.

  This time, though, he was not in New York City as James Bond. His passport was in the name of Professor Joseph Penbrunner, whose occupation was listed as art dealer. Cedar Leiter had also changed her name – to Mrs Joseph Penbrunner – and the couple had received attention from the media: M and his Chief-of-Staff had already seen to that.

  The evening of Cedar Leiter’s arrival in London, Bond had taken her from the headquarters building to a safe house in a Kensington mews, one easily observed by the team of nursemaids assigned to them. Bill Tanner had arrived within the hour to give the pair a quick rundown on the cover chosen for them. Cedar, being unknown in the trade, needed no disguise; but Bond would have to undergo some changes in appearance, and Tanner had brought along a few ideas.

  Disguise, as Bond knew well enough, was best when kept to the minimum – a change of hairstyle, some new mannerism in a walk, contact lenses, maybe the fattening of cheeks with rubber pads (a device not often used as it causes difficulty in eating and drinking), spectacles, or a different mode of dress. These were the easiest things, and, on that first night, Bond learned that he would be equipped with a greying moustache, heavy-framed glasses – with clear lenses – together with a careful thinning, and complete greying, of the hair. It was also suggested that he develop a scholarly stoop and slow walk, as well as a rather pompous style of speech.

  For the next few days, Bond travelled straight to the Kensington safe house each morning to work with Cedar.

  M brought in a small, humourless cipher of a man, an expert in prints, especially rare English work. His name was never mentioned. The crash course he gave Bond and Cedar made them at least superficially knowledgeable in the subject.

  Within the week they learned that from the early, simple woodcuts of Caxton until the middle of the seventeenth century, there were no English printmakers of any stature. Real brilliance came from the Continent, with masters like Dürer, Lucas van Leyden, and the like. They were tutored in Holbein the Younger, the first English copper plates of John Shute, and on into Hollar, Hogarth and his contemporaries, through the so-called Romantic Tradition, up to the revival and high standards of etching, and print-making, of the nineteenth century.

  On the third day, M came to Kensington, asking that their instructor concentrate on Hogarth. The reason was revealed that night, when M turned up again, with Bill Tanner and a pair of his personal watchdogs in tow.

  ‘Well, I think we’ve done it,’ M announced, seating himself in the most comfortable chair and wrinkling his nose in a gesture of distaste at the wallpaper. Like all Service safe houses, the place had the bare amenities of a low-rated hotel.

  ‘Two things,’ M went on. ‘Nena Bismaquer née Clavert appears clean. Secondly, you, Professor Penbrunner, are not in good odour with certain people in t
he art world. Tomorrow the Press could well go mad. They are, in fact, searching for you right now.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to have done?’ Bond felt distinctly wary.

  ‘Not much.’ M resumed his most professional voice. ‘You’ve come across a set of hitherto unknown, signed Hogarth prints, not unlike “The Rake’s Progress”, or “The Harlot’s Progress”, come to that. Six in all, beautifully executed and entitled “The Lady’s Progress” – causing a stir, I can tell you. They’ve been fully authenticated. You’ve been trying to keep it quiet, but the cat’s out of the bag now. The story goes that you’re not even putting them on offer in England but taking them to the United States. Oh, there will be questions in the House, no doubt.’

  Bond chewed his lip. ‘And the prints?’

  ‘Beautiful forgeries,’ said M, beaming. ‘Very hard to prove otherwise, and they’ve cost the Service a mint. They’ll be brought in tomorrow, and I’ll see the Press are tipped off just before you leave for New York next week.’

  ‘Talking about leaving . . .’ Bond steered M from his chair to the privacy of another room. The job was going to be taxing enough, for they could not expect assistance from either the American or British intelligence services until the last possible moment – simply because so few would know of their presence, or their assignment.

  ‘There’s no back-up,’ Bond began.

  ‘You’ve done jobs without back-up before, James.’ M softened, using Bond’s Christian name in private.

  ‘True. Arrangements have been made for my personal armament, I presume?’

  M nodded. The VP70, ammunition, and his favourite knives were to be delivered in a briefcase – which also contained the six forged Hogarth prints – to their New York hotel. ‘Q Branch’ve set up one or two other useful things for you. There’ll be a technology session with Miss Reilly before you go.’

  ‘Then I’ve got one more favour to ask.’

  ‘Ask, and it just might be given.’

  ‘The Silver Beast.’ Bond looked straight into M’s eyes, noting the flicker of doubt. ‘The Silver Beast’ was the nickname members of the Service had given to Bond’s personal car – the Saab 900 Turbo: his own property, with the special technology built into it at his expense. Jibes about it being Bond’s ‘toy’ received only a polite smile from 007; and he knew that Major Boothroyd, the Armourer, had constantly sniffed around the machine in an attempt to discover all its secrets: the hidden compartments, tear gas ducts, and new refinements recently built into the bullet-proofed vehicle. Even Q’ute, doubtless put up to it by Boothroyd, had tried a Mata Hari on Bond to wheedle out the secrets. At the time, 007 had merely slapped her playfully on the bottom, and said she should not meddle. Now he was about to place what could be his salvation in M’s hands.

  ‘What about the Silver Beast?’

  ‘I need it in America, sir. I don’t want to be at the mercy of public transport.’

  M gave a fleeting smile. ‘I can arrange for you to hire a car – with the proper left-hand drive as well.’

  ‘That’s not the same, and you know it, sir.’

  ‘And you know your Saab’s not a Service vehicle. Heaven knows what you’ve got hidden in that thing . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I need that car and the documentation, sir,’ Bond retorted.

  M thought, his brow creased. ‘Have to sleep on it. Let you know tomorrow.’ Sucking on his pipe, and grumbling under his breath, M left.

  In fact, Bond did not fancy his chances regarding the car, even though he was going to the United States on special orders. But, the following evening, after a long and testy lecture from M on the state of the Service finances, permission was granted. The Service would, reluctantly, have the Saab taken over to the United States. ‘Be there, ready and waiting for you on arrival,’ M told him grumpily.

  Professor and Mrs Joseph Penbrunner’s arrival with their Saab had, in fact, been quite something. With his voice changed to a donnish, pompous, and rather plummy timbre, Bond neatly parried the media’s questions at New York’s JFK airport: the media had ‘assumed’ he was selling the newly-discovered Hogarth prints in America. Well, he was saying nothing yet. No, he did not have a particular buyer in mind; this was a personal visit to America. No, he did not have the prints with him, but yes, they were already, he could reveal, in New York.

  Privately, the disguised Bond was pleased with the vocal tones which he had based, from long memory, on those of his old housemaster during those two unfortunate halves at Eton. The man had been a pain – in all senses – to Bond, and now he took delight in mocking him. At the same time, Bond made certain Professor and Mrs Penbrunner would hit the evening news as well as the headlines by his turning crusty and rude. The media were not really interested in art, he said, only the trouble they could stir up. ‘When it all comes down to it,’ he added, pulling Cedar through the throng, ‘you fellows’ll only be concerned with the price. Dollars, dollars and more dollars. All you’re after – the price.’

  ‘That means you are here to make a sale, Professor?’ one of the contingent asked sharply.

  ‘That’s my business.’

  At Loew’s Drake Hotel on 56th and Park, the briefcase awaited them. Bond unpacked carefully, quickly separating the prints from the weaponry. The prints would go to the hotel safe. As for the hardware? Well, he would carry the VP70, while the knives went into the specially sprung compartments – made years ago by Q Branch – in his own briefcase. Bond was so engrossed in sorting out these matters, that he failed to notice the coolness which had started to build, like a weather front, around Cedar.

  During the days in the Kensington safe house she had insisted on calling him plain ‘Bond’. When he had politely, and with his usual charm, asked her to address him as James, Cedar flatly refused. ‘I know you and my father were buddies,’ she had said, not looking at him, ‘but we’re into a professional relationship now. I call you Bond – except in public when we’re playing husband and wife. You call me Leiter.’

  James Bond had laughed. ‘Okay, you can keep it like that. But I’m afraid I shall go on calling you Cedar.’

  On returning from depositing the prints, Bond found her standing in the middle of the room, arms folded and foot tapping – a most attractive posture, whether she intended it to be or not.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked breezily.

  ‘What d’you think’s up?’

  Bond shrugged. A creature of habit, he had started to unpack in the usual way, even dumping his towelling robe on the large double bed. ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘That, for one,’ pointing out the robe. ‘We haven’t even settled who’s going to use the bed and who’s sleeping on the couch. As far as I’m concerned, Mr James Bond, the marriage is over once we’re in private.’

  ‘Well, of course I take the couch.’ Then, heading for the bathroom, Bond flung over his shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, Cedar, you’ll be safe as a nun with me. And you can take the bed every time. I’ve always preferred to live rough anyway.’

  He could sense her petulance behind him, but when he came out, Cedar still stood by the bed, looking almost contrite. ‘I’m sorry, James. I’m really sorry to have thought that of you. My Dad was right. You’re a gentleman, in the real sense of the word.’

  Bond did not blush, even though ‘gentleman’ was scarcely a word ladies used to describe him.

  ‘Come on, then, Cedar. Let’s go out and have a good time – or at least have dinner. I know a place not far from here.’

  They walked to the elegant Le Périgord, on East 52nd.

  ‘If you want French food in this city, you do get the authentic thing here,’ Bond told Cedar, not even noticing the slight tilt of her eyebrows, or the smile that crossed her face, on hearing an Englishman telling her, American born and bred, about the best places to eat.

  She admitted he was right, though, for the meal could not have been bettered – although Bond chose the simplest of dishes: asperges de Sologne à la Blésoise –
plump and tender asparagus in a sauce of cream, lemon and orange rind, with a dash of Grand Marnier, mixed into a hollandaise base – poached fillets of sole au champagne; and a mouth-melting tarte de Cambrai, made with pears.

  Sharing a bottle of Dom Pérignon ’69 – which Bond pronounced ‘safe’ – Cedar relaxed and began to enjoy herself, experiencing as she did so a strange sensation. For though Bond did not once slip out of character as Joseph Penbrunner, she thought she could see the man behind the disguise, the man her father had spoken of so often: the blue, unforgettable eyes; the dark, clean-cut face which had always reminded her father of Hoagy Carmichael in his younger days; the hard, almost cruel mouth which could soften so unexpectedly. A magnetic attraction, that was the only phrase for what she felt, and she couldn’t but wonder how many others had felt it before her.

  The meal over, they walked back to the Drake, collected the room key and took the elevator up to the third floor.

  The three heavily-built men in sharp, neatly-cut suits, converged on the couple as the elevator doors closed behind them. Before Bond could even reach inside his jacket to snatch at the butt of the VP70, a hand closed around his wrist, while another removed the pistol.

  ‘We’ll go quietly to the room, honh, Professor,’ one of them said. ‘No problems. We’re just delivering an invitation from somebody who wants to see you, okay?’

  7

  INVITATION BY FORCE

  The work Cedar and Bond had done together, at the Kensington safe house, included devising a series of signals and moves to be used in a situation such as this. Bond nodded towards the heavy who had spoken, scratched his right temple and coughed. To Cedar this meant, ‘Go along with them, but watch for my lead.’

  ‘No problems, honh?’ The spokesman was the largest of the three men, a few inches taller than Bond, with the muscular frame and barrel chest of a weight-lifter. The others looked equally hard and fit. Professional hoods, Bond thought, professional and experienced.