Role of Honour Read online

  ‘Freddie and I are going to look at the conservatory,’ Dazzle suddenly interrupted, rather sharply. ‘It’s shop all the time. Very boring. Hope to see you later, James. Lovely meeting you.’

  Jason did not even apologise, merely smiling benignly and shrugging. Freddie gave Bond a broad wink as the two ladies left the room. As he turned back to the table, he caught Cindy looking at him again, in the same almost conspiratorial way, tinged this time with jealousy. Or did he imagine it?

  Jason had hardly paused. ‘Naturally, you’re conversant with flowcharting a computer program, James?’

  Bond nodded, recalling the hours spent in Monaco drawing the complex charts which showed exactly what you wanted the computer to do. Once more, with the memory came that odd sense of Percy’s presence. He dragged himself back, for Jason was still speaking.

  ‘Before we prepare a detailed flowchart, we have to find out what we want to chart. So we begin to plan the simulation by playing it on a large table. This acts as our graphics guide, and we have counters for units, troops, ships, cannon, plus cards for the random possibilities: weather cards, epidemics, unexpected gains or losses, hazards of war.’

  Peter took over. ‘From this we learn the scope of the program task. So, when we’ve played the campaign . . .’

  ‘About a million times,’ Cindy added. ‘It seems like a million, anyway.’

  Peter nodded ‘. . . We’re ready to begin flowcharting the various sections. You have to be dedicated in this job.’

  ‘Come down to the laboratory.’ Jason’s voice became commanding. ‘We’ll show James the board we’re working on now. Who knows, he may get interested and return to battle it out with me. If you do,’ he said, looking intently at Bond, ‘make sure you have plenty of time. Campaigns cannot be fought in five minutes.’

  Behind these seemingly pleasant words there was a hint of obsession that Bond found disturbing.

  As they left the room, he was conscious of Cindy brushing against him. He felt her hand touch his right hip lightly, just where the ASP 9mm was holstered. Had that been accidental, or was she carrying out a subtle search? Whatever the answer, Cindy Chalmer, at least, knew that he was armed.

  They went through the main hall, where Jason produced a bunch of keys attached to a thin gold chain, unlocking a door which, he said, had once been the way down to the cellars.

  ‘We’ve made a few changes, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally,’ responded Bond, unprepared for the nature of the alterations. Below the house there were three large, well-equipped, computer rooms, with models of all the best-known micros sitting in front of their visual display units. In a fourth room, Jason’s office, Bond’s heart leapt as he spotted a machine that looked almost exactly like the Terror Twelve now safe outside in the Bentley’s boot.

  From his office Jason led the way into a long chamber, lit from above by at least thirty spotlights. The walls were covered with charts and maps and in the centre was a large table. Almost entirely covering the table and overlaid with a thick plastic grid was a detailed map of the eastern seaboard of America, centred on Boston as it was in the 1770s. The main communicating roads and natural features were clearly marked in colour. In the centre of the grid stood a rectangular framework made of black plastic, the size and shape of a large television screen, while two small easels had been placed at the far end. Two trays, on opposite sides of the table, contained packs of white three-by-five cards. There was a chair in front of each tray and a desk top to each player’s right, well-stocked with paper, maps and printed forms.

  Peter and Cindy began to explain the nature of the game, and how it was used to build up all the details of the simulation before anything was committed to a computer program. The black plastic frame moved both vertically and horizontally across the map.

  ‘That is the area a player will eventually see on his screen, when we have built the game,’ said Jason. His manner had become less warm, as though the professional had suddenly ousted the friendly side of his nature. He explained how they could slot close-ups of the terrain into the rectangle. ‘When we’ve got the game on computer, you’ll be able to scroll around this whole map, but see only one section at a time,’ he said. ‘However, there’s a zoom facility. You press the Z key, and the screen will give you a blow-up of the section you’ve moved to.’

  Cindy explained that the two easels contained a calendar and the weather cards; each month’s cards were shuffled separately before play began. ‘Weather restricts or enhances movement.’ She demonstrated how the British patrols could move five spaces, on good days, but in heavy rain only three, and in snow, two.

  Looking at the map, Bond tried to remember the history of that period, learned too long ago now in dusty schoolrooms. He thought of the frustration among officers of the Colonial Militia, of the British inability to protect the cities and towns, of the unrest, then rebellion and open hostility.

  Then there was a general (was it General Gage?) caught between his situation on the ground and having to await orders from England. There were the patrols searching for the rebels’ arms caches, Paul Revere’s warning ride and the militia’s weapons being moved out of Concord; then the skirmishes around that town and Lexington. The British had withdrawn into Boston and fought at Bunker’s Hill, remembered as a kind of Dunkirk by the Americans, for the British garrison had won the battle, but with such terrible losses that they had to retreat by sea to Halifax.

  Bond thought of these things as Jason, warming to his theme, explained the way the simulation was played, with the players taking turns to issue orders and move forces. Some of the moves could be secret, and had to be noted on paper. Later came challenging and, possibly, skirmishing.

  ‘The thing I find interesting is that you can alter history. I am, personally, very attached to the idea of changing history.’ Again, a hint of that obsession, verging on dangerous madness. ‘Perhaps I shall alter history,’ Jason went on in a menacing whisper. ‘A dream? Maybe, but dreams can turn into reality if one man with a brilliant mind is put to proper use. You think my spark of genius is put to proper use? No?’ He expected no answer, and his next words really concerned something far beyond the simulation. ‘Perhaps, James, we could look at this in more detail – even play a few rounds – say, tomorrow?’

  Bond said he would like that, sensing more than an ordinary challenge. St John-Finnes continued to talk of revolution, change, and the complexity of war games. Cindy made an excuse to leave, nodding at Bond and remarking that she hoped they would meet again.

  ‘Oh, I’m certain you will.’ Jason appeared to be very sure of himself. ‘I’m inviting James to have another look. Shall we say six tomorrow evening?’

  Bond accepted, noticing that Jason did not even smile.

  As they left, Jason walked on ahead, but Peter lingered to the rear with Bond, taking the opportunity to whisper, ‘If you do play with him, he likes to win. Bad loser, and plays according to history. He always thinks his opponent will re-enact the actual events. The man’s a paradox.’ He gave Bond a wink, making it all too clear that Peter Amadeus was not particularly fond of his boss.

  Upstairs, Dazzle awaited them, having driven Freddie back to the Bull. ‘She seemed very tired. Said you had dragged her all round the countryside this afternoon, Mr Bond. You really shouldn’t subject her to so much physical exercise. She’s very much a town mouse, you know.’

  Bond had his own thoughts about this. He too could do with a good night’s sleep, but accepted the offer of a nightcap from his host. Cindy had gone to bed and Peter and Dazzle made their excuses, leaving the two men alone.

  After a short silence, Jason raised his glass. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, the green eyes like glass. ‘Maybe we won’t play games, James. But, I would welcome the chance of taking you on. Who knows? Computers, yes . . .’ He was away again, in some world of his own with a different time, place and set of values. ‘Computers are either the greatest tool mankind has invented, the most magnificent magic, capable o
f the construction of a new age,’ he laughed, one sharp rising note, ‘or they’re the best toy God has provided.’ In a couple of seconds the more familiar, benign Jason seemed to return. ‘Can I share my thoughts about you, James? I think . . .’ Jason was not waiting for Bond’s reply or consent, ‘I think that you are a small fraud, Mr Bond. That you know very little about the art of computer programming. Some, but not as much as you pretend. Am I right?’

  ‘No.’ Bond was firm. ‘No, you’re not right, I’ve taken the standard courses they give people like me. I reckon that I’m adequate. Not in your class, maybe, but who is?’

  ‘Plenty of people.’ Jason’s voice was quiet. ‘Young Cindy, and Peter, to name two. It’s a young people’s profession, and future, James. Yes, I have a lot of knowledge, and some flair for strategy. But young people who are brought up with the machines acquire flair very quickly. You know the age of the biggest, richest software tycoon in the United States?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘Right. Twenty-eight years old, and some of the really advanced programmers are younger. I know it all, but it’s up to people like Cindy or Peter, to translate my ideas into reality. Brilliance, genius, requires nurturing. Programmers like my two may not really understand that they feed my great conceptions. As for you, a man with minimal training – you cannot be of real use to me. You don’t stand a chance in this field.’

  Bond shrugged. ‘Not against you,’ he said, not knowing whether this was some devious wordplay, some psychological ploy.

  At the door, Jason told him he looked forward to the next meeting. ‘If you feel you can take me on – at a game I mean – I’ll be happy to oblige. But maybe we’ll find something more interesting than games, eh? Six tomorrow.’

  Bond could not know that the game of life itself would have changed by the time he saw Jay Autem Holy again. Nor what was really at stake in the games this curiously changeable man liked to play. He did know that Holy was a man possessed. Beneath the bonhomie and charm lay the mind of one who would play God with the world, and he found this deeply disturbing.

  When he got back to the hotel, Bond retrieved his key from a dozing night porter and went up to his room. But, on putting the key in the lock, he found the door already open. Freddie, he thought, with some irritation, for he wanted very much to be alone, to have time to think.

  Remaining cautious, he slipped the automatic pistol from its holster, and holding it just behind his right thigh, he turned the handle and gently kicked the door open.

  ‘Hallo, Mr Bond.’ Cindy Chalmer smiled up at him from one of the chairs, her long legs sprawled out in front of her, like an invitation.

  Quietly, Bond closed the door.

  ‘I bring greetings from Percy.’ Cindy’s smile broadened into a bewitching grin.

  Bond remembered the looks she had given him during the evening. ‘Who’s Percy?’ he asked evenly, holding her eyes in his, trying to detect either truth or deception.

  9

  INSIDE ENDOR

  ‘Come on, Mr Bond. Percy Proud. Persephone. We’re in cahoots.’

  ‘Sorry, Cindy. Nice of you to drop by, but I’ve never heard of Percy, Persephone, or Proud.’

  He quietly slipped the automatic pistol back into its holster. Cindy would have to do better than this if he was going to accept her. Face value and a mention of Percy was not enough.

  We’ve even infiltrated Endor, he heard Percy whisper into the echo-chamber of his mind.

  ‘You’re very good.’ Cindy spoke like a cheeky schoolgirl. ‘Percy said you were. She also told me that I had to mention you liked treats, and an apple for the teacher always brought great rewards.’

  Bond wasn’t convinced yet. Certainly only Percy and he knew of his by-play with the apple in Monte Carlo and their jokes about rewards for pupils. But what if Percy’s cover had been blown?

  ‘You’re in cahoots – as you put it – with someone called Percy?’ he said, staring her out.

  Cindy bobbed her head. ‘Cahoots, intrigue, in league with. We both belong to the same outfit, Mr Bond.’

  It made some sense. If the American Service already had someone in the house, close to Jay Autem Holy, they would not broadcast the fact. Persephone, as a true professional, would not tell Bond either. The circle of people who knew would be confined until the last minute. So, was this the last minute?

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘She said – Percy said – you’d know what to do with these.’ Cindy produced two hard disks encased in plastic from her shoulder bag. The thin boxes measured about five inches square and less than a quarter of an inch deep. On one side they had a hinged flap, like those on much fatter video cassettes. The boxes were brilliant blue and had small labels stuck on one corner.

  Bond made no move even to touch them. ‘And what, Miss Chalmer, are those?’

  ‘A couple of our target’s less conventional programs. And I can’t hang on to them for long. At about four in the morning I turn into a pumpkin.’

  ‘I’ll get a couple of white mice to drive you home then.’

  ‘Seriously. I can manage to get past the security without being detected until about four. They change shifts then.’

  ‘We’re talking of getting back into Endor I take it?’

  ‘Of course we’re talking about Endor. The place is electronically buttoned like Fort Knox – you remember Fort Knox?’ Cindy gave a small, almost mocking smile. ‘Well, Endor has code and lock combinations which change with each security shift. I have to go back during the current phase, otherwise I shall be right up the proverbial creek without a paddle.’

  Bond asked if she did this often.

  ‘In the mating season, yes. That’s why I’ve cultivated a certain reputation in the village. So I have a kind of alibi if I ever get caught. But, if they cop me with these stuffed down my shirt . . . Well . . .’ She ran a finger over her throat. ‘So, Mr Bond, I’d appreciate it if you’d copy these little beauties.’

  ‘How unconventional are they?’ He reached out to take the disks, feeling as though something irrevocable would happen once he laid hands on them. Even to handle the things implied that he could do as Cindy asked. If this was an attempt to put him in the frame, there could be no going back.

  ‘You’ll see. But please do what has to be done as quickly as you can. I have no way of copying them at the house . . .’

  ‘You can borrow them but not take copies? I find that difficult to believe, Miss Chalmer. Your boss told me, not long ago, that you’re a wizard with these things.’

  She made an irritated, spluttering noise which reminded him of M when the Head of Service became annoyed. ‘Technically, of course I can copy. But it would be far too dangerous to try it in the house. I’m never left alone long enough with the hardware. Either the great man’s around, or the Queen of the Night is fussing about . . .’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘Queen of . . . Oh, Peter. That’s my pet name for him. I think he may well be trustworthy – he certainly loathes the boss – but it’s not worth the risk. Percy wouldn’t hear of it.’

  Bond smiled inwardly. ‘Cindy?’

  She raised her eyes, ready for any question.

  ‘How well do you know this Percy?’

  ‘You’re dreadfully coy, James.’ They now slipped easily into first name terms.

  ‘No, I’m just dreadfully careful.’

  ‘I know her quite well. Have done for the past . . . what? Eight years?’

  ‘Has she been hospitalised since you’ve known her? Medical operations of any kind?’

  ‘A nose job. Spectacular. That’s all.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ve never had one.’

  ‘Background, Cindy. What? Who? And why?’

  ‘All of it? Okay. I spent eight months in a hospital for infectious diseases after I left high school. There are medical records, doctors and nurses who remember me. I know because Old Bald Eagle’s ferrets checked them out. Only I wasn’t there. I was at
the Farm, being trained. Then, surprise, I won a scholarship to Cambridge, here in England. From then on, as pure as the driven. A good, hard-working girl. I’m untouchable, fully sanitised, as we say. The Company kept me on ice. I worked for IBM, and then with Apple, before I applied for the job with Jay Autem Holy. His boys checked, double-checked and even then didn’t trust me for eighteen months.’

  Bond gave a brisk nod. There were no real options left. Trust between him and the girl had to be entered into quickly, though not lightly. ‘Okay, just tell me about these two programs.’

  ‘Why don’t you take a look for yourself? Percy told me you had the means.’

  ‘You tell me, Cindy. Concisely as you can, then we’ll get on with it.’

  She talked rapidly, reducing the information, telescoping her sentences to the minimum. They had games weekends at Endor – he knew about that – and some very strange people turned up along with the usual, dedicated war games freaks.

  ‘There are two particular characters – Balmer and Hopcraft,’ Cindy went on after pausing to gaze intently into Bond’s eyes, ‘known to my crowd as Tigerbalm and Happy. Tigerbalm’s about as balmy as a force ten blizzard. Kill you quick as look at you; and Happy’s probably only that way when he’s raping or pillaging. Happy would have made a good Viking raider.’

  Cindy explained that Gunfire Weekends, as they were called in the computer magazines, all appeared to be run with a military flavour. ‘Strict discipline. Order Groups at 09.00 hours, Lights Out at 22.30, and all that. It was what happened after Lights Out that became interesting.

  ‘The oddballs are detailed to rooms near one another, and always near Tigerbalm and Happy. The weekends cover three nights. The oddballs all leave looking as though they’ve been awake for a week. In fact they get very little sleep because around midnight every night they’re summoned to Old Bald Eagle’s private den, and there they stay, all night, working on their own little games, two of which I’d like to get back into their files before the dawn’s early light.’