Role of Honour Page 8

  Bond told her to wait in his room while he went quietly down to the car, selected the equipment he needed and brought it back to the room. It took time, but the extra minutes spent reconnoitring the car park seemed well spent.

  ‘Crikey!’ Cindy looked at the Terror Twelve with undisguised pleasure. ‘She certainly got it right. I only hope the circuit diagrams I provided were accurate.’

  He’d buy that – Cindy monitoring the technology advances at Endor and providing Percy with all the information needed to build a computer identical to Holy’s. Maybe he was but a part of this operation, only there to get the latest programs out. After that, others could step in and clean out the stables, armed with evidence provided by himself, Percy and Cindy.

  With the keyboard, and hard laser drives plugged in, Bond took the first disk and booted up. The moment the first menu came on to the screen he knew what it was about: in a series of flashing green letters it read:

  Phase One – Airport to Ken High Street

  A. First girl driver

  B. Second girl driver

  C. Advance car

  D. Trail car

  He accessed the First girl driver and the screen showed him to be in heavy traffic, leaving Heathrow Airport and heading in to London. Ahead lay the small convoy of police and security vans. The program was obvious, and Bond flipped through the phases – Turn Off; Kensington High Street: Phase One; Kensington High Street: Phase Two; Abort; Kensington High Street: Phase Violet Smoke, and on to the getaway, passing options such as Security Teams (Electrics) and Security Teams (Way Out). He did not need to run the whole simulation to know that the disk, currently resting in his top drive, was a training program for the Kruxator robbery.

  Taking a virgin disk, Bond began to go through the careful procedure of breaking down Jay Autem Holy’s protection program in order to make a clean second copy of the original.

  The process was very slow as Holy had used not only the regular, easy system of ‘scribbling’ on some sectors of the disk, but also the small routine Percy had shown Bond. In effect this was a program in itself, designed to crash the disk, making it completely useless, if anyone even attempted to copy it. Following Percy’s tuition, Bond was able first to detect the routine and then remove it, line by line. Then he matched up his virgin disk in a format to copy exactly the original. The work took over an hour, but at the end he had a true clone of Holy’s training program for the Kruxator robbery. He spent a further twenty minutes returning the protect program to the original disk.

  The second of Cindy’s disks was a similar training program, this time, they presumed, for the hijacking of an aircraft. As in fact there had been a monumental hijack of a specially chartered freight plane carrying newly printed money from the Royal Mint printers to several countries, the chances were that this was the blueprint for it.

  Once more, the cloning process began, but this time with more urgency, for Cindy had become anxious about her return.

  ‘There is one other thing,’ she said, looking tired and concerned.

  ‘Yes?’ Bond grunted, not taking his eyes off the screen.

  ‘Something very big’s going on now. Not a robbery, I’m pretty sure of that, but a criminal, probably violent operation. There have been callers in the night, and I’ve heard several references to a special program.’

  ‘What kind of special program?’

  ‘I’ve heard the name only – they call it the Balloon Game, and there seem to be specialists involved.’

  Bond was concentrating, writing back the protect program on to the hijack simulation original. ‘They’re all specialists, Cindy.’

  ‘No, I’ve seen some of these guys. They’re not all hoods and heavies. Some are like . . . are like pilots and parsons.’

  ‘Parsons?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. Doctors and dentists, if you like. Upright. Professional.’

  ‘The Balloon Game?’

  ‘I heard Tigerbalm use the expression, and one of the others – talking to Old Bald Eagle. Will you report it, please? I think it’s something nasty.’

  Bond said he would be getting the copies of these two programs to London quickly. He’d mention the Balloon Game at the same time.

  ‘You think they’re using it now? Training on it?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘If we could get a copy . . .’

  ‘Not a chance. Not yet, anyway.’

  He fell silent, finishing off the job in hand. Presently he rattled off a description of Rolling Joe Zwingli. ‘Ever see anyone like him around Endor?’ he asked.

  ‘General Zwingli. I recognise the description, and the answer’s no. I had some garbled message from Percy that he’s alive.’ She paused, adding that this seemed incredible.

  Bond completed his tasks and returned the original disks to Cindy and asked about the routine at the house. Did Jason and Dazzle ever go out? Or away? How many security people did they have around?

  Yes, he went away for a couple of days about once a month. Always left and returned at night. Never left the house during the day, never showed his face in the village. Cindy invariably referred to Jay Autem as the Target, or Old Bald Eagle.

  ‘Very cagey, our Target. Dazzle’s out and about a great deal – in the village, over to Oxford, London, taking trips abroad. I suspect she’s the liaison officer.’

  ‘Where abroad?’

  ‘Middle East, Europe. All over. Percy’s got the list. I try to keep a track, mainly from hotel book matches or flight labels. But she’s cagey as well. Gets rid of a lot of stuff before she comes home.’

  As for the household, there was one Filipino boy and four security men. ‘He has six genuine sales reps who wouldn’t suspect a thing. But they’re on the outside. The four security men double as reps and staff. It’s very good cover. Would have had me fooled if I hadn’t known better. They’re all quiet, efficient guys – two cars between them, out and about a lot, managing the telephones, taking orders, distributing the genuine Gunfire Simulations packages. But two of them never leave the house. They work on the security in a strict rota. The electronics are highly sophisticated. Breakable, but clever. I mean, you have to know the system to fiddle it. What’s more, as I’ve already told you, they alter the codings for every shift. You can only get in and out if you know the numbers for a particular six-hour period. Even then, the machines have to know your voice-print.’

  ‘Visual?’ Bond asked.

  ‘Quite a lot – the main gates, large areas of the walls, front and rear of the house. You can only dodge the closed-circuit stuff at the back, and then only if you know the pattern. They change that with the lock codings, so you really do need to know your six-hour period to get in or out without being detected. An intruder wouldn’t last three minutes.’

  ‘Ever had any?’

  ‘Intruders? Only a tramp, and one false alarm – at least they presume it was a false alarm.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘I was around when the false alarm was triggered. Yes, one of the guys on duty had a hand gun. So I’ve seen one. There are probably more. James, can I get going? I can’t afford to get caught with these disks on me. There are blanks in the cabinets . . .’

  ‘On your way, Cindy, and good luck. I’ll see you tonight. I’m coming for a little tournament with our Target. By the way, your friend Peter tipped me off about Jason’s style of play . . .’

  ‘He doesn’t like to lose,’ she said with a grin. ‘Almost pathological, like a child. It’s a matter of honour with him.’

  Bond did not smile. ‘And me,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a matter of honour with me.’

  It was past three-thirty in the morning. Bond packed up the equipment and took it down to the car, locking it away in the boot. Back in his room, he put the cloned programs in a FloppiPak disk mailer, smiling wryly at the frightful nomenclature of the trade. He addressed the label to himself at a Post Office box number, then weighed the small, flat package in his hand, making an intelligent guess as to w
eight. He stuck on what he estimated to be sufficient postage from a folder of stamps in his briefcase. He would have liked to deliver the package in person, but he was not going to leave anything to chance.

  Sitting at the small dressing table, Bond next wrote a short note to Freddie on hotel paper.

  Gone to Oxford for the morning. Didn’t want to wake you, but will be back for lunch. How about a return match this afternoon?

  J.

  Stripping off, he ran a cold shower and stepped under it, holding his face against the stinging needle spray and gasping at the initial shock. After a minute or so, he added some warm water, soaped himself, then rubbed himself down, towelling his body briskly. Before shaving he climbed into his underwear, a pair of black Ted Lapidus cords and a black cotton rollneck. He strapped the ASP automatic, in its holster, so that it lay hard against his right hip. Last, he put on a light suede jacket and pushed his feet into the old favourite moccasins.

  It was just getting light, the dark sky changing to grey and then that cold-washed pearl which heralds unsettled weather. With the detested FloppiPak in his briefcase, Bond went downstairs, left his key and the note for Freddie at the deserted reception and went out to the car.

  The Bentley’s engine growled into life at the first turn of the key, and he allowed it to settle to its normal, gentle purr, fastening the seatbelt and watching the red warning lights flick off one by one.

  Releasing the foot brake, he slid the selector into Drive and let the car roll forward. If he took the Oxford road, turned on to the ring road, and then headed for the M40 he could be in London in ninety minutes.

  It began to rain as he reached the big roundabout on the periphery of the ring road and took the dual carriageway, heading towards London. He was a mile or so along this stretch when the white Mercedes of the day before appeared in his mirror.

  Bond cursed silently, tightened his seatbelt and moved his foot smoothly down on the accelerator. The car slid forward, gathering power, the speedometer rising to 100, then 120 miles per hour.

  There was little traffic as he slid neatly in and out of the stray cars and lorries, mainly keeping to the fast lane.

  The white Mercedes held back, but even at speed, Bond could not throw it off altogether. Ahead the signs came up for an exit. Flicking the indicator at the last moment, he left the dual carriageway still well in excess of the 100 miles per hour mark, the Bentley responding to his light control, holding the road during the turn. The Mercedes seemed to have disappeared. He hoped that the driver had not been able to reduce speed in time to get off the main highway.

  Ahead the road narrowed, fir trees shadowing either side. A lumbering heavy transporter grumbled along at fifty behind a petrol tanker. The Bentley’s speed dropped. As he rounded the next bend, Bond caught a flash of headlights, blinking on and off from a lay-by. The next time he looked there was another Mercedes hooking itself on to his tail.

  They had radio contact, he thought, and probably five or six cars covering him. Taking the next left turn, he picked up the telephone and, without allowing his eyes to leave the road, punched out the numbers that would raise the Duty Officer at the Regent’s Park Headquarters on a scrambled radio line.

  The road narrowed. The second Mercedes was still there when he negotiated the next turn just as the Duty Officer answered.

  ‘Gamesman flash for Dungeonmaster.’ Bond spoke rapidly. ‘Am being followed, south of Oxford. Important package for Dungeonmaster. Will attempt mail. Addressed myself. The Programmer is definitely involved all illegal actions as thought. Investigate Balloon Game. Speak to the Goddess.’

  ‘Understood,’ the Duty Officer said, and the line was closed.

  As he took the next bend, Bond saw a village coming up and realised he had outdistanced the Mercedes. He pumped the footbrake, slowing the Bentley dramatically, looking ahead and to the left. The car was almost out of the village before he spotted the welcome brilliant red of a post box. The Bentley slid to a halt beside it, and Bond had his seatbelt off before the car had stopped rolling.

  It took less than twenty seconds to slip the package into the box and return to the driving seat. He did not rebuckle the belt until the Bentley was already gathering speed and the Mercedes had appeared again in his driving mirror. He passed an electric milk float doing the early rounds, then he was once more in open country. As he reached a wooded stretch, Bond caught a glimpse of a picnic area sign, then saw two other cars emerge from the trees, their bonnets coming together to form a V, blocking his path.

  ‘They’re playing for keeps,’ he muttered, ramming the foot-brake, and hauling on the wheel with his left arm.

  As the Bentley began to slew, broadside on, he was conscious of the white Mercedes close behind him.

  The speedometer was touching sixty as the Bentley left the road, plunging in among the trees. Bond desperately guided the big car past the trunks, over bracken, zigzagging wildly and trying to negotiate a path that would bring him back to the road.

  The first bullet made a grating, gouging sound on the roof, and Bond could think only of the damage it would do to the coachwork. The second hit his rear offside tyre, sending over 50001b of custom-built motor car side on into a tangle of bushes.

  Slammed against the seatbelt, Bond reached simultaneously for the automatic pistol and the electric window button.

  10

  EREWHON

  The ASP 9mm is a small, very lethal weapon. Essentially a scaled-down version of the Smith & Wesson Model 39, it has been in use with United States Intelligence Agencies for over a decade. With a recoil no greater than a Walther .22, it has the look of a target automatic rather than the deadly customised hand gun it really is. Armaments Systems and Procedures, the organisation which carried out the conversion, produced the weapon to exacting specifications: ease of concealment, a minimum eightround capacity; reliability; an ammunition indicator using Lexon see-through butt grips, and an acceptance of all known 9mm ammunition.

  The rounds in Bond’s magazine were particularly unpleasant – Glaser Safety Slugs. A Glaser is a pre-fragmented bullet that contains several hundred No.12 shot suspended in liquid Teflon. The velocity of these slugs, fired from the ASP, is over 1700 feet per second. They will penetrate body armour before blowing, and a hit from a Glaser on any vital area of the body is usually fatal.

  Bond fired two rounds from the lowered window almost before the car had come to a halt. He kept both eyes open, looking down the revolutionary back-mounted Guttersnipe sight, its triangular yellow walls giving instant target recognition.

  Through the trees and bracken he could see several men leaving the cars. Others were trying to get the vehicles off the road. Bond’s rapid shots were aimed at the clear outline of a tall man in a dirty-white raincoat who was making for the Bentley. He did not stop to find out what happened to the target, but opened the door and rolled into the undergrowth.

  Twigs and branches caught on his clothing and scratched his face, but Bond kept moving, determined to get as far away as possible from the Mulsanne Turbo. He rolled to the right, putting about twenty yards between himself and the car. Twisting round, flat on his belly, he brought the gun up and ready, his eyes constantly moving to cover a wide sweeping sight-line.

  The other cars had been backed off the road and he guessed they now contained only their drivers. Two figures were visible, but almost by intuition he reckoned there had to be at least four others fanning out, moving low and trying to encircle him.

  Bond lay quite still, allowing his breathing to settle. If his pursuers were methodical – and they probably were – they must eventually find him. It was even possible they could call up reinforcements. Certainly there had to be more men available. How could they have been certain of picking him up on the road, unless the Bentley had a location homer stuck on to it? Who were they? Some of Jay Autem Holy’s men? There had to be a connection, yet Holy would have had a better opportunity to deal with him that evening, at Endor. Unless . . . unless Cindy had s
et him up, or been caught. If the latter, a watch had been put on him very quickly. At all events, Bond decided they would find him later rather than sooner. What he needed was time to make good his escape.

  It had begun raining quite hard and you could hear the steady pattering from the branches. To attempt a move now would be suicidal. He was at least a hundred and fifty yards from the road, and even if he reached the other cars without being intercepted – which was unlikely – he would still be outnumbered three to one. He must wait, try to follow their search, and make sure nobody bounced him from behind.

  He moved his head continually, looking from far left to far right, then gently turning to watch the rear, all the time straining to catch any sound. The two men originally visible to his front had disappeared, and the sounds of movement would now be successfully blotted out by the rainfall.

  Bond had been lying in cover for the best part of fifteen minutes before he got a positive fix on any of his assailants. The sharp crack of a dead branch and a flicker of movement on the far left caught his ear and eye at the same moment. Slowly he turned his head. There, not more than twenty paces away, a man crouched against a tree, looking to the right of where Bond lay. From the economical, alert manner, the way he kept low, using the bottom of the tree trunk for cover, the small revolver held steady in the right hand against left shoulder, the man looked like a professional, a well-trained soldier. He was searching in the calm, cautious manner of a hunter, examining every square foot of ground within a specified arc. That meant there was probably another like him to his left, or right, or both. What was more, it could only be a matter of time before his eyes came to rest on the ground where Bond lay.