Role of Honour Page 9

  The searcher wore olive green denim trousers and shirt, and a military-style jacket. Moving each limb about half an inch at a time, Bond began to turn. He wanted to get at least one shot in before anyone closed on him.

  There was another movement, this time to the right. Bond’s reflexes and intuition warned of danger, and he brought the ASP up in the direction of this new threat.

  The triple yellow walls, which angle to form the Guttersnipe sight, fell automatically into their pattern, right on target, showing another figure running low between the trees, and much too close for comfort. From the corner of his eye, he saw the first man bringing his revolver up in a two-handed grip. Then he heard the unmistakable click of a revolver hammer being drawn back, very close behind him. The sharp burning cold of a muzzle touched the side of his neck gently.

  ‘Drop it, Mr Bond. Please don’t try anything silly. Just drop the gun.’

  Bond had no desire to get himself killed at this point in his career. He tossed the ASP on to the ground.

  ‘Good.’ The voice was soft, slightly lilting. ‘Now, hands on the head, please.’

  The two men who had been in Bond’s sights were now standing, coming forward, the one to his left with arms outstretched, holding a snub-nosed revolver in the two-handed grip, the arms steady as iron bars. His eyes never left the captive. Bond was in no doubt that two bullets would reach him fast if he made any wrong move. The other came in quickly, scooping up the fallen ASP like a predatory bird swooping on to its prey.

  ‘Right, now get to your feet very slowly,’ the voice continued, the gun muzzle detaching itself from just behind Bond’s ear. There was the sound of feet shuffling as the man stepped back. ‘That manoeuvre was rather good, wasn’t it? We knew roughly where you had gone to ground, so it was just a matter of showing you someone with stealth and another with speed. The lads went through that little farce three times before they found the right place. It’s the kind of fieldcraft we teach. Please turn around.’

  ‘Who teaches?’ Bond demanded as he turned and faced a tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties with tight, curly hair, dark above matching jet eyes, a square face, a large nose and full lips. Women would find him attractive, Bond thought. The dark complexion was overlaid with a hard, sunbaked tan. It was the eyes that really gave him away. They had that particular look, as if, for years, they had searched horizons for the telltale sign of dust, or the sky for a speck, or an outcrop of rock for movement, or doorways and windows for muzzle flashes. Those eyes had probably been doing that kind of thing since childhood. Nationality? Who could tell? One of the Middle Eastern countries, but whether he came from Jerusalem, Beirut or Cairo was impossible to tell. Possibly a hybrid, Bond thought.

  ‘Who teaches?’ he asked again.

  The young man lifted an eyebrow. ‘You might get to find out, Mr Bond. Who knows?’ The smile was not unfriendly. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we have to move you, and I cannot be certain you’ll sit still.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I rather think my superiors want you alive and in one piece, so would you take off your jacket and roll up your sleeve?’

  Two more figures rose from the bushes as the senior man holstered his weapon, reaching into a hip pocket to bring out a hard oblong box.

  One of the newcomers helped remove Bond’s jacket while the other’s hands rested firmly on his shoulders. Unresisting, Bond allowed them to roll up his sleeve while the leader filled a hypodermic syringe, lifting it so that the needle pointed upwards. A tiny squirt of colourless liquid arched into the air. Bond felt a damp swab on the upper part of his arm.

  ‘It’s okay,’ the leader said with a smile. ‘We do want you in one piece, I assure you. As the actress said to the bishop, just a little . . . er . . . a little jab.’

  Somebody gave a loud laugh, and Bond heard another say something in a language he did not recognise. He did not even feel the needle slide home.

  At first he thought he was in a helicopter, lying flat on his back with the machine bucking under him. He could hear the chug of the engine turning the rotor blades. Then, far away, came the rip of automatic firing. For a time, Bond drifted away again, then the helicopter sensation returned, accompanied by a series of loud explosions near at hand.

  Opening his eyes, he saw an electric fan turning slowly above his head, and became aware of white walls and the simple metal bedframe on which he lay, fully dressed.

  He propped himself on one arm. Physically he felt fine: no nausea, no headache, eyes focused properly. He held out his right hand, fingers splayed. There was no tremor. The room, bare of furniture apart from the bed, had just one door and a window covered with mesh inside and bars on the outside. Sunlight appeared dimly through the aperture.

  As he swung his feet on to the floor he heard another distant explosion. He stood up and found his legs steady. Halfway to the door, there came the sound of more machine-gun fire – again at a distance. The door was locked, and he could make out little through the window. The mesh on the inside was a thick papery adhesive substance, which had been applied to the panes of glass, making it impossible to get any clear view. It would also prevent fragmentation from blast. Bond was convinced he was not in England. The temperature inside the little white room, even with the fan turning round and round, was not induced by the kind of heat you ever got in England, even in the most brilliant of summers. The sounds of small arms fire, punctuated by the occasional explosion, suggested he was in some war zone.

  He tried the door again, then had a look at the lock. It was solid, well-made, and more than efficient. There would almost certainly be bolts on the outside too.

  Methodically he went through his pockets but found nothing. They had cleaned him out. Even his watch was missing, and the metal bedframe appeared to be a one-piece affair. Given time, and some kind of lever, he might be able to force a piece of thick wire from the springs, but it would be an arduous business and he had no way of knowing how long he would be left alone.

  When in doubt, do nothing, Bond thought.

  He went back to the bed and stretched out, going over the events still fresh in his mind. The attempt to get away with the computer programs. Posting them. The trailing cars. The wood and his capture. The needle. He was the only one to have fired a shot. Almost certainly he had hit – probably killed – one of them. Yet, apart from their natural caution, they had been careful to make sure that he was unharmed. A connection between his visit to Jay Autem Holy and the current situation was probable, though not certain. Take nothing for granted. Wait for revelations. Expect the worst.

  Bond lay there, mentally prepared, for the best part of twenty minutes. At last there came footsteps – muffled, as though boots crunched over earth, but the tread had a decidedly military sound. Bolts were drawn back and the door to Bond’s room was unlocked and opened.

  He caught a glimpse of sand, low white buildings and two armed men dressed in drab olive uniforms. A third person stepped into the room. He was the one who had administered the knock-out injection in the Oxfordshire wood. Now he wore uniform – a simple olive drab battledress, smart with no insignia or badges of rank. He had on desert boots and a revolver of high calibre holstered on the right of his webbing belt. A long sheathed knife hung from the belt on the left. His head was covered by a light brown, almost makeshift, kaffiyeh held in place by a red band. One of the men outside reached in and closed the door.

  ‘Had a good sleep, Mr Bond?’ The man’s smile was almost infectious. As he looked up, Bond remembered his feelings about the eyes.

  ‘I’d rather have been awake.’

  ‘You’re all right, though? No ill effects?’

  Bond shook his head.

  ‘Right. My name’s Simon.’ The man was crisp and businesslike, extending a hand which Bond did not take. ‘We hold no grudge over our man,’ he said after a slight pause. ‘You killed him, by the way. But he was being paid to risk his life.’ He shrugged. ‘We underestimated you, I fear. My fault. Nobody thought you’d be carrying a gun. Afte
r all, you’re not in the trade any more. I guessed that, if you were armed, it would be for old time’s sake, and nothing as lethal as that thing. It’s unfamiliar to us, incidentally. What is it exactly?’

  ‘My name is James Bond, formerly Commander, Royal Navy. Formerly Foreign Service. Now retired.’

  Simon’s face creased into a puzzled look for a moment.

  ‘Oh, yes. I see. Name and rank.’ He gave a one-note laugh. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Commander Bond, but you’re not a prisoner of war. When you outran us in that beautiful motor car there was no way to let you know we came as emissaries. In friendship. A possible job.’

  ‘You could have shouted. In the wood, you could have shouted, if that was the truth.’

  ‘And would you have believed us?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Quite. No, I think not, Commander Bond. So we had to bring you in, alive and well, using only minimal force.’

  Bond thought for a moment. ‘I demand to know where I am and who you people are.’

  ‘In good time. All in . . .’

  ‘Where am I?’ Bond snapped.

  ‘Erewhon.’ Simon gave a low chuckle. ‘We go in for code names, cryptonyms. For safety, security, and our peace of mind – just in case you turn down the job, or even prove to be not quite the man we want. This place is called Erewhon. Now sir, the Officer Commanding would like a word.’

  Bond slowly got off the bed, reached out and grasped Simon’s left wrist, aware of the man’s other hand moving swiftly to the revolver butt.

  ‘Commander, I wouldn’t advise . . .’

  ‘Okay, I’m not going to attack you. I just don’t recall having applied for a job. Not with anybody.’

  ‘Oh, really? No, I suppose you haven’t.’ There was mocking ingenuousness in Simon’s voice. ‘But you’re out of work, Commander Bond. That’s true, surely?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And, by nature, you’re not an idle man. We wanted to – how would you say it? We wanted to put something your way.’

  Bond eyed the man intently. ‘Wouldn’t it have been more civilised to make your offer by invitation in England instead of this abduction?’

  ‘The Officer Commanding Erewhon wishes to talk to you,’ Simon said with a winning smile, as if that explained everything.

  Bond appeared to think for a moment, then he nodded. ‘I’ll see your OC, then.’

  ‘Good.’

  Simon rapped on the door and one of the men outside opened up. As they stepped out, the two guards took station either side of Bond. He sniffed the air. It was warm, but clear. Rare. They must be fairly high above sea level. They were also in a small depression, the flat bed of a hollow, surrounded by hills. On one side the hills were low, a curving double mound, like a woman’s breasts, but pitted with rock among the dry, sandy earth. The rest of the circle was more rugged, crests and peaks, running up several hundred feet, with outcrops of forbidding rock. The sun was high, almost directly above them. Along the flat sand bottom of the hollow was a series of low white buildings – one long rank with divisions, and another terrace with three shorter ranks at right angles, like a large letter E. Hard under the high ground there were other, similar buildings, though not so regimented. Simon led them across the five or six hundred yards towards one of these latter blocks.

  Smoke drifted up from some of the smaller buildings. To Bond’s left there was a firing range, with a group in uniform preparing to use it. Towards the round-topped hills, the sound of heavy explosions and small arms fire suddenly erupted from a clutter of gutted brick houses, which looked almost European. Figures dashed between these houses as though fighting a street battle.

  As he turned at the noise, Bond also caught sight of some kind of bunker dug into the rock towards the top of one of the hills. A defensive position, he thought, almost impossible to attack from the air, though helicopter-borne landings presumably would be feasible.

  ‘You like our Erewhon?’ Simon asked cheerfully.

  ‘Depends what you do here. You run package tours?’

  ‘Almost.’ Simon sounded quite amused.

  They reached a building about the size of a modest bungalow. There was a notice, neatly executed, to the right of the entrance. OFFICER COMMANDING it said in several languages, including Hebrew and Arabic. The front door opened into a small, empty ante-room. Simon crossed to the one door at the far end, and knocked. A voice called out ‘Come’, and Simon gestured, smartly barking out,

  ‘Commander James Bond, sir.’

  With everything that had been going on, and with a myriad of questions unanswered, Bond would not have been shaken to find General Zwingli on the other side of the door, but the identity of the man seated behind the folding table which dominated the large office made him catch his breath with surprise. There was certainly some connection between this man and Zwingli, for the last time Bond had seen him was in the Salles Privées at Monte Carlo.

  ‘Come in, Commander Bond. Come in. Welcome to Erewhon,’ said Tamil Rahani. ‘Do sit down. Get the Commander a chair, Simon.’

  11

  TERROR FOR HIRE

  The room was functionally furnished: the folding table, four chairs and filing cabinet could have been found in the quartermaster’s stores of any army in the world.

  The furnishings also appeared to reflect the character of Tamil Rahani. From a distance, when Bond had seen him briefly in Monte Carlo, Rahani had looked like any other successful businessman – sleek, well-dressed, needle-sharp and confident. At close quarters, the confidence was certainly there, but that sleekness was clearly superficial. What stood out was a kind of dynamism – harnessed, and controlled. It was the air of self-discipline found in most good military leaders, a kind of quiet calm, and behind it an immense, unflinching resolve. Rahani certainly exhibited authority and a firm belief in his own ability.

  As Simon brought the chair, and took one for himself, Bond quickly glanced around the office. The walls were lined with maps, charts, large posters displaying the silhouettes of aircraft, ships, tanks and other armoured vehicles. There were also year- and month-planners, their red, green and blue markers the only splashes of colour in the austere room.

  ‘Don’t I know you, sir?’ Bond was careful to observe military courtesy. An aura of power and danger enveloped Rahani.

  Rahani laughed, throwing his head back a little. ‘You may have seen photographs of me in the newspapers,’ Commander,’ he said with a smile. ‘We may speak about that later. At the moment I’d rather talk about you. You have been highly recommended to us.’

  ‘Really?’

  Rahani tapped his teeth with a pencil. The teeth were perfect – white and regular, the moustache above them neatly trimmed.

  ‘Let me be completely frank with you, Commander. Nobody knows whether you can be trusted or not. Everyone – and by that I mean most of the major intelligence communities of the world – knows that you have been an active officer of the British Secret Intelligence Service for a long time. You ceased to be either a member or active a short time ago. It is said that you resigned in a fit of bitterness.’ He made a small questioning noise, like a hum, in the back of his throat. ‘It is also said that nobody ever goes private from the SIS, the CIA, Mossad or the KGB. Is that the correct term? Going private?’

  ‘So the spy writers tell us.’ Bond maintained his attitude of indifference.

  ‘Well,’ Rahani continued, ‘quite a few people wanted to find out the truth. A number of agencies would have liked to approach you. One very nearly did. But they got cold feet. They decided that you would probably rediscover your loyalty once put to the test, no matter how disaffected you felt.’

  There was a pause, during which Bond remained poker-faced, until the Officer Commanding spoke again.

  ‘You’re either an exceptional actor, Commander, working under professional instructions, or you are genuine. What is undisputed is that you’re a man of uncommon ability in your field. And you’re out of work. If there is t
ruth in the rumours surrounding your resignation, then it seems a pity to allow you to remain unemployed. The purpose of bringing you here is to test the story, and possibly to offer you a job. You would like to work? In intelligence, of course?’

  ‘Depends.’ Bond’s voice was flat.

  ‘On what?’ Rahani said sharply, the man of authority showing through.

  ‘On the job.’ Bond’s face relaxed a fraction. ‘Look, sir. I don’t wish to appear rude, but I was brought here against my will. Also, my previous career is nobody else’s business but mine – and, I suppose, the people I used to work for. To be honest, I’m so fed up with the trade that I’m not at all sure I want to get mixed up in it again.’

  ‘Not even as an adviser? Not even with a very high salary? With little to do, and less danger in doing it?’

  ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘Then would you consider a proposition?’

  ‘I’m always open to propositions.’

  Rahani took a long breath through his nose.

  ‘An income in excess of a quarter of a million pounds sterling a year. The occasional trip at short notice to advise in another country. One week in every two months giving a series of lectures here.’

  ‘Where’s here?’

  For the first time, Rahani’s brow puckered with displeasure. ‘In good time, Commander. As I’ve said, in good time.’

  ‘Advise on what? Lecture on what?’

  ‘Lecture on the structure and methods of the British Secret Intelligence Service, and the Security Service. Advise on the intelligence, and security aspects of certain operations.’

  ‘Operations carried out by whom?’

  Rahani spread his hands. ‘That would depend. It would also alter from operation to operation. You see, the organisation I command bears no allegiance to any one country, group of people or ideal. We are – a much-used word, but the only one – we are apolitical.’

  Bond waited, as though not yet prepared to commit himself.