James Bond - Seafire Part 7

"As I said, Boxwood is Peter Dolmech, and he knows more than anyone about Tarn's dealings. Morgan is Tarn. We thought an old pirate's name was acceptable. Now, there's only one answer to this." M's eyes scanned each member of The Committee, settling finally on Bond and Flicka von Grusse. "As much as we want Max Tarn behind bars, our first loyalty must be to Peter Dolmech. Without him we might have months of work ahead. I'll see to it that a team of my best people fly out to Seville tonight."

"Sir," sharp and uncompromising from Bond.

"Forget about it, Captain Bond." M's face became granite hard and his eyes appeared to change to the color of pewter. "They know who you are. You and Fraulein von Grusse both."

"With luck, Tarn and his people'll never see us, sir. I'm simply requesting that we pick up Dolmech for you. I'll make a plea for going after Tarn later. I think he's our due. He's mine to hunt and kill if necessary. This is a sideshow that Fraulein von Grusse and I can do standing on our heads."

The long pause was Finally broken by M. "Be it on your own heads, then. If you fail, Bond, I'll see you out of the Service for good. Understand?"

9 - Cradle of History

The girls from the Seville Flamenco School presented a unique splash of color, their long skirts lifting and whirling as they danced on top of the tablao - the slightly raised platform - which had been set up some fifty yards into the Alcazar Gardens. There were two guitarists, and the four girls who danced gave a counterrhythm with castanets and stamping of feet, while one of the guitarists broke into occasional guttural shouts of encouragement that are always a part of a juerga - a carousal or spree of singing and dancing.

Juergas are held regularly in the open air during the spring and summer in Seville. The distinctive melodies and chords, the almost aggressive beat of the dancers' feet with the counterpoint of clapping, made the scene come alive for locals and tourists alike, who crowded the gardens. Looking out to the back of the palace that was the Alcazar, and the huge Cathedral, just visible behind it, eyes and ears were stunned by the music, the sensual beauty of the movement, and the almost overpowering backdrop of ma.s.sive architecture.

Earlier that morning, Flicka and Bond had looked up at the Jerez Gate, walked through both the Cathedral and the Alcazar Palace, and drunk in the sense of history that shows in both architecture, setting, and even in the faces of the people of this melting pot of Europe.

Though the sky was a light, cloudless blue, the sun was still thin and there was a chill in the air. In a month or two the heat would be strong and unrelenting, but now - at around ten minutes to noon - Bond was glad of the motorcycle leathers he wore as he sat at an outside table in front of a small bar looking out across the Alcazar Gardens, a gla.s.s of rough Spanish brandy in front of him.

They had come in via Gibraltar, courtesy of a Royal Air Force jet from Northolt, on the previous evening. Two dark-skinned men, who spoke Spanish with the accents of Andalucia, and an English so faultless that it was difficult to determine their true origin, had driven them across the frontier. Then they headed up the coast to Seville, depositing Bond and Flicka at a small apartment where a third man, together with a silent suspicious-looking woman, waited to make sure they had all they needed: food, drink, and the other essential items for the pickup due to take place at noon on this the following day.

On the aircraft they had both studied detailed street maps of Seville, and marked out the route Bond would take once Dolmech had been lifted. Now they would have time to organize the final stages of that journey: a route that would bring Bond and the rescued Dolmech back to the apartment.

The man and woman at what was so obviously a safe house checked that the motorcycle leathers and helmet were right for Bond, showed him where the big Triumph Daytona was hidden, in a small lockup three minutes' walk from the apartment, and did not leave until they were satisfied that the plan for the following day was timed to the second. M had insisted that some of his other people were around to act as backup. Bond did not recognize any of them from his past long experience in the Service, but he did recognize the type: people bound by the silence of secrecy, and dedicated to seeing that a dangerous job was carried out with no hitches. If anything were to go wrong, the fault would not lie on the consciences of those who planned the operation.

For the first time in months, Bond had been given his 9mm Browning ASP and six magazines of ammunition, while Flicka was armed with a smaller, though equally deadly, Beretta automatic - her weapon of choice for the mission. In the early hours of the morning, they sat in the small apartment, stripped the weapons, checked and rechecked them, then, holding each other, drifted off into shallow sleep.

The silent woman had returned at five-thirty in the morning, gently wakening them, preparing coffee, newly baked rolls with preserves and b.u.t.ter. They hardly spoke to one another as they ate, or later as they walked through the town, taking in the main vantage points around the Alcazar Gardens, and the streets that twisted around the area.

Now, as the hands of his watch moved nearer to midday, Bond tossed some currency onto the table and walked away, turning left into the street around the corner from the cafe. He had timed it earlier: exactly two minutes to get from the cafe to the Daytona, draw on his gloves, and settle the helmet and visor on his head. He swung into the saddle, kicked the engine into life, and felt the immense power begin to rumble under him, his hand on the throttle, twisting and running the engine in short, noisy bursts. No wonder people who rode these beasts all the time became addicted, he considered. Finally he checked that the automatic pistol was in place and could be reached easily if necessary before knocking away the bike's stand and slowly pulling up to the street that led into the San Fernando. Across the road he caught a glimpse of Flicka moving purposefully toward his left, her shoulder bag held in her right hand, together with a copy of the Financial Times. Dolmech had arrived.

He swung the bike out onto the street, filtering into the traffic going right. There was a large traffic circle some twenty yards down, and this allowed him to turn full circle, bringing him back into San Fernando, so that he could stop on the right-hand side, within feet of Flicka. He negotiated the traffic circle, and thirty yards away, he saw Dolmech break from the crowded Gardens, walking casually toward her. He was dressed exactly as promised: blue jeans, denim shirt and jacket, the heavy leather satchel hanging almost carelessly over his right shoulder.

Bond pulled over, glancing in his mirror to the right, then left. It was as his eyes flicked over to the left that he saw the other bike. It was a Harley-Davidson, but with a pillion pa.s.senger. He cursed, as there was no way he could cut it off as it came roaring up behind him, swinging and pa.s.sing close enough for him to feel a slipstream that had him momentarily fighting for balance.

Everything, from that moment, seemed to happen in slow motion. Bond had been alerted by the second bike, but did not completely take in the danger. As he straightened his motorcycle, he was aware of the Harley picking up a burst of speed, cutting in front of him, slewing to the right, causing him to brake violently.

He saw the back of the second bike and watched helplessly as it shot ahead, pulling over to slow slightly right in front of Flicka and Dolmech. Then the pillion pa.s.senger reached out, a small black shape in his gloved hand. Later Bond could have sworn he heard the three loud pops. He certainly saw the driver flick his hand out and grab at the satchel as Peter Dolmech was whipped backward by three bullets, his head disappearing in a fine mist of scarlet as the bullets caught him in the face. He saw Flicka's eyes and mouth, a dreadful carving of horror; the mouth frozen open in a scream of anger, her eyes wide, flaring. He saw her reach for the gun in her shoulder bag and turn sideways as though she expected to feel bullets penetrating her own flesh.

He was powerless, and thought that she had also been hit as the crimson cloud appeared to float over her, producing great red blotches of blood and matter across her face; but by the time she had the weapon half out of her shoulder bag, the motorcycle was roaring away, weaving through the traffic.

The Daytona under him leaped forward as his hand opened the throttle: at least he knew that this bike was more agile than the Harley. Whatever else had happened, the only thought now filling his mind was the recovery of the satchel.

In the heavy traffic that clogged the streets of inner Seville, he managed only an occasional glimpse of the bike carrying the two men. To keep up speed and follow them demanded all the concentration he could muster. The Daytona handled perfectly, and he was able to weave and dodge through the thick, slow-moving crush of cars and trucks that seemed to stretch in an endless snake. Bond leaned to left and right, slaloming through narrow gaps, behind vehicles that seemed to be b.u.mper to b.u.mper. His one concern was to get as near to the other motorcycle as possible. If he had been running their operation, the pa.s.senger would already have left the bike and spirited the satchel away on foot, but as he managed to get closer, he was relieved to see that both men were still on the machine. They were also heading away from the city center, out toward the perimeter of the ancient walls. Within fifteen minutes they were almost free of the city streets, bearing out into the open countryside where the flow of motor vehicles was steadier.

He was now about half a mile behind his quarry, and thought that far away behind him he heard the wail of a police siren. By this time he was touching speeds of just under a hundred miles an hour, which meant that the bike he was chasing was reaching a speed well in excess of 100mph. It flashed through his mind that, with a pa.s.senger on the bike, the torque on the machine must at times reach a dangerous level.

As it was, Bond could feel the forces of gravity on his own bike and upon himself. While it was exhilarating, there were moments when the wheels. .h.i.t small indentations that caused the bike to lift and bounce. Even with the helmet and visor, his body was at times pressed back in the saddle, and he found his brain making decisions well in advance of reaching other traffic.

They hit a long incline. He could hear and feel the first strain on the engine, so he shifted down quickly, opening up the throttle again to maintain speed. Slowly, he realized, he was beginning to gain on his opponent.

They were on a three-lane highway now with no oncoming traffic, the main hazard being cars and trucks that did not bother to signal when changing lanes. The speed and power were exhilarating, and he had to focus his concentration, constantly dragging his mind back to the Harley now only a couple of hundred yards in front of him.

Without warning, he saw the bike suddenly veer off to the right, rider and pa.s.senger leaning over as the machine took a forty-five-degree angle, then righted itself and shot across the three lines of traffic, disappearing through an exit ramp.

Bond signaled and saw a large heavy van moving to the left behind him. He opened the throttle wide, leaned with the tilt as the Daytona began to angle over, heard the rasping horn of the van as it braked when he crossed directly in front of it to get into the far-right lane. The exit ramp came up very fast, and he felt the rear wheel begin to lose traction swinging outward. He shifted down, tapped the brake, and hauled the bike back to the straight and level as he shot into the exit.

Now he knew where they were heading, for he caught a glimpse of the green and white sign that said "Italica." They were going into the very womb of the Roman Empire, the remains of the large Roman town where both the Emperors Hadrian and Trajan had been born. Ahead was a ticket point with a large notice in four languages saying the ruins were closed. He also saw the brake lights of the Harley as it whipped through the entrance, dipped, and headed up the path leading to the sprawl of skeleton buildings rising up the hillside. A great view to his right, and, slightly ahead, the steep slope that, like a bowl in the earth, contained the remains of Italica's amphitheater. He was chasing a pair of modern murderers into one of Europe's cradles of history.

Once more Bond opened the throttle in an attempt to get even closer, but this was no place for speed. He saw the bike slew to the left, down what had once been a narrow cobbled street, but when he reached the turn there was no sign of his prey. He r.e.t.a.r.ded the throttle so that the bike was barely idling, straining in the saddle to try and catch the sound of their engine, but the world had suddenly gone silent and his mind sprang forward, latching on to the worst possibility - that the couple on the Harley had a prearranged meeting here in the shadows. If that was the case, he had lost, so he might just as well get out now and save what was left.

Bond reminded himself that he had never given up on an a.s.signment yet, reaching inside the leather jacket to slowly remove the ASP and one spare magazine. He switched off the Daytona's engine, then, with his back against the old dry and crumbling remains of the buildings, he inched forward. Instinctively, he felt that he was being watched.

It was some twenty yards to the end of the street. The first shot came as he reached the point where the cobbles ended and the remains of the buildings ran into what was virtually a T-junction. He heard the crack as the bullet hit the stone just to the left of his head, gouging a small crater, splaying dust that fell across his visor.

He ducked to the right, flicking the visor up and jumping into the ruined street that formed the crosspiece of the T, fanning his hands in a wide circle, gripping the b.u.t.t of the pistol a shade too tightly.

There was movement to his left and he reacted, swinging his body in that direction without moving his feet, squeezing off the standard two shots. The figure was too quick for him, ducking back down an alley before the first bullet struck the wall where, a split second earlier, the man had been standing.

He turned again, knowing that the two men were trying to circle him, coming in a pincer movement. Sweeping his hands from left to right, back hard against the stone, he whirled in the direction of the target he had just missed. As he wheeled to his left a second time, something moved in the periphery of his vision. This time he was faster, hands coming up to a firing position and centering the guttersnipe sight of the ASP on the black-clad figure's chest.

The two rounds he fired both slammed into the target, ripping at the leather, sending a sickening gout of blood and viscous matter into the wall behind him. Now the odds had evened.

He turned left again, reached the junction where a line of uneven ruins made another rough street, parallel to the one in which he had left the Daytona. For a second his mind drifted and he felt that he was among ghosts, the men, women, and children who had once peopled this place; laughing, arguing, loving, and dying. Taking a deep breath he moved, stepping out cleanly, in a firing position, ready to take out anything that lay in his path.

The street was empty, but he could see that the man he stalked might easily be crouched within one of the undulating, fragmented buildings. The ground under his feet began to angle down. For a second he looked past the end of this row of bleached masonry and saw the beginning of the fantastic view that looked out right across the Guadalquivir Plain. This one lapse of attention almost cost him his life, for this time two bullets came from the left, shattering the stillness and hitting the old stonework to ricochet with a deadly whine within inches of his face.

He returned the fire, shooting only in the general direction from which it had come. In the quiet that followed he could hear the thudding of boots moving away from the clumps of stone.

He took off down what was left of the street, changing magazines as he did so, feeling a terrible draft of frustration as a motorcycle engine burst into life from nearby. The second killer had got to his - Bond's - machine, and he hurtled down the slight hill, pistol still in both hands as he came out on the edge of the ruins. He saw the motorbike moving slowly to his left, disappearing from view, toward the plain that stretched below.

As he reached the open he saw it again, rushing down a gra.s.sy slope, heading straight for the remains of the town's amphitheater, now an irregular oval of stone benches, with the big acting area far below. The Daytona was b.u.mping almost casually down what had once been an aisle leading through the seating, the rider trying desperately to put on speed, but braking constantly to keep balance on the sheer angle of the hillside.

It was a long shot for a pistol, but his hands were steady as he brought the sights to bear. Later he realized that he must have fired off practically a whole magazine of ammunition. He felt the weapon jumping in his hands and saw the little explosions of dust around the motorbike, then the two shots that caught its rider in the back, lifting him into the air and returning him to the saddle, his body slumping over the handlebars. As the Daytona slewed to one side, now out of control, Bond reflexed, putting two more shots in the vicinity of the target.

The rider was still actually on the bike as it toppled over, the leather strap of the satchel slung across him over the right shoulder so that the pouch rested against his left hip as the bike and body slid in a long jarring skid down into the acting area of the amphitheater.

It was Bond's last shot that hit the gas tank.

He saw the flame dance from the bike before he heard the roar of the explosion. The fire seemed to flicker and then rise, enveloping machine, rider, and the satchel he carried in what looked like an unquenchable blossom of flame.

Bond leaped forward, running at full tilt down through one of the aisles toward the disaster - here, where hundreds of people had laughed and cried, he imagined that he could hear cries urging him on. By the time he got to the furnace bursting around the motorcycle, devouring its last rider, he realized that the cries were real, but they came from Spanish police officers ringing the edge of the bowl above him.

The smell of burning flesh wrapped around his nostrils as he plunged a gloved hand into the fire and pulled at the blackened satchel that was just about to be eaten by the flames.

10 - Cathy and Anna

In spite of the arrangements that had been made between MicroGlobe One and the Spanish authorities, there were a lot of questions to be answered. There were no fewer than six police cars, several motorcycle officers, and two ambulances parked in the area that usually contained the cars of visitors.

The police showed little respect, and immediately treated Bond as though he were a renegade villain, despite his telling them that they should get in touch with certain senior Spanish intelligence officers whose names he carried in his head. Even though he argued, they removed the blackened satchel saying that this could be used as evidence. As for the ASP automatic pistol, it was wrested from him and treated as if it were Jack the Ripper's original knife.

Back in Seville, they took him to the main police station, where he found Flicka sitting, silent, in an interrogation room, and, for the next hour, they were both subjected to hostile questions from two plainclothesmen who smoked filthy Spanish cigarettes throughout.

Finally the inquisitors left the pair of them alone, almost too obviously in the hope that they would incriminate each other in a conversation which was being recorded - sound and video - for posterity.

During the interrogation, Bond had asked Flicka - on several occasions - if she had told them to call in the officers in command of their security and intelligence services. She said she had, but did not know what had been done about it. Apart from that, their answers had been of the name, rank, and number style.

Flicka seemed to be in deep despair, and the usual glint in her eye and her sense of humor had been severely blunted. She was concerned about what had happened, so, because of the listening devices, Bond told her just enough to make her at least smile and nod with relief that he had retrieved the satchel.

"Mind you, I don't know what condition it's in," he said. "The outside's burned pretty badly, but I think I got to it before the papers were damaged. I just hope these people aren't fiddling with it."

She went through the trauma of Dolmech's death again, slowly repeating her description of what had happened, as though trying to come to terms with it. He leaned across the bare table and took her hand in both of his. "He was set up, poor devil." He looked into her eyes, saw the pain and anger, so added, "We were all set up."

"Easy to say after the event."

"I know, but we'll get the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Half an hour later things changed. First, a smiling policeman came in with coffee and sandwiches. He was followed by a senior officer who made what just stopped short of being a formal apology. Within the hour, two senior officers in plain clothes arrived. They spoke to Bond and Flicka in helpful, pleasant tones, returned Bond's ASP and Flicka's Beretta. Then, finally, they gave back the satchel, encased in a plastic bag, and said they were free to leave.

Outside, the two men who had picked them up on the previous night were waiting with a car. They drove back to Gibraltar, pausing for a mirthless and silent meal on the way. There were no customs or immigration formalities at La Linea, and they drove straight to the airport. An RAF transport took them to Lynham, where a car waited to shuttle them up to London.

They drove first to the office, where two of the Double Zero staff had been instructed to take the satchel directly to a member of MicroGlobe One. By one in the morning they were back in the flat. Immediately, Bond stretched out on the bed.

"What a d.a.m.ned tiring and frustrating day." He let out a deep sigh, and Flicka, who was fast recovering from her depression, came toward him, kissed him gently, then gave him a little loving bite on the lip.

"Not all that tiring, James darling. I hope not that tiring."

"Ah." He smiled. "No, never that tiring."

During the following week, they suddenly appeared to be in business at the office in Bedford Square. Memos and instructions began to filter down from on high. Doc.u.ments, obviously from the contents of Dolmech's satchel, were being brought over by special messenger, and the Double-Oh staff began to follow paper trails from the many boxes of files, computer disks, and tapes that had been taken from the main offices of Tarn International.

Flicka spent every waking hour poring over the computers, which were her specialty, and slowly they started to make sense out of Tarn's many business dealings. Most of it was old-time arms dealing, but with the help given to them by Peter Dolmech, who had been brought back to England for burial - which Bond was strictly forbidden to attend - they started to see exactly to what lengths the multimillionaire was prepared to go in supplying buyers with the latest in arms and military materiel. This was not a small business, running little loads of Semtex or M16s to the IRA, but an operation on a huge scale. Aircraft to Libya, tanks and missiles to Iran and Iraq, a plethora of shady deals throughout the Middle East, specialist equipment to just about every known terrorist group in the world. Tarn had been, literally, the quartermaster to countries on which there was an embargo, and to major terrorist groups. Some of the items were more than worrying - plutonium, unaccounted for, to North Korea and China; ground-to-air missiles to terrorists who had long claimed that they would soon be capable of bringing down commercial airliners at the major airports of the world, including Kennedy and Heathrow.

The evidence built very quickly once members of the Section were provided with the leads from Dolmech, but in spite of the urgency, Bond found himself getting fidgety and irritated. It was nothing new, for this feeling of being trapped within the four walls of an office had been a problem he had borne, with a certain amount of stoicism, throughout the years whenever he had been forced to work out of the service office. He was a man of action, happy only when he was out there in the midst of danger, almost like a person with a death wish.

As the days went by, he wanted nothing more than to be allowed to leave the country and hunt down Tarn, kill him or put him where he could do no more harm. With Tarn still at large, the deals would continue to go down, and he felt strongly that he was shackled to a desk in London instead of being active in the field. There were times when he even contemplated putting himself out to gra.s.s and resigning.

Toward the end of the week, Bond took a call from the Minister's political secretary. "Sorry to tell you this, sir. But your old Chief has been taken ill. He's at home, and there's a nurse in residence. He has been asking for you, and the Minister would be grateful if you could get away to see him as soon as possible."

It was noon when he took the call, and Bond immediately made plans to get out of the office. He instructed his new secretary, who rejoiced in the name of Chast.i.ty Vain and sported a figure that would give pause to the saintliest of men, telling her that he would be away for the rest of the day. He gave her M's private number in case of any major panic, then left the building, taking the Saab and heading out toward the M4, turning off at the Windsor exit, making for M's home, Quarterdeck - the beautiful Regency manor house on the edge of Windsor Forest. He stopped off for a pub lunch, and finally arrived at the house just before two-thirty.

His ring - on the famous ship's bell that hung outside the main door - was answered by a nubile nurse who introduced herself somewhat formally as Nurse Frobisher. "Thank heaven." She breathed a sigh of relief when he told her his name. "He's not the best of patients. Should rest all the time but is always working on papers, or making telephone calls. I tried removing the phone yesterday, but had to let him have it back. He works himself up into such states. Come on up. Perhaps you can persuade him to relax. If he doesn't, then I fear he'll not be long for this world." This last said with a hint of sadness that worried and depressed Bond.

"I have my doubts about that." He followed her up the stairs to M's bedroom.

His old Chief lay back, propped up by pillows, the bed covered with papers and notepads.

"James, my boy. Thank heaven you've come. I am being driven half mad by interfering women."

Nurse Frobisher raised her eyebrows and quietly left as M beckoned him over, telling him to sit by the bed.

"I'm swinging the lead a bit, my boy. Doing a bit of poodle-faking, if you want the truth." Though his speech was bright and strong, the look on his face told a different story. The clear sparkle of his gray eyes had turned dull, and his weatherbeaten face showed signs of strain. Under the tan, which the old man cultivated, there was a paleness that Bond had never seen before, while the skin of his face had started to stretch tightly against his cheekbones.

"Now listen to me." He hardly paused for breath, "I know you have no leave due, but I'm wondering if you can persuade that d.a.m.ned Committee to let you take a long weekend. Something's come up that I would entrust to n.o.body but you - well, maybe you and that nice Swiss girl."

"I can always creep away without The Committee knowing."

M frowned, then gave a thin-lipped smile. "Wouldn't be the first time, eh?"

"I suppose not, sir."

"Right, let me put you in the picture, then. You already know that we drew a blank in Spain?"

Bond nodded. He had carefully read the eight-page memo that dealt with the follow-up to the incident in Seville. With the a.s.sistance of the Spanish authorities, they had pinpointed Max Tarn's villa in the hills above the town, but by the time arrangements had been made to raid the place, the cupboard was bare, and there were signs of an unexpectedly hasty departure.

"Well." M leaned back against the pillows and the tired look came back into his eyes. "In the satchel poor Peter Dolmech was carrying there was a short letter addressed to me personally. There's been a delay in it being pa.s.sed on to me, unhappily. Nowadays things get snarled up. I don't have the same, unquestioned power anymore."

"So I understand, sir. The letter?" He wanted to get to the meat without tiring the old man.

"Mmm." M stretched out to the night table and took a neatly folded single sheet of paper. "Read it for yourself." He handed the paper across the bed.

It was short and to the point:

Dear Admiral, Just in case I don't make it, a small piece of information has just reached me. It appears that Lady Tarn is not conversant with Sir Max's business, as we know it. I am unaware of her status of enlightenment, but she has left this morning for Jerusalem. I have no details of where she will be staying, but you may recall that, as Trish Nuzzi, she has made frequent visits to Israel, so it is just possible that she may have an apartment in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. It might be worthwhile following up on her. I have a vague notion that she sometimes uses an Israeli doctor, though cannot swear to it.

Hope to see you soon.

It was signed, in a neat hand, "Peter."

Bond handed back the letter. "You want me to go and take a look-see, sir?"