The Facts Of Death Page 4

  “You’re absolutely right, 007,” Boothroyd said with a wide grin. He walked over to a table. On top of it was a device that looked like the wings of a small model airplane, the size of a boomerang.

  “This is our flying scout,” he said. “It stores underneath the chassis until you activate it from inside the car. It will fly out from under the car and reach an altitude of your choosing. You can manually steer it by a joystick, or it can follow a predetermined flight route using the satellite navigation. The scout can send back pictures and coordinates of targets to you. It can tell you what’s around the bend ahead. It can tell you if you’re about to get caught speeding.”

  “That’s quite handy, Major.”

  “As an afterthought, I equipped the scout with the ability to drop mines. Just be sure you’re not underneath it if you happen to use them.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Is that all? What do you want, 007, a tank?”

  Bond shrugged. “I am quite good in tanks.”

  “Hmmm … Well, we can always add accessories as we think of them. That’s the beauty of the XK8—it’s so adaptable.”

  “Well, thank you, Major, I look forward to giving her a spin around the world.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Boothroyd opened up a steel cabinet and removed a remote control device and some goggles. “These are now standard issue. This control box will fit in the heel of your standard field-issue shoe. It’s an alarm-sensor nullifier. It’s guaranteed to deactivate any alarms within a twenty-five-yard radius. Just push that button there and aim it at the walls, the furniture, the doors—whatever you want. And these are our latest improvement on an old reliable—the night-vision goggles. If you find yourself outside of the car at night, you can always use these.”

  Bond tried them on. “I can’t see a thing,” he said.

  “Oh—you’ve got them on sleep mode. I installed an extra feature. You can completely black out all vision so that the goggles perform like night shades. They’re perfect for taking naps on aeroplanes.”

  Bond was mortified but did his best not to show it.

  THREE

  AN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY

  AFTER A THIRTY-MINUTE DRIVE OUT OF LONDON AND INTO BERKSHIRE, James Bond reached what once was one of the more beautiful areas of England. The old farmlands on his left and the forest on his right had unfortunately been overtaken by urban development in the last twenty years; yet the amount of rural scenery still provided him with the feeling that he was in the country. The Bentley sailed across the Windsor-Bagshot road, and thankfully the familiar landmarks were still there—the Squirrel public house on the left and the modest stone gateway of Quarterdeck on the right.

  The former M, Sir Miles Messervy, had lived in the rectangular Regency manor house made of Bath stone as long as Bond had known him. The property was remarkably well kept. The dense growth of pine, beech, silver birch, and young oak that grew on three sides of the house had been recently trimmed. There were already a number of elegant motorcars parked in the short gravel drive, and Bond was forced to park the Bentley near the end behind a Mercedes. He would be arriving at a fashionably reasonable hour—precisely half an hour before the scheduled eight-thirty dinner and just in time for a couple of stiff drinks.

  The brass bell from a long-forgotten ship still hung on the front door. Bond fondly remembered the Hammonds, who had looked after Sir Miles for many years. They had met their untimely deaths during the Colonel Sun affair and were afterwards replaced by the Davisons. Like Hammond before him, Davison was a former chief petty officer.

  The door opened and Davison stood there smiling broadly. “Good evening, Commander,” he said. “Sir Miles was just asking about you.”

  “Good evening, Davison,” Bond said. “I hope I’m not too late?”

  “Not at all, sir. We’re still expecting some of our guests.”

  Bond stepped into the hall. The smell of polish from the pine paneling was as strong as ever. The meticulously detailed 1/144 scale model of the battle cruiser Repulse was still the focal point on the table in the hallway. A dull roar of conversation and the soft strains of Mozart came from the main room. The smell of roast beef filled the air, and Bond suddenly felt very hungry. Davison took his overcoat, and he made his way through the open Spanish mahogany door.

  The entire roomful of people couldn’t help but notice James Bond, a splendid figure of a man dressed in a black three-piece singlebreasted Brioni dinner suit with peaked lapels and no vents. He wore a deep bow tie, and the tucked-in white silk pocket handkerchief made the picture complete.

  Bond walked inside and went straight to one of the servants and asked for a vodka martini. He then surveyed the guests. There were about twenty people in all, mostly faces he recognized. There was an MP and his wife in the corner speaking to a retired admiral and his spouse. Three women of various ages were eyeing him from the bay window. Sir James Molony and Major Boothroyd were locked in conversation near the fireplace. Miss Moneypenny waved to him and began to edge her way toward him. Some stray wives were huddled around a table covered with hors d’oeuvres. More voices came from the library through the double doors. He could see Sir Miles standing by a leather armchair, smoking a pipe. Two other retired Royal Navy officers sat across from him, speaking animatedly. Sir Miles nodded every ten seconds or so in response to whatever the men were saying.

  As Bond’s martini arrived, Moneypenny joined him. “You always cut a dashing figure, James,” Moneypenny said. She was dressed in a gray satin gown which revealed a little more cleavage than usual.

  “Moneypenny, you look marvelous. Have I missed much?”

  “Not really. Only some delicious nibbles.”

  Bond lit one of his Simmons cigarettes and offered one to Moneypenny.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I gave them up long ago. Have you forgotten?”

  Bond shrugged. “I must have. Forgive me.”

  “You become distant when you have nothing to do, did you know that?”

  Bond shrugged. “It’s just the soft life slowly eating away at me. I hate being on call.”

  “I know. But I do like you better when you’re all chirpy.”

  Bill Tanner, M’s chief of staff and Bond’s longtime friend in the Service, walked over to them. “Go easy on the vodka, James—there’re at least twenty other people here tonight who’ll want some.”

  “Hello, Bill.” Bond put down his glass. “Guard this for me, will you? I’m going in to say hello to the Old Man. I’ll be right back.”

  The smell of his old chief’s distinctive blend of Turkish and Balkan tobacco filled the library. Sir Miles’s damnably clear blue eyes looked up from his weather-beaten face and actually twinkled when he saw Bond. “Hello, James,” he said. “Glad you could make it.” Since his retirement, Sir Miles had dispensed with calling Bond 007. While Sir Miles was M, he never called Bond “James” unless something out of the ordinary was up for discussion. Now it was always “James,” spoken as if Bond were the long-lost son whom he’d never had.

  On the other hand, it was difficult for Bond to call Sir Miles anything but sir. “Good evening, sir. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. James, you know Admiral Hargreaves and Admiral Grey?”

  “Yes, good evening,” Bond said, nodding to the other men. They mumbled hello in return.

  “Well, enjoy yourself. Dinner won’t be for a few minutes. We’ll have a chance to talk later, all right?” Sir Miles said.

  “Fine. It’s good to see you, sir.” Bond walked back into the other room.

  A mousy but not unattractive woman in her thirties nursing a gin and tonic intercepted him as he came through the double doors. “Hello, James,” she said.

  Bond thought she looked familiar but couldn’t place her. “Hello,” he said hesitantly.

  “I’m Haley McElwain. My maiden name was Messervy.”

  “Oh, of course!” Bond said, slightly embarrassed. “I must admit I didn’t recogniz
e you at first.” He hadn’t seen Sir Miles’s eldest daughter in years. The old man had been a widower for as long as Bond could remember, and had two grown daughters from the marriage that few people knew anything about. “How are you? You’re looking well.”

  “Thank you,” she said, gushing. “You look splendid yourself.”

  “Are you still living in America?” Bond asked.

  “I was,” Haley said with a hint of disgust. “My husband was an American. We’re divorced now.” Bond thought she accentuated the word a bit too pointedly.

  “So you’re back in England?”

  “That’s right. I’m living with Daddy for the moment. With Charles and Lynne, of course.” She meant her two children.

  “Oh, yes, they must be quite grown up now …” Bond’s eyes wandered around the room looking for an escape route.

  “Charles is nine and Lynne is six. I’m sure they’ll find an excuse to come downstairs and join the party at some point during the evening. Daddy will have a heart attack.” She giggled too much for Bond’s taste. Haley McElwain was not holding her drink too well.

  “Well, it’s good to see you,” Bond said, starting to walk away.

  “It’s good to see you too!” she said, unwittingly licking her lips. “I hope you’ll come by Quarterdeck more often. I’ll fix us a lunch sometime.”

  “That would be lovely,” Bond muttered softly. He forced a smile and moved toward Bill Tanner, who was watching the entire scene with amusement.

  “You know, James,” he said, “it’s quite all right to flirt with the boss’s daughter now. He’s not the boss anymore.”

  “Go to hell, Bill,” Bond said, taking a large sip from the martini which he had left with Tanner.

  “She’s really quite lovely,” Tanner said.

  “Then you go and have lunch with her,” Bond said. “She’s a divorcee with two children, and that’s enough to keep me away.”

  “James, you’re becoming more and more misanthropic every day. Keep it up and you’ll be living in a cave somewhere in the highlands of Scotland before long.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Bill. Someplace where M would never find me …”

  Right on cue, the grand lady of SIS walked into the room. M was escorted by a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in a dinner jacket. He had snow-white hair, a mustache, and dark brown eyes. He appeared to be in his sixties, but he looked fit, tanned, and he was very handsome. M was dressed in a formal black evening gown that was low-cut in a V, revealing more of their boss than anyone at the office had ever seen. Accentuating the overall effect was a spectacular diamond necklace that gracefully caught the light. She looked dazzling. Together, the couple made a striking pair, and all heads in the room turned toward them. Nearly everyone was surprised to see who the man was.

  “Hello, Chief of Staff, er, Bill. Hello, James,” M said, smiling broadly at the two men. She was glowing with happiness. Bond immediately confirmed his earlier suspicion. M was in love.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” he said.

  “Oh, please, we’re not at the office. Call me Barbara,” M said. Unlike the way the Service operated in the old days, everyone knew what M’s real name was. “How are you, James?”

  “I’m fine, ma’am. You’re looking great this evening.”

  “So are you, James. Do you know Alfred Hutchinson?” She indicated the man who was escorting her. She held on to his arm and looked at him with pride.

  “We’ve never met.” Bond held out his hand. “Bond. James Bond.”

  Alfred Hutchinson shook his hand. It was a firm, dry handclasp. “How do you do?”

  “And this is my chief of staff, Bill Tanner,” she continued.

  Tanner and Hutchinson shook hands and greeted each other; then Hutchinson turned toward the hallway. “What happened to Manville? Did he have to park the car on the other side of Windsor?”

  “Well, we did come a bit late,” M said. “Oh, here they are.”

  Another couple came into the room, slipping off their overcoats and handing them to Davison. They were younger, a man and woman in their thirties.

  “I had to park at the Squirrel,” the man said. “You’d think there was a party or something going on here!”

  “James, Bill, I’d like you to meet Manville Duncan. He’s Alfred’s lawyer. And this is his wife, Cynthia. These are James Bond and Bill Tanner—they work for me.”

  Manville Duncan and his wife shook their hands. Bond noticed that Duncan’s handshake was cold and soft, like a woman’s. He was probably the type of man who had spent his life in an office pushing pens and using computers. He was of medium height, with dark, curly hair and deep brown eyes. Bond thought he had Mediterranean blood in him. Cynthia Duncan was plain, pale-skinned, thin, and seemed intimidated by her surroundings.

  “I’m going to see if I can get us some drinks straightaway,” Hutchinson said.

  “I’ll come with you,” M said. She nodded and smiled at Bond and Tanner. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other later on.”

  She followed Hutchinson. Manville Duncan and his wife smiled sheepishly at Bond and Tanner, then moved past them into the room.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Tanner said quietly.

  “Did you know she was seeing Alfred Hutchinson?” Bond asked.

  “No. It’s unbelievable. She actually looks human.”

  “Bill, if I’m not mistaken, that’s a woman in love. She’s radiant.”

  “But … Alfred Hutchinson?” Tanner shook his head. “This could bring SIS some publicity that we don’t really need.”

  Alfred Hutchinson wasn’t just a dapper, distinguished English gentleman. He was already world-famous. He was Great Britain’s “Goodwill Ambassador to the World.” Two years ago, the British government had created the position for him in an attempt to improve worldwide public relations. Prior to that time, Hutchinson was a respected university professor, author, and historian. He had spent several years as a foreign relations adviser, although he had no real experience in politics. Hutchinson was a man who was very outspoken, and his frequent appearances on BBC news programs brought him national fame. Two of his books about the history of English politics and foreign relations were best-sellers. Hutchinson now traveled all over the globe, speaking on behalf of Britain and spreading “goodwill.” Among his accomplishments, at the very least, was simply making news—“Hutchinson visits Beijing,” “Britain’s Ambassador to the World in Tokyo” … Although he had no political power whatsoever as a real ambassador, Hutchinson managed to recreate a British presence in the world where many felt that it had drastically waned.

  The fact that Barbara Mawdsley, otherwise known as M, was romantically involved with him astonished everyone at the party that night. It was obvious the two had planned to make their relationship public on this very occasion. Bond quickly got over the shock of realizing M had a sex life, and found that he was amused by the situation. He wondered what the press would have to say about the Goodwill Ambassador to the World dating the head of SIS. On the other hand, why should it matter? They were human, like anyone else. They were both divorced. Bond wasn’t sure, but he thought that Hutchinson had been married twice before.

  Bond didn’t know Manville Duncan. His first impression of the man was that he smoothly fitted the role of a sycophant to someone with a far greater intellect. Bond could imagine Duncan leaping to fill Hutchinson’s coffee cup if his boss wished him to do so.

  The main course at dinner was roast beef, new potatoes, fresh peas, and what Bond thought was a rather disappointing Saint-Emilion. He watched M and Hutchinson throughout the meal. They were obviously fond of one another, for Hutchinson would whisper something into her ear every now and then and she would smile broadly. At one point, Bond could have sworn that she must have squeezed the man’s inner thigh, for he suddenly registered a look of surprise and then they both laughed. Bond glanced over at Sir Miles, who was also watching the couple. He had a frown on his face that could have been chi
seled in stone.

  After coffee, several of the men retired to the library. Sir Miles passed out A. Fuente Gran Reserva cigars, one of the few brands that Bond would put in his mouth. After a few minutes of chitchat, he was motioned into a corner by Sir Miles.

  “How are you, James? Enjoy the meal?” he asked.

  “Yes sir, it was splendid. I must give my compliments to Mrs. Davison.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, stop calling me sir. I’ve told you a hundred times.”

  “Old habits die hard, Sir Miles.”

  “You didn’t answer my first question. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, I suppose. We have a curious case at the moment. We’re not sure what to make of it.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. Serial terrorists. Sounds messy. No leads at all?”

  “Not yet. The Greek Secret Service is doing most of the investigation at the moment. We have some military investigators looking into matters in Cyprus. I may have to go out there again. We have to wait and see.”

  “How are you getting on with M?”

  Bond hesitated, then smiled. “She’s not you, sir.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “We get on fine, Miles. She’s on top of it. We may not see eye to eye on everything, but I respect her.”

  “Well, if you ask me, she’s making a bloody mistake in her choice of men.”

  This surprised Bond. “Oh?”

  Sir Miles shook his head and made a face as if he’d just bitten into something bitter. “Despicable man.”

  “Really! I thought Alfred Hutchinson was one of the most revered men in Britain these days. He’s quite popular in Parliament and with the PM.” Sir Miles didn’t reply. “Isn’t he?”

  “The man cheated on his ex-wife, he’s a liar, and he has the manners of a pit bull.”

  “I guess that just shows you how much I know about politics. Actually, he seemed very charming to me. It’s fairly obvious that M is attracted to him.”

  “It’s just my personal opinion, of course. This is between you and me,” Sir Miles said gruffly. “Goodwill Ambassador to the World, indeed. What a bloody joke.”