So, thought Bond, as serious a matter as stealing even a dummy back-up program of the Balloon Game – on which, he presumed, the whole operation for SPECTRE was based – could be overlooked and kept ‘in the family’. It was an interesting turn of events. What it did show was that Jay Autem Holy lived in terror of SPECTRE, and that was a piece of deduction which may well be put to valuable use later.
‘Cindy?’ Bond mused. ‘What . . . ?’
‘Will happen to her? She is regarded as one of my family. She will be disciplined, like a child, and kept under lock and key. Dazzle is seeing to it.’
‘I haven’t set eyes on your wife recently.’
‘No, she prefers to remain in the background, but she has certain tasks to perform, tasks necessary to success. What I really wish to ask of you, James, is that we keep this business about Miss Chalmer to ourselves. Keep it as a personal matter. I mean, we don’t mention it to anybody. Personal, between us, eh?’
‘It’s personal enough already.’ Bond clamped his mouth shut. What else was there to say?
Tigerbalm came for him shortly after six o’clock. They had not locked him in, though food was served on a tray, brought up by a young Arab. Tigerbalm was very polite.
They went to the same room as before, with its bolted-down table and chairs. The only difference this time was that a tape recorder, with a separate set of earphones, had been hooked up to the telephone.
‘It’s time, then.’
Holy was not alone. Tamil Rahani stood beside him, while the large, craggy face of General Zwingli peered out from behind them.
‘I can’t promise this part will work.’ Bond’s voice was flat and calm. So calm that it appeared to activate something deep within General Zwingli, who pushed his way through his partners, sticking out a leathery hand.
‘We haven’t met, Commander Bond.’ The voice had a slightly Texan tang to it. ‘My name’s Joe Zwingli, and I just want to wish you luck, son. Get in there and make it happen for us. It’s in a great cause – to put your country and mine back on their feet; give them some new order in the midst of their present chaos.’
Bond did not want to disillusion the man. But a scheme of SPECTRE’S that was not for their good alone, he reckoned, would never see the light of day.
He played it to the hilt. ‘I’ll do what I can, sir.’
Then he sat down and waited for Holy to set the tape monitor, put on the headphones and indicate they were ready.
He picked up the handset and punched out the digits to access the small complex where the SIS Duty Security Officer to the Foreign Office spent his twelve-hour watches, together with specialist teleprinter, cipher, radio and computer operators. Two shifts a day, twelve hours apiece.
The number which Bond had in fact punched was a screened telephone number known only to the field officers of his Service. It was also manned day and night, and paraded many identities, depending upon what operations were being run. That night it was a Chinese Laundry based in Soho, a radio cab firm, a French restaurant, and – if the need arose – the Foreign Office Duty Security Officer’s direct line. For that purpose it had been alerted for special action ever since Bond’s radiophone call from the Bentley on the previous evening. If the call came, it would be passed to one person only. The telephone rang four times before anyone picked it up. ‘Hallo?’ The voice was flat, disguised for safety.
‘Tony Denton – the DO please.’
‘Who wants him?’
‘Predator.’
‘Hang on please.’
Bond saw Holy give a wry smile, for when outlining his plan, he had refused to give the cryptonym he had used as a member of the Service. Apparently Jay Autem Holy thought this one very apt.
They waited while the call was being switched through to Bill Tanner, and it was his old friend Tanner’s voice which next came on to the line.
‘Denton. I thought you were out, Predator. This is an irregular call. I’m afraid I have to terminate.’
‘Tony! Wait!’ Bond hunched over the table. ‘This is priority. Yes, I’m out – as far as anyone can be out – but I have something vital to the Service. But really vital.’
‘Go on.’ The voice at the other end sounded doubtful.
‘Not on the telephone. Not safe. You’re the only person I could think of. I must see you. I have to see you. Imperative, Tony. Consul.’
Bond used the standard cipher word for extreme emergency. At the far end there was a fractional pause.
‘When?’
‘Tonight. Before midnight. I can get to you, I think. Please, Tony, give me the all clear.’
Again there was a long pause. ‘If this isn’t straight I’ll see you in West End Central by morning, charged under the Official Secrets Act. As quickly as you can. I’ll clear you. Right?’
‘Be with you before midnight.’
Bond sounded relieved, but the line was closed long before he took the handset from his ear.
‘First hurdle.’ Holy jabbed down on the recorder’s stop button. ‘Now, you have to be convincing when you get there.’
‘So far, it’s playing to packed houses.’ Tamil Rahani sounded pleased. ‘The dispatch rider brings the frequency up from Cheltenham at around eleven forty-five?’
‘If the US President is away from his own country, yes.’ Bond held the man’s eyes, trying to discern his state of mind.
Rahani laughed. ‘Oh, he’s out of the country. No doubt about that, Commander Bond. No doubt at all.’
‘If you leave here at nine forty-five you should make it with time to spare.’ Holy removed his headset. ‘We’ll be with you all the way, James. All the way.’
17
DOWN ESCALATOR
The metal forests of antennae which rise above the massive pile of government buildings running from Downing Street along Whitehall and Parliament Street, conjure up thoughts of communications flying through the night; of telephones waking ministers, calling them to deal with some important crisis; or the fabled telegrams crossing the airwaves from distant embassies.
In fact, only open messages run into those government offices. Sensitive signals and urgent messages are usually routed through the GCHQ complex outside Cheltenham, or one of its many satellites. From Cheltenham they are passed to the mysterious building known as Century House, or to the Regent’s Park Headquarters. Ciphers for the Foreign Office go only then, not to Whitehall and Parliament Street, but to an unimposing, narrow, four-storey house off Northumberland Avenue. They are sent by a variety of methods ranging from the humble dispatch rider to teleprinter by land-line, or even through a closed telephone circuit, often linked to a computer modem programmed for deciphering.
If the romantically minded were to imagine that someone with the title of Duty Security Officer, Foreign Office, prowls the great corridors of power with flashlight and uniformed accomplices, they would be wrong. The DSOFO does not prowl. He sits in the house off Northumberland Avenue, and his job is to ensure that all ciphers for Foreign Office remain secure and get to the right person. He also deals with a whole mass of restricted information concerning communications from abroad, both from British sources, and from those of foreign powers. Leaders of friendly foreign powers, in particular, look for assistance from the Foreign Office. They usually find it with the DSOFO.
It was to the little-noticed turning off Northumberland Avenue that James Bond was now heading in the Mulsanne Turbo.
They had taken him out to the garage shortly after nine-thirty, made sure he had money, credit cards, his ASP, and petrol in the tank. Holy, Rahani and Zwingli had, in turn, clasped his hand, Zwingli muttering, ‘Good to have you on the team,’ and promptly at nine forty-five the Bentley had eased its bulk on to the gravel turning circle, flashed its lights once, and swept on its stately way, up the drive and on to the road to Banbury.
From Banbury, Bond followed the route they had ordered him to take – straight to the M4 motorway, and so into London.
He did not spot any shadows, b
ut had no doubt that they would be there. It did not worry him. The street where he would finally stop would be cleared of all but authorised vehicles so there was little chance of him being observed once the car had been parked.
Risking the wrath of police patrols, Bond made the journey at high speed. From numerous telltale signs and bumps he was certain Peter Amadeus had managed to let himself into the boot. The little programmer would, by now, be suffering considerable discomfort. Bond stopped once, at the service station near Heathrow Airport, to fill the tank. There he was able to let a little air into the boot and to satisfy himself that Amadeus was indeed alive and well. In a whisper, he explained that release just then was impossible, but it would not be long now.
Less than forty minutes later, Amadeus was freed, speechless and stiff from the cramped ride, but all the same duly grateful.
‘Well, this is where you show your gratitude.’ Bond took his arm firmly, leading him towards the lighted doorway of the terraced house.
Swing doors opened on to a marble-tiled hallway with a lift which took them to the second floor and a minuscule landing, watched over by a muscular government messenger, who half rose from his desk to ask what they required.
‘Predator,’ Bond snapped at him. ‘Tell them, Predator and friend.’ He did not smile.
Less than a minute later, they were led quickly through a passage and into a larger room. The red velvet curtains were drawn. A portrait of the Queen hung over the Adam fireplace and another of Winston Churchill adorned the opposite wall. A long gleaming boardroom table occupied a large portion of the available space.
Six faces turned as one. M was at the head with Bill Tanner on his right and another officer Bond recognised to the left. Major Boothroyd, the Armourer, Head of Q Section, sat to Tanner’s right with Lady Freddie Fortune next to him.
Bond did not have time to be surprised at Freddie’s presence, for the sixth member of the reception committee left her chair almost at a run.
‘James, darling. Oh, it’s so good to see you.’
Percy Proud, oblivious to the officialdom, held him close, as though she would never let go again.
‘Commander Bond! Miss Proud!’ M was genuinely embarrassed. ‘I, er, think we have important work to do.’
He detached himself from Percy, acknowledged the others, and introduced Peter. ‘I think Dr Amadeus will be able to contribute.’ Bond kept glancing suspiciously at Freddie Fortune – so often that M finally said, ‘Lady Freddie’s been on the team for some years. Done good work, infiltrating. Sound woman, 007. Very deep cover. Forget you’ve ever seen her here.’
Bond caught Freddie’s steady gaze, returning it with a sardonic smile and cocked eyebrow. Then, M drew the conference to order.
‘I trust you’ve gone into Endor, sir . . .’ Bond started.
‘Yes, 007. Yes, we went in about an hour after you drove out, but the birds had flown. I don’t think many were left when you departed. The rest have vanished into thin air. Bag and baggage. We thought you could tell us . . .’
‘I’m instructed to return there, by the same route as I came.’ Bond recalled the deserted feel of the place that morning, and the fact that he had seen only Cindy and the Arab first thing, and Tigerbalm, Holy, Rahani and Zwingli later.
‘The cars were there.’ He felt it was a lame comment. ‘Three of them, still in the garage.’
‘Two when our people arrived.’ The officer Bond recognised but could not name was obviously running liaison.
‘How about my girl? How about Cindy?’ Percy touched his sleeve, and Bond could not meet her eyes.
‘I’m not certain. She was a great deal of help, last night. Even tried to steal a copy of their main program – the simulation of whatever they’re doing.’ He turned to M. ‘It’s on SPECTRE’S instructions, this business, sir, did you know?’
‘Is it, indeed?’ M could administer the iceberg treatment when he had a mind to. ‘That villainous outfit is on the warpath again, eh?’
‘You still haven’t told me about Cindy.’ Percy had her hand tightly on his arm now.
‘Just don’t know, Percy. No idea.’ He told her about the previous night, leaving out all that happened after he got back to her room, but repeating the conversation with Holy in the morning.
‘So we have no ideas about this simulation?’ M sucked at his pipe.
‘If I could have a word.’ They all turned towards Amadeus. ‘I’ve seen the simulation running. It was a couple of weeks ago. The wee small hours. Couldn’t sleep. I went down to the laboratory, and Jason was in what we call the War Room – Mr Bond knows: it’s at the far end. Jason was engrossed. Just didn’t hear me.’ He passed a hand across his forehead. ‘That was before all those great oafs – gun-happy boys – turned up. Before I got nervous about being there.’
M looked uncomfortable, spluttering over his pipe.
‘Well, thinks I, have a look, Pete. See what the crooks are after next. They refer to it as the Balloon . . .’
‘The Balloon Game, yes,’ Bond interrupted.
‘I’ve seen it and you haven’t. I have the floor, Mr Bond, please.’ He looked around him revelling in the attention he was getting. ‘As I was saying, they call it the Balloon Game, but it’s to do with something they’ve named Operation Down Escalator.’
M’s brow creased as he repeated the words under his breath.
‘The simulation . . .’ Amadeus raised his voice ‘. . . appears to be set in a commercial airport. Not large. I didn’t recognise it, but that’s nothing to go by. The scenario begins in an office complex just to the left of the main terminal building. There’s a lot of stuff with cars, and positioning men. As far as I could see, the idea was to lift one man.’
‘Lift?’ M enquired.
‘Kidnap, sir,’ explained Bond.
Amadeus shot them a glance, then scowled, letting them know he did not like being interrupted. ‘They lift this chap, and there’s a lot of changing around in cars – you know, he’s taken to one point, then switched to another car. Then the location alters to a smaller field – an airfield. It’s tiny, with a mini control tower and one main building, a hangar, and guess what? An airship.’
‘Airship?’ Bond repeated in surprise.
‘Hence Balloon Game. They get on to this field using the man they’ve lifted. It does appear to be terribly clever – there are three cars, twelve men, and the hostage, if that’s what he is. Result? They take over the whole shooting match. There is a final scenario, and that’s to do with flying the airship somewhere. It got very technical and . . .’
‘Chief-of-Staff,’ M almost shouted. ‘Go and check it out. We know the thing’s there, because it’s on the itinerary. Saw it myself. They cleared it with the President’s people, the Prime Minister and the Russians. Doing a sort of fly-past tomorrow morning.’
Bill Tanner was out of the room before he finished.
Bond looked at his chief, the questions clear on his face. ‘Sir, I haven’t seen, or heard, any news lately. They even immobilised the car radio. Could you . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ M leaned back. ‘At least we’ve now got a small idea of what it’s about. We know where, and how. What? Well, that’s a very different matter.’
‘Sir,’ Bond prompted.
‘It’s been kept under wraps for some time – a good few months in fact,’ M began. ‘These things always take the devil of a time to organise, and the participants wanted it to remain very low profile. Tonight, members of a Summit Conference are to arrive in Geneva. In fact, the first main session is this very night. They’ve taken over the whole of Le Richemond Hotel for three days . . .’
‘Who, sir?’
‘Russia, the United States, Britain, France and West Germany. The President of the United States, the French President, the Chairman of the USSR, the German Chancellor, and our Prime Minister – with all advisers, secretaries, military, the entire circus. The discussions will be on arms control and a more positive and prosperous future. The usual
pie-in-the-sky.’
‘The airship?’ Bond’s heart was sinking. The more he heard, the less he liked it.
‘Goodyear. They have their ship, Europa, in Switzerland at the moment. When they heard about the Summit, Goodyear asked permission to fly what they called a goodwill mission, taking them straight over Le Richemond. They’ve got the Europa tethered just up the lake on a small strip – a tiny satellite field you can approach only from the lake itself. Mountain rescue boys and some private flyers use it.’
‘But when did Goodyear arrange this?’ Bond had not heard a whisper about any Summit Conference.
M grunted. ‘You know what it’s like, 007. They arrange their flights a year in advance. The Europa would have been there in any case. Would have been flying. However, they had to get permission once the Conference was announced.’
Percy had caught on. ‘Dr Amadeus, when did you first hear about the Balloon Game?’
About four months ago, he told her, four or five.
‘And the Summit . . . ?’
‘It’s been pencilled in for almost a year,’ said M. ‘The information was available only through diplomatic channels. The Press have been good boys for a change. Not a whisper, even though they must have known.’
Bill Tanner returned with the news that he had been in contact with Geneva.
‘I talked to the Goodyear security man out at the strip. No problems, and we’ve alerted the Swiss police. They’re going to close the field to everyone but accredited Goodyear staff. That means around thirty to thirty-five people, handlers, publicity and PR, mechanics, two pilots. Nobody’s going to get in unless the Goodyear representatives okay the bona fides. It’s sewn up, sir.’