‘Tell me.’
She began with the story already told by M. Over a decade before, while Dr Jay Autem Holy had been working solely for the Pentagon, a US Marine Corps Grumman Mohawk aircraft had crashed into the Grand Canyon. Dr Holy and a General Joseph (‘Rolling Joe’) Zwingli were the only passengers.
‘You already know that Jay Autem was way ahead of his time,’ she said. ‘A computer whizz-kid long before most people had heard of computers. He worked on very advanced programming for the Pentagon. The airplane went down in a most inaccessible place – wreckage dumped deep into a gully. No bodies were ever recovered, and Jay Autem had a nice bundle of significant computer tapes with him when he went. Naturally they were not recovered either. He was working on a portable battle-training program for senior officers, and had almost perfected a computerised system for anticipating enemy movements in the field. His work was literally invaluable.’
‘And the General?’
‘Rolling Joe? A nut. A much-decorated and brave nut. Believed the United States had gone to the dogs – the commie dogs. Said openly there should be a change in the political system, that the army should take control. He figured politicians had sold out, morals had gone to pieces, people had to be made to care.’
Bond nodded. ‘And I gather Dr Holy had a nickname – like Rolling Joe was Zwingli’s nickname.’
She laughed again. ‘They called Zwingli “Rolling Joe” because in World War Two he had this habit of air-testing his B17 Flying Fortress by rolling it at a thousand feet.’
‘And Dr Holy?’ he prompted.
‘His colleagues, and some of his friends, called him “The Holy Terror”. He could be a tough boss.’ Percy paused, before adding, ‘And a tough husband.’
‘Late husband.’ Bond gave her a close, unblinking look and watched her drain the last of her champagne cocktail and place the glass carefully on a side table as she slowly shook her head.
‘Oh no,’ she said softly. ‘Jay Autem Holy did not die in that airplane wreck. A few people have known that for some years. Now there’s proof.’
‘Proof? Where?’ He led her towards the moment for which M had prepared him.
‘Right on your own doorstep, James. Deep in the heart of rural England. Oxfordshire. And there’s more to it than that. You remember the Kruxator robbery in London? And the £20 million gold bullion job?’
Bond nodded.
‘Also the £2 billion hijack? The British Airways 747 taking foreign currencies from the official printers in England to their respective countries?’
‘Of course.’
‘You remember what those crimes had in common, James?’
He waved his gunmetal cigarette case at Percy, who declined with an almost imperceptible gesture of the hand. Bond was surprised to find the case being returned to his pocket unopened. His forehead creased.
‘All large sums,’ he said. ‘Well-planned . . . Wait a minute, didn’t Scotland Yard say they could almost be computerised crimes?’
‘That’s it. You have the answer.’
‘Percy - ’ there was an edge of puzzlement in Bond’s voice – ‘what are you suggesting?’
‘That Dr Jay Autem Holy is alive and well, and living in a small village called Nun’s Cross, just north of Banbury in your lovely Oxfordshire. Remember Banbury, James? The place where you can ride a cock-horse to?’ Her lips tightened a little. ‘Well, that’s where he is. Planning criminal operations, and probably terrorist ones as well, by computer simulations.’
‘Evidence?’
‘Well . . .’ Again a pause. ‘To say that no bodies were recovered in the airplane is not quite true. They got out the pilot’s remains. There were no other bodies. Intelligence, security and police agencies have been searching for Jay Autem Holy ever since.’
‘And suddenly they found him in Oxfordshire?’
‘Almost by chance, yes. One of your Special Branch men was in that area on a completely different case. He was on to a pair of well-known London crooks.’
‘And they led him to . . . ?’
Percy got up and slowly began to pace the room.
‘They led him to a small computer simulations company called Gunfire Simulations, in the village of Nun’s Cross, and there he sees a face from the files. So he goes back and checks. The face is Dr Jay Autem Holy’s. Only now he calls himself Professor Jason St John-Finnes – pronounced Sinjon-Finesse: finesse, as in the game of bridge. The name of the house is Endor.’
‘As in Witch of?’
‘Right.’
Percy paused in her pacing and leaned on the back of Bond’s armchair, her arm brushing his ear. He could not at that moment bring himself to turn his head and look up into the face above his shoulder.
‘They even have chummy little weekend war games parties there and a lot of strange people turn up,’ Percy continued. She moved away and dropped on to a couch, drawing her long slender legs up under her.
‘Trouble was, none of this happened to be news to the American Service. You see, they’ve been keeping an eye on that situation for some time. Even infiltrated it, without telling anyone.’
Bond smiled. ‘That would please my people no end. There are rules about operating on other countries’ soil and . . .’
‘As I understand it,’ Percy interrupted in a husky, drawling voice, ‘there were what is known as frank and open discussions.’
‘I’ll bet!’ Bond thought for a moment. ‘Are you telling me that Jay Autem Holy – strongly prized by the Pentagon and missing, believed dead – just managed to settle in this village, Nun’s Cross, without benefit of disguise or cover, except for some new identity papers?’
Percy stretched out her legs and laid back almost full length on the couch, brushing the floor languidly with her hand.
‘Not an easy man to disguise,’ she said. ‘But yes, that’s exactly what he’s done. Mind you he rarely goes out, he’s hardly ever seen in the village. His so-called wife deals personally with business, and those he genuinely employs just think he’s eccentric – which he is. A great deal of ingenuity and a lot of money went into fixing up Jay Autem’s hideaway.’
Slowly, many of the things M had said back in London started to make sense. As though dawn had suddenly broken, Bond said, ‘And I’m the one who’s supposed to join that happy band of brothers?’
‘You’ve got it in one.’
‘And just how am I supposed to do that? Walk in and say, Hi there, my name’s James Bond, the famous renegade intelligence officer: I’m looking for a job?’
It was Bond’s turn to get up and pace the room.
‘Something like that,’ Percy drawled softly.
‘Good God!’ Bond’s face tightened in anger. ‘Of all the hare-brained . . . Why would he want to employ me, anyway?’
‘He wouldn’t.’ She gave a flicker of a smile and sat up, suddenly very alert and earnest. ‘He’s got enough staff to run the Gunfire Simulations business all legal and above board. And are they screened! It makes the British positive vetting look like a kid’s crossword puzzle. Believe me, I know. He has to be certain, because that side of things is absolutely straight.’ She took a little breath, turning her head slightly, like a singer swinging away from the microphone. ‘No, James, he wouldn’t think of employing you but there are people he works with who just might find you a great temptation. That’s what your people are banking on.’
‘Mad. Absolute madness! How?’ Bond was really angry again.
‘James,’ she said soothingly, standing up and taking both his hands in hers. ‘You have friends at the court of King St John-Finnes – well, an acquaintance anyhow. Freddie Fortune. The naughty Lady Freddie.’
‘Oh Lord!’ Bond dropped Percy’s hands and swung aside. Once, some years ago, Bond had made the error of cultivating the young woman Percy had just mentioned. In a way he had even courted her, until he discovered that Lady Freddie Fortune, darling of the gossip columnists, suffered from a somewhat slapdash political education, which had
placed her slightly to the left of Fidel Castro.
‘You too will have to study, James. That’s why you’re going to be here, with me. To get an entrée into Endor you must know something about the job they do at Gunfire Simulations. How much do you really know about computers?’
Bond gave a sheepish smile. ‘If you put it like that, the technicalities only.’
Had he been asked, computers were the last thing he wanted to discuss just then with the strangely alluring and unsettling Persephone Proud.
5
WAR GAME
With a lucidity born of his years in the Service, Bond outlined to Percy the way a microcomputer works, as they both sauntered about the room in almost a ritual dance, carefully avoiding one another. A complex electronic tool designed to perform particular tasks when a series of commands are read into its two memories, he recited tonelessly, like a schoolboy reeling off Latin declensions to an indulgent master. A machine which could keep records and work out financial problems one minute, process data the next, receive and transmit information over thousands of miles in a matter of seconds; which would design your new house, or allow you to play complicated games, make music, or display moving graphics. A miracle with an ever-growing memory, but only as good as the program it is given.
‘I know the theory – just,’ Bond said with a smile, ‘but I haven’t a clue how it’s all done by the programmer.’
‘That, as I understand it from your wonderful old boss, is the main reason we’re here,’ Percy retorted. Bond was mildly surprised to hear M spoken of as his wonderful old boss. ‘My job is to teach you programming language, with special reference to the kind of thing my dark angel of an ex-husband used to do, and probably is doing right now. Oh, yes, he is an ex. Dead, missing, whatever, I made sure it was legal.’
‘Would that be difficult?’ Bond asked with a show of feigned innocence. ‘Learning to program, I mean.’
‘Depends on aptitude. It’s like swimming or riding a bicycle. Once you’ve got the knack it becomes second nature. Mind you, we’re up against a particular kind of genius when it comes to Jay Autem Holy. I’m going to have to tell you a lot about him. Seriously, though, it’s simply like learning a new language, or how to read music.’
Percy walked over to the closet and hauled out a pair of large customised cases heavily embellished with coded security locks. Between them they contained a large, sophisticated microcomputer, several types of disk drive, and three metal boxes which, when opened, revealed disks of differing sizes and quality. She asked Bond to move the television set so that she could plug in the micro. The keyboard was twice the size of that on an electronic typewriter. Percy talked as she set up the equipment. This was the same micro, she said, as she guessed Jay Autem would be using now. Bond had already noticed that she referred to Dr Holy simply as Jay Autem or the Holy Terror.
‘When he went missing his own micro disappeared with him – or, should I say, at the same time. I guess he had it stashed away somewhere safe. In those days we were just beginning to see the full development of the microcompressor – you know, the chip that put a whole roomful of computer circuits on to a 5mm-square piece of silicon. When he built his own machine we were still mainly using tapes. Since then there’ve been so many developments, and things have become much smaller, but I’ve tried to keep pace with the technology. I rebuilt his Terror Six – that’s what he called his machine – changing his original design, doing my best to keep one jump ahead, as he would have done.’
Bond stood peering over her shoulder as she made final adjustments.
‘This,’ she waved a hand at the keyboard, ‘is my equivalent of what would now be the Terror Twelve. Since Jay Autem went, the chips have gotten smaller, but the big leap forward has been the incredible advance in the amount of memory a little thing like this can contain. That, and the way more realistic pictures – real video – can be used in the kind of programs he’s interested in.’
‘And what kind of programs are those, Percy?’
‘Well –’ she selected a disk from one of the boxes, switched on a drive, inserted the disk and powered up the machine – ‘I can show you the kind of thing which used to fascinate him when he was doing work for the Pentagon. Then we can take it a stage further.’
The television screen had come alive, the disk drive whirred and rasped, and a series of rapid beeps emanated from the speaker. The drive continued to sound after the staccato beeps finally stopped and the screen cleared, showing a detailed map of the border between East and West Germany – the district around Kassel: NATO country.
Unaccountably Bond suddenly felt hot and flushed. He started to reach a hand out to Percy’s shoulder, but changed to loosen his tie as she drew a heavy black joystick from one of her cases and plugged it into the keyboard, pressing the S key. Immediately a bright rectangle appeared on the map, which Bond saw was as clear as a piece of printed cartography.
‘Okay, this may look like some weird game to you, but I promise you, it’s a very advanced training aid.’
Percy operated the joystick and the rectangle slid across the screen, moving the map as it reached the outer perimeter, so that it scrolled up and down. The entire area covered was about eighty square miles of border and below it on the screen was a blank oblong blue space.
‘I type in co-ordinates and we go immediately to that section on the map.’ Percy suited action to word, and the map jumped on the screen, the rectangle staying in place. ‘Now we can look at what’s going on in a smaller area.’ She positioned the rectangle over a village about a mile from the border and pressed the trigger on the joystick. Bond had suddenly become aware of the perfume Percy was wearing but couldn’t decide what it was. He jerked his mind back to the matter in hand.
It was as if a zoom lens had been applied to the screen, for now he could see detail – roads, trees, houses, rocks and fields. Among this detail Bond could pick out at least six tanks and four troop carriers, while a pair of helicopters sat hidden behind buildings, and three Harrier aircraft could be defined on pads shielded by trees.
‘We have to assume that some form of non-nuclear hostility exists.’
Percy was typing commands into the micro, asking for information, first on NATO forces. The tanks, troop carriers, helicopters and Harriers blinked in turn, as their designated call-signs and strength ribboned out on the lower part of the screen. Percy noted the call-signs on a pad at her elbow and then typed a command for information about Warsaw Pact forces in this tiny area. They appeared to be facing at least two companies of infantry, with armoured support.
‘It’ll only give you available information, the kind of thing intelligence and reconnaissance would actually have.’ Percy watched as the screen flashed up known positions, with data concerning the enemy running out on the blue space below.
Bond could not take his eyes from the soft curl of her hair on an almost exposed shoulder as she began to input orders. Two of the Harriers moved off, as though flying in to attack the enemy armour. At the same time, she activated the NATO tanks and troop carriers.
Individual responses from the tank and infantry commanders came up on the screen, while the tiny vehicles moved to her bidding, the tanks suddenly coming under attack, indicated by shell bursts on the screen and audible crumps and whines. Bond stooped slightly for a closer look, and found himself glancing sideways at Percy’s face, profiled and absorbed alongside his. He looked quickly back at the screen.
The action, controlled throughout by Percy, lasted for almost twenty minutes, during which time she was able to gain a small superiority over the enemy forces with the loss of three tanks, one helicopter, a Harrier and just under one hundred men.
Bond stood back a pace behind Percy. He had found the whole operation fascinating. He asked if this kind of thing were used by the military.
‘This is only a simple computer TEWT.’ Percy was talking about a Tactical Exercise Without Troops, a technique used in training officers and NCOs. ‘In the old day
s, as you know, they did TEWTS with boards, tables, sand trays and models. Now all you need is a micro. This is very simple, but you should see the advanced games they use at staff colleges.’
‘And Dr Holy was programming this kind of thing for the Pentagon?’ For the first time Bond noticed a little mole on Percy’s neck.
‘This, and more. When he disappeared, Jay Autem was into some exceptionally advanced stuff. Not only training but specialist programs, where the computer is given all the possible options and works out the one most likely to be taken by an opposing power under a particular set of circumstances.’
‘And now? Given that he really is still alive . . .’
‘Oh, he’s alive, James.’ She flushed suddenly. ‘I’ve seen him. Don’t doubt it. He’s the one I’ve already told you about – Jason St John-Finnes, of Nun’s Cross, Oxfordshire. I should know. After all, I was his watchdog for three and a half lousy years . . .’
‘Watchdog?’ Her eyes really were the most incredible colour, a subtle shade of grey-blue that changed according to the light.
Percy looked away, biting her lip in mock shame. ‘Oh, didn’t they tell you? I married the bastard under orders. I’m a Company lady – from Langley. Marriage to Dr Holy was an assignment. How else would I know the inside of this op?’
‘He wasn’t trusted then?’ Bond tried not to show surprise, even though the idea of a CIA employee being instructed to marry in order to keep surveillance on her husband appalled him.
‘At that time, with his contacts – he had many friends among the scientific community in Russia and the Eastern Bloc – they couldn’t afford to trust him. And they were right.’
‘You think he’s working for the KGB now?’
‘No.’ She went to the small chiller to get another bottle of champagne. ‘No, Jay Autem worked for Jay Autem and nobody else. At least I discovered that about him.’ Passing another glass to Bond, she added, ‘There are almost certainly Soviet connections in what he’s doing now, but it’ll be on a freelance basis. Jay Autem knows his business, but he’s really dedicated only to money. Politics is another matter.’