“James,” she said. “I care about you a great deal. We all do. You’re under a great deal of stress. We can all see it. You know what your medical report from June revealed. You’ve been ordered to get at least three months’ rest and this is only the first Tuesday in August. Now … I know you’re troubled about Miss Marksbury. I understand. I felt a great deal of guilt when Alfred was murdered. I’m sure that what you’re feeling is not at all dissimilar. Now I want you to go home, and get some rest. I don’t want you thinking about this. We have a team working on the Union night and day. MI5 and the Metropolitan Police have Miss Marksbury’s case. We must let them do their job.”
The sincerity in M’s voice calmed him down. Bond looked away from her, feeling ashamed of his behavior.
“All right,” he said.
“Good. Why don’t you come back in two weeks? Go back to your place in Jamaica for a while.”
Bond nodded grimly, stood up, and started to walk out of the office without another word.
“Double-O Seven?”
He stopped and looked back.
“It’s for your own good. Surely you know that.” He forced a smile, nodded, and left the room.
Damn her and everyone else!
He paced the floor of his little office as he mulled over what M had said. The events of the day had frightened and infuriated him, but he had no intention of giving up now.
Bond refused to believe that there was anything “wrong” with him. It was just not a possibility, he told himself. The blackouts—stress related, surely. But what about the hallucinations? The stress and headaches probably brought them on. That had to be it. Perhaps Dr. Feare could tell him more. He didn’t want to wait another day to see her. Bond thought that the best thing to do would be to track her down at The Ivy that night.
Nevertheless, Bond was convinced that he could beat whatever mental or physical ailment he might have by simply getting back into action. That was the key to clearing his head.
He sat at his desk and turned on the computer. He got into the airline schedules’ program and found what he was looking for.
British Airways had one flight a week to Tangier, and Clayton and van Breeschooten were on it. It was also completely booked. Luckily, Royal Air Maroc had two flights a week, and one of them was the next morning.
He glanced at his watch: 6:50. He had an hour to go home, get cleaned up, pack a bag, and try to find Kimberley Feare at the Ivy. Before leaving, though, he wanted to stop by Q Branch.
Major Boothroyd had left for the day, but technicians worked round the clock in the little laboratory in the basement of the building. Located near the gun practice range, Q Branch was accessible only to privileged members of SIS, a group that included Double-O agents. Therefore, Bond had no problem walking in through the security check.
“Can I help you, Double-O Seven?” the man at the front desk asked.
“No, thank you,” he replied. “I’m just inquiring about a piece of equipment I left for repair. Be right back.”
The official let Bond through the doors, not thinking anything of it. Bond went to the small-arms cage and said hello to the attendant. There it was, in the glass case with the other semi-automatics. Bond liked the new Walther P99 in .40 caliber S&W, but he hadn’t yet talked Q Branch into issuing him one. Certainly more powerful than the standard 9mm, it looked the same, was designed the same, but used more potent ammunition. This resulted in a slow round, due to its added weight and size, but packed a stronger punch at the other end. With laser sight and flashlight accessories, the new P99 was a powerful handgun, but not ideal for hiding under a jacket. Bond had used the earlier model P99 and preferred to keep it in his luggage or automobile as backup. When he did wear it, Bond used an ISP-3 slotted-belt attachment holster, custom-made for the P99 by Del Fatti Leather.
When the attendant wasn’t looking, Bond took the gun from the case and put it in his waistband. He then grabbed the holster and thrust it into his pocket, turned and said, “See you later,” to the attendant, and left the building.
He hailed a taxi and directed the driver to a travel agency. There, he booked a one-way trip in economy on the Royal Air Maroc flight to Tangier. He paid with cash and gave his name as John Cork. The Cork identity, one of several aliases he used, was one that even SIS didn’t know about.
Bond felt better as he entered his flat minutes later. He showered, shaved, and put on a clean white shirt, a navy jacket, red and blue tie, and dark trousers. Underneath the jacket was the Bianchi X15 leather shoulder holster and Walther PPK, still his choice of weapon for concealment. He had loaded the magazine with prefragmented ammunition. He chose Glaser Silvers for better penetration.
Bond packed a bag for the trip to Morocco and left instructions for May, his housekeeper.
At 7:45, he left the flat and took another taxi back to the theater district.
EIGHT
THE HEAT OF THE
MOMENT
THE IVY IS A CHIC, OLD ESTABLISHED RESTAURANT FREQUENTED BY THE theater community, and by professionals in television, film, publishing, advertising, and journalism. In many ways, it is a modern, living Poets’ Corner. Located at the junction of West and Litchfield streets in London’s busy theater district, the Ivy’s history dates back to 1917, when it was a modest café that quickly gained a reputation among the theater society.
But it was not James Bond’s kind of place. While he appreciated the food at the Ivy, which was always excellent, the idea of going to a restaurant to see and be seen was not his style. He preferred anonymity and quiet. The Ivy can be a noisy place when it was crowded, which it usually is. Tables have to be booked weeks, if not months, in advance.
When he entered the Ivy shortly after 8:15, the maître d’ asked, “May I help you, sir?”
Bond peered past him. “I’m meeting someone. May I take a look and see if they’re already here?”
“What is the name?”
“I’m not sure whose name the reservation was under. They’re doctors.”
The maître d’ shrugged and gestured toward the dining room as if to say, “Be my guest.” Bond nodded and walked past him. He entered the crowded dining room that was buzzing with noise and excitement. London’s favorites were out in force, all deeply animated in conversation and luxuriating in culinary delights. At least a halfdozen people were on their feet talking and laughing with diners.
He finally spotted her at a large table conversing with two other women and two men. Bond guessed that they were all physicians.
Dr. Feare was the youngest and most attractive in the group. She had bright blue eyes, a long but pretty nose, thin lips that seemed to be always on the verge of a sexy smile, and shoulder-length blond hair. Bond had found her to be good-looking, but the clinical atmosphere of a physician’s office tends to neutralize any thoughts of sex. Here, in the restaurant’s golden illumination, Kimberley Feare looked marvelous.
Bond turned and slipped out of the room. As he passed the maître d’ he said, “Wrong restaurant. Sorry.”
He went outside and quickly crossed the street. Luckily, the light was fading; loitering in the shadows would be less noticeable. Bond took a position under an awning, leaned against the building, and waited.
The pounding in his head seemed to mark the seconds.…
At one point, Bond felt that he was being watched. He scanned the street and buildings around him, but he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. His nerves were acting up again, he told himself.