“Why Belgium?” Bond asked.
“Who knows? We’ve contacted Station B to see if we can have his movements traced. MI5 have turned the investigation over to us. We believe that Skin 17 is no longer in the UK.”
M spoke up. “Double-O Seven, I want you to go to Brussels and rendezvous with Station B. Your job is to track down Dr. Harding. If he has Skin 17, you’re to do everything in your power to get it back. The Minister of Defence is obsessed with this Mach 7 business and with Great Britain being the first to achieve this goal. He’s told me in no uncertain terms that the formula must be recovered. I’m afraid I agree with him that it would be disastrous should Skin 17 get into the hands of a country like, say, Iraq or Iran . . . or Red China. I wouldn’t want the Russian Mafia to get hold of it. I wouldn’t want Japan to have it. Double-O Seven, it’s also a matter of principle. We developed it. Here in Britain. Dr. Wood was a brilliant British physicist. We want the credit for developing the process. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good luck, then.”
Bond stopped by his office to gather his things, then paused by Helena Marksbury’s desk.
“I, uhm, have to go to Brussels,” he said.
Helena was typing furiously and didn’t stop to look at him “I know. You’re to pick up the Jaguar from Q Branch before you leave today. I’m making arrangements for you to use the channel tunnel so you can drive across. I thought you’d prefer that.”
“Thank you.”
“Station B is handling your hotel. The contact’s name is Gina Hollander. She’ll meet you at the Manneken-Pis at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“Good luck.”
Bond placed his hand over hers to stop her typing. “Helena . . .”
“Please, James,” she said softly. “Just go. I’ll be fine. When you get back, everything will be . . . as before.”
Bond removed his hand and nodded. Without saying another word, he turned and walked toward the elevator.
FIVE
THE GOLDEN PACEMAKER
APPROXIMATELY twelve hours before James Bond received his assignment to track Dr. Steven Harding to Belgium, the physicist arrived at the Midi station in Brussels and took a taxi to the Metropole, the only nineteenth-century hotel in the famed city. Located in the heart of Brussels in the Place de Brouckère, the historical center, the Hotel Métropole is more like a palace than a hotel. French architect Alhan Chambon brought a mixture of styles to the interior by infusing it with an air of luxury and richness of materials— paneling, polished teak, Numidian marble, gilded bronze, and forged iron.
Most visitors find the French Renaissance main entrance and the Empire-style reception hall breathtaking, but Harding wasn’t interested in the historical or aesthetic qualities of the hotel. He was tired and frightened, and he wanted to get Phase Two out of the way as soon as possible so that he could collect his money and flee to some island in the South Pacific.
“Oui, monsieur?” the receptionist asked.
Harding stammered, “Uhm, sorry, I only speak English.”
The receptionist, used to foreign visitors, smoothly switched languages. “What can I do for you, sir?”
I have a reservation. Peters. Donald Peters.”
The young woman looked it up on the computer. “Yes, Mr. Peters. Your room has been paid for. How many nights will you be staying?”
“I’m not sure. Possibly three?”
“That’s fine, just let us know. Do you have bags?”
“Just what I’m carrying.”
He wrote false information on the registration card, then took the key.
“You’re in the Sarah Bernhardt Room, Number 1919 on the third floor.”
“Thank you,” Harding said. He took the key and carried his luggage to the elevator, waving away the porter. The elevator was an old-fashioned cagelike contraption with impressive metallic beams rising up through the ceiling.
Sarah Bernhardt’s autograph was engraved on a gold plaque on the door of his room. Apparently the famous actress had once lived in the suite. The hotel was indeed the spot for the rich and famous throughout the last century.
Harding locked the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good. He hadn’t noticed anyone tailing him. There were no suspicious characters lurking about. Perhaps he was really going to get away with it.
Feeling more confident than he had in weeks, Harding went straight to the minibar in the sitting room, unlocked it, and found a small bottle of vodka. He opened it and drank it straight, out of the | bottle. Only then did he begin to appreciate the splendor of the hotel.
The suite was divided into two large rooms. The sitting room was equipped with a large wood desk, the minibar, a television, a glass-top coffee table, green chairs and a sofa, a closet with a full-length mirror, potted plants, and a large window that opened onto a terrace. The walls were yellow with white molding. The bedroom was just as spacious, with a king-sized bed, another glass-top table, chairs with the same green upholstery, a second television oak dresser and cabinet, and small tables by the bed. Another large window opened to the terrace. The bathroom was in brown tile and contained all the amenities one could ask for. A frosted-glass panel covered half the area above the bathtub for showering.
“This is great!” Harding said aloud, rubbing his hands with glee. He was not accustomed to such luxury. Working for the Union certainly had its perks.
The taxi driver was curious as to why Harding wanted to go to a doctor’s surgery after midnight.
“They closed, they closed,” the driver said in imperfect English.
“He’s expecting me,” Harding insisted. He handed the man one thousand Belgian francs. “Here, I’ll pay you the fare when we get there. And I’ll need you to wait for me.”
The driver shrugged and took the money. The cab took Harding to Avenue Franklin-Roosevelt, located in an elegant area of the city near the Hippodrome. It is full of lush green parks and expensive town homes, but in the dark it looked like anywhere else.
The driver let him out at Dr. Hendrik Lindenbeek’s residence. As in most European countries, doctors in Belgium usually carried on their practice from their homes.
Harding rang the bell, and Lindenbeek answered the door after a few seconds. He was a young Flemish cardiologist.
“Come in,” he said in English. Harding noted that Dr. Lindenbeek’s hand shook as he gestured him inside.
Lindenbeek led him through the patient waiting area, which consisted of wicker furniture in a white room, and into the large examination room. Besides the examining table, there was a large wooden desk, bookshelves, trays with equipment, and an X-ray machine with lead wall partitions.
“Is our patient ready to go?” Harding asked.
Dr. Lindenbeek nodded. “The surgery is scheduled for eight O’clock tomorrow morning. I need to get some sleep so I don’t make any mistakes!” He laughed nervously.
You had better not make any mistakes. Now, tell me exactly what you’re going to do.”
Dr. Lindenbeek took some stationery from his desk and drew a sketch of a man’s torso. He made a small square on the figure’s upper left breast. “The pacemaker will be inserted here. It’s a routine operation. Takes about three to four hours, maybe less.”
Does the patient go home the same day?”
“He can, but I prefer him to remain in the hospital overnight. He can go home the following day.”
Harding didn’t like that. He was on a tight schedule.
“What about traveling? Will he be able to fly?”
“Sure,” Lindenbeek said. “He just needs to take it easy for a few days to make sure the skin heals. The pocket of skin where we put the pacemaker might open up. It could get infected. We wouldn’t want that to happen.”