The bullet hit the back tire, sending the scooter skidding across the pavement on its side. The killer landed hard, but immediately got up and started to run with a limp. Bond pursued him across the lawn. The assassin was holding his leg as he ran—he wouldn’t go far.
He did, however, make it to the western edge of the park and ran across the road and into a residential street. Bond followed him, almost collided with a taxi, spun around, and fell. Not wasting a second, he leaped to his feet and continued the chase. He could see the killer hobbling along about thirty feet ahead.
“Stop!” Bond shouted again.
The man turned. Bond could see him holding something in his hand. A flash of light and the unmistakable sound of a shot forced Bond to roll to the ground. His hope of taking the armed man alive had diminished greatly.
When he got to his feet, Bond saw that his prey had disappeared. There were a couple of alleys, either of which he could have run into.
Bond sprinted to the comer and peered down one of them. Sure enough, he heard the sound of running feet. Bond hugged the wall and crept quickly toward the noise. He could see the man at the end of the alley, trapped in a dead end. Bond took cover behind some rubbish barrels.
“Give up!” Bond shouted. “You’re caught. Throw down your gun.”
The man turned and looked toward the voice. His eyes were wide. He fired blindly, unable to see his target. The bullet ricocheted off the alley wall.
It was now clear to Bond what had happened. The assassin had jumped the fence, killed the guard Frank, and taken his shirt and jacket. Impersonating a security man, he then persuaded the Gov-ernor to follow him inside the house. The Governor certainly wouldn’t have known all the security guards by sight.
“I’m counting to three,” Bond shouted. “Throw down your gun and raise your hands. I have a clear shot at your head. I assure you that I’ll blow a hole in it.”
The man pointed his gun in the direction of the voice. From Bond’s distance it appeared to be a revolver of some kind. Another shot went off, this time piercing the garbage can next to him.
“One . . .”
The man hesitated, not sure what to do. He knew he couldn’t escape.
“Two . . .”
Then the killer did a curious thing—he smiled. There was only one thing to do that made sense to him.
“You won’t take me alive, man,” the man said in a heavy West Indian accent. Then he pointed the gun at his temple.
“No!” Bond shouted. “Don’t—”
The man pulled the trigger. The noise reverberated like a thunderclap in the close confines of the alley.
TWO
OLD RIVALS
“THE TRICK IS NOT IN the amount of force you use when you hit the ball, Mr. Bond, but in the negative force,” said Nolan Edwards, the starter at Stoke Poges Golf Club.
“Well then, it’s perfectly clear,” Bond replied with sarcasm. The ball he had just knocked ninety yards onto the putting green overshot the hole and continued to roll into the rough.
He was frustrated by his lack of progress in mastering a difficult shot. It was called “backing the ball on the green.” Pro golfers perform it successfully most of the time; formidable amateurs such as Bond found the shot elusive. He was determined to get it right, for he had always played golf with the attitude that one should incorporate new techniques and strategies to keep the game alive. This particular shot would be useful should he ever need to hit the ball into a tough pin placement. If he overshot the hole, it would roll off the green (as he had just so aptly demonstrated). However, if he could successfully put a backspin on the ball, it would roll back toward the hole and be in a perfect position for him to sink the putt. —
Bond had been on the practice green in front of the club for half an hour. He hadn’t got it right once.
Edwards, an American from Illinois and longtime Stoke Poges employee, shook his head and wrinkled his brow. “It’s a tough one, Mr. Bond. I’ve seen very few amateurs do it. To spin the ball with some kind of accuracy, what you need to do is combine swing speed, impact position, hand action, and acceleration into one smooth swing.”
“What I need is a stiff drink,” Bond said, picking up his wound three-piece Titleist ball and pocketing it.
“Any sign of Bill?” he asked.
“I believe that’s his Alfa now,” Edwards said, nodding in the direction of the starter shed, where Bill Tanner, the Chief of Staff at SIS, had just parked his red Alfa Romeo.
“Hello, James,” he said, getting out of the car and opening the trunk. “How are you, Edwards?”
“Fine, Mr. Tanner,” the starter said. Tanner pulled out the clubs and handed them to Edwards. “Mr. Bond was just practicing a very difficult shot.”
“You still trying to put a backspin on the ball, James?”
Bond nodded, unsnapping the glove from his left hand. “I’m close, Bill. Damn close.”
Tanner chuckled. “You’re taking this much too seriously, James. Come on, let’s go and get a drink. The others will be here soon.”
Bond left his bag of Callaway clubs with Edwards and walked with Tanner to the front of the clubhouse, an impressive grade-one Palladian mansion. He had joined the club in 1993. The dues were sizable, but the splendid public and private rooms of the clubhouse, the elegant dining room and fine cuisine, the attentive staff, and the golf course itself made membership a cherished luxury. Founded in 1908, the Stoke Poges Golf Club is one of the finest in England. Located in Buckinghamshire in the south of England near Eton and Windsor, the thousand-year history of the estate is just as colorful as its surroundings. Decades of established traditions complement the club-house, its ancient gardens and parkland, and its world-famous course created by Harry Shapland Colt.
Bond and Tanner entered the lobby and walked past the grand staircase, which, at the time it was built, was the largest cantilever staircase in the UK. They went through the bright and cheery Orangery and into the more subdued President’s Bar. Bond preferred the bar, as it was a room that was both elegant and masculine. There was a yellow marble fireplace, a well-stocked oak bar, and comfortable furniture with cream-colored upholstery. Trophies and wood plaques adorned the yellow walls, proclaiming the names of past captains and other vital historical facts about the park.
Bond ordered a bourbon and Tanner asked for a Black Label whisky. Tanner looked at his watch. It was still early in the day. “They should be here soon. Do you think it will rain?”
English weather in April is unpredictable. So far, the sun had managed to skirt around the hovering dark clouds.
“Probably on the back nine,” Bond prophesied. “It never fails.”
Bond had been home for two weeks. The Governor’s murder had spoiled what had begun as a delightful holiday in the Bahamas with Helena. Now that they were back at the job, their relationship was a masquerade. They tried to put the romance behind them and, as much as possible, pretend that it never occurred. So far it wasn’t working. The situation was further complicated by the fact that their affair had been a secret before the incidents in Nassau, but now a number of people at SIS knew that he had been there with his personal assistant. Bond could feel Helena’s tension when he was at the office, so he made excuses to leave or work at home. He was extremely grateful when Tanner had suggested that he take Thursday off and play a round of golf with two other SIS civil servants.
“How is your research on the Union coming?” Tanner asked.
“Must we talk shop?” Bond snapped.
“Sorry,” Tanner said. “You really do want to master that shot!”