The one ahead, to Bond’s right, fired, his big .45 sounding like a bomb in the confines of the corridor. A huge piece of the door jamb disintegrated, leaving a large hole and sending splinters flying. The second shot passed between Bond and the jamb. He felt the crack of the bullet as it cut the air near his head, but by this time he too had fired, low to damage only feet or legs with the wicked little Glaser slugs always loaded in the ASP. The men would have been easy to take out with that ammunition. The No. 12 shot suspended in liquid Teflon within the soft bullet would explode inside the body. But Bond had no desire to kill anybody. M’s message had been clear enough: ‘In the event of anything going wrong we shall have to deny you even to our own police forces.’ He had no intention of being denied by his Service and sent up for murder to the Old Bailey. He squeezed the trigger twice, one shot to each wall, and heard a yelp of pain and a shout. Then he turned about and hurtled down the fire escape. Glancing below, he saw no sign of Heather.
He thought he heard another shout from above as he reached the first door, which Heather had left open. Bond raced through, slammed it after him and put up the Yale catch. He tore down the passage to the street door. Seconds later he was in the street itself. He turned left and left again, keeping both hands in sight. Instantly the hotel doorman appeared with the car keys and unlocked the Bentley. Bond tipped him lavishly and smiled casually at Heather as she came across the road from the hotel entrance.
The car was parked facing Berkeley Street. He slid left into the street, then around Berkeley Square. At the top he bore left again, then right, past the exclusive Connaught Hotel, and left into Grosvenor Square, Upper Grosvenor Street and the heavy traffic of Park Lane.
‘Keep an eye open,’ he told Heather, who sat silently at his side. ‘I presume you can spot a tail. I’m going through the park, down Exhibition Road and then right towards the M4. I take it I don’t really have to tell you the rules, but in case you’ve forgotten . . .’
‘I don’t forget,’ she snapped back at him. ‘We are ducking and diving, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, according to the rule book. Never fly straight for more than half a minute. Never walk ahead without watching your back. Always mislead.’
‘Even when they know you’re there,’ she added tartly.
‘That’s right.’ Bond smiled, but the streak of cruelty still played around his mouth. ‘What, incidentally, were you going to do about luggage, Heather?’
‘I had a case packed at home. There’s nothing I can do about it now.’
‘We’ll have to buy a toothbrush at the airport. Anything else can wait until we get to Ireland. Are you booked under your own name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you’re going to cancel it. Let’s hope the waiting list isn’t too long. We’ll call from a service station. Those two must have been Smolin’s men as well, expecting to find your battered corpse and remove your tongue. From what I saw of them, they seemed to be quite capable of it.’
‘Did you . . . ?’
‘Kill them? No, but at least one of them’s hurt; maybe both. I didn’t stop to find out. Now, think of a good alias.’
‘Smith.’
‘No. The house rules are not Smith, Jones, Green or Brown. You’ll have to produce something more convincing.’
‘Arlington,’ she said. ‘Like Arlington Street. That sounds distinguished.’
‘It’s also the American cemetery. Perhaps it’s a bad omen, but it’ll do. Are we still free of company?’
‘There was a Jaguar XL behind that I didn’t like the look of, but it turned off into Marlowes Road. I think we’re clear.’
‘Good. Now listen, Heather. You cancel your Aer Lingus booking, and try to get a seat in the name of Arlington as soon as we arrive. I’ll take care of anything else. All right?’
‘Whatever you say.’ She was reasonably calm. He could detect only the merest tension in the cool, collected voice. It was impossible for him to deduce how professional she really was.
They stopped at the first service station on the M4, about three miles from the Heathrow exit. Bond directed her towards the telephone booth that was free while he loitered by the next one, waiting as a woman appeared to dial every number she had in a little black book. In the end Bond was able to take Heather’s place. She nodded to him, confirming that she had cancelled her flight. Bond delved into his telephone number memory and dialled the British Airways desk at Heathrow. He asked if there were seats available on the 20.15 shuttle to Newcastle. Assured that there were, he asked them to hold two in the names of Miss Dare and Mr Bond.
Back in the parking area, using the opened car boot for cover, Bond slid the baton and his ASP pistol into the lined compartment of his getaway case. There the weapons were entirely safe from detection by airport scanners, and almost as secure from discovery by search. In the last resort he would have to use his Service permit but then every Special Branch officer of the Irish Garda would know he was in the Republic.
Within fifteen minutes they had reached the airport and Bond drove the Bentley to the long term car park. During the bus ride from the car park to the terminal building he explained his plan for getting on the Dublin flight to Heather. It was something he had pulled off before.
‘They don’t often have accurate passenger listings for the internal shuttles. And we shall be going through the same gate to get to our shuttle as the passengers for the Irish flight.’
He went on to tell her exactly what she should do if she was unable to get a seat on the Aer Lingus Flight 177.
In the first stages they were to go their separate ways, meeting up only when, as Mr Boldman, Bond checked in at the Dublin desk. He also suggested that she try to buy a small carry-on flight bag and the bare essentials.
‘Not that you’ll ever be able to buy anything really essential at Heathrow,’ he added, his mind darting back to those halcyon days when airports and railway stations could provide practically everything around the clock.
They got off the bus at Terminal One. It was just twenty minutes to eight, and they both moved quickly. Heather went to the Aer Lingus desk and Bond to the shuttle area, where he picked up the tickets booked in their real names, paying for them with his own credit card. Carrying his small case, he walked briskly back to the Aer Lingus check-in, collected his ticket in the name of Boldman and waited until Heather reappeared with a small, very new-looking overnight bag she had bought at the airport shop.
‘I was able to get toothpaste, a brush, spare underwear and some scent,’ she said.
‘Good. Now let’s head for the Newcastle shuttle,’ said Bond.
As they passed down the ramp and through the gates to the walkway, showing their tickets to the security guards, Bond checked on the departures monitor that Flight EI 177 was already boarding at Gate 14. There was the usual crush around the shuttle check-in, and he took the boarding cards for them both. They had no difficulty slipping quietly to the back of the queue and then back through the door into the walkway again. Bond allowed Heather to go well ahead of him towards Gate 14. If anyone was looking for them, it would be confirmed that they had checked in for the Newcastle shuttle.
If M had broken the rules further and had people watching at a discreet distance, they would not discover the Dublin booking until too late. But Bond was thinking more of Smolin’s people, who could well be searching the airport and making enquiries already. That instinctive sense acquired over long years of experience with SMERSH and SPECTRE was well tuned, but Bond picked up nothing. He neither felt nor saw anyone watching on behalf of Smolin.