Half an hour later, Bond took the Mulsanne Turbo out of the same garage. Within minutes he was out of the principality, heading back along the Moyenne Corniche on the road that would take him on to the main A8 Paris Autoroute.
It was on the first leg of the journey - at about four in the morning - that Bond suddenly remembered the identity of the man Zwingli had met. Yes, there was a file. The thick dossier had been across Bond's desk on many occasions, and there was a general watching brief on Tamil Rahani. Part American, part Lebanese, and carrying at least two passports, Rahani was usually based in New York, where he was chairman and principal shareholder of Rahani Electronics. He had made several attempts to secure defence contracts from both the American and British governments, mainly for aircraft communications electronics, though there had been some computerisation involved.
Rahani had first approached the Service some five years before, handed on to them by the American Service. They had turned him down flat because of his many contacts with unfriendly agencies and uncertain governments. He was wealthy, smooth, sharp, intelligent, and slippery as an eel. The flag on the file, Bond remembered, was ciphered Possible clandestine. Probably subversive.
Once these facts had settled in his mind, Bond pushed the Mulsanne to its limit. All he wanted to do was to get back to England, report to M, and try to move in on Jay Autem Holy. The task was more inviting than ever, now he knew both something of the doctor's work, and the fact that Zwingli was alive, well, and - unless he was mistaken working hand in glove with a highly suspect international character.
On the A26 Autoroute to Calais, Bond found himself singing aloud.
Perhaps after the enforced idleness, the lack of excitement, the intrigues of M's plan to use him as bait, he was at last starting to feel the fire of action in his belly once more.
"Rolling home,' he sang, remembering far-off days when he would literally roll home, with brother officers, "Rolling home, By the light of the silvery moon; I have twopence to lend, And twopence to spend, And twopence to send home to His voice trailed off. He could not bring himself to sing the last line, about sending money home to his wife.
For the ghost of his own dead wife, Tracy, still haunted him, even though he now missed Percy Proud's clear mind and agile, beautiful body. Weakness, he chided himself.
He was trained as a loner, one who acted without others; one who relied on himself. Yet he did miss her. Undeniably, there were moments when he thought he could still smell her scent and feel the touch of her skin. Pull yourself together, he told himself.
Among the bills and circulars awaiting Bond at his flat was a letter from a firm of business consultants demanding special attention.
Embedded in this seemingly innocuous letter was a series of telephone numbers - one for each day of the week - that he could ring in order to set up a meeting with M at the safe flat near St. Martin's Lane.
The date arranged turned out to be a truly glorious spring evening. Summer was around the corner, and you could almost feel it, even in the heart of the capital.
"Well, 007, the woman's taught you all the tricks of the trade, eh?"
"Some of them, sir. But I really wanted to talk to you about a new development." Without wasting words or time, he gave a summary of the final hours in Monaco, and the sighting of Zwingli with Tamil Rahani. Bond had hardly got Rahani' s name out before M ordered the Chief-of-Staff to check.
"There's a spot and report order on that joker." Tanner returned in ten minutes. "Last report of a visit to Milan. Seen by our resident there, who had a weather eye on him. Rahani appeared to be on his usual round of business meetings." The Chief-of-Staff gave a somewhat dejected shrug. "Unhappily, sir, nobody spotted him leaving, though his airline ticket showed a return booking to New York yesterday. He was not on the flight."
"And I suppose nobody's seen hide nor hair of him since." M nodded in reply like a buddha. "Except 007, in Monaco."
"Well, he was in the Casino,' said Bond, "with General Zwingli and four others." M looked at him in silence for a long time.
"Incredible,' he said at last, as though someone had hit him in the face. "Incredible that Zwingli's still alive, let alone mixed up with Rahani. Wonder where he fits into all this.
You'll just have to be alert to Rahani's possible involvement Home mentHe's always been a bit of an unknown quantity, so we'll inform those who need to know. You see, we re ready to put you in. Now, here's what I want you to do. First, your old acquaintance Freddie Fortune has.
James Bond groaned loudly.
For the next week, he was to be seen around his old London haunts.
He confided in one or two people that his feelings of disillusion had become considerably worse.
He had been in Monte Carlo where things had run true to the old adage: lucky at cards, unlucky in love - except it had been roulette, not cards.
Carefully, he laid a trail among people most likely to talk, or those whose connections were right for some salting. Then, on the Thursday evening, in the bar of one of Mayfair's plush clubs, as if by accident, he bumped into Lady Freddie Fortune, the extravagant, pamphlet wagging socialite he always called his "champagne communist'.
She was a vivacious, petite redhead, "Red Freddie', some called her completely untrustworthy, and always in the gossip columns, either campaigning for some outrageous cause or involved in sexual scandal.
Freddie was discreet only when it suited her. That night, Bond dropped a hint that he was looking for work in the computer field. He also poured out all his troubles - an affair in Monte Carlo that had ended disastrously, leaving him bitter and wretched.
Lady Freddie was thrilled to see this man, once a model of good form, become so emotional and she whipped Bond off to her bed, allowing him to cry on her shoulder - metaphorically, of course. During the night, trying to keep up the pretence of having drunk too much yet still able to enjoy himself, Bond longed for Percy and the special smell and feel of her.
The next morning he feigned a hangover and morose, even waspish, manner. But none of this put Freddie Fortune off As he was leaving she told him that she had some friends who may be of use to him, if he really meant to find a job in computer programming.
"Here." She tucked a small business card into his breast pocket.
"It's a nice little hotel. If you can make it on Saturday, I'll be there. Only, for heaven's sake, don't let on I've told you. I leave it to you,James, but if you do decide to come, be surprised to see me.
Okay?" On the following Saturday morning, with a weekend case and all the computer equipment in the boot, James Bond drove the Bentley out of London on the Oxford road. Within the hour he had turned off and was threading through country lanes on his way to the village of Nun's Cross, near Banbury.
THE BULL
BANBURY CROSS is not an antiquity, but was erected in the late 1850s to commemorate the marriage of the Princess Royal to the Crown Prince of Prussia. There was of course a much earlier cross three to be exact but the present Victorian Gothic monstrosity was placed where it is today because a local historian believed this to be the site of the ancient High Cross. Three miles to the north of Banbury, nestling by a wooded hill, is the village of Nun's Cross, and there is no cross on view there at all.
Bond guided the Mulsanne Turbo through the narrow main street of Nun's Cross, and into the yard of the coaching inn which rejoices in the name of The Bull at the Cross. Taking his overnight case from the boot, he considered the inn was probably the only going concern in the village. A beautiful Georgian building, lovingly kept, and neatly modernised, The Bull even offered gourmet weekends for the discriminating'.
From the porter who took his case, Bond learned that, as far as the hotel was concerned, it was going to be a very quiet weekend, though they had been full the previous one.