Then he recalled the sound advice always given in classes on interrogation - listen to the words, ignore the orchestration that makes the banal words seem more intelligent; the clever, soaring strings that take your mind from the cheap potency of simple, emotional ideas.
By now it was late January in the game and, at a Challenge, Bond had to reveal there were British forces ringing the far side of Concord. Jay Autem Holy started to cut them apart with his Colonial Militia, sniping across the winter landscape. Bond saw how addictive this kind of exercise could become. You could almost feel the cold and fatigue which played havoc with men's strength and fighting ability.
You even heard the crack of musket fire, and saw the blood staining the dirty snow in some farmer's field.
Dr Jay Autem Holy was not really talking about the lopsided balance of power. He was talking about the need to end the whole system which controlled that balance.
"Would the world not be a better and safer place if the real strength were removed?" he asked, making another foray into the bleak Massachusetts winter scene. "If the stings were drawn from the superpowers' tails?"
"If it were possible, yes,' Bond agreed. "It would be better, but I doubt safer. The world's always been a dangerous place." One more turn and he would have to declare his presence in the hills.
Holy leaned back, temporarily stopping play. "We're involved in halting the race to the holocaust - nuclear, neutron or chemical. To you is entrusted the task of getting that EPOC frequency. Now, do you yet have a way?" As though he did not expect an answer, he played through his turn, concentrating on bringing men well into the British firing zone.
"I have the makings of a plan. It will require certain information in advance "What kind of information?"
"When you need the frequency, I shall have to know, a little ahead of time, exactly who is the Duty Security Officer, for the night in question, at the Foreign Office.
"That presents no problem. One man does the job for a whole week, yes?"
"As a rule."
"And he is a senior officer?" Bond spread the fingers of his right hand, making a rocking movement. "Let's say middle management.
"But you are likely to know him?"
"That's why I have to get a name. If you can't provide it, I shall have to telephone "We can.
"Then, if I know him, I shall still have to make a call.
If he is unknown to me - an unlikely possibility - I'll have to think again."
"If you know him?"
"I have a way of getting in. I should need an hour at the most in his company." Bond prayed it would work.
He had to have some communication with the outside world.
"I challenge you here." Bond's finger hovered around the upper reaches of Breed's Hill.
"But. . . " his opponent began, then realised the trap which Bond had sprung.
A few minutes later, as he faced slaughter on the slopes of Bunker's Hill, having lost the majority of his men and arms on Dorchester Heights and Breed's Hill,Jay Autem angrily told Bond that he would have plenty of warning.
"You'll know who the officer is, that I promise you." He watched as Bond revealed two more cannon to counterattacking militia on the far side of the hill. "This is the wrong way round,' he said, barely controlling his rage.
"And Bunker's Hill shouldn't happen until June. It's hardly February!"
"And this is the fiction,' Bond said. "The reality's history - even though a great deal of history happens to be fiction too." He was quite pleased with his showing on this simulation, and allowed imagination to run riot. The weather for this series of turns was heavy rain, with a cold blustery wind running up from the sea. The wind raged as men and guns were locked on the barren hill, their cries lost in the cold, while the rebels still in Boston were at the mercy of British guns from Dorchester and Breed's Hill.
Then, suddenly, the storm broke. Jay Autem Holy's chest seemed to swell, and his cheeks turned from red to crimson.
"You . . . You . . . You . . ." The voice rose to a scream.
"You've beaten me! ME!" One huge hand swept the papers from his playing area, then came down in a fist.
"How dare you? How dare you even It was an awesome rage as he spluttered, stamping his feet, kicking the table. Awesome, and yet funny, as a child's tantrums are amusing yet distressing. He went on spluttering, blustering, out of control to the extent that Bond thought he would be physically attacked. The man was, as he had already thought, quite unhinged, with a dangerous, deep-seated madness.
Then, as suddenly as the rage had begun, it stopped.
There was no dusk, no twilight, for sanity appeared to return, and he stood, looking for a brief moment like a chastened child.
"The Militia could rally yet." The voice was small, throaty. "But we've played too long. I have other things to do. Better things.
He stood, as though winning or losing a game were now of little consequence to him. When he spoke again, the tone was completely normal, as if nothing unusual had taken place, quiet and conversational, making it all the more bizarre.
"The object of spending this time with you was to hear how your thoughts were shaping up - regarding your part in the operation. Tell me, if you happen to know the man on duty, how do you propose to get the frequency from him?" Bond was amazed to see from his watch that it was eight in the evening. He began to tell Holy of the method he had prepared. When he had finished, silence stretched out - the hush in the aftermath of a battle fought with counters instead of men, and on a board and map instead of ground. As the seconds ticked by, Bond thought perhaps there had been a miscalculation. Word perfect, he sifted through his mind. Was there any really weak point? Anything that Jay Autem Holy could grab at to prove the whole idea an insubstantial fiction - which, certainly, it was.
Then the silence ended, and a laugh began to rise from the tall man's throat, the head nodding in great beaky movements, as if preparing to tear his prey apart, savaging it with that sharp bill.
"Oh yes, James Bond. I told them you were the only possible choice. If you can pull that off we'll all be happy." He appeared to pull himself together, eyes darting around, as though he had been on the brink of an indiscretion.
The laughter subsided, and Bond was aware of movement, noises off.
People were entering the main laboratory area.
"We have been down here too long,' Holy snapped. "I took the trouble to ask Cindy to make up a tray for you.
In your room. I shall eat later." Superman, thought Bond. He's telling me that he's a survivor. Go without food and drink for long periods.
"In the desert,' Bond said softly, "when you were with Zwingli after you jumped from that aeroplane - did you have to go long without food and drink?" The green eyes went bitterly cold, all sign of normal human life ebbing from them.
"Clever, Mr. Bond. How long have you known?" Realising that he might have overplayed his hand, and not certain why he had done it, Bond said he had not been sure, but had suspected the truth from their first meeting. "It just happened that I'd read the old file: they resurrect it from time to time, you know. I thought I knew your face the moment we met - when I came here with Freddie. During the evening, I became more convinced, but still not absolutely certain. After all, if you are Jay Autem Holy, you've been dead a long time."
"And what if you had still been on active service, Mr. Bond? Would you have gone running to your superiors?
And why, incidentally, is the file resurrected regularly?"
"You know what the Colonial Militia is like,' Bond tried to inject humour into his voice. "Your Colonial Militia. They jump at ghosts.