"We've already got your homers on two scanners' he said. "Don't worry, James, they've a range of almost ten miles. The car behind will stay only a mile or so away.
The one riding point is already on his way. We know the route, so as soon as you go astray, we'll be in action. One S.A.S. team standing by. They'll be anywhere you want in a matter of minutes, in a straight line, as the chopper flies. Good luck." Even the centre of London was beginning to slow down. Bond had the Bentley on the Hammersmith Flyover, heading towards the M4, in less than twelve minutes. They had calculated that Holy and Rahani wouldn't try anything until he was well off the motorway.
It happened just after the Heathrow Airport turnoff.
First, a pair of cars, travelling very fast, forced the Bentley to give up the outside lane. Bond cursed them for a couple of fools and pulled into the middle lane. Before he realised what was happening the two cars reduced speed, riding beside him, keeping him in the centre, while two heavy goods lorries came up in the slow lane.
Bond increased speed, trying to slip away in the centre lane, but both cars and lorries were well tuned, and, too late, he realised the way ahead was blocked by a big, slow-moving refrigerated truck.
He braked and saw incredulously the rear doors open and a ramp slide out, its end riding on buffered wheels, fishtailing to the road surface, the whole contraption being driven with great precision.
The cars to the right and lorries on the left crowded him, like sheep dogs working together until he had no option left. With a slight jerk, the Bentley's front wheels touched the ramp. With the steering wheel bucking in his hands, Bond gave the engine a tweak and glided into the great white moving garage.
The doors clanged shut behind him. Lights came on, and the door was opened. Simon stood beside the car, an Uzi tucked under one arm.
"Well done, James. Sorry we couldn't give you any warning. Now, there's not much time. Out of those clothes. We've brought the rest of your gear. Everything of it, shoes as well, just in case they smelled a rat and bugged you.
Hands grasped at his clothing, tearing it from him, handing over other things - socks, underwear, grey slacks, white shirt, tie, blazer, and soft leather moccasins.
When he turned round, Simon was behind him, now dressed in a chauffeur's uniform, and the van seemed to be slowing down and taking one of the exits. The ASP was handed back to him - a sign of good faith? He wondered if it was loaded.
The team had worked with such speed and proficiency that Bond hardly had time to take in what was going on.
As the truck shuddered to a halt, Simon opened the Bentley's rear door, half pushing Bond into the back, and in a second the truck's doors were again open, and they were reversing out. Simon was in the driving seat.
"Well done, James. You got the frequency, I presume?" Jay Autem Holy said from beside him.
"Yes." His voice sounded numb.
"I knew it. Good. Give it to me now.
Bond parroted the figures, and the decimal point.
"Where are we going?" Holy repeated the frequency, asking Bond for confirmation. By now they were moving smoothly back on to the motorway.
"Where are we going, James? Don't worry. We're going to live through an important moment in history.
First, Heathrow Airport. All the formalities have been taken care of. As we're just a little late, we're cleared to drive straight up to our private jet. We're going to Switzerland. Be there in a couple of hours. Then we have another short journey. Then yet another kind of flight. I shall explain it all later. You see, yesterday morning, long before you woke for breakfast, while it was still dark, the team from Erewhon carried out a very successful raid. They stole a small landing strip and an airship. In the morning, James, we're all going for an airship ride.
To change history.
A mile or so back down the road, the observer in the trail car had noted that their target seemed to pull off the motorway for a few minutes. "We're closing on him.
Can't make it out. You want me to call in?"
"Give it a couple of minutes." The driver shifted in his seat.
"Ah. No." The observer stared at the moving blip which was Bond's homer. "No, it's okay. Looks as though they were right. He's still heading west. Lay you odds on them picking him up between Oxford and Banbury." But the Bentley had, in fact,just passed them, going in the opposite direction, hurling itself back towards Heathrow and a waiting executive jet.
THE MAGIC CARPET
THE EXECUTIVE JET had Goodyear symbols all over it a smart livery, with the words Good Year flanking the winged sandal. It also had a British registration.
Bond resisted the temptation to make a run for it, try to attract attention, or cause a commotion. The realisation that he was outnumbered, outgunned and at an extreme disadvantage held him back.
Whoever had laid out the ground plan of this operation, Holy, Rahani, or the inner council of SPECTRE itself, had done so with admirable attention to detail. For all he knew, the whole gang on board could have a genuine affiliation to Goodyear. In any case, he did not even know whether the ASP was loaded. So far there was at least a small amount of trust between him and the main protagonists.
Exploit that trust to the full, he told himself, and just go along for the ride.
After takeoff an attractive girl served drinks and coffee. Bond took the coffee, not wishing to dull any of his senses. He then excused himself and went to the pocketsized lavatory at the rear of the aircraft.
The ever-watchful Simon sat near the door, eyeing him with wary amusement. But there was no attempt at restraint.
Inside he took out the ASP and slipped the magazine from the butt.
It was, as he had thought, empty.
Whatever else happened, ammunition or another weapon was a priority.
Back in his seat, Bond took stock. The takeover of the Goodyear base, together with the airship Europa, had already taken place hours before Bill Tanner had checked. True, the Swiss police were now alerted, but they would only make SPECTRE' S task easier by keeping out any unwanted meddlers. The only possibility of the Service suspecting anything amiss would be the discovery that the surveillance cars had lost him - but heaven knew when they would find out. These people had taken no chances. By stripping him, they had effectively cut off any possible pursuit. The surveillance teams could be led a pretty dance, all over the country, following the constant bleeps of the homers coming from a pile of clothes in a lorry or car.
Not for the first time in his career, Bond was truly alone, with no way of warning anyone in authority. On the face of it, there was very little he could do to stop the airship's scheduled flight over Geneva, or prevent use of the Russian and American ciphers. Even the high security classification of these ciphers would work against them.
If M was correct and the SPECTRE plan turned on the operation of the American Ploughshare cipher or its Russian equivalent, there would be no worldwide alert while Russian and American leaders were locked in their Summit talks. The damage would already have been done before they knew there was a crisis.
Sitting next to Jay Autem Holy, he reflected on the ingenuity of the plan, which would denude the two superpowers of their one true weapon in the power balance. It was, of course, what many people had dreamed of; protested for, talked and argued about for years. M had stressed this at the meeting in the house off Northumberland Avenue.
He was convinced that a "phased run-down of both sides' nuclear armouries was a reasonable solution. For the two superpowers to be stripped overnight of their major weapons would destroy the tenuous stability that had prevailed since the Second World War. Operation Down Escalator was, Bond thought, an appropriate name, borrowing from that clumsy term, dc-escalation, bandied about by politicians and protesters alike.