3 – Fool's Errand
The new headquarters of Bond's Two Zeros Section was a beautiful Georgian house in Bedford Square. It was a deceptively quiet place, only a three-minute brisk walk to busy Oxford Street, and his office looked out on the pleasing view of what had once been the homes of the well-to-do. There was a railed-off centerpiece of trees that aped the seasons and had seen the area go through phases ranging from family opulence, through conversion to apartments, and lastly modification to offices.
He had been ten days late in taking up the new appointment, as there were endless formalities to be gone through before their final release following the rescue. More time was eaten up with interrogations by the FBI and the U.S. Navy CID regarding the attempted holdup, while he had also been required to give evidence at the coroner's inquiry into the young officer's – Lieutenant Mark Neuman's – death by fire. Ten days can be a long time in both politics and the shadowland of security matters. So Bond's first weeks as Director of Two Zeros turned into hours and days jammed with paperwork and the kind of executive instructions and organization he most disliked – constant visits to useless meetings of MicroGlobe One.
He did, however, get a chance to look over the various confidential reports concerning the explosion on Caribbean Prince, for these were routed automatically across his desk, together with cryptic memos on Sir Max Tarn, head of Tarn Cruise Lines, Inc., and dozens of other companies in London, Paris, and New York.
Bond could only presume that somebody, possibly the police, or maybe the Security Service, was taking a long look at the legendary Tarn, so the memos came and went, accompanied by the latest theories on the near sinking of Caribbean Prince – which ranged from plastique set by the would-be thieves, to traces of what some expert suggested could be an explosive that had not been on the market since shortly after the end of World War II.
One senior U.S. naval officer – an expert on damage caused by weapons – had written a pithy three-page report saying that the shape and condition of the large hole blasted in the side of Caribbean Prince, and the resultant fire, were consistent with the type of damage inflicted by an old, and possibly unstable, torpedo.
Nobody was likely to take this last possibility seriously. Of course they would not, thought Bond as he saw, with mounting incredulity, that the U.S. Navy had square-searched the Caribbean with sub hunter-killers both on the water and in the air. Since the bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993, the American Forces had developed an almost novel fast reaction as far as probable terrorist activities were concerned.
After being a nine-days wonder, the Caribbean Prince incident soon appeared to be put to one side, becoming another of those strange puzzles, like events inside the Bermuda Triangle. It was still only an unpleasant, frustrating memory to both Bond and Flicka on the morning of April 8 when Bond was summoned to a sudden and unexpected meeting convened by MicroGlobe One, his lords and masters as far as Two Zeros was concerned.
The call came around noon, and he was warned that the meeting would probably be lengthy. It was a Friday, and this news did nothing to sweeten his temper, for he had planned a long weekend with Fredericka in Cambridge, one of their favorite places. As he left for the Home Office, where the meeting was scheduled to take place, Bond reflected that at least Flicka was a professional and understood how these things worked. Many girlfriends and lovers in the past had been stubbornly put out by sudden calls to duty.
He made no secret of his dislike for committees. All his training and experience told him that committees wasted much time. They were also notoriously leaky.
The small reading room at the Home Office had the atmosphere of a private club: a long table, the scent of beeswax, comfortable chairs, and ancient, almost chocolate-box paintings of scenes from English country life, with the obligatory reproduction of HM The Queen at the far end, over what had once been a fireplace.
His first impression was that this extraordinary meeting had been called at the insistence of the police representative – a short, balding Commissioner, Claude Wimsey by name – leading his friends and colleagues to call him Lord Peter. Today, however, he sensed there was something else beneath the surface in the reading room: a sensation of concern and underlying urgency, clear in the atmosphere and the covert glances that passed between the committee members.
The Minister called the meeting to order, immediately asking Wimsey to take the floor, which he did with a clarity and brevity born of giving accurate evidence in police courts all over England.
"Sir Maxwell Tarn," he began as though the very name would capture attention. "As most of you know, we have for some time been acting on information from within the Tarn business empire. Tarn and his wife have been under constant surveillance, and we now have reason to believe that he is behind a number of dummy corporations around the world which deal in illicit arms."
"The first I've heard of it," grunted Bond, almost sotto voce.
"We do still run matters on the need-to-know principle." The Minister gave him a cold glance.
"Told 'em last week that you should've been brought in sooner," from M, who appeared to have wakened from a deep sleep.
"Please." The Minister flushed with irritation. "You know as well as I that Captain Bond has had his hands full since taking over Two Zeros. He was not included in the original briefings out of deference to his workload."
"Well, at least Wimsey should tell him who got the ball rolling. You're leaving the man in the dark at the starting post."
The Minister sighed and Wimsey fussed with his papers.
It was the calm, untroubled voice of the very matter-of-fact head of the Security Service that broke the silent deadlock. "I think, Captain Bond, the CSIS would like you to know that his service is responsible for the intelligence from within Max Tarn's vast and somewhat-jumbled organization." She spoke quietly, even dropping her voice slightly.
"Not just my service," M bristled. "The information came to me from a personal friend. Well, the son of a personal friend."
"Peter Dolmech," Wimsey supplied.
"Quite. Knew the father for years. Old shipmate. Dolly Dolmech. Fine officer, good family. The son had no desire to follow in his father's footsteps, though. Can't blame the man for that. Became a very good accountant. First Class honors in economics. Cut out for a political career but sidetracked by Tarn."
"A mega-accountant," Wimsey said dryly, glancing at his notes. "A superlative accountant who was sucked into Tarn's business from one of the most prestigious London firms about a year ago. He apparently set up a somewhat clandestine meeting with Admiral – with M – last month."
Bond, now fully alert, asked if he could have this in some detail.
It was Wimsey's turn to look put out. "Well, I suppose, if you must. We've all rather taken the thing for granted."
"Well, I certainly never take things for granted," M growled. "Fact is, James, the thing was so hush-hush that I dealt with it personally. Peter got in touch with me at my home number, and I fixed up a meeting. All very cloak and dagger, because the man's scared to death. Had to meet him in some dreadful tearooms in Croydon, of all places."
"And he told you what?"
"I passed it on to Wimsey. It all appears to be sound enough, and I trust Dolmech. The man's got a conscience, and what he'd discovered frightened him. Under the law it's a police matter, if they can collect evidence…"