"Don't be a fool, Bond. The Security Service checked out all the bookings at this hotel for the entire weekend when they discovered that Sir Max and Lady Tarn were going to be staying there. Good old Sir Max is speaking to a convention of economists tomorrow night. He's booked into the hotel until Monday morning. Mr. and Mrs. James Busby are also booked in until Monday morning. I sincerely hope they were planning on leaving at the crack of dawn on Monday so that they could be in their respective offices by nine A.M."
"They were." Bond bit out the words. "But how do you envisage playing out this charade?"
"I'm sure you'll think of an approach. Find the right words. Put the fix in, as we used to say. What we need is to flush the fellow out, so the tabloids can announce that Good Old Sir Max and Good Old Lady Trish have both gone missing. The idea, my boy, is to make them gallop off to some safe mansion so that we can give the ladies and gentlemen of the press and the tube some other reason for the Commissioner's lads and lasses to wander into Tarn International's ghastly building at the bottom of Fleet Street. Like Sherlock Holmes, they'll be looking for clues."
"And I'm to tell him that you're on to him?"
"Well, you know the form. Don't worry, you won't be alone. The boys and girls from the Security Service'll be with you – unheard and unseen, but with you nevertheless, won't they, ma'am?" He flashed an almost luxuriant smile at the Director of the Security Service.
"Invisible wall." The Director bleakly returned his smile.
"Good. Then that's settled."
"Is this an order, sir, or are we simply floating an idea?"
"Weeeellll," the Minister drew out the word, leaving Bond in no doubt that everything had been agreed long before he was called to the meeting. "Weellll," he repeated, "we rather feel that it's in everyone's best interest."
"Your job is simply to flush him out. Make him run." Wimsey's body language betrayed great anxiety. "Tip him off that things aren't quite as safe as he might think. After that, he can be followed anywhere he decides to go – which I do not think will be London. We suggest that you drop the news on him sometime late on Sunday. In turn, we'll have taps on just about every telephone within reach – including the one in his Rolls."
"And you're sure this is a safer way than just feeling their collars first thing Monday morning?"
"Infinitely better." The Minister looked at his watch. "We have a slim and incomplete dossier on Tarn which you should look at." He slid a buff folder across the table. "Now, you'd best be going. Captain Bond, or you won't make it to Cambridge in time for dinner."
"Thank you, Minister. I'd hate to miss dinner." He rose.
"You do see that you're just about the only person we can trust with this," from Wimsey.
"Oh, yes. As former passengers on his torpedoed cruise ship, we have all the right bona fides. I just hope we aren't all being a shade naive."
"Oh, I think we're on the right track, Bond. Keep in touch. Usual way, of course."
"Of course." Inwardly seething, Bond left the room. Flicka would not be as convinced as the other members of MicroGlobe One. The words "fool's errand" were uppermost in his head as he hailed a cab.
4 – Prince of Darkness
"They want us to do what?" Flicka was halfheartedly packing a weekend case when he returned to the Chelsea flat. "I didn't think you'd be back in time to go to Cambridge. Now you tell me we have to burn this damned financier."
"A little more than a damned financier, my dear." He had given her only an encapsulated version of the facts.
Fredericka had the most distracting habit of wandering around indoors clad in only the flimsiest garments.
"Why not forget about dressing for a while, darling." He gave her the smile that some people thought had a cruel side to it. "Let's take a little time out."
From the first time they had come together, in a Swiss hotel only a few hours after their initial meeting, Bond had experienced that fleeting, sudden, and illogical twist of heart and mind that signaled either deep lust or something more lasting.
As they had shared danger together, living close to one another, he had come to know that this was different from lust. With the advent of Flicka von Grüsse matters had changed. What had started as a pleasant, somewhat daring romp matured during the time they spent in circumstances where they could easily have died. Throughout that period they had grown closer, and he soon realized they were, in many ways, a matched pair. Both disliked inaction and paperwork; Flicka had a well-developed sense of humor and fast wit, as well as a body to live or die for – fit, healthy, and tuned for the toughest action in the field or the softest pleasures of a connubial bed. She also became very quickly jealous of any other woman who appeared to intrude into Bond's life, but their mutual fascination for the clandestine lifestyle soon put other possible dalliances out of his mind.
Now, over a year since that first meeting, they had shared their lives, each learning about the other's past, likes, dislikes, and habits. Living with Flicka, Bond perceived that the relationship had begun to give him something that had never been present with any previous woman. His passion for jazz was not shared by Flicka, whose tastes ran to the more romantic classical composers. In the end they both gained new experience. She began to appreciate the varied nuances of jazz, while he warmed to what he had always considered highbrow music.
He had never been much of a theater or moviegoer. She was passionate about both art forms, and while on the training courses for the inception of the new Double-Oh Section, they would sit and watch classic films on video during many of the evenings. This led to a game, often played over dinner – asking each other questions about both well-known and obscure films: quoting lines for identification, describing scenes that had to be matched to the films from which they came.
Small mental exercises like these had brought with them subtle changes, a broadening of their private horizons. Soon it became obvious that they were slowly becoming mutually dependent.
Now they lay spent, naked in the dark on the big double bed.
"Do we really have to make that drive to Cambridge tonight, darling?" she asked, tracing the fingertips of her right hand along Bond's left thigh. "All I want to do is eat and go to sleep in your arms."
After a long silence he said that he would like nothing better. "Unfortunately, my dearest Fredericka, we're like monks under discipline… Well, I'm like a monk, you're more nunnish."
"Then we are in grave and mortal sin, Brother Bond."
"Yes indeed, Sister Flicka. Most grave."
He called the University Arms Hotel to say they would be late. They packed the weekend cases, went out, and dined in a nearby Italian restaurant.
"I shall have to take a long walk in Cambridge," she said, patting her stomach. "All this pasta…"
"Not to mention the veal and the strawberries and cream." He gave her a finger-wagging look, and she replied with a smug grin.
Presently, as they finished their coffee, she asked, "Why, James? Why couldn't they just stick to their first plan – pick up the Tarns on Monday morning, raid the Tarn International offices, make it look as though this accountant – what was his name?"
"Dolmech. Peter Dolmech."
"… make it look as though Dolmech had also been arrested, and take it from there. Why couldn't they do that? It was the original plan, you said."
"I doubt if it was really the original plan. Possibly it was one option – the last one, to be used only in extremis. I think it's a question of politics and money. My impression is they did not altogether trust the Dolmech end of the deal. He's promised to deliver, but they only have M's word for that. Dolmech is M's asset. There are a lot of internal jealousies and personal rivalry within MicroGlobe One. My view is that the members of The Committee don't even trust one another: that's always the problem with an organization like this – split several ways. Also, I don't really believe the Minister is his own man. You remember that old bit of doggereclass="underline"