While Bond and M were meeting in the house near Windsor Great Park, another fortuitous meeting was taking place in Plymouth. A Petty Officer Engineer, on twenty-four-hour leave, spent the lunchtime in an unfamiliar public house. It was Sunday and drinking men often go over the limit during a normal pre-lunch session, but this particular man only took his usual number of pints. When it was time to leave, he was, if anything, only slightly “merry”, full of good cheer, and not given to making an exhibition of himself.
He had also made two new friends.
The Petty Officer did not live in Plymouth, but knew the city well, like many a sailor before him. Plymouth on a Sunday can often be lonely for a sailor without a girl in port and this particular man’s girl was his wife of fifteen years who lived in London because she had a good job there. The new friends were a pair of civilians who started to make conversation with him at the bar of the pub. One, called Harry, was the representative for a firm that provided some essential components for turbines, so he had something in common with the Petty Officer; the other, Bill, was also a rep - for a company that specialised in fibre optics. Harry and Bill were old friends, for they often met at the same hotel when work brought them to Plymouth.
The Petty Officer was glad of their company, and found the conversation, mainly of wine, women and ships, exceptionally stimulating. So much so that he invited the two men to have a bite to eat with him. “After that, me old mates, I’m going to find a good-looking young pusher.” Freely translated a “pusher” had nothing to do with drugs. The tem was old Navy for girl; usually one of easy virtue and who did most things for money. Professional or amateur.
“Now, there we can really help you,” said Harry. “Bill and me, we stay here often. And guess what our hobby is?”
They lunched well, their conversation rarely straying from matters below the navel. “What’d your wife say if she ever caught you at it?”
Bill asked the Petty Officer.
“Give me bloody “ell. She’d set her brothers on me that’s for sure, and they’re big bastards.”
They took him to a small private club where they both had membership. There, the Petty Officer was shown a series of young girls, all of whom were highly desirable. So much so that the PO commented on the fact that he had never seen “pushers” like that in clubs or on the streets of Plymouth in the whole of his life.
“That’s because you don’t know the right places to go, Harry said with a smile. “Take your pick, “Blackie’. Any one of them.
“Or more if you’re feeling greedy. This is on us, mate.” Bill laughed.
The Petty Officer chose a blonde who looked about sixteen, but had the credentials of someone far more experienced than any teenager.
The cameras were hidden behind a pair of two-way mirrors, often used in this particular establishment. The PO spent nearly two hours with the girl and left, as he said, “suitably impressed”.
Harry and Bill invited him to dinner at their hotel. Over dinner they all planned to spend the following Sunday together. Then the conversation turned to the big Naval turbine engines, on which the Petty Officer was an expert.
The Christmas Horse The phrase “health depends on strength” was picked up once more by the listening-posts towards the end of November.
The computers locked on and the transcript was on M’s desk within twenty-four hours.
Again it was Bassam Baradj and Abou Hamarik who spoke.
“Surely you don’t think this Naval man, Bond, will be any threat to an operation as complex as ours?” Baradj said.
“I like to be sure of my enemies.” Hamarik’s voice was almost a whisper. “Bond isn’t merely a simple officer of the Royal Navy: not that there are any simple Royal Naval officers. This man has a curious and impressive record, and my informants tell me he is to be drafted to the ship as a special liaison officer.”
“Head of a select bodyguard section?”
“Possibly.”
“And you thought he was enough of a threat to warrant removing, even in the midst of something vital to the final plan?”
saw it as a military opportunity. The chance was there. It failed.”
There was a long pause, then Baradj spoke again. “Well, Abou, I trust the other part of our Operation Lose goes well and will not be compromised. Apart from the general political aims of the Brotherhood, I have a great deal of hard currency tied up.
I’ve never disguised the fact that there are financial issues here.
While I believe ardently in the Brotherhood, and see it as the only way a new and more just world, can be established, I am also concerned with creating a financial buffer for myself, and, of course, the Brotherhood which would be nothing without my support. Pray the next segment of the plan goes without any hitches.”
“This coming weekend will see the completion of that phase.
We have our man neatly sewn up. You need not be concerned about that part. All will go well.”
“And the Bond fellow?”
“Maybe it would be a good idea to remove him from the scene.
He was formerly a member of the British Secret Intelligence Service, at one time a skilled assassin until the British had no more stomach for such things. But he is experienced, a good leader, and a man to be reckoned with. He will, doubtless, have people under his command guarding the trio who will be aboard Birdsnest Two.”
“If we get rid of him before the event?” Baradj paused. “If we dispose of him, will they bring in someone of his quality as a replacement?”
“They will replace him,” Hamarik sounded a shade diffident.
“But not with a man of like calibre. Bond is, shall we say, unique.”
Once more there was one of those long pauses, when the listening devices picked up stray noises: a goat herd or shepherd on the slopes below; people, probably servants or bodyguards, arguing.
“They have their feast of Christmas next month.” Baradj sounded suddenly hard, and threatening. “Find out where this man is to spend Christmas. I’ll give him to the Cat. That will lessen our chances of failure.”
M, in his office overlooking Regent’s Park, watched Bill Tanner reading the transcript. Tanner was a quick reader, but M was impatient, drumming his fingers on the leather skivers inlaid in his desk top.
“Well?” he asked sharply when his Chief of Staff had finished.
“They’re too well informed,” Tanner spoke decisively. “It’s become uncontrollable. I think you should advise a rethink. Call the whole thing off” M grunted. “Mmm. But, Chief of Staff’ can you see our advice being taken? Knowing what’s involved, there are risks in trying to have the thing called oiL” It was Bill Tanner’s turn to grunt as he moved to his favourite place, by the window, looking down into the Park below. “I understand the problem, sir. But if the worst happens .
“Our best chance is to stop it happening at all. Keep Bond in play. You heard what Baradj said about Christmas. Why don’t we flush “em out? Make “em vulnerable by letting them show their hand.”
“You mean use Bond as a tethered goat?”
“More a stalking-horse, Tanner. Have to ask him first, of course.
Yes, set up a meeting, and make sure it’s absolutely one hundred percent sterile. Got me?”
“I understand, sir.”
“The Cat,” M was almost musing to himself. “BAST, the three-headed monster n’ding on a viper. The heads of a man, a snake and a cat. The Cat, Tanner.”
“Saphii Boudai, yes?”
“What’s on file?”
“Precious little, sir. We know she was PLO at one time. There is a possibility that she spent a few years as a penetration agent within Mossad, but they’re either too coy, or tied too tightly into their own vengeance plans to release any photographs. Boudai, we know, is around twenty-nine, or thirty years of age; we also know she is attractive and an expert in many things clandestine.