After leaving the Rear-Admiral, Bond sought out Joe Israel, who was resting in the cabin occupied by the three US Secret Service men.
Bruce Trimble was with him, while Stan Hare had taken over normal bodyguard duties to Admiral Gudeon.
“You know who’s taking Ed Morgan’s place?” he asked the pair of them.
“Another guy from Naval Int,” Israel said, sounding none too pleased.
“Name of Woodward. Dan Woodward.” Trimble grinned.
“They call him Desperate Dan, we hear.”
“You hear?”
“The Admiral sent a signal to Washington last night - after Ed’s death. The reply was very fast, I guess Desperate Dan must be in London. He’s close by anyhow, because they’re expecting him by early evening.”
“You know him?” Bond asked.
“The name only. Never worked with him,” from Israel.
“You?” to Trimble who shook his head.
“What about Stan?”
“What about Stan?” Israel laughed.
“Does he know the Woodward fellow?”
“No. None of us know him.”
“Okay,” Bond pinched the top of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I would suggest, when he does come aboard, that you do a little verbal check on him. Usual kind of things.
Americana; people in Washington; people any of you know in Naval Intelligence.”
“You don’t think he’s clean?”
“I’ve no idea,” Bond shrugged. “I just think we should take precautions, that’s all.”
In his room at The Rock Hotel, Gibraltar, Bassam Baradj was receiving blow-by-blow accounts of what was going on in Invincible.
His short-wave radio, with a recording device attached, picked up signals from his main source aboard the ship, though the final news, which had come through in the early hours of the morning, made him wonder if this flow of intelligence would last out much longer. He knew of the death of the American NI officer, and of the possible consequences. He also knew that the Americans had signalled to Washington and that Washington’s return signal referred them to the Embassy in London. Since then there had been no other signal and he feared the worst. The only other source connected with BAST was one Engineer Petty Officer, and Baradj knew that everything really lay with this one blackmailed man.
Immediately he had listened in to the message concerning the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, London, Baradj had taken the only course of action available to him. A long telephone call to London was followed by a lengthy meeting with his colleague, Abou Hamarik.
Together they decided the risk was worth the final reward, even though Hamarik had no idea that Baradj had no plans to cut him, or any other member of BAST, in on the eventual riches.
It would not have mattered either way, for Baradj had already set the plan in motion, and it was essential for him to use Hamarik. He thought it was a lucky decision that had made him choose “The Man” Abou Hamarik - for the work in Gibraltar, All Al Adwan, his only other possible choice, had been seen already by the man Bond, at the camp they had called Northanger. In all, Baradj was happy. The two men he had in London were both good, and well equipped to carry out what had to be done.
Daniel Woodward had a pleasant flat in Knightsbridge. Nothing luxurious, but, with his pay as Assistant Naval Attache’ (Intelligence) to the Embassy, he could afford it. He also found it was an address which stood well with the ladies he dated regularly.
It was as though they felt quite safe going back with him to the Knightsbridge address.
The one beside him in bed at three in the morning, only grumbled in her sleep when the telephone rang. She grumbled even more when he woke her to say he had to report to the Embassy immediately.
“Oh, God, what’s the time, darling.” She was a stunning redhead who worked in the Embassy Secretariat.
“It’s fifteen after three. I’m sorry, honey, but I’m gonna have to take you home. I don’t know how long I’m gonna be away.
They said I should bring a bag with me, which means I’m probably going Stateside. Sorry, but I just can’t leave you here.
You know what Embassy instructions’re like about people leaving their property with all the alarms on if they’re out of the country.”
He was dashing about, filling a small case with clothes.
She was still half asleep when he drove her back to her own flat off Great Russell Street. The whole business meant that, though he had been alerted at three-fifteen in the morning, he did not get to the Embassy until almost four-thirty.
The Naval Attache’ (Intelligence) was already waiting for him, and that gentleman did not like being kept waiting so he expected a full broadside when he walked into the office. Instead, the Attachi was mild. “It’s okay, Dan.” The Naval Intelligence Attachi was a ramrod straight, tall and silver-grey man. “You’ve plenty of time. We’ve already dealt with the documents. All I have to do is brief you. Your flight doesn’t leave London Gatwick until ten o’clock, so we have time.”
The slow response Dan Woodward had been forced into, by the presence of the redhead at his apartment, had caused troubles nobody else knew about. A taxi, with its For Hire sign unlit, had already been in one of the parking slots, which run around the centre of Grosvenor Square, for fifteen minutes by the time Woodward arrived.
The driver appeared to be taking a quiet nap. Nobody was visible in the back.
“That must be him. Unless his boss is going with him. Got a case and all,” the driver said.
The other occupant, on the floor in the rear of the cab, muttered something about the passport photograph.
“If we’re lucky we’ll have time to take care of that. First sign of movement in the Embassy lobby, my light goes on and we pick him up.
If they’ve laid on a cab for him, we know his name and we’ll probably beat their cab. If it’s an Embassy car, then we’ll just have to do something embarrassingly naughty.”
Woodward, having been given the most exciting briefing of his career, came out onto the steps of the Embassy at six-forty-five, clutching a suitcase and looking for the cab they had obviously called for him.
The cab that had been parked since the early hours backed out quickly and turned in front of the Embassy, its driver peering out and calling, “Mr. Woodward?”
Dan Woodward responded with a wave and a smile and came hurrying down the steps. There were few people about, and nobody had seen the second man slide from the back of the cab, just as it pulled out, and make his way around the corner into Upper Grosvenor Street.
The driver was very fast, taking Dan Woodward’s bag and stowing it away in the front section. “Where’s it to, guy’?” the cabbie asked.
“Nobody tells me nothing.”
“Gatwick. Departures. North Terminal.”
“How long we got, then?” The taxi moved away quickly, circling the Square, preparing to head along Upper Grosvenor Street.
“My flight leaves at ten. So, nine-thirty at the latest.”
“All the time in the world,” said the cabbie, sashaying to the left, where his colleague was walking slowly up towards Park lane.
““Scuse me, guy’nor.” The cabbie leaned back with the little sliding window open. “There’s a mate of mine. I’d like to give him a message.
“Be my guest.”
The taxi pulled over in front of the pedestrian, and the cabbie leaned out and called, “Nobby, can you give Di a message for me. I’ve got to go out to Gatwick. I’ll give her a bell from there.” The man came abreast of the cab, as though straining to hear the driver. Then, as he reached the passenger door, he yanked it open, and Dan Woodward found himself staring into the wrong end of a Heckler and Koch nine millimetre, modified to take a noise reduction assembly.