John Gardner - Seafire

Twenty minutes later, he headed out of the main doors of the hotel, making his way onto the scrubby meadow of Parker's Piece, where there were three public telephones, two of them already occupied by gowned undergraduates talking loudly.

Taking the spare telephone and using a calling card, he dialed the contact number for MicroGlobe One. It was answered immediately with a "Yes?" from a calm female voice.

"Brother James." Bond rolled his eyes toward heaven. The Minister was responsible for the cryptos to be used in telephone contacts. They went through the ritual just for the sake of it. Even with the huge changes and reorganization, old habits died hard.

"Yes, Brother James, how's your sister?"

"As well as can be expected. I called to say that I'll be posting the letter in the morning. Probably near lunchtime. Wondered if the Reverend Father Superior had any further instructions."

"No, everything appears to be running smoothly."

"Good. Perhaps you'd better tell him that I believe they've located the music."

"You mean Mr. Watchman's found it?"

"Almost certainly. I think it was with the Amateur Operatic Society."

"Oh."

"If some of it can be toned down, it might help."

A long silence, ending with "Nothing else you need?"

"No, I'll report either late tomorrow or first thing on Monday."

"I think late tomorrow would be best."

"Whatever you think appropriate." He closed the line and headed back to the hotel just in time to see Sir Max and Lady Tarn, dressed to kill, being shepherded into the Rolls. Max was off to make his speech, no doubt, Bond thought. He hoped the dinner was terrible and that Tarn's speech contained many cliches like "The long winter of recession is turning into a spring which demands a courage of commitment by our financial institutions."

They went down the road to a little Indian restaurant, where they gorged themselves on Onion Bhajjis, Lamb Korma with Bombay potatoes, chapatis, and relishes. "At least we'll only taste each other," Flicka said as they walked back to the hotel. From their room they called down to room service, where Bond ordered a large pot of coffee, specifying that he wanted it freshly brewed and piping hot, hinting that it would be sent back if it was not to his liking. Saturday nights in provincial British hotels – even in a great university city – often brought out the worst in room service. This time it worked and the coffee was excellent. They drank it together as they sat at the one small desk and worked on the note for Tarn.

It took an hour before they were both satisfied with the wording and, even then, Flicka had her doubts about the last sentence.

Dear Sir Max,

My name is James Busby, and my wife and I were traveling on your ship, Caribbean Prince , earlier this year when the so-called incident occurred. You may well have heard of us, as we were able to come to the other passengers' assistance during the attempted holdup. We were both exceptionally impressed at the way your captain and crew acted when we were forced to abandon ship. They were very professional, putting the passengers first, and we have nothing but admiration for them and, naturally, for your organization.

I am a civil servant, highly placed in both the Home and Foreign Offices, and I have some rather sensitive information which concerns you and your various business enterprises.

We are spending the weekend in the hotel, and I would be grateful if you could spare me a few minutes so that I can both thank you and pass on information which should be of great interest to you.

It was signed "J. Busby," and Flicka held that the final sentence sounded like a cloaked threat of blackmail.

"That's what I intended it to sound like." Bond did not smile.

"Put him on the defensive?"

"No. Remember, he thinks he's home and dry. We've already agreed that he imagines himself fireproof. The letter is kind of disingenuous if you read it carefully – slightly fawning, with the bit of veiled menace at the end. I want it to sound like something written by a middle-management type with just a hint that he thinks he's maybe on to fairy gold."

They spent the remainder of the evening watching an edifying TV program on the migratory habits of whales. Normally it would have been interesting to both of them, but – with the fresh air of the day and the large meal – "Mr. and Mrs. James Busby" were soon sound asleep in each other's arms.

The sun was shining over Cambridge the next morning, but they stayed in their room until almost eleven before going down for brunch. The hotel was two-thirds full and just about all the guests had the same idea, which led to a slight waiting time for the kipper and kedgeree. They had almost finished the meal when the Tarns came into the main dining room, looking very much the squire and his wife relaxing on a Sunday.

The two men they had seen coming into the hotel with the Tarns on Friday evening were with their employers. The tall, burly one wore a light-gray suit, the double-breasted jacket of which was so well tailored that you could hardly see the bulge under the left lapel. The shorter, stocky man was as casual as Max Tarn: gray slacks and a matching gray rollneck.

They could see now, in the light of day, that the latter man was not simply stocky, but paunchy, around his early fifties, balding fast but with a vaguely military bearing. He also had a pair of ice-blue glittering sharp eyes that took in everything at a glance. The younger man did the same thing, but with the style of a trained bodyguard, a slight turning of the head, followed by quick looks, like swift double-takes. Within seconds of entering the room, Bond guessed, this one would know exactly who was sitting where.

"I think it's time for me to deliver the glad tidings, if you'll excuse me a minute." He stood and headed for the door as a waiter approached with more coffee.

It took only a few minutes to hand in his note at Reception. He saw that the pair of lovers, supplied courtesy of the Security Service, were still in the main lounge, sipping coffee and watching the doors, just as they had been told to do – wrongly. A Boy Scout would have marked them as suspicious, let alone any of Tarn's trained private bullet-catchers.

He lingered in the dining room with Flicka for half an hour or so. The Tarn party appeared to be enjoying themselves, eating to the punctuation of bursts of laughter.

Back in their room, they had nothing to do but wait.

By three o'clock they were both getting edgy, but the telephone rang half an hour later.

"Mr. Busby?" The voice had a slight growl of authority to it. The kind of voice you heard from passed-over officers in an army mess.

"Speaking."

"Good. This is Maurice Goodwin. I'm Sir Max Tarn's staff manager."

"Ah."

"He's received your kind note and would like to have a word with you, if you have the time."

"Certainly."

"You can come up now, if that's convenient. I know Sir Max is seriously embarrassed about not getting in touch with you before this. After all, you were responsible for dealing with those clowns who tried to hold up the passengers, as well as showing great courage after the explosion."

"Yes, I suppose we performed a small service. Tell me, where…"

"The Senate Suite. Top of the hotel. You go to the tenth floor and there's a private elevator up to the top. One of our people will be there to see you up. That all right?"

"Of course. May I bring my wife?"

There was a brief pause. "We'd rather you didn't, actually. Sir Max wanted a word with you alone. Privately. See you in a few minutes, then?"

He shrugged as he replaced the receiver. "Sounds as though he's going to present me with a medal for bravery. Also doesn't want my wife in on the conversation."