John Gardner - Seafire

"Obviously not politically correct."

"Flicka, I think you'd better go downstairs. Signal – as gracefully and silently as you can – that I'm with him. Just a simple precaution."

"Oh, Christ, James, this isn't going to turn out to be one of those complete security cock-ups, is it?"

"I don't know. The guy who called – Maurice Goodwin – is probably the paunchy, military type. Might just have his own reservations, or perhaps they feel I'll be more open if I see him alone. It might even be that Lady T doesn't want competition."

"Me? Don't be an idiot, James."

"In my book you'd be competition."

She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "Just you be careful out there," she said in her best TV-cop-show voice.

It was the tall bodyguard in the gray suit who was waiting at the tenth floor. He checked Bond's name by simply asking, "Mr. Busby?"

At Bond's nod he introduced himself. "Conrad." He gave a wry smile. "Sir Max calls me Connie, which is his idea of a little joke." He raised an arm toward the small elevator cage marked "Senate Suite." "I handle security for Sir Max and Lady Trish." He carefully shepherded Bond into the lift, and before he knew what was going on, Connie frisked him with a quick expertise. "Sorry about that, sir, but we have to be careful, you understand. Particularly with someone like yourself. We were all very impressed at how you and your wife handled the team who tried it on during the cruise – Caribbean Prince , I'm talking about."

"Yes. Yes, of course you are."

The elevator carried them to a large lobby that had a set of double doors with "Senate Suite" picked out in gold on a dark plate to the left. Connie opened the door and gestured for Bond to go in, following hard on his back and announcing, "Mr. Busby, Sir Max."

Close up, Tarn looked as smooth as they came: well-shaved cheeks, almost pink over a good layer of tan. He was better looking than in his photographs. Calm deep-brown eyes, the nose a shade too long for symmetry, and the almost polished iron-gray hair swept back with slight wings over the small ears. His movements were controlled, and his manner charming in a way guaranteed to put anyone off his guard.

"Come in, Mr. Busby. Do come in. Thank you for your note. Most kind. I had planned to get in touch with you anyway. The least I could do was personally thank you for what you did during that earlier incident on Caribbean Prince ." His handshake was like touching a snake: dry, smooth, and dangerous. The experience made the short hairs tingle on the back of Bond's neck.

"Now, how about a drink, or tea, or whatever you fancy. This, incidentally," he moved his right hand a fraction of an inch toward the paunchy short man who stood by the window, "this is Maurice Goodwin. He's the right side of my brain as far as travel and the staff go."

"We spoke, Mr. Busby." Goodwin did not attempt to cross the room for a handshake. He simply nodded, a shade aloof, while his boss clasped Bond's hand in a grip as tight as a hangman's noose.

"A little tea, if that's not -"

"Tea it is. Excellent choice. Connie, tea for Mr. Busby. You prefer what, China, Indian…?"

"Just as it comes. Preferably Indian."

"Man after my own heart. My wife adores Lapsang Souchong, but I prefer a good old dish of Darjeeling myself." He had a tendency to draw words out. Sooooochong and Darjeeeeling.

"Now, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. You were very kind about my staff and the awful Caribbean Prince episode. Terrible business. Haven't got to the bottom of it yet, but we will."

"I'm sure you will, Sir Max."

"Doubtless you heard about what happened to the holdup merchants who were still alive after your bit of gunplay?"

"No."

"Ah, thought you would have heard by now. We very carefully got them off the ship after the explosion, then handed them over to the police in Miami. Unhappily, while they were in the holding cells, mixed up with some very unsavory prisoners, someone took a dislike to them. Used a makeshift knife. All killed during a disturbance. Police cannot determine who did them, but they were certainly done."

"I would say that was a happy ending." Bond again felt the nape of his neck tingle.

"Yes." He did not take his eyes from Bond's. For a second it was like being locked into a staring competition. "Yes. Well. Yes, you have something to tell me? Your note hinted at… Well, I don't know what your note hinted at. Home Office. Foreign Office. Something about my affairs, which cover the entire globe, Mr. Busby. What was it about?" While outwardly Tarn seemed charming, Bond got the impression that the charm was less than skin deep. Beneath the surface lay something malignant: an undertow of bleak, unbalanced evil mixed with the undeniable charisma. This was the kind of man who could bring down countries, charm the worst elements of society, and make black appear to be white and vice versa. Deep down, Bond surmised that Sir Max Tarn could be a very dangerous enemy. His charisma was that of a rabble-rouser. If the man chose politics as a profession, he would be able to hold certain segments of society in the palm of his hand.

"I think it would be best if we talked in complete privacy, Sir Max."

"Oh, you do?" from Goodwin, still beside the window that looked out of the front of the hotel. "You prefer privacy, eh? Those bloody British Telecom people're still working down there. Have been since we arrived. You anything to do with them, Mr. Busby? Anything to do with people listening to other people's conversations on the old blower?"

Bond gave Tarn a quick quizzical look.

"It's quite safe to talk in front of Goodwin, Mr. Busby. Ah, here's Connie with the tea."

They did not speak while Conrad poured the tea, making it all a little civilized ceremony. When he had finished, Tarn pleasantly told him to wait outside, adding somewhat archly, "Mr. Busby prefers privacy. Don't be offended, Connie, I don't suppose it's personal."

When the bodyguard had withdrawn, it was Goodwin who spoke again. "Well, Mr. B., got an answer for me?"

"I didn't quite get the question… Mr. G."

"We are circled about with people who watch. People who follow every movement. People who'd like to listen in to our telephone conversations – though they can't because we tend to bypass the switchboard."

Bond opened his mouth, but Goodwin had not finished. "We've been quite interested in the little armies of fairy folk dogging our footsteps. You anything to do with that, Mr. B?"

"I can tell you about it."

"Ah," from Max Tarn. "Then please, before you tell, why would you tell?" The last rays of charm left his voice, and the question held within it a vestige of something deeply repulsive.

Finally, Bond replied: "Because I wanted to do something to help. I've always admired you, sir, and doubly so since the Caribbean Prince business."

"Admiration. That all? Nothing in it for you? Doing it out of a sense of duty – whatever it is?"

"Something like that, Sir Max, yes. I'm not even supposed to know about it. Just saw some things in the office that I don't think I was supposed to see."

"So you came trotting down here to tell all."

"No, sir. We've had this weekend booked for the past six weeks. You can check that out, here in the hotel."

Tarn nodded. "Yes, we already have. So tell me what it's all about. Just spit it out, James – that is your name, yes?"

"Yes, Sir Max."

"Well, James. Tell all."

"There's a warrant out for your arrest. You and Lady Tarn. They're going to pull you in on Monday morning; and there's another search-and-seizure warrant for the premises in Ludgate Circus – Tarn International – and also for your private residence. They're Security Service people watching you, and -"