John Gardner - Seafire

"No. No, that's fair. The truth about that is I have a staff who go through the names of all those who travel on my cruise ships. If they look interesting I authorize a little digging. You looked very interesting. I found the fact that you worked for both the Home and the Foreign Offices intriguing, particularly after hearing the details of how the pair of you dealt with those blundering miscreants on Caribbean Prince . I remember saying to Connie that you sounded like a couple of hired killers. So we checked you out. Both of you. It's relatively easy, you know."

"Of course I know, sir. I've done it myself. Even took a peep at a file on you at one time. You came up squeaky clean, incidentally; that's why the warrants concerned me so much."

"Maybe I believe you, Mr. Bond, but I really need to know something about these search-and-seizure warrants. You come to me and tell me this because we happen to be in the same place at the same time. If it turns out to be true – which I would doubt except for the sudden odd surveillance over this weekend – I would have known nothing about this. Not that I have anything to hide; my conscience is clear. But I'd like you to think about these warrants for a moment. You say that you saw them. Where was this?"

"At the Home Office."

"And why would you, a former big-league field officer now in charge of a penny-ante operation looking after files and documents, why would you be at the Home Office?"

Stick as near to the truth as you can, he thought. "How much do you know about the reorganization of our former clandestine services, sir?"

"Only what I've read in the newspapers. Names out in the open. Addresses in the public domain. A newer, less secret, kinder and caring system."

"Let me tell you, then. Yes, certain things are out in the open. But all those old organizations with the letters and numbers – MI5, MI6, and so forth – are now run by the bureaucrats. Run by committees and little cabals. Watchdogs. Guardians of morality. Financial Working Parties. Junior Ministers with special duties. They've sprung up all over the place, to make life hell for those who played by the good old rules."

"Quite right, too," Tarn almost snapped. "What it means, Mr. Bond, is that now those services are accountable. They never were before. If I were ever a power in any land, I'd make sure that you people were answerable to me personally."

"It also means that they can be used by whoever's in power."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Under the previous system, they were always apolitical. Yes, they worked for government, but never for the particular ruling party. As soon as the political party in power has access – complete access – to those organizations, you begin to spawn corrupt organizations. You follow?"

Tarn grunted, as if not convinced. "Well, Bond, how much of a look did you get at these warrants?"

"Pretty brief. Enough time to see your name – together with that of Lady Tarn – and the address of Tarn International's offices."

"You say they're to be enacted on Monday."

"It was there, on the papers. Monday the eleventh."

"So you had time to see that also?"

"Yes."

"Surely you know that part of the interrogator's art is to draw out things which the person being interrogated does not realize he's seen? This is standard practice with the police, and – I should imagine – your former employers, yes?"

"Yes." Careful.

"Well, the point's already been proven. It now appears that not only did you see names and places, but also the date the warrants were to be enacted. If you had time to see those things, perhaps you also had time to pick up – even cerebrally – the reasons for these documents being issued."

The silence stretched out, like a body on mortuary slab. At the window, Goodwin moved and muttered, "Christ, they're using that same damned car – the Volvo. Been going round and round for the past half hour."

Finally, Bond replied: "No, no, I can't think of anything." Then: "Wait a minute, though. I can remember something about restrictions on the sale of arms." Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw that he had at least got Maurice Goodwin's attention and Max Tarn's shoulders seemed to stiffen slightly.

There was a considerable pause before Tarn said that, surely, this had to be a mistake. "Arms? Arms as in weapons?"

"Arms as in devices to kill people, yes."

"But I've never had any dealings with armament companies." An uncertain frown, and a slight tremor in his right hand. Then he seemed to recover. "Ah, yes. Yes, I see what's happened. I did buy certain things. We're planning a small museum – a war museum – for one of the islands the cruise line owns in the Caribbean. It's just a desolate strip of land, but with a pleasant beach. When my ships put in there, we fly a few people over from Nassau. They set up a couple of bars, small restaurants, a little store that sells local artifacts. The passengers like a pleasant day on the beach with some amenities laid on."

His tone became more convincing as he continued. "One of my people suggested the museum. You wouldn't expect to find something like that out in the middle of the sea. In fact, we start building this summer. Should be done by next year, and it'll house all kinds of things – aircraft, weapons, paintings, models, simulations. Even a submarine. Pay for itself in a couple of years, we reckon. One of my companies bought quite a number of things for the museum." He gave a sigh meant to indicate relief but falling very short of its target. "Well, that's it, I suppose. Some idiot in one of your snooping departments has made a glorious error and taken my purchases as something dangerous and illicit." Tarn's explanation was stilted and patently unconvincing.

"Then you'll be able to satisfy them, sir. That's good."

Tarn turned away, his head moving in the direction of Goodwin. "Yes, a relief. A relief indeed, eh, Maurice?"

"A relief? Oh, yes indeed." Goodwin did not sound happy.

Tarn began to say something else to Bond when there was a knock at the door and Connie put his head into the room.

"A word, sir, please." The bodyguard moved his head to indicate that he needed to talk with Sir Max in the relative privacy of the passage.

Tarn excused himself, leaving Bond alone with Goodwin, who looked straight at him, then glanced out of the window before settling his cynical eyes back again. "You think my boss is going to buy your story, do you?"

"It's not a story, Maurice. Just the plain, unvarnished truth. Incidentally, I was looking forward to meeting Lady Tarn."

"You betcha." Goodwin gave a short laugh. "Of course you want to meet her. Everyone does. The famous beauty, Trish Nuzzi. Amazing what money'll buy for a man, isn't it?"

"Meaning that your boss bought her?"

"Now, I didn't say that, Bond. I only remarked that it's wonderful what money'll buy."

"Yes, but…"

The door opened and Tarn came back into the room. "Maurice, could you join us outside for a few moments." Then, to Bond: "I'm sorry about this, Mr. Bond. Duty calls, though. Won't be a minute."

Bond nodded and watched as the door closed behind them. He went over to the window and looked down into the street in front of the hotel. Taking in the Security Service's surveillance teams, he thought how well they were assembled. A layman would not have recognized the team as watchers. Only someone with a profound knowledge of surveillance methods could have fingered them for what they really were. So Maurice Goodwin was well versed in these things. That was not so unlikely, for he was patently ex-military.

He was just turning away from the window when the door to the bedroom opened quietly. Lady Tarn stood just inside the room. Beautiful and even more stunning than the photographs he had seen of her, or the glimpses at the hotel.