John Gardner - Seafire

"He could be in Germany. Wasserburg. He's quietly restoring Tarnenwerder – the old family seat – to its former glory."

"He is?" Bond asked of nobody in particular.

"Then tomorrow we'll take you back to London and some safety?" Flicka asked.

"Yes. Yes, of course. It's all I want now: to be out of it all and in some normal kind of life."

"What time?" Cathy asked, sounding businesslike.

"We'll give you a call first thing." Bond had already decided to book seats on the first possible flight back to Heathrow. "I think there's a flight at around noon. Now, are you going to be all right tonight?"

"If we're not, we'll give you a call." Anna sounded smug and, if anything, overconfident.

"So what do you think?" Bond asked when they were back in their own suite.

"You mean the amazing sex change, the distraught Lady Tarn, or the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler?" Flicka had started to undress.

"All three, I suppose. You happy with them, Flick? Trust them?"

"The dedicated-crazy-Nazi thing shook me, but I can see it's probably true enough, and the time is ripe in Germany. There are so many dedicated Nazi organizations coming out of the woodwork now. The skinhead groups, the Neo-Nazis toughs, but that's the wrong name for them. They're not neo anything. They are Nazis plain and simple: Germany for the Germans, and then only the purebred Germans. Out with any foreigners. Even people who, up to a couple of years ago, said it could never happen twice are now having doubts. As for the rest, right up until we mentioned Dolmech, I trusted them. Then things came apart slightly."

"Could be that Lady T was having a ride around the park with Dolmech."

"The thought had crossed my mind. Either her or… No, they wouldn't have let their guard down – the girls, I mean."

"To be perfectly honest with you." Bond raised his voice as she passed through into the bathroom. "To be perfectly honest, I wouldn't trust those two with anyone – except La Nuzzi, of course. They're obviously devoted to her."

"And I'll be perfectly honest with you, my darling, I wouldn't trust any of them with you. Even with the bashed-up face, Trish was drooling, and the two terrors would have kept you busy for hours."

"I didn't notice anything unusual. I think you're exaggerating, Flicka."

She did not reply, so he smiled to himself and went over to the telephone to call both El Al and BA. There was an El Al flight from Ben Gurion International to Heathrow at noon, and they had seats. He booked five, giving their names and saying that he would get back to them with the information on the other three passengers first thing in the morning. As ever, El Al were tight-lipped.

They both slept well, spooned close together in the big double bed. The telephone dragged them up through a few layers of unconsciousness. Bond looked at his watch and saw that this was not his wake-up call requested for seven, as the time showed ten minutes past six. Groggily, he croaked into the phone and Pete Natkowitz came on strong and clear at the other end, telling him that this was a secure line.

"I think you might have a small problem." The Mossad man dived straight in.

Bond was immediately wide awake. "What kind of problem?"

"I don't know how you got on last night, but I've just had a call from BG International. It appears that Trish Nuzzi and her entourage left on the six o'clock to Paris."

Bond replied with a single oath. "Shit!" he said.

It took them less than ten minutes to decide that it would serve no purpose for them to stay on in Jerusalem, and that there was no point in chasing Trish Nuzzi and the girls to Paris.

It was raining, there had been a shooting in Jerusalem, some kind of tear gas and stone-throwing clash in Tel Aviv, and another bit of violence on the road between the two, which eventually made them nearly late for the flight – El Al suggesting around three hours before check-in, instead of the former two. It was all part of the constantly shifting dangers of the Middle East, but there were other passengers who arrived almost at the last minute, which made for a very late departure and an unhappy flight crew.

They were back in the London flat at around seven in the evening to find twelve messages waiting on the secure telephone and one showing on the private line. The twelve on the secure telephone were quick and to the point – would he call the Minister as soon as possible; would he call Bill Tanner as soon as possible. They had started coming in late on the previous evening, and the last had been left only an hour before their return.

He called M's Chief of Staff first, for at least he knew where he stood with Bill Tanner. There was panic in the streets, according to Tanner, and the Minister had been searching for him to attend a meeting with relevant members of The Committee as soon as possible. It appeared that there had been a break in the Tarn case.

He immediately telephoned the Minister's private number, to be told the same thing. "We've been away for a couple of days," Bond said lamely.

"In future I'd appreciate it if you left a contact number with your office when you're going to be out of London over a weekend." The Minister gave him short shrift. "I can get people together within the hour, so would like you at the Home Office by eight o'clock sharp."

"Bang goes a quiet evening in front of the television." Flicka tried to sound piqued.

"Since when have we ever had quiet evenings in front of the television?" He looked up, saw her grin, and shrugged.

He was tempted to leave the message on the private phone, but he ran it back and pressed Play almost automatically. The husky female voice was immediately recognizable:

"This is Cathy, James. We're sorry that Trish decided to run out on you at the last minute, but as you can imagine, she really doesn't trust anyone at the moment – anyone except us, of course. Don't worry, we'll see that she comes to no harm, and we'll keep in touch."

While the tape was still playing, he touched the button on the caller ID unit next to the telephone. "Well, they're not in Paris." He frowned. "That was made from an 071 London number. The girls've brought her here, and how in the blazes did they get this telephone number?"

Flicka said that she would get the number traced to an address and call him at the Home Office. "We don't want you to upset the Minister by being late," she soothed. "That would never do."

"Wouldn't have happened in the old days. At least we weren't run by damned committees. By the time they've stopped arguing with one another, it's usually too late to do anything about anything." He was at the door. "Oh, Fredericka, could you contact M's nurse – Frobisher – and see how the Old Man's getting on?"

"Of course, but how are you going to handle The Committee?"

"In what way?"

"You going to lay the news on them about the Nazi thing? This is for real, James. Every other night, here in Europe, we're warned on television about the far-right wing in Germany. The marches, drumbeats, acts of violence against foreigners: the whole grotesque display of the Neo-Nazi movement."

"The Nazi movement, Flicka. There's nothing neo about those fanatics. As for The Committee, I'll use my own judgment. It's possible that we should keep that piece of information in reserve. They might already know, of course. That could be the break in the Tarn business."

He left with a black cloud hanging over him, and anger too near the surface of his emotions.

At the Home Office only the core members of The Committee were present, plus Bill Tanner. Wimsey had a Chief Superintendent with him, while the Director General of the Security Service was represented by three people, a trio about whom Bond had deep reservations. The first of these was a rake-thin man with lank blond hair whose name, Thickness, was at odds with his appearance. With him were two female officers, Judy Jameson and Jane Smith, both known to have great influence with the Director General. Everyone looked edgy and concerned.