John Gardner - Seafire

"Again, sir, why here? Why take this risk?"

The Minister was about to speak when the telephone purred on the table. He answered and, sounding very irritated, told Bond that it was Flicka wishing to speak with him. "And I trust that it's business, Bond. Something concerning this case."

"I've no doubt that it's business." He took the instrument and spoke into it quietly. Everyone in the room realized mere was something wrong by the way his back stiffened, and his eyes traversed every face in the room. "Wait there. I'll be back soon, and thank you."

He replaced the handset and looked straight at the Minister as he repeated the address just passed on to him by Flicka. It was a flat situated in an area just behind Harrods in Knightsbridge. "Is that where you thought you had him cornered, with his people?"

"Yes. How do you know? Nobody else but The Committee and a select number of trustworthy police and security officers have that address."

"Because there was a telephone message on my private phone when I got back to my flat, sir. The caller ID gave the number of the place behind Harrods. Fräulein von Grüsse has been checking it out for me."

"A telephone call?"

"That's what I just said, sir. I think Tarn's intent on leaving a message at Hall's Manor for us. A very unpleasant message."

"Bond, you're not talking sense."

"I'm talking a lot of sense, sir, and I want The Committee's permission for me to go up to Hall's Manor with Fräulein von Grüsse immediately."

"I need to know why. Have to get in touch with our man on the ground there."

Quietly and quickly. Bond explained some of the facts of life – particularly those pertaining to Lady Tarn, and the control Sir Max had over Seville and San Juan in Puerto Rico. "I gather that, eventually, he's going to provide some spectacular event in Puerto Rico, and that's going to be sooner rather than later." He left out the fact that Max Tarn – and presumably many others – regarded himself as the Nazi Messiah. "My fear is that your SAS man could be in serious trouble."

"Why just you and Fräulein von Grüsse? Why not send police and SAS in now?"

"You want a pitched battle in which we might be seen to have acted a little prematurely? I need your authority to get up to Hall's Manor, and I need it now."

"I don't think I can…"

"You can, sir. If you don't then you get my resignation from the Two Zeros here and now. I'm privy to quite a lot of information about Tarn. I don't think you can really get him without my help. I'll wait outside until you've made up your minds." He rose and stalked out of the room.

Ten minutes later, Bill Tanner joined him. "They're not very happy." He did not look too jovial himself. "But they've agreed to your request within certain limits."

"Which are?"

"That if they've heard nothing by one in the morning, they'll issue their own orders, one of which will probably be your arrest, for precipitating matters."

Behind Tanner the door opened and a worried-looking Minister stood just inside the room. "It appears that we've already got another problem." His eyes showed uncertainty. "We can't raise the SAS man at the Manor. The line's open, but he's not answering any signals."

"Voice signals?" Bond asked.

"No, we've got a code with a series of clicks, so that Tarn's people can't pick him up on any scanners they might be carrying."

"So we can go?"

"Tanner's told you about the deadline?"

"Yes, sir. That's okay by me. If you don't hear anything from us by one A.M., we'll need you to take over, because we won't be operative if you don't get a report."

They wore black. Black jeans, black rollnecks, black leather gloves, and black sneakers, while their heads were covered with black balaclava helmets. They carried weapons and equipment on broad black belts: Bond with the ASP, a radio that would allow him to signal London, a standard field compass, and a high-powered flashlight. Flicka with her Beretta and a couple of flash-bang grenades. They had left the maps and other gear in the car, parked in a side road a mite away from Hall's Manor.

Now they approached the old house from the west, through a wood and scrubland, occasionally taking bearings with the compass. It was in the wood that they found the SAS sergeant's body, and there was no need to switch on the flashlight to know that the man was dead. The black stain running from his neck told of a severed throat.

It made Bond even more apprehensive, for if a man trained to the perfection of this sergeant had been taken by surprise, he and Flicka would be easy game.

They crouched on the edge of the scrub, the ground uneven, the silhouette of the big house stark against the sky. There were no sounds except for predatory night animals. No lights. No sign of life, but they both knew this was no guarantee that Tarn and his crew were not out there, waiting and watching in the dark.

The luminous dial of Bond's watch showed it to be sixteen minutes past midnight. They had, in fact, made incredibly good time, and now he wondered if they should just go charging in, or take it stealthily all the way. The deadline was running out.

"Gently," he whispered to Flicka, and together, crouching low, they moved forward. "Shoot first and then ask the questions," he breathed again as they reached the house. He saw her nod, then put a hand out to touch the stone.

They circled the entire building, pausing close to windows, their eyes fully adjusted to the darkness and the now-slanted moon.

The front door was open, almost as they had left it on their last visit, but they knew others had already been there before them that night; might still be there, silent and un-moving in the shadows. Taking a deep breath, he nodded to Flicka and took a step inside the door into the hall, switching on the flashlight held next to the automatic pistol, firm in his hand. The smell of must and decay hit them like an invisible wall, but mixed with it were other scents: the smell of women's perfume and other luxurious lotions. If the house was truly empty, it had only recently been vacated.

Together they began moving from room to room on the ground floor, sweeping each room and passageway as they made slow progress, jumping at shadows, hearing the creaking of the old place, and standing, listening, waiting for another of Tarn's horrors to come leaping out at them.

The ground floor and the belowstairs area were clean, so, at last they began to make a steady progress up the stairs, which gave out loud cracks and little squeals under their feet.

The next floor was also clean, and they both felt the fringes of fear as they began to go on upward, toward the little room in which they had been held prisoner. As they moved along the short passage that led to the door, half open, there was a distinct noise from within the room: the sound of something straining, followed by a subtle hint of movement.

Bond raised the flashlight, his finger tightening on the trigger of his pistol as he edged inside the room. Flicka gave a little scream as she saw it, then began to hyperventilate. The light beam traversed the room quickly and then went back to the thing that hung, swinging from a crossbeam in the ceiling, centering on the face.

The bruising was still visible, though in death the face seemed to have swollen into a caricature of itself, the mouth open and tongue half out. He thought immediately that Trish Nuzzi had probably been strangled before they had hoisted her up on the rope, her lovely long black hair falling to her shoulders on either side of the grotesque face. The feet were together, but her arms seemed to be spread away from her body, making her look like a huge terrible doll hung up by some evil child.

Then, from directly behind them, came the husky voice. "A horrible way for her to die, wasn't it?" said Cathy.