John Gardner - Seafire

They went straight to the Minister's office, a bare, uncluttered room, one floor above The Committee's reading room.

"Well, what is it you want to request in such secrecy, Captain Bond?" The Minister showed signs of frustration and not a little irritation before they were seated.

"Simple, sir. I want four days' leave, with nobody asking awkward questions as to where I am or what I'm doing."

"And where will you be?"

"I'll be in Germany. Bavaria. Looking over the old Tarn estate, Tarnenwerder, and probably talking with Maximilian Tarn's lawyers in Wasserburg."

"You know The Committee wouldn't sanction that, Bond. You know they wouldn't even discuss it. So why should I recommend it to them?"

"Because somebody close to this Committee – probably a member – has a link to Tarn that goes back a very long way."

"That's outrageous!" The Minister's complexion went from shock white to purple anger. "Can you support these unconscionable accusations?"

"I think I can. Tell me, what time did Sir Max and his crew arrive at Heathrow the day they came back in?"

"On the Dublin flight that gets in at around five."

"And when were you alerted?"

The Minister's jaw dropped. "Not until seven. After we lost them the first time. Or I should say after the police and Security Service lost them."

"Who else knew about the place behind Harrods?"

"Nobody. The Committee and a few officers in the field – and then only after the Security Service discovered that he owned the place."

"Yet Tarn and his group were long gone before anyone moved in to take them. I must say that Max Tarn is either a psychic or he's very well informed."

"This seems ludicrous." The Minister sounded like a man who did not really believe what he was hearing.

"I don't see how he can be operating without help from the inside. I mean the blatant arrival at Heathrow and the way he was lost. Doesn't happen like that, Minister, and you know it. There are other things as well. The only way it makes sense is if somebody is feeding them information."

"Can you point a finger?"

"Not really. If I were asked to bet on it I'd say one of the Security Service people – Thickness, Smith, or Jameson. They'd be our most obvious targets."

"So you really believe that someone on The Committee has been taking backhanders from Tarn? Passing him information?"

"I think it's a matter of common sense. From the beginning Tarn's been tipped off. Just tell me whose idea it was for Fräulein von Grüsse and I to lay some news on him in Cambridge? You must know as well as I do that there was absolutely no way that Tarn could've planned that phony car accident without previous knowledge. He's been playing us for fools right down the line. He even knew exactly when I was to pick up Dolmech. He had a getaway planned for last night. He's not psychic. It has to be someone in that reading room. Tarn's too well informed. Think about it, sir."

"Oh, my God." The Minister had gone white again. "You may well be right. I really have no other option but to recommend that you take a look around Germany. They won't learn anything from me. Go to it, Bond, and good luck."

He asked Bill Tanner to send Flicka out to him, and Tanner nodded, muttering a quick "Take care, James."

He saw the sadness in Flicka's eyes as she came in to join him. "I presume you've convinced him? You're really going on your own?"

"I told you, Flick. It's the only way to work this."

"I love you, James."

"And I you, dear Flicka. Come and help me get organized."

"You will come back?"

"I always come back, my dear. I'm like the RCMP, I always get my man."

"So do I."

"Hell of an engagement party." She almost smiled.

Back in the flat, Bond spent half an hour hunched over the telephone calling Lufthansa and booking a return flight to Munich leaving late that afternoon, then reserving a single room at Munich's Splendid, where he would be well out of the way, particularly hidden from the Tarn party staying at Vier Jahreszeiten. The Splendid had long been the Munich resting place for those who wished to keep a low profile.

Another call assured him of a rental car that he could pick up at the Munich airport, and lastly he dialed a final German number – the Hotel Paulanerstuben, in Wasserburg am Inn. Its main draw was the address, Marienplatz 9 – the same square in which the Tarn lawyers, Saal, Saal u. Rollen, had their offices.

When all these arrangements had been made, he packed a light garment bag, then dragged his special briefcase from its hiding place in a disguised part of the wainscot. The automatic pistol, ammunition, together with the Applegate Fairbairn combat knife and scabbard, all went into the compartment at the bottom of the case, where they would not be detected by electronic security scanning devices. The latest in miniature cameras – which would take clear photographs of documents under most conditions – gloves, a set of lock picks disguised as a Swiss Army Knife, and other items, including maps and documents, went into the main open, top section of the case. He also retrieved everything he needed for his Boldman identity, the one he used often when traveling abroad – passport, wallet complete with credit cards, and several letters addressed to J. Boldman Esq. at a fictional business that was really a front for the Intelligence Service's overseas mail.

He then showered, changed into slacks, a light cotton rollneck, blazer, and a pair of his favorite soft, comfortable moccasins.

Throughout all these preparations, Flicka had remained seated quietly in the bedroom, and it was only when she saw he was ready that she spoke.

"James, we need to talk." She patted the edge of the bed.

"Of cabbages and kings?" he asked with a smile.

"Of what you're going to do; where you're going to be; your entire schedule."

He opened the briefcase and pulled out a detailed map of the Wasserburg am Inn area, similar to a British Ordnance Survey map. "I'll be playing a lot of this by ear, Flick, but here's the general plan." He went through his intended movements, giving rough times and where he expected to be during the next couple of days, after which Flicka spoke again, her tone serious and commanding attention:

"Believe me, James, I understand the reason you have to do this on your own. I understand it, but I don't like it, nor do I condone it. I've left a note with Bill Tanner to that effect. I'm not being difficult, but I think you should have backup close by you. Naturally, I believe that backup should be me. Now, please let's work out a telephone code so that you can at least keep in touch."

It took them only about twenty minutes to cobble together a simple system, for they had used techniques such as this before.

When it was time for him to leave, Flicka hugged him tightly but shed no tears. Nor did she use any feminine wiles to make him feel in the least bit guilty for leaving her out of this small and essential operation. Again, it was one of the pluses of their relationship: Flicka had been an intelligence agent for too long to make any silly fuss over such things.

"Take care of yourself," she said in a matter-of-fact voice, then, softly, "I love you, James."

In the cab on the way out to Heathrow, her very low-key farewell did more to make him feel guilty than all the tears and histrionics that she could have produced. By the time he had checked in at the Lufthansa desk, Bond had already started to wonder about the wisdom of leaving Flicka behind.

The flight to Munich was, as usual, boring, and the German efficiency at passport control and the car-rental desk left nothing to be desired. He collected a cream-colored VW Corrado, driving straight to the Splendid, where the car was parked for him by the staff of the hotel, the facade of which managed to draw anyone's attention away from the place. It was one of the delights of the Splendid that it looked like nothing and yet, for comfort, security, and service, was everything that an incognito traveler would wish.