John Gardner - Seafire

"Enough!" She squeezed his hand. "If you're set on going, you're not leaving here by yourself. Where you go, I go, no matter the risk."

He knew that any argument he put forward would be useless. When Fredericka von Grüsse made up her mind, there was no way of stopping her.

They pulled off at the first service station on the M4 so that he could call Quarterdeck from a public telephone booth and comparative safety. Nurse Frobisher sounded quite excited at the news he was coming to visit the Admiral – until he told her he would be bringing a lady friend.

M, still propped up in his sickbed, seemed delighted to see both of them, and after a little small talk asked the reason for their visit. "I don't believe that you would both come down here just to see an old and sick man."

"I think you already know why we're here, sir. I'd be surprised if The Committee has not already told you, via Bill Tanner most probably."

M grunted. "Well, Tanner did telephone me. Said The Committee had turned down a request from you, or some such. I didn't truly understand what he was talking about."

"Then the conversation we're about to have has never taken place, if you follow me, sir."

"What conversation?" Bond could not be certain that M's eyelid closed in a wink, or whether he simply imagined it.

Carefully, leaving nothing out, he went through the entire story. Then he outlined what he proposed to do about Tarn.

"And what if the fellow's not in Puerto Rico, eh? You thought about that?"

"He'll be there, sir. I'd bet my job on it."

"That's what I think you're probably doing. I can't say that I blame The Committee for their action, though I do understand your own point of view – even though I haven't heard it."

"There's no alternative really, sir," Flicka joined in. "We either do this now or forget about it. Tarn has his own timetable, and he's not going to hang around waiting for someone to show up."

"So what do you want from me?"

Turning his face away so that his smile was not visible to the old man, Bond cleared his throat. "Who said anything about wanting things?"

"My dear chap." M seemed to blossom with goodwill. "When people're in a meeting where the walls have no ears, and there's nobody to give evidence, because we can make this little threesome into an event that never happened, somebody wants something, and I don't believe you merely want the blessing of your old boss. So fire away, James. What do you need?"

"A meeting with Ann Reilly for a start, sir." Be bright and straightforward, he told himself. "Preferably within a few hours. She should also have your tacit instructions to provide us with anything for which we ask – within reason, of course."

"Oh, of course, within reason, yes indeed. What else?"

"That's about it, sir. That and your word that, should things get very difficult, you'll inform on us, tell The Committee where we are."

"So your bodies can be brought home for burial, eh?"

"Something like that, sir."

"You have it, but on one condition."

"Sir?"

"They'll be putting me out to grass soon. Bond, and I need to be certain of my successor. I'd like your assurance that you would consider the job when I step down."

"Consider it, yes, sir. But that's all I can do. Consider it."

"Understood. Enough said. You can meet Ms. Reilly by the bandstand in Green Park at four o'clock sharp. Now go, James, Fredericka, before an old man gets stupidly sentimental."

It was Flicka who bought the tickets on their Busby identities. The following morning's Delta flight direct into Atlanta, with a connection to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Bond had explained that he did not want to take a direct flight into San Juan. "It's a little bit of insurance," he told Flicka. "Nobody in their right mind would fly into the States to connect with a flight to Puerto Rico, so it will leave a small, but efficient, paper trail. Also, if the boys and girls on The Committee get onto us, I think we can say that we held the onward tickets in case they gave us the okay. Small point, but worth it."

The journey was going to be a slog, but going in via Atlanta, Georgia, was less risky than entering the United States via New York, Miami, or Dulles – the other possibilities. She paid in cash that Bond drew from his personal account.

After taking care of financial business he took a walk in Green Park, and there, close to the bandstand, bumped into the trim figure of Ann Reilly, Q'ute as they called her in the trade, now the head of Q Branch.

"And what can I do for you, Mr. Bond? I've been given instructions to give you anything within my power, but that rules out my body, I'm afraid."

For years, Bond had made a steady stream of passes at Ms. Reilly, with one in three being successful. Now he was able to smile, but could not tell her why.

"Now, what can I do for you?" she asked briskly.

He went through his list, and she checked off items telling him either yes or no.

"The wet suits and diving gear you can buy openly when you're there," she said. "I can get the two briefcases in and delivered to the hotel before you even arrive, there's no problem with that. We've been working on a new design, and they'll carry the bulk of what you'll need. As for the other thing, I don't really know. This is a large item; you sure you're going to need it?"

"I'm not certain we'll require any of the stuff except the weapons, but I'd feel happier if everything was there, on tap."

"Well, I'll do my best. There'll be a cryptic note in one of the briefcases. If I can get the other thing in, it'll tell you exactly where it's been dropped off. That's all I can promise."

They talked for another ten minutes, then he gave her a farewell embrace and they went their different ways.

He insisted on traveling light, and in the flat that night there was much argument regarding what could, and even should, be taken. Though she was probably the most efficient field agent he had known, Flicka had a tendency to take far too much luggage.

"If we were going on a camping holiday, you'd take at least three evening gowns," he chided her.

"Well, one must have something to wear."

"It'll be denims and sneakers most of the way." He came over, put an arm around her shoulder, and held her close.

"Just between the two of us, think of it as a busman's honeymoon."

The following morning, they drove to Gatwick, put the car into the long-term lot, and began the process of getting to the air side of the terminal.

As they reached the passport control desk, the officer took their passports, looked at them, then began asking questions: "How long are you going to be out of the country?" "Are you carrying return tickets?"

It was a small delaying tactic that served to give some time to the two burly men who, as if by magic, appeared, one on either side of them.

"Now, we don't want to make a fuss," one of them said quietly. "Just come with us. There's no way either of you is going to get on that flight. Sorry."

Bond asked to see their authority, and they both flashed Security Service laminated cards. He had no way of knowing if these were the real things or part of a ploy by Max Tarn, whose influence seemed to reach into the very heart of the establishment.

It quickly became clear that this was official business. A sleek Jaguar pulled up in front of the terminal and their luggage was stowed away in the trunk, while the two escorts helped them into the back of the car. They both seemed to be in good humor, which was more than could be said for Bond or Flicka.

"Cheer up, it could be raining." One of their custodians climbed into the back of the car with them. The other rode shotgun in the front passenger seat. The driver had given them a pleasant and polite greeting of "'Morning sir, ma'am."