John Gardner - Seafire

Felix had started to speak again. "Sir Max, what if something goes wrong with your fireworks display? What if Dr. Rexinus and his friends fail to contain the oil and gasoline?"

"I hate to even contemplate that, but I suppose one must face the possibility. First, Mare Nostrum will probably be consumed in the flames, and, second, I shall have to start all over again. But I have faith in these good people, Mr. Leiter. They'll not fail me. Now, back to the operation." More rustling. "This is where my submarine will be at eight o'clock. She will turn bow on to Golden Bough . The two tin fish, as I think they used to call them, will be fired. Heaven knows, I don't think even my captain, Jock Anderson, can possibly miss. The target is so large and he'll be quite close. After he's fired the torpedoes, he turns tail and runs for it. I have no doubts that part will go like clockwork. Maurice here will want to get out as quickly as he can."

"Too damned right," murmured Maurice Goodwin.

"Any further questions?" Tarn had become all businesslike. "I haven't got all night. No, Mr. Leiter, please, no questions from you. Cathy, take Mr. Leiter topside and put him in the car. It's time we were getting back if we're to have any sleep tonight."

More movement, then Tarn again: "Tell Connie to come down here, would you? I want to make sure that the gallant crew of Mare Nostrum understands that his orders are my orders, and they have to see what will happen should they disobey him."

More sounds of movement, then Connie's voice from the main cabin. "You wanted me, chief?"

"I would like you to impress upon these good people how important it is to stick to the timetable and jump when you tell them to jump." He paused, then addressed the others. "Connie is an amazing man. You should know that he can go without sleep for days at a time. In fact, he has promised me that he will not sleep until SeaFire is safely over. You understand?"

Bond signaled to Flicka, indicating that they should move back along the passage. She nodded and followed him, drawing her Beretta from under her skirt.

The door in the cross passage was flanked by two narrow companionways leading up to the deck. Bond took the one on the starboard side, Flicka behind him, covering the rear. At the top, he peered out, then whispered, "We're right by the wheelhouse. With luck we can slip off after Tarn leaves."

He could see Tarn's car – a low, sleek black Jaguar – pulled up near the gangway, and Cathy with Felix. She held a pistol and stood well back while he leaned against the car. For a second time, the thought of rescuing his friend flashed in and out of Bond's mind. No. There was no point in trying foolhardy heroics that could well put them out of action and ruin any further chance he had of stopping the madness of what Max Tarn called SeaFire.

They waited for what seemed to be a very long time, but finally Tarn came up on deck with Anna and Maurice Goodwin in tow. Bond smiled when he saw Sir Max, for he had entered into what he saw as the spirit of the affair, dressed in white ducks and a blazer, a yachting cap set jauntily on his head.

He stopped by the car, staying behind Cathy's right shoulder and talking to Felix for the best part of a minute, then Goodwin moved forward and opened the rear passenger door, roughly helping Felix into the car.

It was Tarn himself who took the wheel, and seconds later the Jaguar pulled away from the gangway.

He waited until the sound of the engine was far away, then motioned to Flicka, moving silently and slowly along the deck. From below voices were raised. He even heard Rexinus almost shouting at Connie Spicer, "But it won't work. We'll all be sailing out to certain death."

Connie's reply chilled Bond's spine. "You heard the Chiefs orders. You do as I say. I do as I'm told. Sir Max knows exactly what he's doing, always has done and always will."

Bond thought of all he had read about Hitler in the Berlin bunker during his final days, issuing orders to military forces that had long ceased to exist. Fighting with ghosts, and then joining those armies with the assistance of poison and a bullet.

Seconds later, they were on the quayside and walking quickly back in the direction of the Old Town.

"No, Fredericka, can't you see the folly of you coming with me?"

"If you're going to be back here by dawn, it makes no difference. I can cover you, and it'll be safer. We've always worked together – well, ever since…"

"Flick, what if I'm not back by the morning?"

"Then I'll be with you. I don't think I want it any other way. If I'm to hang around here, I'll go crazy."

He sighed in irritation. They had been arguing for the best part of twenty minutes in their room at the hotel. "Flick, listen. If I don't get back by early morning, it'll mean one of three things. One, I'm dead meat…"

"James, don't. Don't talk like that."

"Face it, Flicka, we've got ourselves in a damned dangerous situation. Now, one, I shall be dead; two, I shall have done it, spiked the sub and gone in to rescue Felix – he can't be anywhere else but in Tarn's compound, and I didn't like the sound of the girl, Beth. We've only been near her once – at Hall's Manor – and she doesn't seem exactly the kind of playmate you'd take on a picnic. So, if they aren't putting the crew on board the sub until they sail, I'll probably have time to get rid of the damned boat and get Felix out."

"What's the third possibility?"

"That they've caught me in the sub. There's one more that I've just thought about. It is quite possible that I'll not even get into the submarine."

"And what happens then?"

"I probably come hightailing it back here, and we do something else. As it is, there's plenty for you to get on with. Just think about it. If you'd come to Germany with me, we'd both be dead by now. Like Germany, the sub's a one-person job." He was dressed in the black jeans, rollneck, and sneakers. The two aluminum cases lay open on the bed, with his wet suit lying between them, and beside it the other item that had been in the case: a wide leather belt, with fixed pouches into which he could place everything he needed. The belt also had clips for a holster, a long, vicious-looking knife, and a flashlight. "There is no other way, Flicka. In fact, you'll have to do several things. A call to the harbormaster and the local police, to begin with."

"You said that was last-resort stuff. You were adamant about it."

He knew she was right. Someone calling or going to the authorities here in San Juan would probably be shipped into the nearest mental hospital. Tales about prowling submarines bent on torpedoing a supertanker would almost certainly be regarded as the ravings of a lunatic. He re-locked the two cases and stowed them away in the fitted wardrobe.

"Then call the States. Call Langley, or even London. They'll see things are dealt with."

"Why can't we just do that now, and quietly bow out? Leave it to the authorities."

"You know why we can't do that. It's a question of time."

"Balls, James, it's a question of your pride. You have a personal vendetta with Tarn and you want to finish it by yourself."

Deep down he knew she was perfectly correct, but he was concerned about the time factor. He knew exactly how things might go if they called London. The Committee could sit around for most of the day deciding if it were wise to give the whole story to the American service. Anyway, his own motivation had taken over. There was no turning back from the way he had planned.

"James, we got the all clear to do this because the Americans wanted to get Tarn – Apocalypse, as they called him. Nobody'll hold up any signals we send. Not now that we've eliminated Tarn's man, Christopher, and are operating here with the okay from the Americans."