John Gardner - Seafire

"And they have their courtiers with them," Flicka added. The other two men, staying a respectful couple of paces behind the famous couple, were equally well-dressed but did not seem to have the same polish as their employers. One was tall, well-built, even burly, carrying himself like a boxer, his head turning from side to side, then back to throw careful scrutiny over Bond's Saab 9000. His companion was shorter and had his hands thrust into the pockets of a long stylish raincoat that looked like some kind of riding dustcoat from the old American West.

Around the cars, more people were being off-loaded, the drivers in livery, the other young men in stylish street clothes.

As the Tarns reached the hotel doors, Sir Max paused, glancing back toward Bond's car. There was plenty of illumination around the hotel facade, and for a moment it was as though their eyes locked and Tarn recognized something of which he should be aware.

Bond quietly said: "My worn reeds broken,/The dark tarn dry."

"You what?" Flicka asked.

"Bit of a poem I once had to learn. Forget where it comes from, but that man will never break my worn reeds."

"James, I don't know what you're talking about. It can't be a touch of the sun, because we haven't been out in any lately."

He turned and gave her a smile that twisted his mouth. "I'm being ambiguous, Flicka. Didn't you feel anything as you watched them?"

"A pinch of jealousy over that incredible figure of hers. What did you feel?"

"Evil," he snapped. "You talk of him as a Renaissance prince. He looked more like the Prince of Darkness to me."

"Can't say I noticed that particular Gothic charm, but you're probably right."

"Going to light him up like a bonfire." Bond reached for the door handle only to be blocked from getting out by one of the other young men, who had moved from the Rover directly in front of them. The young man held the door almost closed. "If you'd wait for just one minute, sir…"

Bond flicked the cutting edge of his hand against the young man's wrist, smacking it hard against the edge of the door. There was a nasty cracking sound, an almost feminine yelp as he immediately let go of the door. "And who are you to ask me to wait, and to prevent me from getting out of my own car, Sunny Jim?"

The young man moved closer, nursing his wrist. "I won't ask you again, sir…"

"Good. Who are you?"

"Security, sir. I must ask you to get back inside your car."

"Hotel security?"

"No, I'm…"

"An agent of the Security Service, then?"

"No, sir. I'm privately employed. Security for…"

"The people who left that Rolls? Well, don't worry about us, lad. You might tell your employer that I might be able to help him in a matter which he will find fairly pressing in a day or so." He pushed the door wide open and quietly told Flicka to get out. Then, turning to the young bodyguard: "If I were you, laddie, I'd watch yourself. Also, I'd get that wrist seen to. Nasty bruise, by the look of it."

A voice called out, "Okay, Archie. They're upstairs."

The young man turned away and scurried in the direction of the man who had called him from beside the Rolls, and at the same moment one of the hotel porters came hurrying up.

"Now, sir. Sorry to have kept you waiting. The luggage, sir?"

Bond looked across the car toward Flicka. "Light him up like a bonfire," he said. "Or even like a Christmas tree."

"A Tarn-enbaum. Give me half a chance and I'll do some of the destroying with you," she said softly.

The next day, Saturday, it was as though Sir Max and Lady Trish did not even exist. Neither Bond nor Flicka mentioned them – not at breakfast, nor during their walk along King's Parade, past the Senate House, and on down to Trinity and a casual stroll through St. John's College. They walked, hand in hand, through the wonderful old courts, then across the Bridge of Sighs and through the great stone filigree of New Court – taking them out onto the Backs: the long grassy, tree-dotted parkland, past the old bridges leading to the major colleges. There were even a few punts out on the river, and the banks were covered with their springtime carpet of flowers.

Bond had always preferred Cambridge to Oxford. Here the colleges were more visible, and apart from the somewhat brash, angular additions of the twentieth century, colleges like King's, Trinity, and John's looked much as they had since they were first built. He even enjoyed the nineteenth-century addition of New Court at St. John's College; blasted by many as a Gothic horror, its cloisters and carved intricacies had long since mellowed, while the great views from the Backs gave an almost timeless atmosphere to the old University City.

During lunch, which they took at a favorite restaurant on King's Parade, there was still no mention of the Tarns, nor during their hike out to Grantchester, across the meadows, and back again. By early evening they both felt the fresh glow of good health that came from the exercise, and the mutual pleasure of each other's company. It had just been warm enough for them to sit in the gardens at the Grantchester Arms and have tea with plates of triangular sandwiches and cream cakes before the trek back to the University Arms. Once back they rode the birdcage lift up to their room and hung out the Do Not Disturb sign.

A couple of hours later, Bond broached the subject.

"You spot them?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Our friends the watchers. Our guardian angels and Tarn's messengers of doom."

"Oh, them. I think I noticed the odd car, and they seemed to have a series of footpads walking and loitering."

"The footpads might just belong to Tarn. I spotted our nasty little friend from last night, in street clothes. He had his hand taped up."

"Well, you did clobber him rather hard."

"Not hard enough, but, yes, there are around six or seven cars and vans. I shouldn't be surprised if Tarn's people've spotted them as well. The vans are pretty obvious, with that reflective glass in the sides and those damned great aerials. There's also a British Telecom van across the road, which they're digging up: playing with wires and getting visits from Head Office. Did you see the couple they've got on the inside?"

"The young lovers?"

"Don't look old enough to be out on their own, and they stink to high heaven. Real lovers wouldn't spend so much time in the foyer, they'd be up in their room."

"Like us, darling."

"Exactly like us, and more of it wouldn't come amiss."

She disregarded his last comment by asking what he intended to do about Tarn.

"I'm anxious about the high-profile surveillance, but the frontal approach is really the only way. A little note, probably first thing in the morning. Then we play it by ear. If his own people have got the scent of the Security Service's highly visible lookouts, he should react favorably. On the other hand, I wouldn't put it past him to remain unruffled and just motor back to London as if nothing had happened. I've always thought that tipping him off contained the possibility of everything backfiring."

"So what'll The Committee do then, poor things?" All members of the Double-Oh Section tended to refer to MicroGlobe One as "The Committee."

"Nothing, if they're wise, though I don't set much store by their wisdom. Most likely they'll revert to their original plan and storm in, pull out the warrants, and end up looking like imbeciles. In fact, I think I'll call London and test the waters. They told me to keep in touch in the usual way."

"Whatever that means."

"It means I call the Minister's special number and pray that I get some aide with a modicum of common sense." He eased himself off the bed.

"You going to call from here?"

He headed toward the bathroom. "Not on your life. The switchboard – even the automatic dialing – will be well tied up. As we speak, there's probably some damned great van full of electronics and a dozen tape machines monitoring everything in and out of the Tarns' suites and our own."