Raymond Benson: High Time To Kill

“Bad luck, Bond,” Marquis said, holding out his hand.

Bond shook it and said, “You played a fine game.”

Marquis shook Tanner’s hand and said, “Bill, your game has improved a great deal. I think you ought to have your handicap updated.”

Tanner grunted and shook Harding’s hand.

“Shall we meet back on the patio for drinks after changing?” Marquis suggested.

“Fine,” Bond said. He and Tanner left their clubs at the starter shed, went to the dressing room to shower and change clothes, and emerged feeling fresher, if not altogether happy. Tanner hadn’t said a word to Bond since the game had ended.

“Bill, I know you’re terribly upset with me. I’m sorry. I’ll pay for it all,” Bond said as they took a seat at a table. The sun had, in inimitable English-weather fashion, reappeared.

“Don’t be silly, James,” Tanner said. “I’ll pay my share. Don’t worry about it. I’ll write you a check now and you can pay them in one lump sum.”

Tanner began writing the check and murmured, “Why the hell does Marquis always call me by my Christian name, but he always addresses you as Bond?”

“Because the man is a complete bastard who thinks he’s a superior being. I’m doing my best to swallow my pride and put this behind me, but if he says ‘bad luck’ one more time, I’m going to punch him in the nose.”

Tanner nodded in agreement. “Too bad he’s working with us, or I’d kick him in the arse myself!”

“What is this top secret project, anyway?”

“James, it’s classified. M and I are privy to it, but it’s something that the DERA have been working on for quite some time. I can tell you more later, at the office. I had no idea Marquis was the RAF liaison with the project.”

“You’ve aroused my interest. Can you give me a hint?”

“Let’s just say that when the project is completed, it will change the way wars are fought.”

Right on cue, Marquis and Harding joined them.

“Excellent game, gentlemen,” Marquis said. “I’m so glad we ran into you. It made the day so much more interesting.”

Bond took out his checkbook. “Shall I make it out to you or to Dr. Harding?”

“Oh, to me, by all means. I want to watch you write my name on that check,” said Marquis. He turned to Harding and said, “Don’t worry doctor, I’ll give you your share.”

Harding smiled complacently. He gazed at Bond’s check as a sparrow might eye a worm.

Bond tore out the check and handed it to Marquis. “Here you are, sir.”

“Thank you, Bond,” Marquis said, pocketing it. “‘You played admirably. Someday you just might be able to beat me.”

Bond stood up and said, “That might give you an inferiority complex, Roland, and that would be so unlike you.”

Marquis glared at Bond.

“Bill and I must be going,” Bond said quickly. “It was good to see you again, Roland. Nice meeting you, Dr. Harding.” He held out his hand to both of them. “Take care.”

“Rushing off so soon?” Harding asked.

Tanner stood up, following Bond’s lead. “Yes, I’m afraid he’s right. We have to be back at Vauxhall before the end of the workday.”

“Well, by all means, you’ve got to keep our precious country safe and sound,” Marquis said with mock sincerity. “I’ll sleep better tonight knowing you boys are on the watch.”

After they said their good-byes. Bond and Tanner walked around the clubhouse to pick up their bags. As men who were quite used to winning or losing, they quickly put the loss of money and the game behind them.

Bond drove the old Aston Martin DB5 back to London, and instead of heading straight for Chelsea, went into West Kensington. The car had been kept in excellent condition, but Bond wanted something new. What he really had his eye on was the company’s Jaguar XK8 that he had recently used in Greece. Sadly, it would probably be a while before Q Branch removed the “extras” and sold it as an ordinary secondhand car, as they had done with the DB5. He kept the Aston Martin in a garage in Chelsea along with the other dinosaur he owned, the Bentley Turbo R. His friend and American mechanic Melvin Heckman, made sure that both cars were always in prime condition.

Helena Marksbury lived on the third floor of a block of flats near the Barons Court underground station. All day he had been glad to be away from her. Oddly, now he was starving for her.

Bond parked the car in front of her building, got out, and buzzed the intercom. It was just after four. He knew that she had been planning to leave the office early that day.

“Yes? Who is it?” Her voice, usually soft and seductive, sounded odd and metallic through the small speaker.

“It’s me,” he said.

There was a moment’s hesitation, then the buzzer sounded.

Bond took the stairs two at a time and found her waiting in the doorway of her flat. Her hair was wet, and she was wearing one of his shirts and nothing else.

“I just got out of the shower,” she said.

“Perfect,” he said. “I’ll dry you off.”

“How did you know I left the office early today?”

“It was a hunch. I had a feeling that you were thinking about me,” he said.

“Oh, really? Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“And I have a tension headache that needs some tender loving care.”

She made a face, whispered “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” and ran her fingers through his hair.

He took her by the waist and pulled her inside, closing the door behind them. Their mouths met as she hopped up and wrapped her smooth, bare legs around his waist. He carried her into the bedroom, where they spent the next two hours releasing the stress that had been dogging them both for the past two weeks.

THREE

SKIN 17

THE DEFENCE EVALUATION AND RESEARCH AGENCY runs, on a commercial basis, the research establishments that were formerly part of the Ministry of Defence Procurement Executive. With locations scattered around the UK—both public and private—the DERA is, in part, responsible for research in aerodynamics and materials used to build aircraft for the RAF One of their larger facilities is located in Farnborough, southwest of London, at the former Royal Aircraft Establishment and home of the Farnborough air show. While most of the DERAS work is done at such official sites, which are guarded by heavy security, a few laboratories and offices are located in seemingly innocuous, unmarked buildings. Some of the agency’s most sensitive and classified secrets are generated at these locations as a preventive measure, should there ever be any industrial espionage attempts against the DERA.

Not far from Farnborough is the small village of Fleet, a quiet residential community surrounded by warehouses and industrial complexes of neighboring towns. It has a railway station used daily by commuters to and from London. Its convenience to both London and Farnborough was one of the reasons the DERA hid their most secret and important project in a warehouse that appeared to be unused.

The exterior had been treated to look old. Windows were boarded and posted signs read NO TRESPASSING. All doors were locked. It was always dark and quiet. As the warehouse was off one of the main roads, the residents of Fleet took no notice of a building that one day looked much older and decrepit than it really was. In actuality, the building contained a secret entrance, a 20-foot-by-500-foot wind tunnel, foundry equipment, a sealed pressure vessel called an autoclave, and the offices and laboratory of a small research team headed by the noted aeronautics physicist and engineer Dr. Thomas Wood.

Two years previously, the DERA had hired Dr. Wood away from Oxford to work on a classified assignment. He was an expert in ceramics, especially when it came to designing “smart skins” for air-craft fuselages.