John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

An hour later he had negotiated the M5 Motorway, and taken the M4

fork which led him towards London. It took about fifty minutes for him to reach the Windsor exit, after which he circled the smaller roads, still watching for a possible tail. It was a lengthy, painstaking business so he did not reach his destination until after eleven, purring across the Windsor-Bagshot road and looking out for the Squirrel public house on his left, then the gateway of simple stone on the right.

He turned the Lancia through the gateway to see the familiar, well-manicured drive, the screen of silver birch, beech, pine and oak trees which stood guard over the rectangular Regency manor house of weathered Bath stone.

He pulled the Lancia around the side of the main house, parking so that it would also be screened by the trees which, as he knew from the past, were not the only protection that guarded M’s beautiful country house called, nostalgically, Quarterdeck.

His feet crunched on the gravel as he approached the portico and grasped the thong attached to the gleaming brass bell, once that of some long-forgotten ship, and clanged it to and fro.

Seconds later the stout door was unbolted from inside and opened to reveal M’s servant, Davison, who had replaced the faithful ex-Chief Petty Officer Hammond.

“And Mrs. Davison? She well?” Bond stepped into the hall, taking in the familiar scene - the smell of polish from the pine panelling; the Victorian hall stand, with M’s old Ulster hanging from it, and Wellington boots set nearby; the table with its wonderfully-detailed 1944 scale model of the battle cruiser Repulse, M’s last command.

“Mrs. Davison’s fit as a flea, sir - and twice as nippy, if you follow my drift.”

“Indeed I do, Davison.” Bond inclined his head towards the model.

“Much more beautiful than the present one, eh?”

“Don’t know what to make of the Andrew any more, sir.

Carriers that aren’t carriers, and no real ships. Not like in the old days, anyhow.” The Andrew’ is naval slang for the Royal Navy, and has been since the mid-nineteenth century. Before that the word usually described one ship.

The present Repulse is the S23, one of the Royal Navy’s first “Resolution’ class SSBN, Polaris-armed submarines.

“anyway, sir, the admiral is expecting you.

“Good. Lead the way, Davison.”

The former CPO knocked loudly on the thick, heavy Spanish mahogany door and M s voice sounded, sharp, from behind it “Come.”

“Captain James Bond, sir.”

“Permission to come aboard, sir?” Bond smiled, but immediately realised that his smile was not returned.

M did not open the conversation until the door was closed behind them but, in those few seconds, Bond took in the entire room. It was still as neat as ever. The table near the window, with water-colour materials laid out in what looked like a parade ground precision; the old naval prints, neatly aligned along the walls and M’s desk, with papers, an old ink-stand, leather blotter, calendar, the two telephones, one ivory, the other red, all in perfect order.

“Well,” M began, “this had better be good, Bond. There was a specific arrangement. No contacts unless you fired a distress signal.”

“Sir, I was .

“If you’re going to tell me someone had a pot shot at you with a missile, I know about that; just as I know it could have been an electronic fault in your aircraft .

“With respect, sir. That was no electronic fault. There are other matters also. I wouldn’t break field rules if there were no reason.

M motioned to an armchair. Bond sat, and M took his usual place behind the desk. “You’d better… he was cut short by the red telephone purring. He lifted it to his ear saying nothing.

Then M grunted twice, nodded at the receiver and recradled it.

“There was nobody on your back, anyway. We’re sure of that.

Now, if you’re certain about the missile - and I’m not - what did you come to talk about?”

Bond started at the beginning - the Sidewinder doing its best to blow him out of the sky, then, without a pause he went on with the story of First Officer Clover Pennington. “She says there are fifteen Wrens slated for attachment in Invincible, says it’s common knowledge,just as she says it’s common knowledge that I’m going to be there as well. I felt it vital that I talk directly to you, sir. This is a security matter, and I don’t like details being known to all and sundry. Particularly as you were so adamant that we kept to strict field rules, and I was to operate under deep cover. If a Wren First Officer’s blabbing about it, how do we know these BAST people haven’t got everything already?

Knowledge that the three admirals are going to be in Invincible, knowing I’m their Nanny, responsible for their safety? Damn it, sir, they can take me out any time they want. For all we know that Sidewinder was an attempt to remove me.” NI remained silent for a full minute, then cleared his throat.

The best thing would be to remove young First Officer Penington from the draft,” he growled. “But, if she’s not on the side of the angels, it might be best to leave her in play, where you can keep an eye on her. It’s all very interesting though, especially in view of this.” He opened a plain buff file and carefully removed two stapled pages, handing them over to Bond.

They were a standard maintenance form, dated the previous day and referring to a detailed examination of the Harrier in which he had flown on the day of the missile incident. Bond’s eyes moved down the pages, taking in the technical detail as he went. Most of it referred to a pair of faulty transponders, part of the internal warning system.

The summary and conclusion were written in a neat hand towards the bottom of the second page insert writing here.

“Nice to know who’s on your side, sir. I can assure you there was no transponder failure. That was a missile, and First Officer Pennington seems to be doing her best to play it down. To cover her own pretty little backside do you think, sir?”

M grunted, took back the report then looked at Bond with his unflinching damnably clear grey eyes. “You are absolute4, one hundred percent certain, 007.”

“Stake my life on it, sir.

M nodded. “In the circumstances, while it would appear to be normal security to have this young woman removed from the draft going to Invincible, I prefer to leave things as they are. At least you’re alerted.”

A tap at the door brought Davison in to announce that luncheon was served. “Nothing much, even for a Sunday.” M pulled himself from his chair. “Kind of thing you like though, 007. Cold roast beef, new potatoes and a little salad. That do you?”

“Make a change from wardroom food, sir.”

“I’ll be bound,” M gave an imitation which came as near to a laugh as you would ever get from him. “Good for you. Get all the more unpleasant chemicals out of your bloodstream. Those chi-chi meals you’re always eating’ll be the death of you yet.”

Mrs. Davison assisted her husband to serve the modest meal which was very much to Bond’s taste - particularly the horseradish sauce, rough-cut and made by Mrs. Davison herself.

“Calculated to clear the sinuses,” M commented. “Can’t do with that namby-pamby creamed stuff they’re always serving these days. Sans taste, sans bite, sans everything horseradish should be.”

When they were alone once more, Bond slowly introduced the question that had been most on his mind - “Might I know, sir, exactly why we have to put up with fifteen Wrens in Invincible?

I’m only as superstitious as the next sailor, so I personally think of it as bad luck - women on a naval vessel.”

“Not simply superstitious, but a solid male chauvinist pig, I’d say, Bond - whatever male chauvinist pig means, dratted bad use of language if you ask me. But you’ve asked me something more tricky.