John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

He followed her, trying to keep close to the wall in the darkness, wincing in anticipation of the fatal burst.of machine-gun fire that would surely come at any moment. Somewhere from outside, a fair way off, he heard the stutter of a car ignition, then the grind of gears.

Beatrice had reached the gate without any further shots coming out of the night, turning her head and calling, low-voiced, “The keys, James. You have the keys.”

He already had them out on the penlight ring in his left hand, running his fingers through them to select the key to the inner gate.

Beatrice had stopped with her back to the wall, trying to find cover in the slim stern of a vine as Bond passed her, fumbling with the keys. It took around twenty seconds which seemed like an hour, but, when the key turned, there was Beatrice at his back, preparing to give covering-fire.

Nobody. No movement. No sudden fire slashing through the night.

Only wet spots of blood around the gate, showing dark, like oil, in the small beam from the penlight.

They spread out, Bond moving left to the car, the girl to the right, crouching and ready, heading for the main gates.

It took thirty seconds to give the Fiat a perfunctory going over.

It was locked and untouched. They both reached the gates, and saw that they had been breached with a lock-pistol, the bolt of which had smashed out the flat oblong mechanism, as it was propelled at high speed by a carbon dioxide cartridge.

Together they even ventured into the road, Bond crossing first while Beatrice covered him. For ten minutes or so they offered themselves as targets. Nothing. Had the team been frightened off so easily? To the girl he said they should try and secure the gate.

She nodded, “I have a chain and padlock. I’ll get them now.

She moved quickly back into the turning circle within the gates, and sped up the steps towards the villa.

Bond looked over the Fiat again, then leaned against the wall.

Why all this trouble for me? he asked himself. Certainly the supposedly undercover job on The invincible had responsibilities. But taking out one man, himself, would make no lasting difference: someone would take his place. He recalled M’s words about their intelligence-gathering. “They imagine you’re unique,” the Old Man had said. “They think your presence on Invincible is very bad medicine for them.” NI had made a sarcastic one-note laugh. “I suppose BAST and its leaders are your fan club, 007.

You should send them an autographed picture.

Bond shrugged in the dark. That was not the point. He was the stalking-horse, the tethered goat who might bring BAST to him. It was a pity they had obviously managed to spirit away the member of the team Beatrice had winged. But it was thorough thinking on their part.

There was plenty of time and it would be best to move one injured man or woman to safety before they tried again. Later tonight - or morning as it was now? He looked at his watch. Three-thirty on a cold and dangerous morning, and all was not well.

He heard Beatrice come down the steps, two at a time, but wonderfully light on her feet.

Together they wrapped the chain around the gates, securing the ground bolts which went into metal and concrete holes, then clicking the large, strong padlock into place. A last look around and they turned back, through the second gate, which Bond locked, and went around the villa to the rear terrace.

“I’ll make coffee.” Her tone had something about it that you did not argue with, so he unlocked the rear windows, and let her go in first. When he turned the lights on she said something about the place looking as though gypsies had been camping there. “You were being pretty thorough. Anyone coming in here would have made quite a din.”

“That was the general idea,” Bond smiled. “I didn’t know I had a bodyguard so close. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Not in my bnel,” she said, almost curtly and in perfect English.

“I owe you my life.”

“Then you owe me mine.” She turned, smiling, putting the pistol down on one of the tables. “How can you ever repay me?”

“We’ll think of some way.” Bond’s mouth was only inches from hers. He hovered, then turned away. “Coffee,” he said.

“We must stay alert, they could be back.”

“It’ll be light soon,” Beatrice said, busying herself in the kitchen. “I doubt they’ll return in the daytime.”

“How much do you know?”

“That you’re here, and that there’s a contract out on you.”

“And how much do you know about contracts?”

“I’m fully trained.”

“That’s not the answer. I asked how much do you know about contracts?”

“I know it’s some crazy terrorist organisation called BAST.

And I’ve been told that they know where to find you, that they’ll go to great lengths .

“Suicidal lengths, Beatrice. That’s why we shouldn’t restrict ourselves. They can try to get me on the street, or here, by day or night. I’m the magnet, they are the iron filings. We want one of them. Alive if possible. So, we have to keep our guards up twenty-four hours a day.”

She remained silent for the few minutes it took her to pour boiling water over the freshly ground coffee in the tall cafeteria, adjust the lid and push down on the plunger. “Are you intimidated, James?” Her eyes did not move from the coffee-pot.

“How intimidated?”

“Because you were given a woman bodyguard.”

Bond laughed, “Far from it. Why do some women automatically think that people in our trade are anti-feminist? Well-trained women are sometimes better than men in situations like this.

You nearly took one of them Out tonight. I didn’t get near. You were also quicker than I. No. Not guilty to being intimidated.”

“Good.” She raised her head, the dark eyes flashing with something which could have been either pride or power. “Good.

Because you’re in my charge. I’m the boss, and you do as I say.

Understand?”

The smile disappeared from Bond’s face. “I have no orders.

Just act naturally, they said. We’ll have someone watching out for you, they said.”

“And that someone is me.” Beatrice was pouring the coffee.

“Black? Good. Sugar?”

“No.”

“Wise choice. If you’re worried about taking orders from a woman, why don’t you telephone London. Give them the day’s code for me and they’ll tell you.” Her eyes met his again and this time they locked.

For half a dozen heartbeats it seemed to be a battle of wills.

Then Bond nodded curtly and crossed the room to the telephone. He could not speak in clear language, but there were enough double-talk phrases for him to get at the truth.

They picked up on the third ring. “Predator for Sunray.” His anger betrayed itself in his clipped tone. He took field orders from M; or, when necessary, Bill Tanner. For Beatrice to reveal that she, as his bodyguard, was in charge scraped at the nerve ends of his considerable pride.

A second later a voice - that of the Duty Officer - said, “Sunray.

Yes?”

“Contact with Boxcar.” This last was an agreed running cipher for BAST.

“Serious?” the DO asked.

“Serious enough. Also contact with Hellkin.”

“Good.”

“Request order of battle, Sunray.”

“Hellkin leads. You follow, Predator.”

“Thank you, Sunray.”

Bond’s face was stiff with anger, but turned away from Beatrice as he recradled the telephone. He shrugged, “It appears you’re right.”

He rearranged his face, “So, Beatrice Hellkin, what’re your orders?”

She nodded toward the large mug placed on the table in front of him. “First, drink your coffee.” She was sitting on one of the big chairs, her body stretched back and a pleasant, friendly smile playing around her lips. She was dressed in black jeans and roll-neck, an ensemble that was practical and accentuated her figure. The jeans were tight, clinging to her long legs, while the roll-neck showed off her breasts, small and firm against the cotton.