John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

“Northanger?”

Bond repeated, his tone suggesting disbelief.

“That’s what the secret guidebooks call us. Name’s Toby Lellenberg by the way.” In spite of his stature it was like shaking hands with a gorilla. “Sit down, Captain, we have a couple of things to talk about.”

Bond sat. The chair had been converted from an Fl4 pilot’s seat, and he had to admit it was comfortable. “What kind of things, Mr…

. er.

“No rank. Langley don’t really like rank. Just call me Toby.

Anyway, this is one of those sideways career offers - Officer Commanding Northanger. All I do is sit on my butt, shiver in winter, sweat in summer and view the passing spies. You, Captain, are one of our VIP passing spies.”

“I really need some evidence of that, Toby. People can get burned by being identified as passing spies.

“No problem. I call you James, by the way?”

“Why not?”

Toby went behind his desk and tackled a large, solid steel filing cabinet which appeared to require three keys and two digital touch-pads to open it. For a moment of sheer hellishness, Bond had the urge to sing “I did but see a passing spy” to the tune of”There was a lady sweet and kind.” He managed to quell the urge. The whole set-up in this place was so interesting, and unlikely, that it helped to soothe any pain that might still be raging in his emotions.

“There you go. Both versions. Cipher and the en clair I punched out on my own little gizmo in that safe.”

He took the two proffered sheets and saw the double-check failsafe on the original cipher. It was, undoubtedly, straight from M. The failsafe was unfakeable. The text read FROM CSSUK TO OC NORTHANGER BASE MESSAGE CONTINUES THANK YOU FOR ASSISTANCE REFERENCE OUR PREDATOR STOP WOULD APPRECIATE A DEBRIEF COPY ME ONLY STOP THIS OFFICER MUST BE KEPT IN DOWNLOAD UNTIL JANUARY TWO STOP WILL SIGNAL HOW HE IS TO PROCEED AND JOIN HIS SHIP ON JANUARY THREE STOP. CSS FINIS.

“Happy about that, James?” The smooth little map was smiling.

“You obviously have the facilities for a debrief.”

“I don’t get the best men in the business, but we do have a representative team here, yes. One of your own guys: fella called Draycott, know him?”

“Heard of but not known.”

“Well, out to grass, like the two guys we got from Langley.

One of them’s called Mac - built like a fire-plug - and the other one’s just known as Walter. Walter knows where all the bodies’re buried and won’t tell a soul. Guess that’s why they’ve sent him here. When you get a posting to Northanger don’t expect to see any further active duty. Backwater. But you’ll get a good debrief.”

“Fine, as long as Julian’s not involved.”

“Ha!” Toby put a brown hand on the corner of his desk, raised his head and barked out a one-note laugh of derision. “Julian Tomato.

Ha!” He pronounced it “Tom-ay-toe” like any other red-blooded American, so the play on words did not really work.

“That Julian. Y’know he couldn’t pour piss outa a boot, even if the instructions was written on the heel. You fancy some chow, James?

We’re havin’ a full old-fashioned Christmas dinner tonight. Turkey “n’ all the trimmings, plum pudding, the entire works.”

“Sounds fun.” He looked at his watch. “But first I should make a call.”

“Yeah?” Was the suspicion imagined?

“Change of contact code for the day. It’s past time.”

“Of course it is. Sure, use the “phone here.” He pointed to one of five different coloured telephones on his desk. “You want me to leave?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Bond was already dialling.

This time London picked up on the fourth ring. “Predator,” said Bond. “Day three.”

“Catclaw,” the voice said from the distant line. “Repeat.

Catclaw.”

“Acknowledge.” Bond was about to put down the receiver when the distant voice asked, “Is everything smooth?”

“They tell me it is.”

“Acknowledge,” and the line went dead. So they were still being clever. But this time the code was very much tied to the situation. Dante’s lines once more went through his head Front and centre here, Grizzly and Hellkin .

You too, Dead dog.

Curlybeard, take charge of a squad often.

Take Grafter and Dragontooth along with you.

Pigfusk, Catclaw, Cramper and Crazyred.

“You want an okay from me?” Toby was adjusting his tie in a wall-mirror overprinted with the cover of Time magazine, so that you got on that coveted cover every time you looked.

“Be mighty civil of you, Toby.” Lellenberg gave him a little leer, “You being’ funny, son?”

“Good,” he grinned. “My money today’s on Catclaw.”

“And you’d be right,” Bond laughed, and they left the office together.

The party was held in a large room which was obviously used as the officers’ canteen in the senior ranks’ hut. They had it decorated with the kind of stuff you picked up for a small fortune at stores in the US with names like Ito Oor ma. It all looked lovely and unreal. Magnificent angels held unknown wind instruments to their lips as they shimmered on trees dripping snow; piles of gifts were heaped under the largest, and most magical tree which had “Victorian” trimmings hanging from it, and electric lights that looked like real candles with moving flames.

Clover Pennington was the only woman present and, when she saw Bond, she detached herself from a handful of young officers and came over to him. She wore a tight little black number that had probably come from Marks and Spencer but looked quite good among the suits.

“Forgive me, sir,” she said, kissing him, a little hard and on the lips. “It’s allowed.” She pointed above him at the dangling mistletoe.

“You’re going to do sterling service tonight, First Officer Pennington.” Bond smiled but did not unbend.

“Catclaw,” she said quietly.

“Correct. Catclaw.”

“They’ve put me next to you at dinner, sir. Hope you don’t mind.

“As long as we don’t talk shop.” She nodded, bit her lip, and, together they moved into the crowd.

During the meal, he did not do much talking. In his time, James Bond had learned around four hundred ways of killing: four hundred and three if you counted gun, knife and strangling rope. He was also aufait with the art of paper-tripping- supplying oneself with necessary documents to survive in a foreign country.

Now, he figured out what he could recall of the number of ways he could fake a death. Die, yet not die, at home or abroad. Privately or in full, plain sight. They added up to around a score, though he was in two minds whether he now knew the twenty-first way of doing it. Or was it still wishful thinking?

The dinner was excellent, and Bond watched his intake of alcohol, though others did not. Julian Farsee was well away, while one or two of the other staff became rowdy. One couple of heavy, battered men even had a row which almost led to a full-scale fight until Toby Lellenberg stepped in, his slow drawl taking on a whiplash quality.

“Just like Christmas at home,” Bond said, unsmiling, to Clover.

“You staying here long, by the way?”

“I leave on thirty-first to get the Wren draft ready.”

“Back to RNAS Yeovilton?”

She nodded, “I thought this was a no-shop evening.” Then, quite suddenly, “Can’t we make it up, sir? Sort of start again James?

Please.”

“Maybe, when it’s all over. Not yet though. Not until you know-what’s out of the way.

She nodded and looked miserable, though not as miserable as some of the faces Bond saw at breakfast the next morning. The party, they told him, had gone on quite late.

Braying Julian came over during breakfast and said it would be nice if he could be in Suite Number Three at ten-thirty. “The debrief,” he explained.