John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

“You touch him?”

Clover shook her head, lips closed tightly as though she was fighting the urge to vomit.

Better get out. Go back and tell one of those marines that the Doc should bring down a couple of Sick Bay ratings to help clean up the mess.”

“I’ll do that from the nearest “phone.” A tall, grey-haired figure stood behind them. “Surgeon Commander Grant. Let’s take a look at the cadaver.

Bond had met Grant for a few seconds in the wardroom on his arrival aboard. The Doc appeared to be a no-nonsense man of few words.

He was in uniform but with his trousers tucked into green surgeon’s boots. “Leave him to me, then I’ll get one of my boys down with a spare set of wellies for you, Captain Bond. Blood’s the very devil to get off.”

Bond nodded and stood at the door as Grant splashed across the gore-swilled tiled deck. He bent over to examine the body, giving a little grunt of disgust. He shook his head, plodded back and picked up the telephone intercom on the wall in the passageway, dialling the Sick Bay number. “Barnes? Right, get down to 406. Wellies and rubber aprons. One spare pair of wellies, and rustle up a couple of lads with strong stomachs, squeegees and buckets. Quick as you can.” He turned to Bond, “Whoever did it wasn’t taking any chances, Captain Bond.

They’ve nearly taken his head off. Neat slit. Ear to ear. By the look of it, someone took him from behind, grabbed his hair and reached over with something very sharp. Who is he?”

“One of the American security. Head boy, I think. Nasty.”

“It would be stupid to ask if he had any enemies, because he obviously had at least one He trailed off as his two Sick Bay attendants arrived, followed by a pair of Ordinary Seamen carrying mopping-up gear.

“Oh, hell!” One of the Sick Bay attendants looked into the heads, then backed away.

“Just give Captain Bond the boots,” the Surgeon Commander said quietly. “Keep the cleaning up people away until he’s finished. Best get a gurney while you’re at it, we’ll have to put this one in the freezer.” Bond kicked off his shoes, pulled on the boots and made his way towards the body. It was Ed, no doubt about it, and he had died atrociously. Bond was even concerned about moving the body: afraid the head would part from the neck, for the slash across the throat had been long, hard and deep.

Pulling back the sleeves of his own navy blue RN issue pullover, Bond turned the body onto its side. His hands were wet with blood, but he reached into the dead man’s pockets, removing a wallet and two other pieces of ID. He was about to let the body drop back in place when he heard a minute scraping sound coming, it seemed, from under the Secret Service man’s right shoulder. Blood up to his elbow, Bond searched with his hand which connected with metal. He pulled, bringing out a small, battery-operated dictating-machine.

At the door again, arms held away from his body, Bond told the surgeon commander that he could get the place cleared up.

One of the Sick Bay attendants thoughtfully came forward to wipe the blood from his arms. He nodded thanks and set off back towards his own quarters.

There was some uproar in the section of passageway where the Admirals and their respective staffs were quartered. A marine sergeant raised his eyebrows as Bond approached. “Captain Bond, sir then he saw the blood, and the dripping miniature dictating-machine, “You all right, sir? Blimey, that genuine claret, sir?”

“Freshly bottled, sergeant, I’m afraid. We have a murder on our hands. What’s the situation here?”

“All playing up nasty, sir. All three Admirals are on the bridge with the Captain. Admiral Gould has one of his Flag Officers with him, a Lieutenant Brinkley; Lieutenant Camm wants permission to leave his quarters .

“Nobody leaves …” It was like a whip crack command.

“That’s what I’ve told them, sir. Posted extra sentries.”

“Good.

What other problems have we got?”

“Admiral Gudeon has one of his security people with him on the bridge, the other two, Mr. Stanley Hare and Mr. Bruce Trimble, the black gentleman - they’re playing merry hell.

They say they should be with their man at the whiff of any incident.”

“But they’re in their cabin?”

“Sir,” the sergeant acknowledged.

“Okay, keep them there. Tell them I’ll see them in due course.

The Russians?”

The sergeant sighed. “Very difficult, sir. All speak English, but they’re not being helpful.”

“The lady?”

“Miss Ratnikov? She seems a bit distraught. Seems as how she walked into the Wrens’ heads just after the body was . .

“Did she now. You will inform all of them that I’ll see them, independently, in my cabin within the hour.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“Just keep them quiet, sarge, and put one of your men on my cabin. I’ll be going up to the bridge soon. Nobody goes into my quarters, and I mean nobody, not even your Captain of Marines, without my saying so.

Particularly while I’m seeing the Captain on the bridge.”

The sergeant nodded. “Good as done, sir.”

Bond washed the blood off himself, then cleaned the dictating machine, and took a quick look at the victim’s ID. His name had been Edgar Morgan, and it was clear that he was the senior officer of the Secret Service team. He shuffled through the wallet, and found a second laminated ID card, tucked deep into a zippered pocket, so he looked at the photograph of Morgan and read the magic words. Mr. Morgan was not regular Secret Service.

He was only on attachment from other duties in Naval Intelligence, where he held the rank of Commander.

He dried off the dictating-machine and saw that the one small cassette had run all the way through. He checked the batteries, then operated the rewind. The tiny tape scrolled back and he pressed the Play button, saw the red light come on, and then adjusted the volume.

The dead Ed Morgan’s voice came out clear from the tiny speaker.

“Report Four. To be translated in plain cipher and squirted at first opportunity via HMS ThvThdbk. Number 23X5. Request all detailed background on following names. First, Russian officers, possible KGB or GRU. Nikola Ratnikov, assigned as Russian Naval Attache; Yevgeny Stura, Gennady Novikov and Ivan Tiblashin. Also request further information on the following members of the British Royal Navy Bond’s eyes widened as he listened to this particular roll of honour. “If all cleared and genuine,” the voice continued, “I suggest Dancer cleared for RV as arranged. If not cleared, will definitely advise abort Stewards’ Meeting. Repeat Then came the other sounds: the cry, the thump as the small metal recorder hit the floor, the final horrible sounds of Morgan’s death, followed by the muffled tape still running, and behind it other noises. A woman’s voice, then another. They were unclear, but he also thought he could hear a noIse, as though someone were trying to move the body. There was the muffled sound of footsteps on the tiles. Then silence.

The problem that concerned James Bond was the list of Royal Navy personnel that the late Ed Morgan was trying to have cleared with Washington. It was quite obvious that there was some communications arrangement with Invincible - probably an American cipher machine had been installed. The whole thing would have been automatic: the dictating-machine’s tape would be fed onto a cipher tape which would translate it into whatever random jumble they were using, and the entire message would be squirted to Washington in a fraction of a second. That was a secondary business, though. The real worry lay in the list of people Morgan wanted checked out.

Bond picked up the “phone and dialled the bridge. A young midshipman came on, and, in a few seconds, following some urgent instructions, Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley spoke, “Be quick about it, Bond. I’m trying to get this force through the Channel without Blue Side’s submarines blowing us all to hell.