John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

Wanted it checked out by Washington before he would okay Dancer coming in for Stewards’ Meeting. Now I’m in the cold.

I have to make the decision. And I have to make it without knowing what Morgan wanted.

“I really shouldn’t worry too much about The telephone buzzed and Bond excused himself to take the call. It was Surgeon Commander Grant.

“The place is cleaned up, sir; and I took the liberty of having some photographs done - you know the kind of thing: body in situ, face, wound, all that stuff Seen it on the moving pictures. Can’t be accurate about time of death, but I’d say it was within an hour of my seeing the body.”

“Mmm-huu. It wasn’t long before I saw it. Just keep everything on ice. I’ll see you later.” He cradled the telephone and turned back to Gudeon. “Don’t bother yourself too much, sir. I’d okay Dancer coming in on schedule.”

“Easy as that?”

“Just as easy. I think I know what he wanted checked out. I think it was why he got chopped.”

“If you know, then it’s your duty to share it with me.”

“I said I think I know, sir, and that’s a long way from knowing.”

“And you won’t even “Sorry, Admiral Gudeon, but, no. I carry the ball on this one.

I think I know, and I’ll take steps to make certain and even secure matters before Dancer gets here. Anything strange, and I’ll have Stewards’ Meeting waved off. In the meantime, I’d suggest that you go back to the bridge and take Mr. Israel with you. Also, I’d be grateful if you don’t talk to anyone else about this. And I do mean anyone, sir.

“If you say so, Bond.” Gudeon did not look happy, but 007

wanted to leave it there. There was a lot for him to do before he could do something definite about the operation they called Stewards’ Meeting. First, he had to do his Sherlock Holmes imitation, and see everybody concerned, then it was essential for him to get his own people to check on the names Edgar Morgan had listed on the tape - even the Royal Navy people. He sat back, making quick decisions on whom he would speak to next.

It was three o’clock in the morning. Nobody was going to be happy, but he considered it best for him to stick with people he knew were awake. He called the bridge and asked to see Admiral of the Fleet Sir Geoffrey Gould and his Flag Lieutenant, Mr. Brinkley. They were with him in five minutes, and he broke the news, followed by the standard questions - had Brinkley been with the Admiral since dinner?

Had they parted company at any time? The answers were yes, and no, respectively.

Gould was shaken. “You do not get murdered on one of HMs ships,” he said, echoing Gudeon.

“It seems that we are the exception that proves the rule,” Bond said briskly.

“Could we be of any help, James?” Ted Brinkley asked.

“Possibly, but not yet. I gather all the Russians are English speakers.”

“Yes.” Brinkley had got to that information very quickly.

“First thing Moggy and I did. Try out their English. Bit funny, though.”

“How funny?”

“The leader of their pack - Stura, Yevgeny Stura. Fellow with the scar and the vodka nose.”

“What about him?”

“He tried to play silly buggers. Pretended he had no English.”

“But he has?”

“He’s been up with Admiral Pauker on the bridge all night.

Speaks English like a native. Slight American accent, but he speaks and understands. Just wouldn’t let on to us when we were with them. The Attache’ with all the honeypot trappings, aimed at you, did the translating. Rum.”

“Not really,” Bond cocked an eyebrow. “KGB games. They often try that kind of thing on. It’s almost a standard dnll.” He asked them to get back on the bridge, talk to nobody and ask the Captain if he would request, most respectfully, if Admiral Pauker and Yevgeny, he with the vodka nose, would come down to see him.

They arrived a few minutes later, and Bond went through the same routine. Oddly, Yevgeny Stura went through the charade of being a non-English speaker with the connivance of Pauker until Bond reminded them forcibly that they were on British territory and he, for one, would see to it that the most important part of Landsea “89, namely Stewards’ Meeting, would be called off if they were not honest with him.

Admiral Pauker became belligerent, shouting at Bond, telling him that he was the highest-ranking officer on board - “I am the entire head of the Soviet Navy. I will have you stripped of rank, ground to dust, for speaking like this!” he ended.

“Do as you will, Admiral, but as I am in charge of security for the whole of Stewards’ Meeting, I can also make demands, and I’m not putting up with Mr. Stura’s games. He speaks English and understands it. I know it, he knows it. We all know it. So, no more games.

The Russians disappeared, slightly cowed, and Bond sent the marine guard to get Mr. Camm.

Moggy Camm bore out his partner’s story, and answered all the questions quickly and with no hesitation. They had agreed that Ted Brinkley would take tonight’s duty with Gould. Moggy was due to relieve him at dawn. He had seen and heard nothing out of the ordinary until the activity outside his cabin, then the marine and his sergeant wakening him.

There were other obligatory questions. What time had he turned in? About eleven. Did you see anyone or anything before then? He had taken a drink with the other two Russians, and Bruce Trimble, the black American. They had a special little messdeck, with alcohol on tap one of the small CPO messdecks which had been set aside for their relaxation. They had all retired about the same time. You all come down together? Yes.

One at a time he went through the other bodyguards. Bruce Trimble backed Moggy and the two Russians. The Russians backed everybody else.

The other American Secret Service man, Stanley Hare, had turned in early, “At the same time as Ed. We talked a while; Trimble came back and we all grabbed a few Zs.” No, he had not heard Ed leave the cabin.

In spite of the noise from the Tannoy system, Stan had heard nothing until the marine banged on the door. “In our job, you learn to sleep on a clothes line.”

Everyone was exceptionally helpful, so he sent for the marine sergeant.

Sergeant Harvey was your typical Royal Marines sergeant with no time for messing around with excuses.

Bond put it to him straight, and he answered just as clearly.

“I understand there was a problem over who was doing the guard duty down here, Sam’t Harvey.”

“Considerable problem, yes, sir.”

“How considerable?”

“When the balloon went up, as expected, at 23.59, all marines went to their action stations, sir. I, as duty sergeant, should have spotted the problem at once. I didn’t, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Around 00.20 hours, I realised we had nobody down here.

We’re stretched as it is - 42 Commando not having to do anything unless there’s a real flap on - so I sent two marines down with instructions to do one hour, then report to me. I had meant to sort out a couple more, but I didn’t, sir. My fault, I take any blame. The two on duty down here were authorised to go back to their normal posts.

When I remembered, I gave the orders on the bulkhead telephone. My fault, sir. Easy as that. I’ve questioned all concerned. Between them they reckon the posts were left without guard for ten minutes.

Me, being what I am, would add another five for luck.”

“There’s no blame, sam’t. One of those things, but what you’re saying is that people would be free to come and go between the prohibited areas for at least fifteen minutes. From around what?

01.15 and 01.30 hours?”

“About that, sir.”

“Right. Thank you.