John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

“No, James. No. This is not funny. I am suspect that this man is not American. That he is not truly the Dan Woodward he claims.”

“What?” He sat up, a little twitch of anxiety deep in his stomach. “Why do you say this, Nikki?”

“How do I tell you? It is difficult. Look, is operational secret, but we must share it. Three years ago, I was assigned to work in Afghanistan. With KGB. We had a dossier on terrorists operating in the Gulf. You know the kind of thing. A mixed bag of names and suspicions. The man who says he is Dan Woodward. His picture was there in dossier. I forget what he was called then.

Hamarik, or Homarak. Something. James, you should take a look.”

“Keep quiet for now, Nikki. I’ll run it through London. Play it gently. I know how we can check it out.”

He went up to Communications and went through the same, inquisition by a different, armed marine, then got on with the job in hand. First a cipher concerning Speaker, followed by a second one to liaison with Grosvenor Square, requesting a photograph to be sent over the wires. When unbuttoned, the text read PLEASE HAVE PHOTOGRAPH OF DANIEL WOODWARD YOUR NI OFFICER STOP SEND MY EYES ONLY URGENT AND HIGHEST PRIORITY STOP PREDATOR STOP It had been a long, tiring day, so he hoped it would come in before he went to sleep.

He had just got into his bunk when there was a tap at the door.

He opened up, and Nikki slipped past him into the cabin.

“James, I’m sorry. I feel so alone. So afraid. It is like a feeling of doom. Please don’t send me away.” She wore a towelling robe which she slipped from her shoulders. There was nothing underneath. Bond’s mind travelled back to the villa on Ischia.

Once more he saw the doomed and treacherous Beatrice and realised that, whatever she had been, it would take a long time for her to be expunged from his emotions.

Now, looking at the young body of Nikki Ratnikov he realised that he was also lonely, worried, and in need of comfort. He turned the lock in the cabin door, and took her in his arms. For a long time she just clung to him, then, lifting her head, Bond put his own lips to hers, and they moved to the bunk, then drowned in each other as though this was the first and last time they would ever meet.

She left him at dawn, and he lay on the bunk alone, thinking they had both given and taken from each other. It was the most, except for dying, that any two humans could give.

Communications did not come back to him until almost ten thirty the next morning. There were two messages waiting for him. First, a flash from Regent’s Park authorising him to remove Speaker from the interrogation of Deeley if he was not happy.

The second was almost an afterthought, but in cipher.

PHOTOGRAPH OF USNI OFFICER WOODWARD FOIIOWS PAGE TWO And, sure enough, there was Daniel Woodward’s photograph with a number stamped beneath it. He looked into the face to see clearly that the Americans’ Daniel Woodward was certainly not the Woodward they had on board The invincible.

Bond went back to his cabin, clipped the holster to his belt, behind his right hip, inserted the Browning mm and sent for Bruce Trimble, Sergeant Harvey and four marines. Trimble arrived first, and Bond wasted no time in telling him they had at least an impostor, at worst a terrorist, in the shape of Dan Woodward.

“Was going to talk with you anyhow.” The massive Trimble looked menacing. “I been worned about that guy. Doesn’t mix, won’t be drawn.

Best get him in the brig.”

They went together - four marines with loaded weapons, Sergeant Harvey, Bond and Bruce Trimble who looked as though he would rather do the job single-handed.

Stan Hare told them that Woodward was in the cabin they all shared, so they took up assault positions and Bond raised his hand to knock. If possible he wanted to take the man clean, and with little violence, but, before his knuckles could tap on the metal door, the whole ship seemed to tremble under their feet, as though it had suddenly hit unexpected, and very rough water.

The jolt was so great that they were all thrown to one side. The explosion was not loud, more like a heavy-duty grenade exploding a long way off.

Then the warning klaxons started to wail.

The Rain in Spain Half an hour earlier, Petty Officer Blackie Blackstone sat in the Engine Room Control module, passing the time with the other members of his watch. None of them noticed that Blackstone idly kept scanning one particular section of the turbine controls those which would give indications of oil-temperature rise.

They had told him to expect the temperature on Number One turbine to start going up rapidly sometime between nine and eleven o’clock.

He spotted the first indicator at 09.45. Number One was showing a minute rise. By 10.00 it was really going up, and at 10.05 Blackie was able to give a startled cry - “Oil temp on Number One going into the red!” He moved towards the controls, checking off item by item, trying to locate any obvious fault. In fact he let his Chief Petty Officer discover the problem. It took less than a minute.

“It’s the bloody filters. Change Filter One on Number One Turbine, Blackie.”

“Done.” Blackstone went into the little store room behind the Control Room, signed for one filter and took a sealed package from the spare module rack.

“Want some help, Blackie?” the Killick asked.

“Nab. Take me a couple of minutes.” Blackie went into the Engine Room, making his way to the far side of the first turbine.

In case of accidents, he had already put the new, but doctored, filter, in its packaging on the shelf which held filters in the store room. As it was first in line, the filter would, naturally, be the one to be used if any emergency arose. They had told him that within five minutes, this filter would produce thick smoke and do a very small amount of damage which would cause the turbine to be shut down. The small pencil mark he had inscribed to identify this doctored package was there, so he had no worries.

Change the filter, he thought, then go back and wait for the panic.

Petty Officer Blackstone went through exactly the same sequence of events as he had done on the previous night: unscrewing the lugs and lifting the filter out with his long tweezers. He took the second, doctored filter in the tweezers and dropped it in place.

There was a great deal of smoke, then an explosion which lifted Blackstone off his feet, hurling him against the metal wall behind him and removing parts of his body as it did so. His last thought before his final sleep descended on him was “They said it would only be smoke.

They said there was no risk.” Orders were coming through the Tannoy system, spoken calmly but giving essentials - all fireproof doors to be closed up; damage control to their stations; all firefighting crews to the Engine Room. “This is not a drill! This is not a drill!” the disembodied voice repeated several times.

James Bond and his party were thrown around the passageway in front of the cabin door where they were preparing to take the substitute Dan Woodward into custody. Bond had been knocked off his feet by the lurch of the ship, and was just picking himself up, when the cabin door opened to reveal Joe Israel, looking puzzled. “Hey, what the hell’s going on? I was just He was cut off by Dan Woodward’s arm snaking around his neck.

“I think they want to have words with me, Joe.” Woodward was pressing against Israel. “Tell them I have a gun in your back.” He spoke loudly, but with confidence.

Israel let out a long sigh. “Okay. Yes, James, he’s pushing a large piece into my back, and I’ve no doubt he’ll take me out. I presume he’s not really “Desperate Dan Woodward? No, I’m not,” Abou Hamarik hissed. “This is most unfortunate, because I must now get off this ship alive. I would suggest Captain Bond takes me, unless he would like to see this wretched man blown apart. Now, just put down your weapons, all of you. Gently does it.Just put them down on the deck. This is really most inconvenient.”