John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

“You lead. Tell me where they are,” Bond muttered as they went down the companionway.

“Probably dead,” Clover choked. “My orders to Deeley were to chop them if anything happened.”

“Well get a move on.

At the bottom of the companionway, an SBS man loomed out of the tear-gas, motioning them to avoid the body that lay sprawled across the narrow passageway. Bond had to push Clover on as she was fighting For air in the stinging choking tear-gas, but there was no doubt of their destination. They were heading for the Briefing Room in which the secret summit had been held.

“Watch for the next corner!” Bond shouted, knowing it would angle around into the area which led to the Briefing Room. There would be at least one girl on watch there.

One of the SBS men leaped forward, and fired twice with a silenced H & K. They followed to see that another Wren had gone down, directly in front of the Briefing Room bulkhead.

They were half-way down the passage when there came a crack and thump from the far end. One of the SBS men was flung against the metal wall, along which he seemed to spin three times before sprawling on his back. But before the casualty even hit the deck, the American Marine fired, four times in quick succession. Peering through the smoke, Bond saw that the unspeakable Donald Speaker had said his last word.

They were at the Briefing Room bulkhead door now and Bond signalled a cover from both sides. Then, his hand slammed down on the heavy door handle and, as the metal swung back, so he pushed Clover inside.

“No! Sarah! No, it’s She was thrown back by a burst of fire from inside, then the marine leaped forward and aimed two precise shots.

Bond came from behind him, just in time to see Sarah Deeley catapult back against the metal wall, hitting it with a thump which must have broken bones, and sliding down it, taking a smear of blood with her.

Lying on camp beds, set in a neat row in front of where Deeley had been standing, were the silent, still figures of President Bush, Chairman Gorbachev, and Prime Minister Thatcher.

Bond moved forward, and felt each neck in turn. They were alive, and, it seemed, unharmed. M S Gorbachev was actually snoring.

The US Marine Corps Major came into the room. “We have control of the ship, Captain Bond,” he reported.

“Well, you’d best wake up Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley, and organise some way of getting these rather important hostages off the ship and back to their own countries without any Press interference.

I’ve got a date in Gibraltar.”

Tunnels of Love?

Bassam Baradj had not slept well. The telephone call had come in at around three in the morning, and he had gone out onto the balcony, feeling elated.

For the first time since the operation started he broke radio silence with his wonderful girls on Invincible. Even then, he did it by tape on the short-wave, high-frequency transceiver which had stood by his bed since his arrival at The Rock Hotel.

He tuned to the correct frequency, and then chose the right tape.

The Scratch tape, which would tell them that the three countries had accepted his terms and ultimatum. The girls would still listen out, and remain very alert, for had he not told the Americans, Russians, and British, that, should he be doublecrossed, or if anyone showed themselves near to him, he would have Bush, Gorbachev and Thatcher exterminated with exceptionally extreme prejudice immediately?

He stood on the chill balcony, repeating the tiny signal, Scratch-Scratch-Scratch-Scratch again and again. They would have it by now, so he went back inside, closed the balcony windows, pulled the curtains, destroyed the Scratch tape, and put the little transceiver into its imitation-leather case then made certain the other two tapes were there, ready for use.

He placed the machine back on his bedside table, then changed his mind, opened it all up again and inserted the Desecrate tape, just to be on the safe side. If they did doublecross him, make an attempt on his life, try to arrest him on the way to the airport, or come thundering down on him with jets as he picked up the money, he would at least have time to press the button. This was a very high quality machine, and, if anything went wrong - even though the thought was remote - he would be able to see things through to the end.

But how could anything go wrong? They had agreed. These people did not normally agree, but, in these special circumstances, it was the only thing they could do - give in to his demands. He lay down on the bed, but only dozed, waking again at six in such a state of elation that he might as well have been high on some drug.

He calmed down, drifting into a light sleep, waking again at seven-thirty. Outside, the sun was shining. An omen, he thought.

Baradj rang down for breakfast, which came within twenty minutes.

He ate heartily: grapefruit juice, toast, bread rolls, preserves and coffee. Then he showered, towelled himself off and looked at himself in the mirror, turning this way and that to admire his physique. He was not a vain man, nor a stupid man.

Far from it. But he had come a long way, and part of his success had been to keep fit. He might lack a six-foot stature, but his muscle tone, and high degree of fitness made up for that. Nobody could deny that Bassam Baradj - who, by tonight, would have the name and identity of someone else - was very fit for his age.

He sat, naked, on the bed and put a call through to Switzerland.

At the clinic, high in the mountains above Zurich, they confirmed his booking. Even the timing had been immaculate. He began to dress, thinking he had been foolish and paranoid yesterday.

Yesterday, when he had gone out for his walk, he thought they were watching him. There was a man in the foyer who followed him a little way, then another, different man appeared behind him. When he got back to the hotel there had been a woman, who seemed to be observing him with almost nonchalant care.

Or had he imagined it?

He dressed, the light-weight beige suit made for him in Savile Row; the cream shirt, from Jermyn Street; and the gold cufflinks he had bought in Asprey’s; the British Royal Marine tie. He laughed as he knotted the tie. This was the supreme two-fingered gesture.

Last, he took the soft pigskin shoulder-holster out of the drawer, and strapped it on, adjusting it so that it lay comfortably just under his left arm. He put on his jacket and picked up the mm Beretta 93A, slammed a magazine into the butt and worked the slide mechanism. He did not leave it on safety. Baradj had more than a passing acquaintance with pistols and he knew that, as long as you were safe, careful and practised often, there was no point in putting the weapon on safety. A man could lose precious seconds by using the safety catch. He was wrong, of course, according to the manuals and instructors, but he always played things his way.

The Beretta was comfortable under his shoulder, and he hummed a phrase from “My Way” as he slipped three spare magazines into the specially built pockets in the jacket. He picked up his wallet and credit-card folder, dumping them in the pockets he always used for them, then slung the transceiver’s thin strap over one shoulder, and his camera over the other. He was ready.

The maid could keep the pyjamas, and there was nothing to incriminate him. Another pigskin shaving-bag would cost him a great deal less than the hotel bill, so why pay the hotel bill?

It was hard to believe this was February. The sun shone and the sky was blue. A faint breeze stirred the flowers. But all was well with the world, and he had spotted no familiar figures in the hotel foyer. It must have been his imagination. So, he could walk. Walking was good, and, in the end, faster than facing the crammed Gibraltar traffic.