seen on his way in.
It took time to get the little craft inboard on the starboard side. Time and a lot of sweat, but eventually she was there and he was able to slip down the ladder and jump into the cockpit.
The engine started immediately, at the first try, and he swung the boat away from Manticore, pointed it in the direction of the French ship, opened the throttle to full power and, with some relief, felt the craft leap forward and begin to bump across the water.
As he came closer to the warship, he could make out the crowd gathering into a series of raked seats which had been arranged facing the stern and the helicopter. The machine looked like a larger and more chunky version of the old Cheyenne with a big bulbous nose, a long, sleek cockpit canopy and bigger stubby wings from which hung a very mixed bag of weapons - rockets mainly, though above the wing a couple of large calibre machine guns took care of any close-in firing.
He should have thought about this sooner: the file had been on his desk before leaving for the evaluation in the field. The Tigre, still officially classified, France’s advanced piece of flying hardware, was to be shown off to a load of bigwigs whom the French Navy were hosting at an all-expenses-paid junket in Monte Carlo.
When he reached the side of the ship, Bond had to wait in line while two other tenders discharged officers and their wives.
In the main they were in uniform and were obviously naval or air attach~s or visiting high~ranking diplomats.
Finally, he climbed the ladder and flashed his official card at the young sub.lieutenant. “Commander Bond.
Royal Navy Intelligence,’ he snapped as though he would personally rip the nose off anyone who doubted him. The young officer did not even query him as he turned towards the quarterdeck and saluted.
He was walking towards the stern, eyes everywhere looking for Ms Onatopp and her “Admiral’, but they seemed to have disappeared, or were out of view on the port side. On the helicopter pad the Tigre’s big engines started up, then were eased back into idle, the main rotor blades turning lazily as a ground crew member climbed down from the high canopy.
He was about to find some way across when there was a familiar click from the public address system and a voice began an official welcome “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin the demonstration of this extraordinary aircraft.” The announcement was in French, rapidly repeated in English, German and Italian.
Discreetly, Bond moved through the invited guests and managed to find a seat on the very edge of the viewing platform as the commentary continued “What you are going to see is a demonstration of Europes addition to modern warfare: the first working prototype of the Tigre helicopter. Uniquely manoeuvrable, the Tigre helicopter not only uses the latest in Stealth technology, but also it is the only helicopter to be hardened against all forms of electronic interference, radio jamming and electromagnetic radiation. Now, the Tigre’s test crew are ready.
Let me introduce you to Lieutenant-Commander Bernard Jaubert and Lieutenant Fran~ois Brouse.” The band struck up “Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines’, and two figures appeared from the crew room which was obviously situated somewhere to their right on the port side.
They were already in flight coveralls, with helmets in place, and when they came into Bond’s line of vision as they reached the helicopter, he felt a lurch of recognition.
The pilot was slightly built, but he could identify the walk anywhere: the cat-like tread of Xenia Onatopp.
There was a pause of maybe three seconds as the two figures swarmed up the ladder taking them to the long domed canopy. They were about to settle into the cockpit and electronics station when Bond leaped to his feet and lunged forward, heading straight towards the helicopter.
There were a couple of screams and some shouts.
Bandsmen were scattered, and he had almost reached the edge of the pad before several brawny Naval Police grabbed him.
“Stop them!” he yelled. “They’re not your crew!
Stop !” He was thrown to the deck struggling, while the police held him down. He sucked in air and began to shout again, but was drowned out by the Tigre’s engines.
An officer had joined them and was mouthing something at him, but his hearing was blanked off by the thunder from the chopper.
He threw one of his captors off and battled his way to his feet, still restrained by the other three as he watched the machine take off, lifting very fast and then going into an almost impossible Rate Fiv turn, something you did not see helicopters do as a rule. There was a scatter of applause from the assembled dignitaries as the helicopter pointed its nose towards the sky and climbed with a speed that seemed to match some jet fighters, then it fell away, doing a perfect Immelman Turn, and at that moment a white-faced naval policeman came running up, almost babbling at the officer -“They’re dead.” He was breathless.
“In the crew room, sir. The flight crew’re dead. The Lieutenant Commander’s been shot. Lieutenant Brouse has had his throat cut!” The officer looked around him, as though he were searching for some way to reverse the facts he was hearing.
In the distance the engine noise of the Tigre was getting fainter.
“You are part of some plot.” He stubbed a finger into Bond’s chest “Who are you?”
“Commander Bond, Royal Navy. Intelligence. I was trying to warn you.
“But who the hell.. ?”
“Janus,’ Bond mouthed, his eyes hard and his face set as though carved in hard stone. “The Russian Janus Crime Syndicate.”
“So, the Janus Crime Syndicate?” M raised an eyebrow and looked across her desk at Bond.
M’s office had changed beyond belief since Bond’s old Chief had retired. There was no rich smell of his pipe, no soft leather chairs, no hint of the Old Man’s brilliant career in the Royal Navy. The new M had brought with her the sterility of the current technocracy. The furniture was almost a parody of high tech office fittings. There was a Scandinavian influence: posture improving chairs, her own chair which was not a chair but something into which you appeared to contort your body.
The black desk held no clutter but for the very large computer monitor and a moveable lamp plus, naturally, several colour coded telephones. M glanced up at Bond and fixed him with a long serious look. She wore a severe black business suit, her hair was styled very short, almost a thin cap on her scalp, at her neck was one piece of jewellery: a single white on blue cameo brooch, clasped high on her blouse.
Looking at her eyes, Bond thought of the old joke about the bank manager with one glass eye. People could always tell which was the glass one because it was the eye that showed compassion.
“So, you say Janus?” She was all business, even brusque.
“I think it follows, ma’am. A known Janus confidante, Ms Onatopp; a yacht belonging to a known Janus front.
A disappearing American admiral. —“Who you say is dead.”
“I saw the body. He was very dead.”
“It’s a shade too pat for my liking.”
“You mean Janus is a little ham-fisted, leaving their pawmarks all over the place?”
“Precisely. The yacht had long gone before any authorities could get near. Gone, Bond. Vanished, Bond, as though it had never been…. “But there is a harbour record that it was there. The criminal organisations of the new Russia are not known for their subtlety, Ma’am.” She looked up at him to see if he was being frivolous, but his face did not betray his thoughts. The woman could take nothing at face value. He found her constantly querying undeniable facts. Perhaps this was her background, for she was an analyst at heart; a wrangler; a detector of deceit through columns of figures. Since she had taken over, almost everyone within the Service spoke of her as the Evil Queen of Numbers and many said she should really have been assigned to the Inland Revenue Service’s Special Office. Within two days of her appointment, Bill Tanner the old M’s faithful Chief of Staff - had almost resigned when his title was changed to Senior Analyst
“Yes, indeed, the Tigre its a wonderful thing; and it also vanished from the face of the earth. Any ideas on that, Commander Bond?”
“That’s its function in life, Ma’am. The Tigre’s entire purpose is to be invisible. “Yes, but..
“But half the French airforce were scrambled, every tracking station was put on alert? Yes, about twenty
