me .
'There's always the possibility that someone's fingered me.' Bond brushed back the lock of hair which fell, like a comma, over his right eye. They reached the hotel entrance. 'You recognise the fellow he met? The swarthy man he seemed to be expecting?'
'The face was familiar. I've seen him before or a picture of him. Maybe he's on file. You?'
'Same here. I should know him.' Bond continued to talk, telling her they would have to leave Monte Carlo.
'It would be best for us both to get away in the Bentley.
We can be in Paris by lunchtime tomorrow.'
'Wait until we're upstairs,' she mumbled. When they reached her room, Percy became adamant. 'My brief was to leave here on my own. I have a car, and orders that we go separately. Under no circumstances are we to travel together. Those are my instructions, and there's no way I'm going to disobey them.'
'So?'
'So I agree with you, James. I think it's merely a coincidence. It's also a useful piece of information, knowing that Zwingli is alive. And I think we should leave; the sooner, the better.' For a while she fussed about Bond, like the proverbial mother hen, questioning him on all she had taught him.
He lugged the cases containing the Terror Twelve into his own room, together with the disk drives and utility programs on disks that would help him copy or recover Holy's listings, should he have the chance to get hold of any. Then they went their separate ways to pack, arranging to meet again for a quick farewell before Percy left a good half hour before Bond. They would both be taking roughly the same route, for Percy had to return to the C.I.A. Paris Station, while Bond faced the long drive back to Calais and the ferry to Dover. They met as planned in the garage after Percy's luggage had been loaded into the boot of her sporty little blue Dodge 600ES.
'You think we'll ever meet again?' Bond felt uncharacteristically inadequate.
She put her hands on his shoulders, looking into the startling blue eyes. 'We have to, don't we, James?' He nodded, knowing they shared each other's private thoughts.
'You know how to get in touch with me?' It was her turn to give a small nod. 'Or you can call me - when all this is over.' She rattled off a Washington number. 'If I'm not there, they'll pass on a message, okay?' Percy put her arms around his neck, kissing him, long and lovingly on the mouth. As she started up the Dodge, she leaned out of the window.
'Take care, James. I'll miss you.
Then she was gone, in a smooth, controlled acceleration, along the lane of parked cars, up the ramp and into the streets of Monaco and the night roads of France.
Half an hour later, Bond took the Mulsanne Turbo out of the same garage. Within minutes he was out of the principality, heading back along the Moyenne Corniche on the road that would take him on to the main A8 Paris Autoroute.
It was on the first leg of the journey - at about four in the morning - that Bond suddenly remembered the identity of the man Zwingli had met. Yes, there was a file. The thick dossier had been across Bond's desk on many occasions, and there was a general watching brief on Tamil Rahani. Part American, part Lebanese, and carrying at least two passports, Rahani was usually based in New York, where he was chairman and principal shareholder of Rahani Electronics. He had made several attempts to secure defence contracts from both the American and British governments, mainly for aircraft communications electronics, though there had been some computerisation involved.
Rahani had first approached the Service some five years before, handed on to them by the American Service. They had turned him down flat because of his many contacts with unfriendly agencies and uncertain governments. He was wealthy, smooth, sharp, intelligent, and slippery as an eel. The flag on the file, Bond remembered, was ciphered Possible clandestine. Probably subversive.
Once these facts had settled in his mind, Bond pushed the Mulsanne to its limit. All he wanted to do was to get back to England, report to M, and try to move in on Jay Autem Holy. The task was more inviting than ever, now he knew both something of the doctor's work, and the fact that Zwingli was alive, well, and - unless he was mistaken working hand in glove with a highly suspect international character.
On the A26 Autoroute to Calais, Bond found himself singing aloud.
Perhaps after the enforced idleness, the lack of excitement, the intrigues of M's plan to use him as bait, he was at last starting to feel the fire of action in his belly once more.
'Rolling home,' he sang, remembering far-off days when he would literally roll home, with brother officers, 'Rolling home, By the light of the silvery moon; I have twopence to lend, And twopence to spend, And twopence to send home to His voice trailed off. He could not bring himself to sing the last line, about sending money home to his wife.
For the ghost of his own dead wife, Tracy, still haunted him, even though he now missed Percy Proud's clear mind and agile, beautiful body. Weakness, he chided himself.
He was trained as a loner, one who acted without others; one who relied on himself. Yet he did miss her. Undeniably, there were moments when he thought he could still smell her scent and feel the touch of her skin. Pull yourself together, he told himself.
Among the bills and circulars awaiting Bond at his flat was a letter from a firm of business consultants demanding special attention.
Embedded in this seemingly innocuous letter was a series of telephone numbers - one for each day of the week - that he could ring in order to set up a meeting with M at the safe flat near St. Martin's Lane.
The date arranged turned out to be a truly glorious spring evening. Summer was around the corner, and you could almost feel it, even in the heart of the capital.
'Well, 007, the woman's taught you all the tricks of the trade, eh?'
'Some of them, sir. But I really wanted to talk to you about a new development.' Without wasting words or time, he gave a summary of the final hours in Monaco, and the sighting of Zwingli with Tamil Rahani. Bond had hardly got Rahani' s name out before M ordered the Chief-of-Staff to check.
'There's a spot and report order on that joker.' Tanner returned in ten minutes. 'Last report of a visit to Milan. Seen by our resident there, who had a weather eye on him. Rahani appeared to be on his usual round of business meetings.' The Chief-of-Staff gave a somewhat dejected shrug. 'Unhappily, sir, nobody spotted him leaving, though his airline ticket showed a return booking to New York yesterday. He was not on the flight.'
'And I suppose nobody's seen hide nor hair of him since.' M nodded in reply like a buddha. 'Except 007, in Monaco.'
'Well, he was in the Casino,' said Bond, 'with General Zwingli and four others.' M looked at him in silence for a long time.
'Incredible,' he said at last, as though someone had hit him in the face. 'Incredible that Zwingli's still alive, let alone mixed up with Rahani. Wonder where he fits into all this.
You'll just have to be alert to Rahani's possible involvement Home mentHe's always been a bit of an unknown quantity, so we'll inform those who need to know. You see, we re ready to put you in. Now, here's what I want you to do. First, your old acquaintance Freddie Fortune has.
James Bond groaned loudly.
For the next week, he was to be seen around his old London haunts.
He confided in one or two people that his feelings of disillusion had become considerably worse.
He had been in Monte Carlo where things had run true to the old adage: lucky at cards, unlucky in love - except it had been roulette, not cards.
Carefully, he laid a trail among people most likely to talk, or those whose connections were right for some salting. Then, on the Thursday evening, in the bar of one of Mayfair's plush clubs, as if by accident, he bumped into Lady Freddie Fortune, the extravagant, pamphlet wagging socialite he always called his 'champagne communist'.
She was a vivacious, petite redhead, 'Red Freddie', some called her completely untrustworthy, and always in the gossip columns, either campaigning for some outrageous cause or involved in sexual scandal.
Freddie was discreet only when it suited her. That night, Bond dropped a hint that he was looking for work in the computer field. He also poured out all his troubles - an affair in Monte Carlo that had ended disastrously, leaving him bitter and wretched.
