Lady Freddie was thrilled to see this man, once a model of good form, become so emotional and she whipped Bond off to her bed, allowing him to cry on her shoulder - metaphorically, of course. During the night, trying to keep up the pretence of having drunk too much yet still able to enjoy himself, Bond longed for Percy and the special smell and feel of her.
The next morning he feigned a hangover and morose, even waspish, manner. But none of this put Freddie Fortune off As he was leaving she told him that she had some friends who may be of use to him, if he really meant to find a job in computer programming.
'Here.' She tucked a small business card into his breast pocket.
'It's a nice little hotel. If you can make it on Saturday, I'll be there. Only, for heaven's sake, don't let on I've told you. I leave it to you,James, but if you do decide to come, be surprised to see me.
Okay?' On the following Saturday morning, with a weekend case and all the computer equipment in the boot, James Bond drove the Bentley out of London on the Oxford road. Within the hour he had turned off and was threading through country lanes on his way to the village of Nun's Cross, near Banbury.
THE BULL
BANBURY CROSS is not an antiquity, but was erected in the late 1850s to commemorate the marriage of the Princess Royal to the Crown Prince of Prussia. There was of course a much earlier cross three to be exact but the present Victorian Gothic monstrosity was placed where it is today because a local historian believed this to be the site of the ancient High Cross. Three miles to the north of Banbury, nestling by a wooded hill, is the village of Nun's Cross, and there is no cross on view there at all.
Bond guided the Mulsanne Turbo through the narrow main street of Nun's Cross, and into the yard of the coaching inn which rejoices in the name of The Bull at the Cross. Taking his overnight case from the boot, he considered the inn was probably the only going concern in the village. A beautiful Georgian building, lovingly kept, and neatly modernised, The Bull even offered gourmet weekends for the discriminating'.
From the porter who took his case, Bond learned that, as far as the hotel was concerned, it was going to be a very quiet weekend, though they had been full the previous one.
Bond unpacked, changed into grey slacks, an open necked shirt topped by a navy pullover and his most comfortable moccasins. He was not armed. The ASP 9mm lay comfortably clipped into its hidden compartment in the Bentley. Yet he remained alert as he went down, through the old coach yard and into the village street. His eyes were searching for a dark blue Jaguar XJ6 or a grey Mercedes-Benz saloon.
The licence numbers had been committed to memory; for both cars had appeared in his mirror, exchanging places with monotonous regularity ever since he had taken to the road that morning.
He was under no illusion. For the first time since he had assumed the mantle of a disaffected former member of the Secret Service, he was being followed, almost blatantly, as though the tail wished to be seen.
It was too early for a lunchtime drink. Bond decided to look round this village which, if everything added up, harboured a sophisticated villain who was possibly also a traitor.
The Bull at the Cross lay almost on the crossroads at the centre of the old village, which contained a hodgepodge of mainly Georgian buildings, with a sprinkle of slightly older terraced houses that were now the village shops, leaning in on one another as though mutually dependent. Small rows of what must at one time have been labourers' cottages now housed people who commuted into Banbury or Oxford, to labour in different fields.
Almost opposite the coach yard entrance stood the church. To the south, the main street meandered out into open country, scattered with copses and studded with larger houses, as though the more prosperous local gentry had landscaped the southern vista with their properties.
Gateways and rhododendron-flanked drives gave glimpses of large, sedate Victorian mansions or glowing Hornton stone Georgian buildings.
The third driveway past the church was walled, with heavy, high modern gates set into the original eighteenth-century stone. A small brass plate engraved with the words GUNFiRE SiMULATiONS LTD was sunk into the pillar to the right of the gates. In newer stone, carved and neatly blended with the original, was the one word, ENDOR.
The drive, which turned abruptly, disappearing behind thick low trees and bushes, seemed to be neatly kept, and a strip of grey slate was only just visible some two hundred yards in the distance. Bond calculated the size of the grounds to be about a square mile. The high wall continued to his left, the boundary being a narrow dirt track neatly sign posted THE SHRUBS.
After half a mile or so he turned back along the village street and on towards the northern extremity, where the cluster of old houses bordered a scrubby, wooded hill.
Here sharp speculators had been at work, and a modern housing estate encroached almost on the woodland itself.
It was gone twelve when Bond ambled slowly back to the inn. A dark blue Jaguar stood not far from the Bentley but no one except the staff appeared to be about.
In the private bar he found only the harman and one other guest.
'James, darling, what a surprise to find you here, out in the sticks!' Freddie Fortune, neat in an emerald shirt and tight jeans sat in a window seat.
'The surprise is mutual, Freddie. Drinking?'
'Vodka and tonic, darling.' He got the drinks from a friendly harman, and carried them over to Freddie, saying loudly, 'What brings you here, then?'
'Oh, I adore this place. I often come down to commune with nature - and friends. Not your sort of place though, James.' Then quietly, 'So glad you could make it.' Bond said he was glad too. 'On a bit of a downer.
Sorry about the other night, Freddie. Must've bored the pants off you..
'Oh no, darling, I wouldn't say that,'' she murmured.
'It was frightfully touching, actually. I felt terribly sorry for you, poor lamb.'
'Made an ass of myself. Forget what I said, eh?' Bond felt unutterably foolish, putting on the style of Freddie's London friends.
'Forgotten already, darling.' She took a quick sip of her vodka and tonic. 'So you wanted to get out of the hurly-burly, yah?'
'Yah.' Bond almost mimicked her affected accent.
'Or did you come because I asked you?' He gave a non-committal 'Mmmm.'
'Or, perhaps, the possibility of work?'
'Little of all three, Freddie.'
'Three's a crowd.' She snuggled up beside him. For a second, Bond felt, strangely, that Percy was there. They lunched together from a menu that would not have put the Connaught to shame, then walked for five miles or so across the fields and through the woodland, getting back around three-thirty.
'Just in time for a nice quiet siesta.' Freddie gave him the come-to-bed look, and Bond, invigorated by the walk, was in no mood to disappoint.
First, though, he made an excuse to go over to the Bentley, where he retrieved the ASP 9mm and two spare clips of ammunition, keeping them well hidden when he joined Freddie in the comfort of her room.
She was lying on the bed, wearing precious little.
Smiling sweetly, she said, 'Come and bore the pants off me, darling.'
'Dinner?' Bond asked later, as they sat over tea in the residents' lounge. The hotel had filled up, and three Spanish waiters scurried about with silver teapots, small plates of sandwiches and fancy cakes. Like Brown's on Sunday afternoon, but without the polish, Bond thought.
'Oh lord, darling.' Freddie put on her 'devastated' face. 'I have a dinner date.' Then she smiled. 'So have you, if we play our cards right. You see, I've got some old friends who live here.' She suddenly became confidential.
'Now listen, James, they could be a godsend. You were serious about going into computers? Programming and all that sort of thing? Micros?'
'Absolutely.'
'Super. Old Jason'll be thrilled.'
'Jason?'
'My friend - well friends, really. Jason and Dazzle St. John-Finnes.'
'Dazzle?' Freddie gave an impatient back-flip of her hand - 'Oh, her name's Davide or something. Everyone calls her Dazzle.
