hip. Last, he put on a light suede jacket and pushed his feet into the old favourite moccasins.
It was just getting light, the dark sky changing to grey and then that cold-washed pearl which heralds unsettled weather. With the detested FloppiPak in his briefcase Bond went downstairs, left his key and the note for Freddie at the deserted reception and went out to the car.
The Bentley's engine growled into life at the first turn of the key, and he allowed it to settle to its normal, gentle purr, fastening the seatbelt and watching the red warning lights flick off one by one.
Releasing the foot brake, he slid the selector into Drive and let the car roll forward. If he took the Oxford road, turned on to the ring road, and then headed for the M40 he could be in London in ninety minutes.
It began to rain as he reached the big roundabout on the periphery of the ring road and took the dual carriageway, heading towards London.
He was a mile or so along this stretch when the white Mercedes of the day before appeared in his mirror.
Bond cursed silently, tightened his seatbelt and moved his foot smoothly down on the accelerator. The car slid forward, gathering power, the speedometer rising to 100, then 120 miles per hour.
There was little traffic as he slid neatly in and out of the stray cars and lorries, mainly keeping to the fast lane.
The white Mercedes held back, but even at speed, Bond could not throw it off altogether. Ahead the signs came up for an exit.
Flicking the indicator at the last moment, he left the dual carriageway still well in excess of the 100 miles per hour mark, the Bentley responding to his light control, holding the road during the turn. The Mercedes seemed to have disappeared. He hoped that the driver had not been able to reduce speed in time to get off the main highway.
Ahead the road narrowed, fir trees shadowing either side. A lumbering heavy transporter grumbled along at fifty behind a petrol tanker. The Bentley's speed dropped. As he rounded the next bend, Bond caught a flash of headlights, blinking on and off from a lay-by.
The next time he looked there was another Mercedes hooking itself on to his tail.
They had radio contact, he thought, and probably five or six cars covering him. Taking the next left turn, he picked up the telephone and, without allowing his eyes to leave the road, punched out the numbers that would raise the Duty Officer at the Regent's Park Headquarters on a scrambled radio line.
The road narrowed. The second Mercedes was still there when he negotiated the next turn just as the Duty Officer answered.
'Gamesman flash for Dungeonmaster.' Bond spoke rapidly. 'Am being followed, south of Oxford. Important package for Dungeonmaster. Will attempt mail.
Addressed myself. The Programmer is definitely involved all illegal actions as thought. Investigate Balloon Game. Speak to the Goddess.'
'Understood,' the Duty Officer said, and the line was closed.
As he took the next bend, Bond saw a village coming up and realised he had outdistanced the Mercedes. He pumped the footbrake, slowing the Bentley dramatically, looking ahead and to the left. The car was almost out of the village before he spotted the welcome brilliant red of a post box. The Bentley slid to a halt beside it, and Bond had his seatbelt off before the car had stopped rolling.
It took less than twenty seconds to slip the package into the box and return to the driving seat. He did not rebuckle the belt until the Bentley was already gathering speed and the Mercedes had appeared again in his driving mirror. He passed an electric milk float doing the early rounds, then he was once more in open country. As he reached a wooded stretch, Bond caught a glimpse of a picnic area sign, then saw two other cars emerge from the trees, their bonnets coming together to form a V, blocking his path.
'They're playing for keeps,' he muttered, ramming the footbrake, and hauling on the wheel with his left arm.
As the Bentley began to slew, broadside on, he was conscious of the white Mercedes close behind him.
The speedometer was touching sixty as the Bentley left the road, plunging in among the trees. Bond desperately guided the big car past the trunks, over bracken, zigzagging wildly and trying to negotiate a path that would bring him back to the road.
The first bullet made a grating, gouging sound on the root, and Bond could think only of the damage it would do to the coach work. The second hit his rear offside tyre, sending over 5000 lb of custom-built motor car side on into a tangle of bushes.
Slammed against the seatbelt, Bond reached simultaneously for the automatic pistol and the electric window button.
THE ASP 9mm is a small, very lethal weapon. Essentially a scaled-down version of the Smith & Weston Model 39, it has been in use with United States Intelligence Agencies for over a decade. With a recoil no greater than a Walther 22, it has the look of a target automatic rather than the deadly customised hand gun it really is.
Armaments Systems and Procedures, the organisation which carried out the conversion, produced the weapon to exacting specifications: ease of concealment, a minimum eight-round capacity; reliability; an ammunition indicator using Lexon see-through butt grips, and an acceptance of all known 9mm ammunition.
The rounds in Bond's magazine were particularly unpleasant Glaser Safety Slugs. A Glaser is a prefragmented bullet that contains several hundred No. 12 shot suspended in liquid Teflon. The velocity of these slugs, fired from the ASP, is over 1700 feet per second.
They will penetrate body armour before blowing, and a hit from a Glaser on any vital area of the body is usually fatal.
Bond fired two rounds from the lowered window almost before the car had come to a halt. He kept both eyes open, looking down the revolutionary backmounted Guttersnipe sight, its triangular yellow walls giving instant target recognition.
Through the trees and bracken he could see several men leaving the cars. Others were trying to get the vehicles off the road. Bond's rapid shots were aimed at the clear outline of a tall man in a dirty-white raincoat who was making for the Bentley. He did not stop to find out what happened to the target, but opened the door and rolled into the undergrowth.
Twigs and branches caught on his clothing and scratched his face, but Bond kept moving, determined to get as far away as possible from the Mulsanne Turbo. He rolled to the right, putting about twenty yards between himself and the car. Twisting round, flat on his belly, he brought the gun up and ready, his eyes constantly moving to cover a wide sweeping sight-line.
The other cars had been backed off the road and he guessed they now contained only their drivers. Two figures were visible, but almost by intuition he reckoned there had to be at least four others fanning out, moving low and trying to encircle him.
Bond lay quite still, allowing his breathing to settle. If his pursuers were methodical - and they probably were they must eventually find him. It was even possible they could call up reinforcements.
Certainly there had to be more men available. How could they have been certain of picking him up on the road, unless the Bentley had a location homer stuck on to it? Who were they? Some of Jay Autem Holy's men? There had to be a connection, yet Holy would have had a better opportunity to deal with him that evening, at Endor. Unless .. . unless Cindy had set him up, or been caught. If the latter, a watch had been put on him very quickly. At all events, Bond decided they would find him later rather than sooner. What he needed was time to make good his escape.
It had begun raining quite hard and you could hear the steady pattering from the branches. To attempt a move now would be suicidal.
He was at least a hundred and fifty yards from the road, and even if he reached the other cars without being intercepted which was unlikely he would still be outnumbered three to one. He must wait, try to follow their search, and make sure nobody bounced him from behind.
He moved his head continually, looking from far left to far right, then gently turning to watch the rear, all the time straining to catch any sound. The two men originally visible to his front had disappeared, and the sounds of movement would now be successfully blotted out by the rainfall.
Bond had been lying in cover for the best part of fifteen minutes before he got a positive fix on any of his
