operations were being run. That night it was a Chinese Laundry based in Soho, a radio cab firm, a French restaurant, and - if the need arose - the Foreign Office Duty Security Officer's direct line. For that purpose it had been alerted for special action ever since Bond's radiophone call from the Bentley on the previous evening. If the call came, it would be passed to one person only. The telephone rang four times before anyone picked it up. 'Hallo?' The voice was flat, disguised for safety.
'Tony Denton - the D.O. please.
'Who wants him?'
'Predator.'
'Hang on please.
Bond saw Holy give a wry smile, for when outlining his plan, he had refused to give the cryptonym he had used as a member of the Service. Apparently Jay Autem Holy thought this one very apt.
They waited while the call was being switched through to Bill Tanner, and it was his old friend Tanner's voice which next came on to the line.
'Denton. I thought you were out, Predator. This is an irregular call. I'm afraid I have to terminate.'
'Tony! Wait!' Bond hunched over the table. 'This is priority. Yes, I'm out - as far as anyone can be out - but I have something vital to the Service. But really vital.'
'Go on.' The voice at the other end sounded doubtful.
'Not on the telephone. Not safe. You're the only person I could think of. I must see you. I have to see you.
Imperative, Tony. Consul.' Bond used the standard cipher word for extreme emergency. At the far end there was a fractional pause.
'When?'
'Tonight. Before midnight. I can get to you, I think.
Please, Tony, give me the all clear.' Again there was a long pause. 'If this isn't straight I'll see you in West End Central by morning, charged under the Official Secrets Act. As quickly as you can. I'll clear you. Right?'
'Be with you before midnight.
Bond sounded relieved, but the line was closed long before he took the handset from his ear.
'First hurdle.' Holy jabbed down on the recorder's stop button.
'Now, you have to be convincing when you get there.'
'So far, it's playing to packed houses.' Tamil Rahani sounded pleased. 'The dispatch rider brings the frequency up from Cheltenham at around eleven forty-five?'
'If the U.S. President is away from his own country, yes.
Bond held the man's eyes, trying to discern his state of mind.
Rahani laughed. 'Oh, he's out of the country. No doubt about that, Commander Bond. No doubt at all.'
'If you leave here at nine forty-five you should make it with time to spare.' Holy removed his headset. 'We'll be with you all the way, James. All the way.'
DOWN ESCALATOR
THE METAL FORESTS of antennae which rise above the massive pile of government buildings running from Downing Street along Whitehall and Parliament Street, conjure up thoughts of communications flying through the night; of telephones waking ministers, calling them to deal with some important crisis; or the fabled telegrams crossing the airwaves from distant embassies.
In fact, only open messages run into those government offices.
Sensitive signals and urgent messages are usually routed through the G.C.H.Q. complex outside Cheltenham, or one of its many satellites.
From Cheltenham they are passed to the mysterious building known as Century House, or to the Regent's Park Headquarters.
Ciphers for the Foreign Office go only then, not to Whitehall and Parliament Street, but to an unimposing, narrow, four-storey house off Northumberland Avenue.
They are sent by a variety of methods ranging from the humble dispatch rider to teleprinter by land-line, or even through a closed telephone circuit, often linked to a computer modem programmed for deciphering.
If the romantically minded were to imagine that someone with the title of Duty Security Officer, Foreign Office, prowls the great corridors of power with flashlight and uniformed accomplices, they would be wrong. The D.S.O.F.O. does not prowl. He sits in the house off Northumberland Avenue, and his job is to ensure that all ciphers for Foreign Office remain secure and get to the right person. He also deals with a whole mass of restricted information concerning communications from abroad, both from British sources, and from those of foreign powers. Leaders of friendly foreign powers, in particular, look for assistance from the Foreign Office.
They usually find it with the D.S.O.F.O.
It was to the little-noticed turning off Northumberland Avenue that James Bond was now heading in the Mulsanne Turbo.
They had taken him out to the garage shortly after nine-thirty, made sure he had money, credit cards, his ASP, and petrol in the tank.
Holy, Rahani and Zwingli had, in turn, clasped his hand, Zwingli muttering, 'Good to have you on the team,' and promptly at nine forty-five the Bentley had eased its bulk on to the gravel turning circle, flashed its lights once, and swept on its stately way, up the drive and on to the road to Banbury.
From Banbury, Bond followed the route they had ordered him to take - straight to the M4 motorway, and so into London.
He did not spot any shadows, but had no doubt that they would be there. It did not worry him. The street where he would finally stop would be cleared of all but authorised vehicles so there was little chance of him being observed once the car had been parked.
Risking the wrath of police patrols, Bond made the journey at high speed. From numerous telltale signs and bumps he was certain Peter Amadeus had managed to let himself into the boot. The little programmer would by now, be suffering considerable discomfort. Bond stopped once, at the service station near Heathrow Airport, to fill the tank. There he was able to let a little air into the boot and to satisfy himself that Amadeus was indeed alive and well. In a whisper, he explained that release just then was impossible, but it would not be long now.
Less than forty minutes later, Amadeus was freed, speechless and stiff from the cramped ride, but all the same duly grateful.
'Well, this is where you show your gratitude.' Bond took his arm firmly, leading him towards the lighted doorway of the terraced house.
Swing doors opened on to a marble-tiled hallway with a lift which took them to the second floor and a minuscule landing, watched over by a muscular government messenger, who half rose from his desk to ask what they required.
'Predator,' Bond snapped at him. 'Tell them, Predator and friend.' He did not smile.
Less than a minute later, they were led quickly through a passage and into a larger room. The red velvet curtains were drawn. A portrait of the Queen hung over the Adam fireplace and another of Winston Churchill adorned the opposite wall. A long gleaming boardroom table occupied a large portion of the available space.
Six faces turned as one. M was at the head with Bill Tanner on his right and another officer Bond recognised to the left. Major Boothroyd, the Armourer, Head of Q Section, sat to Tanner's right with Lady Freddie Fortune next to him.
Bond did not have time to be surprised at Freddie's presence, for the sixth member of the reception committee left her chair almost at a run.
'James, darling. Oh, it's so good to see you.
Percy Proud, oblivious to the officialdom, held him close, as though she would never let go again.
'Commander Bond! Miss Proud!' M was genuinely embarrassed. 'I, er, think we have important work to do.' He detached himself from Percy, acknowledged the others, and introduced Peter. 'I think Dr Amadeus will be able to contribute.' Bond kept glancing suspiciously at Freddie Fortune - so often that M finally said, 'Lady Freddie's been on the team for some years. Done good work, infiltrating. Sound woman, 007. Very deep cover.
Forget you've ever seen her here.' Bond caught Freddie's steady gaze, returning it with a sardonic smile and cocked eyebrow. Then, M drew the conference to order.
'I trust you've gone into Endor, sir ' Bond started.
