other side of the coin? To your knowledge, did any of the terrorist groups know of her existence?' `Who can tell?' Grant shrugged. `We like to think that we're invisible, but your own service has had problems with penetration in the past, Captain Bond. None of us can be one hundred percent certain that we are not compromised.' `If she had been compromised, is there any reason to believe that any one terrorist organization had a motive for taking her out?' `No!' It was His Chantry who replied, her voice rising, breaking, the single word coming out just a little too quickly.
`No! No, I really think you can rule that out.
`What about her private life?' `What about it?' Now Grant sounded almost aggressive, his forehead wrinkling belligerently.
`If she died an unnatural death, it could be of great importance.
`She kept herself to herself. Didn't talk much about her personal life,' from His Chantry, once more a shade fast and easy.
`What about positive vetting?' asked Bond, referring to the regular background checks on officers working in the twin labyrinths of intelligence and security. He cocked an eyebrow at Grant. `We still do positive vetting, even in this piping time of peace. You were her superior, Mr Grant.
`Yes. Yes. Of course. Yes.' This time Grant fussed with his tie. `I regularly saw the results of her positive vetting.
`Well?' Grant spoke like a small man trying to pull himself up to his full height. `It would not be proper for me to divulge the results of a colleague's PV in the present company.
`Then just give us a pencil sketch.' `I don't.
`Mr Grant, I would suggest that you either allow His Chantry to leave the room, or get on with it,' M growled. `We're all adults here.
Do as Captain Bond suggests. A pencil sketch; outline map, eh?' Grant gave a petulant sigh. `Very well.' He did not actually speak through clenched teeth, but came within an ace of it. `Thirty-five years of age; entered the Service after taking the Diplomatic Corps examination at age twenty-five. A First in modern languages, Cambridge. No brothers or sisters. Both parents killed in that wretched PanAm bombing going to spend Christmas with friends in New England. No overt political affiliations. Basically clean.' `Boyfriends?' `Not currently, no.
`Girlfriends then?' `She was heterosexual, Captain Bond, if that's what you're trying to ask.' `I wasn't but it's as well to know. No boyfriends currently, you say. What's that mean exactly?' Grant hesitated for just too long. `She was engaged. It was broken off a month or so ago.' `The fiance', then. Clean?' `Scrupulously.' `Service?' `No, neither ours, nor yours.
`You want to tell me about him?' `I think that would be unwise.
`Right. Thank you, Mr Grant.' Bond rose. `I think we've heard enough, and I suspect I've a lot to do before I leave for Berne...
M gestured for him to sit down again, then turned to Grant and Chantry. `You can tell your DG that the whole matter will be dealt with efficiently and discreetly.' He made a gesture with his right hand leaving no doubt this time that the visiting firemen should go.
As he moved his arm, so Moneypenny appeared in the doorway, in response to some hidden signal activated by the old man.
`Moneypenny, our friends will be leaving now.
Perhaps you'd have them escorted from the building.' Grant's face was a picture of barely controlled anger. Chantry, on the other hand, seemed to accept M's blatantly rude instructions as part of the normal cross she had to bear.
They had hardly left the office before M grunted a half-amused laugh. `I'm always amazed at our sister service, James.' He now seemed almost amiable.
`Wouldn't trust Grant to mail a letter for me.' Bond looked towards the door, his lips set in a curving cruel smile. `As for the Chantry girl, she's very upset about the death. Grant kept her on a short leash, and I suspect he'd rather have come on his own. There's something missing, sir.' `Just a lot, my boy. Just a lot. Never trust Greeks bearing gifts, nor Five coming for help,. They can't bear telling the entire story, and there 5 something about the March girl that they've no intention of telling us. Just watch your back, James.
It wouldn't surprise me if Grant put some kind of leech on you in Switzerland. So take care.' He began to load his pipe, tamping down the tobacco with near ferocity.
`Couple of things before you go. First, there's no convenient scheduled service to Berne, so you'll be going out in the company jet which is standing by at Northolt.' The so-called `company jet' was an ageing RAF owned Hawker Siddeley 125 Series 700, in a white livery with the Transworld Consortium logo on fuselage and tail. M, careful as he was, only used the aircraft when absolutely necessary. Ever since the retreat of the Russian threat, he considered it far too high profile.
`Incidentally, you're going out as a grieving relative. The March girl only had one old aunt, living up in Birmingham, so you've been dubbed as a second cousin. Get back to me if you think Five've put surveillance on you. They're like a barrel load of monkeys when they become paranoid. Now ..` He began to give his agent some specific instructions regarding Switzerland.
At five o'clock, Swiss time, that same afternoon, the company jet taxied in, coming to a halt at the main terminal of Berne International Airport, and Bond walked quickly into the main building.
Immigration was, as always, dourly efficient, and he emerged into the arrivals hall, carrying his compact pigskin garment bag slung over his shoulder, eyes rapidly taking in the array of boards held by limousine drivers, looking for his name.
M had given him the name of his contact.
`Freddie von Grusse. Never met the fellow, but he's a 'von' so probably an insufferable bore, and a snob to boot. You know how the Swiss upper crust are, James. There was no driver holding a card for Bond, so he walked further into the arrivals hall, and was about to approach the enquiry desk when a deep, pleasant female voice whispered at his ear, `James Bond?' He caught the subtle scent of Chanel, turned and found himself looking into a pair of wide, twinkling green eyes.
`Mr Bond, I'm Freddie von Grusse.' Her hand was firm in his, and her elegance was of the kind rarely seen outside the pages of fashion magazines.
`Fredericka von Grusse actually, but my close friends call me Fredericka.' `Can I be counted as a close friend?' It was a lame opening, but she had literally taken his breath away.
She laughed, and there seemed to be an almost tangible silver glitter in the air. `Oh, I think we will probably become very close friends, Mr Bond, or may I call you James?' `Call me anything you like.' A couple of seconds later, he realised that he actually meant what he had said. She could have called him Dickbrain and he would still have smiled at her happily.
CHAPTER THREE
Fredericka She was tall, around five-eleven, which meant the full six-feet-plus in high heels. Tall and slender, though not what bad journalists would call willowy. One glance was enough to confirm athleticism in all senses of the word. She had the look of someone who worked out regularly, and took great care of her personal appearance. She also gave off that indefinable static, immediately recognizable in some women, which said she was a sexual knock-out, but on her own terms. The kind of woman who got exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it.
She wore a white flared skirt, which ended just above the knee, and swung around her thighs with every movement. A wide, studded black leather belt divided the skirt from her light blue silk shirt, decorated at the throat by a loosely knotted scarf.
Her hair, black and shoulder length, had a thick silky texture.
The right hand fall of hair-cut longer than the left, tended to drop over one eye, and she pushed it back, raking it with long fine fingers, her head tilted, green eyes sparkling in tune with her laugh.
The body of hair fell back into place as though she had never even touched it.
Fredericka von Grusse, Bond considered, would be thoroughly disliked by most women.
`Come along, then, James. We've got a nice drive ahead of us.
You want to eat first or shall we catch something on the way?' She was off, striding a few paces ahead of him, and he saw the ripple of her thighs and the firm movement of her buttocks beneath the skirt.
From long ago, he recalled a partly remembered line of poetry: ....
then (methinks) how sweetly flows; the liquefaction of her clothes.
