‘About a new version of the Special Operations Executive. The answer is yes. In fact, it already exists. Would you be interested in joining?’
‘I would,’ Bond said without hesitation. ‘Though I should like to ask: what exactly does it do?’
The Admiral thought for a moment, as if polishing burrs off his reply. ‘Our mission,’ he said, ‘is simple. We protect the Realm… by any means necessary.’
7
In the sleek, purring Bentley, Bond now approached the headquarters of this very organisation, near Regent’s Park, after half an hour of the zigzagging that driving in central London necessitates.
The name of his employer was nearly as vague as that of the Special Operations Executive: the Overseas Development Group. The director-general was the Admiral, known only as M.
Officially the ODG assisted British-based companies in opening or expanding foreign operations and investing abroad. Bond’s OC, or official cover, within it was as a security and integrity analyst. His job was to travel the world and assess business risks.
No matter that the moment he landed he assumed an NOC – a
Tucked away inconspicuously in the hierarchy of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, the ODG was housed in a narrow, six-storey Edwardian building on a quiet road, just off Devonshire Street. It was separated from bustling Marylebone Road by lacklustre – but camouflaging – solicitors’ quarters, NGO offices and doctors’ surgeries.
Bond now motored to the entrance of the tunnel leading to the car park beneath the building. He glanced into the iris scanner, then was vetted again, this time by a human being. The barrier lowered and he eased the car forward in search of a parking bay.
The lift, too, checked Bond’s blue eyes, then took him up to the ground floor. He stepped into the armourer’s office, beside the pistol range, and handed the locked steel box to redheaded Freddy Menzies, a former corporal in the SAS and one of the finest firearms men in the business. He would make sure the Walther was cleaned, oiled and checked for damage, the magazines filled with Bond’s preferred loads.
‘She’ll be ready in half an hour,’ Menzies said. ‘She behave herself, 007?’
Bond had professional affection for certain tools of his trade but he didn’t personify them – and, if anything, a.40 calibre Walther, even the compact Police Pistol Short, would definitely be a ‘he’. ‘Acquitted itself well,’ he replied.
He took the lift to the third floor where he stepped out and turned left, walking down a bland, white-painted corridor, the walls a bit scuffed, their monotony broken by prints of London from the era of Cromwell to Victoria’s reign and of battlefields aplenty. Someone had brightened up the windowsills with vases of greenery – fake, of course; the real thing would have meant employing external maintenance staff to water and prune.
Bond spotted a young woman in front of a desk at the end of a large open area filled with work stations. Sublime, he had thought, upon meeting her a month ago. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones, and surrounded by Rossetti red hair that cascaded from her marvellous temples to past her shoulders. A tiny off-centre dimple, which he found completely charming, distressed her chin. Her hazel eyes, golden green, held yours intently, and to Bond, her figure was as a woman’s should be: slim and elegant. Her unpainted nails were trimmed short. Today she was in a knee-length black skirt and an apricot shirt, high-necked, yet thin enough to hint at lace beneath, managing to be both tasteful and provocative. Her legs were embraced by nylon the colour of cafe au lait.
Stockings or tights? Bond couldn’t help but wonder.
Ophelia Maidenstone was an intelligence analyst with MI6. She was stationed with the ODG as a liaison officer because the Group was not an intelligence-gathering organisation; it was operational, tactical, largely. Accordingly, like the Cabinet and the prime minister, it was a consumer of ‘product’, as intelligence was called. And the ODG’s main supplier was Six.
Admittedly, Philly’s appearance and forthright manner were what had initially caught Bond’s attention, just as her tireless efforts and resourcefulness had held it. Equally alluring, though, was her love of driving. Her favourite vehicle was a BSA 1966 Spitfire, the A65, one of the most beautiful motorcycles ever made. It wasn’t the most powerful bike in the Birmingham Small Arms’ line but it was a true classic and, when properly tuned (which, God bless her, she did herself), it left a broad streak of rubber at the take-off line. She’d told Bond she liked to drive in all weather and had bought an insulated leather jumpsuit that let her take to the roads whenever she fancied. He’d imagined it as an extremely tight-fitting garment and arched an eyebrow. He’d received in return a sardonic smile, which told him that his gesture had ricocheted like a badly placed bullet.
She was, it emerged, engaged to be married. The ring, which he’d noted immediately, was a deceptive ruby.
So, that settled that.
Philly now looked up with an infectious smile. ‘James, hello!… Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘I need you.’
She tucked back a loose strand of hair. ‘Delighted to help if I could but I’ve got something on for John. He’s in Sudan. They’re about to start shooting.’
The Sudanese had been fighting the British, the Egyptians, other nearby African nations – and themselves – for more than a hundred years. The Eastern Alliance, several Sudanese states near the Red Sea, wanted to secede and form a moderate secular country. The regime in Khartoum, still buffeted by the recent independence movement in the south, was not pleased by this initiative.
Bond said, ‘I know. I was the one going originally. I drew Belgrade instead.’
‘The food’s better,’ she said, with studied gravity. ‘If you like plums.’
‘It’s just that I collected some things in Serbia that should be looked into.’
‘It’s never “just” with you, James.’
Her mobile buzzed. She frowned, peering at the screen. As she took the call, her piercing hazel eyes swung his way and regarded him with some humour. She said, into the phone, ‘I see.’ When she had disconnected, she said, ‘You pulled in some favours. Or bullied someone.’
‘Me? Never.’
‘It seems that war in Africa will have to soldier on without me. So to speak.’ She went to another work station and handed the Khartoum baton to a fellow spook.
Bond sat down. There seemed to be something different about her space but he couldn’t work out what it was. Perhaps she’d tidied it, or rearranged the furniture – as far as anyone could in the tiny area.
When she came back she focused her eyes on him. ‘Right, then. I’m all yours. What do we have?’
‘Incident Twenty.’
‘Ah, that. I wasn’t on the hot list so you’d better brief me.’
Like Bond, Ophelia Maidenstone was Developed Vetting Cleared by the Defence Vetting Agency, the FCO and Scotland Yard, which permitted virtually unlimited access to top-secret material, short of the most classified nuclear-arms data. He briefed her on Noah, the Irishman, the threat on Friday and the incident in Serbia. She took careful notes.
