He completed his walk and returned to The Feathers where he put his feet up for a few hours before taking the short stroll to The Bear.
It was with some distaste he noted that the whiff of oil and potato chips hung heavy in the evening air, coming from pubs that advertised “Pub Grub” or “Good Food”, a pair of terms Bond would have liked to see banned from the English language, just as he would, if pushed, like to see the countless young people crowding those very bars banished to some kind of National Service - preferably in the armed forces. That, he considered, would take violence off the streets of country towns, and make men out of the louts who littered pavements and got drunk at the sniff of a farm maid’s apron.
He dodged into the front entrance of The Bear, neatly keeping clear of the reception area at the rear of the narrow passage leading through from the entrance hall, and squeezing into the small elevator that would take him to Room twenty two.
Both M and his Chief of Staff were waiting.
“Q Branch have just swept the place,” M said as a form of greeting. “It appears to be clean, though nowadays who’s to know.”
Bond gave both his chief and his closest friend within the Service, friendly smiles then waited for what would doubtless be laid on him. Judging by their faces, the news was not good.
M waved to a chair, and 007 sat, still waiting until M asked, “You remember BAST?”
“How could I forget, sir. After all they seem to be our main opponents.”
“After your hide, 007. Out to get you, take you out, ice you, buy the farm for you. At least that’s what the doomsayers would have us believe.”
“I would have thought the missile incident had already pointed us in that general direction.”
“Yes,” M flapped his hand as though trying to waft bad air away from his nostrils. “But this time we have a chance to lay our hands on at least one of them.
We know when they’re going to set you up and who’s going to do it.
What we don’t know, is where.”
“Then, with due respect, sir, I would have thought we should get cracking and find out exactly where.”
Bill Tanner rubbed his hands together. “That’s really anywhere of your choosing, James.”
“Mine?”
“Yes,” M’s clear grey eyes were locked on to Bond’s face.
“We would like to send you away for a Christmas holiday, 007.
“Tethered goat,” said Bond.
“Stalking-horse,” Tanner corrected him. “Sort of Christmas horse, so that BAST can come down your chimney and knock your socks off. In this case BAST will take on the human shape of a woman.
“Ah,” said Bond with a wry smile, “You want me to play slow horses and fast women.
“Something you’ve been known to do before this, 007.” M did not even twinkle, let alone return the smile.
“I have any option?”
M shook his head. “None whatsoever. BAST already know far too much; they’re going to have a go during Landsea “89, and they regard you as a mild threat. Mind you, they don’t yet seem to know all the details: such as the six SAS people you might be commanding for the bodyguard operation.”
“Funny, I hadn’t heard about them either, sir.” Bond paused, then looked from M to Tanner and back again. “If you know all this, why can’t you deal with BAST on its own terms? Take them out before they do their bit?”
M sighed, “We know the names of their ringleaders; we have descriptions of two of them, but we have no idea how large their Brotherhood is, or really how fanatical they are. The four or so leaders are fanatical enough, though the mastermind is, we deduce, more concerned with a return for his capital investment than the political aspect.”
“We wouldn’t normally put you at risk, James Tanner began.
“Not much.”
“Not with Landsea “89 coming up,” M said firmly. “We would like to get our hands on one of their leading people, though. So what about Christmas?”
“Not my favourite time of the year.” Bond looked down his nose.
“I can’t stand all that bonhomie, and families getting together around the festive board, but that’s probably because I have no real family.”
Tracy, his wife of only a few hours, flashed through his mind.
Christmases would have been good if she had lived, he thought.
Even an uncharacteristic picture of the two of them by a log fire with presents and a tree went flickering in and out of his mind. Then he saw the reflected spear of light again and wondered how all this would end. He looked bleakly at M. “I suppose you’ve already got somewhere lined up, though, sir.
M nodded, “You recall that a few years ago I sent you for some rest and recuperation. A villa on Ischia, in the bay of Naples?”
“That was in summer …” He recalled it vividly. Secluded, beautiful setting, almost idyllic. You only had to drive a couple of miles for food. The rest of the time you were all set up by the pool, with maid service, a cook, if you wanted one, and spectacular surroundings. “The Service paid for it, I know, but they only open them up for the summer.
“I think I can persuade the owner.” M had his stubborn look grappled to his face.
After a couple of heartbeats, Bond said - “Christmas on Ischia, then, sir. Just tell me what to do.”
“First,” M began, “you’ll have to run the thing solo. We can give you only modest cover. Nothing fancy, and certainly not the local police…” He went on for the next hour, and as he progressed, Bond realised that, as ever, the whole business would be down to him. Sit there and wait for a woman out to kill him, and who would possibly have a back-up; then outwit her; and, finally, bring her back into the UK with everyone, including himself, alive and kicking.
“Run of the mill sort of job really,” he said when M stopped talking.
“The kind of thing you should be able to do, armed with a butterfly-net and a killing jar, 007.”
“I’ll settle for the killing jar.” Bond smiled. “Preferably mm with a lot of kick to it. You know, the kind of thing any Christmas stalking-horse carries around.” At just about the same moment as Bond was being apprised of how he would spend a happy Christmas, Harry and Bill were putting some bad news to their old friend the Petty Officer Engineer.
“It’s not that we don’t like you, Blackie,” Bill was saying.
“We’re under a certain amount of pressure ourselves.”
“I mean we didn’t know they took photographs in that place, and there’s a fair old collection now as you can see.” Harry laid out some thirty black and white prints on the table.
They were in Harry’s room at his usual Plymouth hotel. The photographs, with their grainy texture, looked almost as dirty as the cavortings they had captured for all time. The PO looked very miserable. “You’d send these to the wife?” It was not so much a question as a shocked statement.
“No, “course we wouldn’t,” Harry’s voice was low, soothing.
Oil on troubled waters. “We’re in the mire as much as you are, Blackie. We didn’t know.”
“And there’s all that money.” Bill tried to look as miserable as his colleague. “I mean we put things on our expense accounts.
Now, we’re both in the same boat. It’s coming to something when two companies, with two different interests, turn down your expenses.
“And we always understood that place with the girls was buckshee.
They never charged us a penny before.”
“How… How much are we talking about?” The Petty Officer was chalk-white. He could real the blood draining from his cheeks.
Harry sighed. “Seven thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five pounds.”
“And sixty-two pence,” Bill added.
“But I can’t … There’s no way. The wife’ll kill me - at best leave me - and there’s no way I can get my hands on that kind of money.
“Second mortgage on the house?” Harry asked.
