Woodward, having been given the most exciting briefing of his career, came out onto the steps of the Embassy at six-forty-five, clutching a suitcase and looking for the cab they had obviously called for him.
The cab that had been parked since the early hours backed out quickly and turned in front of the Embassy, its driver peering out and calling, “Mr. Woodward?”
Dan Woodward responded with a wave and a smile and came hurrying down the steps. There were few people about, and nobody had seen the second man slide from the back of the cab, just as it pulled out, and make his way around the corner into Upper Grosvenor Street.
The driver was very fast, taking Dan Woodward’s bag and stowing it away in the front section. “Where’s it to, guy’?” the cabbie asked.
“Nobody tells me nothing.”
“Gatwick. Departures. North Terminal.”
“How long we got, then?” The taxi moved away quickly, circling the Square, preparing to head along Upper Grosvenor Street.
“My flight leaves at ten. So, nine-thirty at the latest.”
“All the time in the world,” said the cabbie, sashaying to the left, where his colleague was walking slowly up towards Park lane.
““Scuse me, guy’nor.” The cabbie leaned back with the little sliding window open. “There’s a mate of mine. I’d like to give him a message.
“Be my guest.”
The taxi pulled over in front of the pedestrian, and the cabbie leaned out and called, “Nobby, can you give Di a message for me. I’ve got to go out to Gatwick. I’ll give her a bell from there.” The man came abreast of the cab, as though straining to hear the driver. Then, as he reached the passenger door, he yanked it open, and Dan Woodward found himself staring into the wrong end of a Heckler and Koch nine millimetre, modified to take a noise reduction assembly.
“One wrong move and you’re dead,” the pedestrian smiled and got into the cab next to the startled Woodward, and the cab drew smoothly away. By the time they reached the T-junction which led them onto Park Lane, Woodward was unconscious.
He had not even felt the hypo go through his coat and into his arm.
The cab headed towards Notting Hill, where it would need to make a detour to get onto the M25 and on to Gatwick. In the Bayswater Road it turned right into a cul-de-sac, and pulled up in front of one of those quiet little mews houses that now cost an arm and two legs in London.
The cab parked very close to the door and the driver and his companion got out. A woman in the uniform of a nurse was already waiting, the door of the house open. Within two minutes they had the unconscious Woodward inside, the driver coming out to get his case and carry it indoors.
They dumped the unconscious man on a sofa.
“He’ll be out for twenty-four hours,” the driver said to the woman, as he went through Woodward’s pockets, while his partner worked the locks on the case. “We’ll help you get him into the secure room.
I need him quiet for around four or five days. Ah He removed a bunch of papers which included a passport, and an official-looking batch of documents.
He sat down at the foot of the sofa and began going through the papers. Frowning, he got up, went to the telephone and dialled the Gibraltar code and The Rock Hotel, asking to be put through to Mr. Underwood’s room. “Very urgent,” he said.
In Gibraltar, both Baradj and Hamarik were waiting. “Okay,” the man in London said. “You’ll need a United States Diplomatic Passport.
Is that difficult?”
“That, we can fix here. Just read off the details.”
The London man then went through the rest of the information.
“We have one problem. They’re supposed to be meeting him off BA498 which gets in at local 13.45. They actually wrote down a contact procedure, which means they don’t know him at that end.”
“Is there a contact number?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Give it to me.
The London man rattled off the string of numbers, and Baradj replied, “Okay. Are the documents essential?”
“Yes. They’re his orders, and there’s a paper he has to show to the guys meeting him.”
“Right. Use your own passport, but check in as Woodward.
They never know the difference there. As long as the number of passports tallies with the number of people: and it’s no offence to travel under an alias - unless you’re up to something criminal, which, of course, you’re not. You come through into the concourse it’s small and usually busy. On the right side, when you come through you’ll find the Men’s Room. It’s poky and unpleasant, but my man will be waiting.
He’ll have a Woodward passport. He’ll take the papers and case from you, come out and run through the contact procedure. Now, Bob,you do it. Nobody else. I trust you to go through all this. Now, you’ll have to get a move on. Go.”
Bond had been correct, the girl who called herself Sarah Deeley simply refused to answer any questions. She sat in the cell, restrained by what amounted to a strait-jacket, and looked Bond in the eyes, unflinching, as he poured question after question at her. She even smiled at him a couple of times. After an hour of this, he gave up. Best leave her to the professionals when they got to Gibraltar.
The Rear-Admiral was on the bridge when he reported his lack of success.
“You people got any specialists in Gib?” Walmsley asked, “Why, sir?”
“I’ve got a Sea King going off to Gib in twenty minutes, It’ll just make it there and back, if they juice her up in Gib. They’re bringing in Morgan’s replacement.”
“Desperate Dan?”
Walmsley seemed to have lost any humour that might have lurked behind his cold blue eyes. “I believe they call him that.
You got anyone in GibLet
me check it out sir. If the answer S yes, I’ll see he’s brought back.”
“Let me know before take-off. You only have twenty minutes.”
It took Bond fifteen minutes to make contact. Yes, they had an interrogation specialist with the unlikely name, for his skills, of Donald Speaker who would be delighted to have a go.
So it was that when Flight BA498 landed, slightly late, at two o’clock that afternoon, the Sea King from invincible was sitting, juiced up, on the helipad away from the terminal building. Its crew of three were aboard, plus Donald Speaker, a red-bearded, casually-dressed little man with the sharp look of a bank inspector about him.
The Lieutenant Commander from Invincible’s Executive Officer’s staff waited in the arrivals’ terminal - which, in Gibraltar, is also the departure terminal. He did not notice that one passenger from BA498 came through the gates, lugging his flight-bag, and made straight for the Men’s Room; while a few seconds later another man came out, carrying the same flight-bag, and with his passport in his left hand, held over his breast pocket. To the Lieutenant Commander this was simply the man for whom he had been waiting, giving all the signals bag in right hand, passport in left hand, held high just under his breast pocket where his boarding card stuck out almost a couple of inches.
The Lieutenant Commander smiled and approached the civilian. “Mr. Woodward?”
“Yes, I’m Dan Woodward,” said Abou Hamarik. “Want to see the ID?”
“Better take a quick look. My name’s Hallam, by the way,” the Lieutenant Commander grinned. “Your diplomatic status stamp looks damned impressive. Well, welcome aboard Mr. Woodward.”
“Just call me Dan.”
They crossed the metalled apron, walking quickly towards the Sea King. As they did so they saw the stop lights come on, and traffic grind to a halt on the road that ran straight across the runway. A Royal Air Force Tornado came hurtling in with its droops and spoilers fully extended. Their ears sang but cleared by the time they reached the Sea King. The crewman helped them up, and Hallam introduced him to everyone. Speaker just gave him a nod, as though he did not approve of Americans being given free rides on Royal Navy helicopters.
