Win, Lose or Die (17 page)

“I think not, sir. Many friends, but no relatives - not as far as I know, anyway.” Rear-Admiral Walmsley moved a foot, kicking Bond’s ankle sharply. But Gudeon seemed oblivious to the tongue-in-cheek answer.

“And,” Walmsley quickly pushed Bond along the line, “our most senior officer here. Admiral Sergei Pauker, Commander-in -Chief of the Soviet Navy.”

“An honour, sir.” Bond looked the man straight in the eyes.

Pauker had the rosy cheeks of a Mr. Pickwick, but there the likeness ended. The eyes were grey and cold, showing no emotion.

Dead eyes, overhung by frosty eyebrows. He had a small mouth, but it did form itself into a surprisingly friendly smile. The main feature of the face, ruddy cheeks apart, was a huge aquiline nose.

“Bond,” he pronounced it “Bound”. “I think somewhere I have heard the name before. Have you, perhaps, served in your embassy in Moscow?”

He spoke excellent English.

“Not exactly in the embassy, sir.” Bond gave an almost imperceptible smile.

“But you are known there, I think. In Moscow, I mean.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, sir.”

“Good. Good.” The humour disappeared from his face and the eyes glazed over.

There was no offer of a drink, and Rear-Admiral Walmsley ushered Bond out of the room, like a farmer getting an errant sheep into a van.

“The security people are in Briefing One,” he whispered.

Briefing One was Qe primary Air-Group Briefing-Room on the port side, amidships and two decks below the officers’ quarters. It had been cleared for an hour, so that the security teams could get together, and Bond entered it quickly, going straight into his prepared routine. “My name’s Bond, James Bond. Captain, Royal Navy,” he began, then stopped abruptly. The one woman among the ten large men, was enough to stop anyone or anything.

She also spoke before anyone else. “Captain Bond. I am First Naval Attache to Admiral Pauker. My name is Nikola Ratnikov.

My friends call me Nikki. I hope you are to be my friend.

You could feel the unsettling tension spark through the room, and it was obvious that Nikola Ratnikov had been showing the cold-shoulder to the rest of her colleagues, which must have been irritating to say the least. Comrade Attache’ Ratnikov would have given a tweak to the loins of even a devout monk, and it would not matter whether the monk was Roman Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, or Russian Orthodox. She had that indefinable quality about her manner, features and body which made all heterosexual men turn to look twice, and, possibly a third time, if they had the energy left.

Nikki Ratnikov wore a well-tailored Soviet Naval Woman Officer’s uniform, which is not flattering to all. There again, Nikki could have made sackcloth and ashes look like Dior. When she moved towards him, hand extended, even Bond felt his knees tremble slightly. She had short, ash-blonde hair, cut in what used to be called a pageboy style, but, from where he stood, it looked like a tempting golden helmet, framing a face of classic beauty.

It was not the kind of face that Bond usually went for. He preferred slightly blemished good looks, but Nikki’s eyes held his for almost a minute, and it was longer before he let go of her hand.

“Hallo, Captain Bond, we’ve met before.” It was one of the Special Branch men, all done up in a Lieutenant’s uniform, complete with the gold trimmings of a Flag Officer. “Brinkley,” he added.

“Yes, of course. Yes, I remember you. Ted Brinkley, right?”

“On the button, sir.” The Special Branch man looked for all the world like a Special Branch man in fancy dress, as did his partner, Martin - “My friends call me “Moggy”’ - Camm.

He did the rounds of the other security men. Few had resorted to the bad disguises of the Branch men, and they looked like a very heavy team. The Americans introduced themselves as Joe, Stan, Edgar and Bruce. Bruce was a very tall black officer with an exceptionally bone-crushing handshake, and looked as though he could probably stop a tank with his chest. Joe and Stan seemed to be made-to-measure, off the peg, standard issue “bullet catchers”. Edgar - “Call me Ed” - was in a different mould: lean, mean, tense with obvious staying power and taut muscles, he had the battered good looks of one who had seen plenty of action in his time. Bond had him down as the brains of the outfit.

The other three Russians were simply Ivan, Yevgeny and Gennady.

Three nice boys. The kind of nice boys you saw popping in and out of KGB facilities, looking after more senior officers.

Bond had once seen a trio like this coming out of a building after six men had died - none of them through natural causes.

He tried to engage all of them in polite conversation, unveiling a plan that had been set up on an easel, showing exactly where they were to be stationed, in relation to their charges. Outside, three Petty Officers stood by with cards giving details of the several decks, and their geographic relationship to those parts of invincible tagged for the visiting VIPs and the bodyguards. Bond explained this to them, went through the emergency drills, making certain the Russian-speakers understood, then wished them a good night’s rest, and began to hand them over to the POs.

A light hand rested on his sleeve, “I think, me you take to my quarters, Captain Bond?” Nikki stood beside him, close enough for him to catch the hint of Bal de Versailles she wore.

“You, I think, get special treatment, Comrade Attache’ Nikki.”

She gave him a glittering smile and he noticed her perfect teeth and the inviting mouth. “Yes, you’re quite near my quarters as it happens. I have to hand you over to one of the lady officers we have on board, but it’s a nice little walk up to my cabin.” He turned.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, sir.” Clover Pennington stood by the door, her face looking like the wrath of God. “I have instructions to escort the Comrade Attache’ to her quarters. Show her the ropes, sir.

“Which ropes?” Nikki s voice sounded as though she was genuinely puzzled.

“An English saying. Means she’s going to show you the way around the ship. This is First Officer Pennington, Nikki. She’ll see that you’re well looked after.”

“Oh, but Captain Bond, I was thinking you could look after me.”

“Not in a million years,” muttered Clover so that Bond could hear.

“Best go with her, Nikki. Protocol, really. Perhaps we can talk later on.

Win, Lose or Die Monarchs of the Sea “I also would like that. In your cabin, maybe, yes?” Reluctantly, she allowed Clover to guide her towards the companionway. Nikki looked back and smiled invitingly.

First Officer Pennington kept her eyes to the front.

Bond had just turned in for the night when they darkened ship, right on 23.59 hours. Ten minutes later, he realised few people were going to get much sleep while the exercise was running, for the klaxon began to blare while the orders came blasting out of the Tannoy system.

“All hands to action stations. Close up, all watches.” Shortly after this, the Captain calmly announced that the whole force had been spread into their approved battle formation, a huge, rough diamond shape, as they were entering the English Channel at full speed. “Our escorts report a wolf-pack of submarines trying to get inside the screen,” Walmsley’s voice was calm, dispassionate, and Bond imagined it would be just the same if this were the real thing. “One of our escorts on the starboard side has been challenged by a submarine, and ordered to stop.

I’m putting four helicopters into the air on submarine search. If the subs fire on our force, or become more belligerent, our helicopters will go into search-and-destroy mode.” Bond stretched back on the small bunk, fully dressed. It was almost one-thirty in the morning. He could give it five more minutes before he would need to check out his charges, and make certain all was well.

Thirty seconds later, he was on his feet, springing to the cabin door, answering the pounding on it.

A flushed Royal Marine sentry stood there, almost breathless.

“Captain Bond, sir, you’re needed. It’s bad, sir. Very bad He was about to add more when Clover Pennington appeared behind the marine. “It’s one of the Americans, Jame - sir.” She looked as though she was about to throw up. “The one I believe they call Ed. The slim, very tough, good-looking one, with sandy hair.”

“Yes? That’s Ed. What’s wrong?”

“One of my girls … One of my Wrens found him. He’s dead. A lot of blood. I think … I … Well, I know … he’s been murdered, sir. Someone’s cut his throat. The heads are like an abattoir.” Bond felt his stomach churn as he reached for the webbing-belt with the big holster hanging from it. Then, buckling it on, he nodded, following the marine and First Officer Pennington into the VIP area. The belt, with the heavy pistol bouncing against his side, made him feel like a Western gun-slinger. Unreal. But it was not ever> day of the week you get an American Secret Service bodyguard murdered aboard one of Her Majesty’s ships.

Death’s Heads

Bond paused for a second before the bulkhead, with its fire-door bolted open. Below decks there was always a familiar smell, difficult to describe, dry, filtered air, a little oil, tiny mixed scents of machinery and humans. The paintwork was light-grey and a mass of piping ran high along each side of the passageway, with electrical ducts carrying wiring down to the deck itself. The ar-conditioning, plumbing and electronics hummed. This was what always assaulted the senses, when the ship was alive and at sea.

Ahead of him there were the other cabin doors, usually used by executive officers, who were now forced to double-up on messdecks and in other areas of the ship. Beyond, there was a further bulkhead where another marine stood on duty. Through there, he knew were the cabins occupied by the Wren detachment, who had ousted the junior officers.

Before stepping over the first bulkhead, Bond gave rapid orders to the flushed marine who had banged on his door - “I don’t care who it is, Admirals or special duty staff who came aboard with them, you are to check who is in each of these cabins, and also have a list ready for me. I want to know who was where over the past hour at least. And get one of the doctors as quickly as you can. You’d best get your sergeant down here to give you a hand. My authority. You know who I am?”

The young marine nodded, and Bond turned to Clover, “Right, the body’s where? In the heads used for your Wrens?”

She gave him a sickly, “Yes,” and Bond brushed past her and started to run down the passageway. Behind him he heard the young marine banging on the first cabin door with his rifle butt.

At the second bulkhead he told the marine on duty to stay alert and asked him if any of the officers, or their men, had gone past him into the prohibited area where the Wrens were.

“I’ve only been here for fifteen minutes, sir. We had to reorganise the guard duties when the Captain called all hands to close up.

“So how long was the area unguarded?”

“Not sure, sir. Fifteen minutes at the most.”

Clover led him through the passageway adjacent to the ept occupied by the Wrens. A rather startled girl in pajamas poked her head out of one of the doors. “Back inside, Deeley,” Clover snapped sharply, and the figure disappeared.

There was a trail of bloody footprints, ending abruptly in a spatter of blood, around twelve feet from the closed bulkhead door which led to the heads. For some reason a query ran through Bond’s mind. The ablutions and lavatories on Royal Navy ships were always known as the “heads” - plural - while the US Navy called them “head” singular. It was the other way around with the HUD in fighter aircraft. The Americans called it the Heads-up-Display; the Brits translated it as Head-up-Display. Any odd thoughts on British and American semantics were cleared from his mind as he opened the bulkhead door.

Clover had been right, the place was like an abattoir, awash with blood, and the body on the tiled floor rolled with the ship, giving the horrific illusion that the blood was still pumping from it.

“You touch him?”

Clover shook her head, lips closed tightly as though she was fighting the urge to vomit.

Better get out. Go back and tell one of those marines that the Doc should bring down a couple of Sick Bay ratings to help clean up the mess.”

“I’ll do that from the nearest “phone.” A tall, grey-haired figure stood behind them. “Surgeon Commander Grant. Let’s take a look at the cadaver.

Bond had met Grant for a few seconds in the wardroom on his arrival aboard. The Doc appeared to be a no-nonsense man of few words.

He was in uniform but with his trousers tucked into green surgeon’s boots. “Leave him to me, then I’ll get one of my boys down with a spare set of wellies for you, Captain Bond. Blood’s the very devil to get off.”

Bond nodded and stood at the door as Grant splashed across the gore-swilled tiled deck. He bent over to examine the body, giving a little grunt of disgust. He shook his head, plodded back and picked up the telephone intercom on the wall in the passageway, dialling the Sick Bay number. “Barnes? Right, get down to 406. Wellies and rubber aprons. One spare pair of wellies, and rustle up a couple of lads with strong stomachs, squeegees and buckets. Quick as you can.” He turned to Bond, “Whoever did it wasn’t taking any chances, Captain Bond.

They’ve nearly taken his head off. Neat slit. Ear to ear. By the look of it, someone took him from behind, grabbed his hair and reached over with something very sharp. Who is he?”

“One of the American security. Head boy, I think. Nasty.”

“It would be stupid to ask if he had any enemies, because he obviously had at least one He trailed off as his two Sick Bay attendants arrived, followed by a pair of Ordinary Seamen carrying mopping-up gear.

“Oh, hell!” One of the Sick Bay attendants looked into the heads, then backed away.

“Just give Captain Bond the boots,” the Surgeon Commander said quietly. “Keep the cleaning up people away until he’s finished. Best get a gurney while you’re at it, we’ll have to put this one in the freezer.” Bond kicked off his shoes, pulled on the boots and made his way towards the body. It was Ed, no doubt about it, and he had died atrociously. Bond was even concerned about moving the body: afraid the head would part from the neck, for the slash across the throat had been long, hard and deep.