"I'd like to know a little more about the two clowns, Cuthbert and Archie, and try to pin down the identity of the girl they called Beth. It wouldn't be a bad idea to find out if one of Tarn's companies has acquired Hall's Manor as well. Someone mentioned that the locals have kept clear because of lights and activity in recent weeks. If Tarn has some right to use the building, he certainly wouldn't simply bring it into play for his plan to turn up dead. The place is too close to Stanstead for my liking."
He was about to continue when Wimsey returned, his face a mask of anger. "Bad news, I fear. A corporate jet, belonging to a company called Rendrag Associates. There's no such company, of course, and the aircraft livery looked as though it had just been done. Also, the descriptions fit and they had filed a flight plan to Paris, Charles de Gaulle, but there are indications that this was not their final destination. I have people working on it." He sat down, took a deep breath, and tried to control his anger. Eventually: "I'm sorry. This should not have happened. My people've slipped up badly."
The Minister opened his mouth to speak, but the one telephone, which sat in front of him, purred softly. He picked up the instrument and spoke into it quietly – barely a whisper. Almost immediately his eyes lifted, glancing across toward M.
"He's here. One moment." A hand covered the phone as he told M it was for him. "Urgent," he added, holding out the handset.
M grunted into the telephone, then became suddenly alert. "You're absolutely certain it was Boxwood?… And the voice print is a match?… Good… Yes… Yes, have it sent over immediately, with an armed guard… No, no, I am not joking. When I say an armed guard, I mean it. The Chief of Staff will be outside to pick it up from you. Yes. Now." He replaced the handset and, before saying anything else, looked at Tanner. "Get downstairs, Chief of Staff. The DO's sending a small packet over. We need it here, and we need it now."
Without a word, Tanner rose and left the room.
"I presume we have such a thing as an audiocassette player in this building?" M addressed nobody in particular, but the Minister nodded.
"What…?" he began, but M was already addressing the entire committee.
"It seems that my man Peter Dolmech has surfaced. We have a secure line with voice analysis and a number of other technical wonders built in. Dolmech left a message on the tape about half an hour ago. My duty officer has had it unscrambled, and it's undoubtedly Dolmech. His code name is Boxwood, and the DO says the message is ultra-urgent."
The Minister excused himself from the room while he personally went in search of an audio player. Nobody spoke, even after he returned with a sophisticated piece of electronics. After that, the conversation remained at a minimum until Bill Tanner came back carrying a small cassette box encased in metal.
M slipped the tape into the machine, adjusted the controls, and asked that nobody speak until the tape had been played at least once.
The voice was controlled, pitched low, but its owner spoke with confidence:
"This is Boxwood," he began. "I don't think I have long, but what I have for you is of the utmost importance. You may be under the impression that our mutual friend Morgan is dead. He's not; neither is his lady. We're at a villa he owns in the hills above Seville. We flew into Paris and then on to Spain early yesterday morning, and I'm obviously under a certain amount of control. Two of the party are watching me quite closely, though they're not difficult to evade. I have all the papers you'll need to get at the heart of the evidence. I can get away with ease tomorrow, and will be in the Jardines del Alcázar at midday precisely. I shall be wearing jeans, a denim shirt and jacket, and will carry a satchel over my right shoulder if the coast is clear. If things are difficult, it'll be over my left shoulder.
"I'd suggest that you pick me up, by car or motorcycle, from the street known as San Fernando. I'll expect somebody carrying a copy of tomorrow's Financial Times using the same signals as myself: right hand okay; left hand uncertain. If you can pick me up, all well and good. If anything goes wrong, get the satchel at all costs. From what I've overheard we are only going to be here for two days, so we have only one shot. I'm not going to pinpoint the villa for you, because any assault would be very dangerous. Also, you need what I have in order to unlock the doors to Morgan's secrets. Tomorrow. Midday." There was an audible click on the tape as Dolmech hung up somewhere near Seville.
"Admiral?" The Minister was giving the floor to M.
"As I said, Boxwood is Peter Dolmech, and he knows more than anyone about Tarn's dealings. Morgan is Tarn. We thought an old pirate's name was acceptable. Now, there's only one answer to this." M's eyes scanned each member of The Committee, settling finally on Bond and Flicka von Grüsse. "As much as we want Max Tarn behind bars, our first loyalty must be to Peter Dolmech. Without him we might have months of work ahead. I'll see to it that a team of my best people fly out to Seville tonight."
"Sir," sharp and uncompromising from Bond.
"Forget about it, Captain Bond." M's face became granite hard and his eyes appeared to change to the color of pewter. "They know who you are. You and Fräulein von Grüsse both."
"With luck, Tarn and his people'll never see us, sir. I'm simply requesting that we pick up Dolmech for you. I'll make a plea for going after Tarn later. I think he's our due. He's mine to hunt and kill if necessary. This is a sideshow that Fräulein von Grüsse and I can do standing on our heads."
The long pause was Finally broken by M. "Be it on your own heads, then. If you fail, Bond, I'll see you out of the Service for good. Understand?"
9 – Cradle of History
The girls from the Seville Flamenco School presented a unique splash of color, their long skirts lifting and whirling as they danced on top of the tablao – the slightly raised platform – which had been set up some fifty yards into the Alcázar Gardens. There were two guitarists, and the four girls who danced gave a counterrhythm with castanets and stamping of feet, while one of the guitarists broke into occasional guttural shouts of encouragement that are always a part of a juerga – a carousal or spree of singing and dancing.
Juergas are held regularly in the open air during the spring and summer in Seville. The distinctive melodies and chords, the almost aggressive beat of the dancers' feet with the counterpoint of clapping, made the scene come alive for locals and tourists alike, who crowded the gardens. Looking out to the back of the palace that was the Alcázar, and the huge Cathedral, just visible behind it, eyes and ears were stunned by the music, the sensual beauty of the movement, and the almost overpowering backdrop of massive architecture.
Earlier that morning, Flicka and Bond had looked up at the Jerez Gate, walked through both the Cathedral and the Alcázar Palace, and drunk in the sense of history that shows in both architecture, setting, and even in the faces of the people of this melting pot of Europe.
Though the sky was a light, cloudless blue, the sun was still thin and there was a chill in the air. In a month or two the heat would be strong and unrelenting, but now – at around ten minutes to noon – Bond was glad of the motorcycle leathers he wore as he sat at an outside table in front of a small bar looking out across the Alcázar Gardens, a glass of rough Spanish brandy in front of him.
They had come in via Gibraltar, courtesy of a Royal Air Force jet from Northolt, on the previous evening. Two dark-skinned men, who spoke Spanish with the accents of Andalucia, and an English so faultless that it was difficult to determine their true origin, had driven them across the frontier. Then they headed up the coast to Seville, depositing Bond and Flicka at a small apartment where a third man, together with a silent suspicious-looking woman, waited to make sure they had all they needed: food, drink, and the other essential items for the pickup due to take place at noon on this the following day.