She did not reply, so he smiled to himself and went over to the telephone to call both El Al and BA. There was an El Al flight from Ben Gurion International to Heathrow at noon, and they had seats. He booked five, giving their names and saying that he would get back to them with the information on the other three passengers first thing in the morning. As ever, El Al were tight-lipped.
They both slept well, spooned close together in the big double bed. The telephone dragged them up through a few layers of unconsciousness. Bond looked at his watch and saw that this was not his wake-up call requested for seven, as the time showed ten minutes past six. Groggily, he croaked into the phone and Pete Natkowitz came on strong and clear at the other end, telling him that this was a secure line.
"I think you might have a small problem." The Mossad man dived straight in.
Bond was immediately wide awake. "What kind of problem?"
"I don't know how you got on last night, but I've just had a call from BG International. It appears that Trish Nuzzi and her entourage left on the six o'clock to Paris."
Bond replied with a single oath. "Shit!" he said.
12 – A Horrible Way to Die
It took them less than ten minutes to decide that it would serve no purpose for them to stay on in Jerusalem, and that there was no point in chasing Trish Nuzzi and the girls to Paris.
It was raining, there had been a shooting in Jerusalem, some kind of tear gas and stone-throwing clash in Tel Aviv, and another bit of violence on the road between the two, which eventually made them nearly late for the flight – El Al suggesting around three hours before check-in, instead of the former two. It was all part of the constantly shifting dangers of the Middle East, but there were other passengers who arrived almost at the last minute, which made for a very late departure and an unhappy flight crew.
They were back in the London flat at around seven in the evening to find twelve messages waiting on the secure telephone and one showing on the private line. The twelve on the secure telephone were quick and to the point – would he call the Minister as soon as possible; would he call Bill Tanner as soon as possible. They had started coming in late on the previous evening, and the last had been left only an hour before their return.
He called M's Chief of Staff first, for at least he knew where he stood with Bill Tanner. There was panic in the streets, according to Tanner, and the Minister had been searching for him to attend a meeting with relevant members of The Committee as soon as possible. It appeared that there had been a break in the Tarn case.
He immediately telephoned the Minister's private number, to be told the same thing. "We've been away for a couple of days," Bond said lamely.
"In future I'd appreciate it if you left a contact number with your office when you're going to be out of London over a weekend." The Minister gave him short shrift. "I can get people together within the hour, so would like you at the Home Office by eight o'clock sharp."
"Bang goes a quiet evening in front of the television." Flicka tried to sound piqued.
"Since when have we ever had quiet evenings in front of the television?" He looked up, saw her grin, and shrugged.
He was tempted to leave the message on the private phone, but he ran it back and pressed Play almost automatically. The husky female voice was immediately recognizable:
"This is Cathy, James. We're sorry that Trish decided to run out on you at the last minute, but as you can imagine, she really doesn't trust anyone at the moment – anyone except us, of course. Don't worry, we'll see that she comes to no harm, and we'll keep in touch."
While the tape was still playing, he touched the button on the caller ID unit next to the telephone. "Well, they're not in Paris." He frowned. "That was made from an 071 London number. The girls've brought her here, and how in the blazes did they get this telephone number?"
Flicka said that she would get the number traced to an address and call him at the Home Office. "We don't want you to upset the Minister by being late," she soothed. "That would never do."
"Wouldn't have happened in the old days. At least we weren't run by damned committees. By the time they've stopped arguing with one another, it's usually too late to do anything about anything." He was at the door. "Oh, Fredericka, could you contact M's nurse – Frobisher – and see how the Old Man's getting on?"
"Of course, but how are you going to handle The Committee?"
"In what way?"
"You going to lay the news on them about the Nazi thing? This is for real, James. Every other night, here in Europe, we're warned on television about the far-right wing in Germany. The marches, drumbeats, acts of violence against foreigners: the whole grotesque display of the Neo-Nazi movement."
"The Nazi movement, Flicka. There's nothing neo about those fanatics. As for The Committee, I'll use my own judgment. It's possible that we should keep that piece of information in reserve. They might already know, of course. That could be the break in the Tarn business."
He left with a black cloud hanging over him, and anger too near the surface of his emotions.
At the Home Office only the core members of The Committee were present, plus Bill Tanner. Wimsey had a Chief Superintendent with him, while the Director General of the Security Service was represented by three people, a trio about whom Bond had deep reservations. The first of these was a rake-thin man with lank blond hair whose name, Thickness, was at odds with his appearance. With him were two female officers, Judy Jameson and Jane Smith, both known to have great influence with the Director General. Everyone looked edgy and concerned.
Bond reflected that he had crossed swords with them on relatively minor matters before this. Their presence only suggested a clash of wills over Tarn.
"At last." The Minister sounded more than a shade sarcastic. "The prodigal returns."
"Where in blazes have you been, Bond?" from Thickness.
"Trying to find Tarn, if you really want to know. I'd forgotten that The Committee owned me."
"In many ways we do own you, Bond. Things have changed. As for Tarn, that's the latest break. The man's back in this country. We have proof positive." The Minister signaled to Bill Tanner, who went over to a large-screen television with a built-in VCR and slipped a tape into the machine.
"The soft route, via Dublin, late yesterday afternoon," Jane Smith said by way of introduction. The tone of her voice suggested that Bond should actually have been present.
The screen cleared to show the long corridor up to the baggage-collection area in Terminal One at Heathrow. Some seventy people straggled past the immigration officer and the one man from the Security Service who always manned the desk at the entrance to the baggage carousels.
No chances are taken with flights coming in from Dublin. Normally a bus picks up the passengers and brings them straight into the terminal, where they are herded through a one-way door. Like sheep, they are forced to pass this checkpoint. It is rare for anyone to be stopped. Security cameras double-check the passengers, and arrests sometimes take place as they go through customs. In other cases, a "face" – which is Security Service language for a suspected criminal or terrorist – is quietly followed. The system is reckoned to be foolproof, though sometimes it is just proof of fools.
There, large as life and twice as natural, walking calmly into the baggage-collection area, came Max Tarn. In the distance the camera picked up Maurice Goodwin and Connie Spicer, followed by a muscular, fit-looking black girl in jeans, white shirt, and a fashionable vest. Without knowing exactly why, Bond suddenly realized that this was Beth, the girl who had met them in the dark at Hall's Manor – the girl whom Trish had called an assassin.
"Thinks he's bloody omnipotent." There was a growl in Jane Smith's voice. Bond could only think of Trish Nuzzi's remark about Tarn being a victim of folie de grandeur.