"Oh, of course, within reason, yes indeed. What else?"
"That's about it, sir. That and your word that, should things get very difficult, you'll inform on us, tell The Committee where we are."
"So your bodies can be brought home for burial, eh?"
"Something like that, sir."
"You have it, but on one condition."
"Sir?"
"They'll be putting me out to grass soon. Bond, and I need to be certain of my successor. I'd like your assurance that you would consider the job when I step down."
"Consider it, yes, sir. But that's all I can do. Consider it."
"Understood. Enough said. You can meet Ms. Reilly by the bandstand in Green Park at four o'clock sharp. Now go, James, Fredericka, before an old man gets stupidly sentimental."
It was Flicka who bought the tickets on their Busby identities. The following morning's Delta flight direct into Atlanta, with a connection to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Bond had explained that he did not want to take a direct flight into San Juan. "It's a little bit of insurance," he told Flicka. "Nobody in their right mind would fly into the States to connect with a flight to Puerto Rico, so it will leave a small, but efficient, paper trail. Also, if the boys and girls on The Committee get onto us, I think we can say that we held the onward tickets in case they gave us the okay. Small point, but worth it."
The journey was going to be a slog, but going in via Atlanta, Georgia, was less risky than entering the United States via New York, Miami, or Dulles – the other possibilities. She paid in cash that Bond drew from his personal account.
After taking care of financial business he took a walk in Green Park, and there, close to the bandstand, bumped into the trim figure of Ann Reilly, Q'ute as they called her in the trade, now the head of Q Branch.
"And what can I do for you, Mr. Bond? I've been given instructions to give you anything within my power, but that rules out my body, I'm afraid."
For years, Bond had made a steady stream of passes at Ms. Reilly, with one in three being successful. Now he was able to smile, but could not tell her why.
"Now, what can I do for you?" she asked briskly.
He went through his list, and she checked off items telling him either yes or no.
"The wet suits and diving gear you can buy openly when you're there," she said. "I can get the two briefcases in and delivered to the hotel before you even arrive, there's no problem with that. We've been working on a new design, and they'll carry the bulk of what you'll need. As for the other thing, I don't really know. This is a large item; you sure you're going to need it?"
"I'm not certain we'll require any of the stuff except the weapons, but I'd feel happier if everything was there, on tap."
"Well, I'll do my best. There'll be a cryptic note in one of the briefcases. If I can get the other thing in, it'll tell you exactly where it's been dropped off. That's all I can promise."
They talked for another ten minutes, then he gave her a farewell embrace and they went their different ways.
He insisted on traveling light, and in the flat that night there was much argument regarding what could, and even should, be taken. Though she was probably the most efficient field agent he had known, Flicka had a tendency to take far too much luggage.
"If we were going on a camping holiday, you'd take at least three evening gowns," he chided her.
"Well, one must have something to wear."
"It'll be denims and sneakers most of the way." He came over, put an arm around her shoulder, and held her close.
"Just between the two of us, think of it as a busman's honeymoon."
The following morning, they drove to Gatwick, put the car into the long-term lot, and began the process of getting to the air side of the terminal.
As they reached the passport control desk, the officer took their passports, looked at them, then began asking questions: "How long are you going to be out of the country?" "Are you carrying return tickets?"
It was a small delaying tactic that served to give some time to the two burly men who, as if by magic, appeared, one on either side of them.
"Now, we don't want to make a fuss," one of them said quietly. "Just come with us. There's no way either of you is going to get on that flight. Sorry."
Bond asked to see their authority, and they both flashed Security Service laminated cards. He had no way of knowing if these were the real things or part of a ploy by Max Tarn, whose influence seemed to reach into the very heart of the establishment.
18 – Apocalypse
It quickly became clear that this was official business. A sleek Jaguar pulled up in front of the terminal and their luggage was stowed away in the trunk, while the two escorts helped them into the back of the car. They both seemed to be in good humor, which was more than could be said for Bond or Flicka.
"Cheer up, it could be raining." One of their custodians climbed into the back of the car with them. The other rode shotgun in the front passenger seat. The driver had given them a pleasant and polite greeting of "'Morning sir, ma'am."
Bond glared at nobody in particular, his face a thundercloud. "This had better be good," he muttered angrily to the officer in the back.
"No idea if it's good, bad, or indifferent. I'm just obeying orders."
The one in the front chuckled. "That's what we do for a living these days. A lot of the fun's gone out of life."
"Like hell it has." Bond knew that he should keep his mouth shut. He also knew that the real problem was getting caught, and that the fury he felt was aimed at himself, not his captors. "We all like to pretend it's over now that the Soviet Union seems to be a dead issue," he snapped. "People don't like to think we're still doing the work."
"Well, you'd know all about that, Captain Bond, wouldn't you?"
It was a short drive back into London, and Bill Tanner stood outside the door that they used at the Home Office.
"Sorry about this." He also appeared to be in good spirits.
"We were going on a little holiday, Bill." Flicka did not even try to disguise her anger.
"So we were told." Tanner ushered them into the building, instructing the Security Service men to make themselves comfortable. "It might be a long wait," he told them as though this were the happiest news he had to convey.
The whole Committee was there, except, of course, for M. They looked spry and in good humor also. They were certainly very polite, showing Bond and Flicka to their seats at the far end of the table, seeing they had coffee, asking if they wanted anything else. Finally Lord Harvey brought the meeting to order.
"I presume that M's Chief of Staff has offered our apologies." He smiled. Charm will get you anywhere, Bond thought. "Really we had no option after we spoke with our cousins in the United States, but I'll let Tanner put you in the picture."
Bill Tanner opened with information that made Bond curse himself for being so lax. "I should tell you that Nurse Frobisher, looking after M, is one of us." He smiled, rather like the Chairman. "After your meeting with the Chief yesterday she called, so His Lordship went down and had a chat with him. He has great fondness for you, James, and for Fredericka. Hardly told us anything. However, we do have his bedroom taped, so we already knew what you were up to." The smile again as he picked up a sheaf of notes. "But that's not the real reason you're here. Yesterday, as the Chairman said, we had some lengthy discussions with the Americans. It turns out that we were wrong. In fact, they'll happily allow you to work on their turf. They'll also provide a bit of backup if it's necessary."
"Couldn't you just have got word to us, instead of hauling us back?"
"Ah." It was Lord Harvey who replied. "Would that we could. Captain Bond. Unhappily you were in a technical breach of our instructions, and we also have quite a lot to tell you. The Americans really want Max Tarn as much as we do. It was something they shared with us. In truth, they're pretty happy about the possibility of nabbing him in Puerto Rico. They hadn't actually put the finger on Tarn – that's their expression, not mine. What we told them was music to their ears. We gave them some information, practically everything, as it happens – except for the Nazi connection, of course – and then they recognized him straightaway."