On His Majesty's Secret Service, page 1
On
His Majesty’s
Secret Service
CHARLIE HIGSON
Contents
Title Page
May 4th – 2 days to the Coronation
March 7th – 60 days until the Coronation
March 23rd – 44 days until the Coronation
April 11th – 25 days until the Coronation
April 12th – 24 days until the Coronation
May 4th – 2 days to the Coronation
About the Publisher
About the Author
Also by Ian Fleming
Copyright
May 4th – 2 days to the Coronation
Bond’s steady, blue eyes were fixed on the spinning blur of silver. It hung in the air like a spent cartridge spat out by a handgun, and then, as quickly as it had gone up, it came down.
As it did so he switched his focus to the man standing by the window, and let the gleaming circle of metal drop out of his vision and land in his palm with a tiny slap. Swiftly, he inverted his hand and flipped the almost weightless disc onto the back of his other hand.
Now he glanced down.
Heads.
He studied the image on the coin, familiar and yet unfamiliar, and then looked back over to the window where an identical silhouette stood out against the bright, diffused early morning sunlight.
A freshly minted fifty pence piece.
And a not so freshly minted new monarch.
The elderly tweed suit standing next to Bond gave a small tut. Not done to be tossing coins in the presence of royalty on such a grand occasion, old boy. Bond turned and smiled at him. Just enough of a smile, tinged with an edge of warning.
The suit saw a man in his mid-thirties. Tall, but compactly built. A stray lock of hair falling casually over his forehead like a black comma. The hint of a scar on his right cheek. Cold, unblinking eyes that offered no promise of comradeship.
And that weaponised smile.
Bond lifted the coin between thumb and forefinger. Then, performing a magician’s sleight of hand, it was gone, his smile disappearing along with it. He put the old man out of his mind and shifted his gaze back to Charles, who was working his way along the line of patiently waiting guests. But Bond’s eyes weren’t on the king, they were on the people whose hands he was shaking, and the small group around him. Two discreet bodyguards. Various aides and equerries. The efficient young woman with a French braid who was briefing him. She was called Rose, or Flora, or Jacinta. Something botanical. M had sent Bond on a crash course in regal etiquette and the structure of the royal household, but he was still struggling to work out exactly what everybody did.
Which one was it? Which one of them was going to betray their monarch?
He discreetly pulled back his right sleeve just enough to show the face of his Rolex. 8.22. He had twenty-six minutes. Twenty-six minutes to figure out who the traitor was.
And he had precious little to go on.
He thought back to how this had all begun. Maybe if he went over the details one more time, he’d spot the one he’d missed. He ran through the events of the previous few weeks like a film in his head. Reviewing every moment …
Like so many missions before, it had started when he walked through the heavy, reinforced door into Moneypenny’s office and took in the familiar scene. Moneypenny sitting at her desk, unruffled and crisp as ever. He was relieved he didn’t have to go through the customary banter with her. Not appropriate this morning. An agent had been killed in Hungary; a fellow Double O. Bond knew that Moneypenny had been seeing him. Not strictly allowed, but it happened.
009. Easier not to give him a name. Besides, Bond had found the man deathly dull. He may have had the moody features of an aftershave model, with manicured stubble to match – the classic ‘tall, dark and handsome’ package that women were supposed to go nuts for – but that was the end of it. Underneath it all, the man was a stuffed Charles Tyrwhitt shirt. Other agents had been known to walk up several flights of stairs to avoid being stuck in the lift with him.
As far as anyone in the Double O section could be called a safe bet, 009 was just that. Or at least he had been. Like a lot of safe bets, it had ended in tears. Not that Moneypenny would ever let anyone see her cry. Never show any weakness. Any girlish emotions. She was a professional.
Bond simply nodded to her, and she nodded back.
She said one word. ‘James.’
He replied with one word of his own. ‘Moneypenny.’
That said it all.
The green light went on over M’s door. He pushed it open and went through.
Another familiar scene. M sitting at his desk, studying some documents. Didn’t hold with screens and emails. Didn’t trust the digital world – too leaky. You couldn’t hack a sheaf of hand-typed paper.
He kept his eyes on the file and didn’t look up as Bond came in and quietly closed the door.
‘Sit down, 007.’
James sat and waited. He’d left a soft bed and a warm pair of arms to be here, but he felt no regrets. No tiredness. Like a modern sports car, he always started first time, even on a cold morning like today. At last, the old man straightened the papers on his desktop, leaned back in his chair and fixed Bond with his penetrating, grey eyes. Eyes that never aged.
‘You’ve heard?’
‘How bad is it, sir?’
‘As bad as it could be. Do you know the details of the case?’
‘I’m officially on leave, sir. It wasn’t exactly a stag weekend in Syria. I’ve been trying to clear my head of any MI6 matters …’
‘Yes, all right, I don’t need your blog, Bond. A simple “no” would have sufficed.’
‘In that case, “no”,’ said Bond.
‘That’s better. There’s this chap, calls himself Æthelstan of Wessex …’ He slid a folder over to Bond, who opened it and looked at a photograph that might have been taken in Victorian times. A 50-something man was dressed in what looked like medieval robes, clutching a drinking horn in a hand that was heavy with rings. He had an ostentatious walrus moustache and an extravagant mane of grey hair, held back by some kind of jewelled circlet.
‘Claims to be a direct descendent of King Alfred the Great.’
Bond couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter.
‘Has something amused you, Bond?’
‘Alfred had five or six children, sir, and history tells us his lineage carried forward. He’s about, what, some thousand years removed from today? Which is, say, about 40 generations or so. Most people living today have somewhere in the region of a trillion ancestors of the 40th generation, give or take a few. So, if you’re European, it’s likely that Alfred’s one of those trillion ancestors. You and me, too, sir. We’re all descendants of Alfred the Great.’
‘A trillion, Bond? Are you sure about that? That’s more people than have ever lived on the planet.’
‘Yes. That’s just a mathematical model, sir. In real life there’s a lot of intermingling, overlapping – cousins marrying cousins, or whatever. It’s all folded in. So, the same ancestors will appear over and over again in your one trillion.’
‘You don’t have to be such a know-it-all, 007.’
‘Can’t help it, sir.’
‘Yes, well that’s all well and good, but Wessex has a bona fide family tree, apparently. Very proud of it. Proof of direct lineage. A clear, straight line on the male side. As a result, he’s got the idea that the wrong man’s going to be crowned in May.’
‘He’s not alone. The world’s full of crackpots.’
‘And it’s our job, Bond, to make sure that none of them gets out of their padded cell and scares the public.’
‘How serious a threat is he?’
‘Serious enough to have you sitting there. Where 009 sat not too long ago.’
‘I see. Yes.’
‘The difference with this crackpot is that he has money, he has arms, and he has the men to use them.’
‘Seriously?’
M gave Bond a look that said, ‘You know me, 007 – I’m always serious.’
Bond pressed on. ‘Yes, but what I mean is, sir – surely this man can’t have put together a big enough army to pose a significant threat to the UK …’
‘That’s the thing.’ M slapped the table. Irritated and ill-at ease. It had been 16 years since the government had banned smoking in offices, but M still resented it.
‘The man’s not an idiot,’ he pressed on. ‘Much as he looks like one. He must be at least half mad, yet not so completely deranged that he hasn’t amassed a small fortune and put this thing together. He must know that a military coup in England is out of the question. If our friend Putin can’t make headway in the Ukraine with the entire might of the Russian military at his disposal, what chance does Æthelstan of Wessex have with a small, private army? Not matter how well-trained and equipped.’
‘So, you think there’s something else at play?’
‘Has to be. Trying to get any of his men anywhere near the king would be nigh on impossible. Particularly with the current levels of security. But it wouldn’t look good, would it? To have fireworks on the streets of London on the big day? Blood flowing into the gutters? And at least an attempt on the new king’s life? Not a good start at all.’
‘I take your point.’
‘This coronation is a chance to advertise UKplc to the world, Bond. Show the doubters who’ve written us off that we’re open for business. Show them that there are still some things we’re good at. Like marching bands and bagpipes and knowing how to wear an elaborate hat. The powers that be want to present this country as a safe pair of hands. With age-old traditions and protocol, stability and calm, and the required skillset to form an orderly crowd. And the Windsors want to present the image that everybody loves and supports them. Nothing must spoil this glorious pageant of Merrie England. If the coronation descends into chaos, it leaves doors open for disruptors like Æthelstan.’
Bond studied the photograph in the file again. Looked into the face of the man staring back at him, trying to read a deeper message. He had slightly bulging eyes, open wide enough to show a ring of white around the pupils. Hinting at a thyroid problem. His mouth was gaping in a froglike grin, displaying all the fake bonhomie of a pub bore. But look more closely at the eyes and they display no joy or humour, no merriment, only a pitiless, cold psychopathy.
‘Any idea what his wider agenda might be?’
‘That’s what 009 was trying to find out. What else this clown might be up to. Wessex’s base of operations is a castle in Hungary. 009 got in without a hitch, but it seems he slipped up.’
Bond knew that the folder would brief him on all that he needed to know, but he was in a hurry, and M was good at cutting to the point.
‘How far did he get, sir?’ he asked. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He got as far as a popular climbing spot in the Zemplen mountains in northern Hungary. Near the border with Slovakia. He was found early one morning at the bottom of a crag. Dressed for a climb. Every bone in his body broken. Bruised all over. An almost lethal amount of alcohol in his blood and, of course, nothing of any interest on him. Just enough in his wallet to make it real.’
Bond let his breath out in a long sigh. It could so easily have been him lying at the foot of that cliff and 009 sitting here with M. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d barely scraped through, survived by the skin of his teeth.
009’s luck had run out.
M pointed at the file in Bond’s lap.
‘009 almost made it out. He knew Æthelstan was on to him and he was just able to send a D37.’
Bond didn’t like the codewords and acronyms that were increasingly creeping into the MI6 vocabulary. He felt they were designed to soften the harsh reality of what they did. D37. Looked harmless. But it was a desperate thing. An emergency flare. A shout for help. A dying scream for your mother. No content. Just a digital bleep that communicates when an agent has important information but knows they won’t be able to parachute out with it.
Bond flipped through to a map, and then a photograph of a Hungarian castle. A white, stone building on top of a wooded hill, overlooking a wide, forested valley.
‘Szalkai Castle,’ said M. ‘Known by the locals as “Az ördög széke” – the devil’s seat.’
Bond raised an eyebrow. ‘And you want me to get in there?’
‘I’m afraid I do. This is very sensitive, Bond. We can’t leave this to any other agency, and we can’t get the Hungarians involved. They’re evidently protecting the man. We have to handle it ourselves. With the minimum of fuss.’ M held Bond’s gaze. ‘If you were 009, what would you have done? If you knew they were onto you? What would you have done with your information?’
‘I’d have concealed it somewhere in the castle.’
‘That’s just what I thought. If you can get in there and find it quickly, you’ll save yourself a lot of leg work, going over the same ground as 009.’
‘But if they already know we’re onto them …’ said Bond, studying the map and drumming on the arm of his chair. A grunt from M made him look up. The old man was giving his restless fingers a hard stare. Bond stilled them.
‘I can offer you the same backup as 009 had. And more. Whatever you need to get in there and stop this man, in whatever way you see fit.’
‘Whatever way I see fit?’
‘Don’t make me spell it out, James. We both know what your Double O prefix means. There’s a mad dog that needs to be quietly put down and buried before it bites too many people.’
Bond nodded and stood up. He would read the file properly at his desk. He walked towards the door but stopped and turned back before opening it.
‘Forgive my impertinence, sir …’
‘Out with it.’
‘You have always stressed that exercising my licensed rights should only ever be a last resort.’
‘This is different,’ said M quietly. ‘That woman in the outer office.’ He nodded to the door. ‘Who has sat there, year after year, asking for nothing. She offered her resignation recently.’
‘Moneypenny?’ Bond could hardly believe it.
‘009, too … As you know, agents can’t marry within the service. But she and he …’
M made a vague gesture and left the rest of the sentence hanging.
‘I’m not given to sentimentality, James, but I don’t think it would be overstating the case if I said I loved that girl, dearly.’
‘I understand.’ Bond did understand. He also understood that nobody within the service would ever hand in their resignation to marry him.
He was not the marrying kind.
March 7th – 60 days until the Coronation
The Croatian section of the Adriatic Highway that runs between Makarska and Ravca is one of the great drives of the world. A two-lane highway with dramatic, rocky slopes on one side and a sheer drop to the deep blue sea on the other.
Not that any of this registered with Marina Buehler, who was sitting in the back of a cream Bentley Continental, scrolling through Instagram pictures of spectacular beauty spots around the world, barely glancing out of the window. They’d set off early from Dubrovnik to avoid the traffic and the road was largely clear. With any luck they’d be in Makarska before 11a.m. She could enjoy a coffee at one of the places around the harbour, and then she could hop on board the Lady Ealhswith, ready to set sail for Venice before lunch.
She’d spent the night in Dubrovnik, where she’d been attending the opening of an exhibition of photographs of refugees at a strange gallery that was part exhibition space and part high-end clothing boutique. The huge black and white images of frightened people with drawn faces hanging among the expensive frocks was a jarring juxtaposition. It had been a big society event, sponsored by an Austrian friend with contacts in high places. Marina had little interest in photography, and even less in refugees, but she was very interested in being photographed. She’d spent the first hour of the drive scrutinising pictures from last night, making sure she looked good.
She was satisfied.
She kept her attention on her screen, shutting herself off from the world. She had no inclination to look at the Adriatic. She’d see enough of that on the voyage to Venice. The charming array of the Split islands, lifting their heads above the water? Boring. And she had no wish to engage in conversation with the two men sitting in the front of the car. Her driver, Giorgio, and her bodyguard, Carl. As ever they were talking about football. The capacity for men to talk for an interminable length about football always amazed her. Her husband was no exception. He liked nothing more than to settle down with a pint of beer with ‘the lads’ and watch a game. She couldn’t see that there was that much to say. If one team scored more goals than the other, they won. That was all there was to it. What was the point of going any deeper into a discussion on the subject?
But now Marina became aware of a change in mood, and she tore her eyes from the screen. Carl was twisted around in his seat, staring out of the back window with a strained look on his face.
‘What are these clowns playing at?’
As he said it, there was a deep roar and a motorbike overtook them on a bend.
‘What a dick,’ Carl muttered and turned back to face front.
The motorbike had slowed to a crawl in the middle of the road in front of them. There was no way Giorgio could get past. Marina saw Carl’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror and now she turned round to see what he was looking at. Two more motorbikes. The riders wearing padded leather jackets and full-face helmets.
‘This is not a road for playing games on,’ said Giorgio. ‘But he is going so slow.’
The next moment, the bike in front of them slewed round in the road. Giorgio shouted in shock and stamped on the brake pedal. They skidded and squealed to a juddering halt, accompanied by a tirade of colourful Italian from Giorgio, stopping just centimetres short of the bike. All three of them were thrown forward against their seat belts, but the stop hadn’t been abrupt enough to trigger the airbags. The bike rider had timed it perfectly.
