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of two of them, but we have no idea how large their Brotherhood is, or
really how fanatical they are. The four or so leaders are fanatical
enough, though the mastermind is, we deduce, more concerned with a
return for his capital investment than the political aspect."
"We wouldn't normally put you at risk, James Tanner began.
"Not much."
"Not with Landsea "89 coming up," M said firmly. "We would like to get
our hands on one of their leading people, though. So what about
Christmas?"
"Not my favourite time of the year." Bond looked down his nose.
"I can't stand all that bonhomie, and families getting together around
the festive board, but that's probably because I have no real family."
Tracy, his wife of only a few hours, flashed through his mind.
Christmases would have been good if she had lived, he thought.
Even an uncharacteristic picture of the two of them by a log fire with
presents and a tree went flickering in and out of his mind. Then he saw
the reflected spear of light again and wondered how all this would end.
He looked bleakly at M. "I suppose you've already got somewhere lined
up, though, sir.
M nodded, "You recall that a few years ago I sent you for some rest and
recuperation. A villa on Ischia, in the bay of Naples?"
"That was in summer . . ." He recalled it vividly. Secluded,
beautiful setting, almost idyllic. You only had to drive a couple of
miles for food. The rest of the time you were all set up by the pool,
with maid service, a cook, if you wanted one, and spectacular
surroundings. "The Service paid for it, I know, but they only open them
up for the summer.
"I think I can persuade the owner." M had his stubborn look grappled to
his face.
After a couple of heartbeats, Bond said - "Christmas on Ischia, then,
sir. Just tell me what to do."
"First," M began, "you'll have to run the thing solo. We can give you
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only modest cover. Nothing fancy, and certainly not the local police. .
." He went on for the next hour, and as he progressed, Bond realised
that, as ever, the whole business would be down to him. Sit there and
wait for a woman out to kill him, and who would possibly have a back-up;
then outwit her; and, finally, bring her back into the UK with everyone,
including himself, alive and kicking.
"Run of the mill sort of job really," he said when M stopped talking.
"The kind of thing you should be able to do, armed with a butterfly-net
and a killing jar, 007."
"I'll settle for the killing jar." Bond smiled. "Preferably mm with a
lot of kick to it. You know, the kind of thing any Christmas
stalking-horse carries around." At just about the same moment as Bond
was being apprised of how he would spend a happy Christmas, Harry and
Bill were putting some bad news to their old friend the Petty Officer
Engineer.
"It's not that we don't like you, Blackie," Bill was saying.
"We're under a certain amount of pressure ourselves."
"I mean we didn't know they took photographs in that place, and there's
a fair old collection now as you can see." Harry laid out some thirty
black and white prints on the table.
They were in Harry's room at his usual Plymouth hotel. The photographs,
with their grainy texture, looked almost as dirty as the cavortings they
had captured for all time. The PO looked very miserable. "You'd send
these to the wife?" It was not so much a question as a shocked
statement.
"No, "course we wouldn't," Harry's voice was low, soothing.
Oil on troubled waters. "We're in the mire as much as you are, Blackie.
We didn't know."
"And there's all that money." Bill tried to look as miserable as his
colleague. "I mean we put things on our expense accounts.
Now, we're both in the same boat. It's coming to something when two
companies, with two different interests, turn down your expenses.
"And we always understood that place with the girls was buckshee.
They never charged us a penny before."
"How. . . How much are we talking about?" The Petty Officer was
chalk-white. He could real the blood draining from his cheeks.
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