to great lengths .
“Suicidal lengths, Beatrice. That’s why we shouldn’t restrict ourselves. They can try to get me on the street, or here, by day or night. I’m the magnet, they are the iron filings. We want one of them. Alive if possible. So, we have to keep our guards up twenty-four hours a day.”
She remained silent for the few minutes it took her to pour boiling water over the freshly ground coffee in the tall cafeteria, adjust the lid and push down on the plunger. “Are you intimidated, James?” Her eyes did not move from the coffee-pot.
“How intimidated?”
“Because you were given a woman bodyguard.”
Bond laughed, “Far from it. Why do some women automatically think that people in our trade are anti-feminist? Well-trained women are sometimes better than men in situations like this.
You nearly took one of them Out tonight. I didn’t get near. You were also quicker than I. No. Not guilty to being intimidated.”
“Good.” She raised her head, the dark eyes flashing with something which could have been either pride or power. “Good.
Because you’re in my charge. I’m the boss, and you do as I say.
Understand?”
The smile disappeared from Bond’s face. “I have no orders.
Just act naturally, they said. We’ll have someone watching out for you, they said.”
“And that someone is me.” Beatrice was pouring the coffee.
“Black? Good. Sugar?”
“No.”
“Wise choice. If you’re worried about taking orders from a woman, why don’t you telephone London. Give them the day’s code for me and they’ll tell you.” Her eyes met his again and this time they locked.
For half a dozen heartbeats it seemed to be a battle of wills.
Then Bond nodded curtly and crossed the room to the telephone. He could not speak in clear language, but there were enough double-talk phrases for him to get at the truth.
They picked up on the third ring. “Predator for Sunray.” His anger betrayed itself in his clipped tone. He took field orders from M; or, when necessary, Bill Tanner. For Beatrice to reveal that she, as his bodyguard, was in charge scraped at the nerve ends of his considerable pride.
A second later a voice - that of the Duty Officer - said, “Sunray.
Yes?”
“Contact with Boxcar.” This last was an agreed running cipher for BAST.
“Serious?” the DO asked.
“Serious enough. Also contact with Hellkin.”
“Good.”
“Request order of battle, Sunray.”
“Hellkin leads. You follow, Predator.”
“Thank you, Sunray.”
Bond’s face was stiff with anger, but turned away from Beatrice as he recradled the telephone. He shrugged, “It appears you’re right.”
He rearranged his face, “So, Beatrice Hellkin, what’re your orders?”
She nodded toward the large mug placed on the table in front of him. “First, drink your coffee.” She was sitting on one of the big chairs, her body stretched back and a pleasant, friendly smile playing around her lips. She was dressed in black jeans and roll-neck, an ensemble that was practical and accentuated her figure. The jeans were tight, clinging to her long legs, while the roll-neck showed off her breasts, small and firm against the cotton.
“So, you don’t think they’ll have another go today?”
She shook her head. “Not here. We should watch it when we go out.”
“Go out?”
“Weren’t you going to get food as a nice surprise for Christmas?”
“Oh, yes. Natale, yes. What happened to the Italian accent, Beatrice?” Almost sarcastically he pronounced it Beh-ah-Tree-che.
“Is gone.
“I noticed. So what’re your orders?”
“I think we should rest. Then go and do the shopping - behave normally. Thy might well try while we’re out and about, but I must make a telephone call to get those damned gates fixed. I also think we should bring in the dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“We’ve got two pairs of Rottweilers at our disposal. They’re as vicious as they come, and we can let them loose at night.”
“You’re
“Suicidal lengths, Beatrice. That’s why we shouldn’t restrict ourselves. They can try to get me on the street, or here, by day or night. I’m the magnet, they are the iron filings. We want one of them. Alive if possible. So, we have to keep our guards up twenty-four hours a day.”
She remained silent for the few minutes it took her to pour boiling water over the freshly ground coffee in the tall cafeteria, adjust the lid and push down on the plunger. “Are you intimidated, James?” Her eyes did not move from the coffee-pot.
“How intimidated?”
“Because you were given a woman bodyguard.”
Bond laughed, “Far from it. Why do some women automatically think that people in our trade are anti-feminist? Well-trained women are sometimes better than men in situations like this.
You nearly took one of them Out tonight. I didn’t get near. You were also quicker than I. No. Not guilty to being intimidated.”
“Good.” She raised her head, the dark eyes flashing with something which could have been either pride or power. “Good.
Because you’re in my charge. I’m the boss, and you do as I say.
Understand?”
The smile disappeared from Bond’s face. “I have no orders.
Just act naturally, they said. We’ll have someone watching out for you, they said.”
“And that someone is me.” Beatrice was pouring the coffee.
“Black? Good. Sugar?”
“No.”
“Wise choice. If you’re worried about taking orders from a woman, why don’t you telephone London. Give them the day’s code for me and they’ll tell you.” Her eyes met his again and this time they locked.
For half a dozen heartbeats it seemed to be a battle of wills.
Then Bond nodded curtly and crossed the room to the telephone. He could not speak in clear language, but there were enough double-talk phrases for him to get at the truth.
They picked up on the third ring. “Predator for Sunray.” His anger betrayed itself in his clipped tone. He took field orders from M; or, when necessary, Bill Tanner. For Beatrice to reveal that she, as his bodyguard, was in charge scraped at the nerve ends of his considerable pride.
A second later a voice - that of the Duty Officer - said, “Sunray.
Yes?”
“Contact with Boxcar.” This last was an agreed running cipher for BAST.
“Serious?” the DO asked.
“Serious enough. Also contact with Hellkin.”
“Good.”
“Request order of battle, Sunray.”
“Hellkin leads. You follow, Predator.”
“Thank you, Sunray.”
Bond’s face was stiff with anger, but turned away from Beatrice as he recradled the telephone. He shrugged, “It appears you’re right.”
He rearranged his face, “So, Beatrice Hellkin, what’re your orders?”
She nodded toward the large mug placed on the table in front of him. “First, drink your coffee.” She was sitting on one of the big chairs, her body stretched back and a pleasant, friendly smile playing around her lips. She was dressed in black jeans and roll-neck, an ensemble that was practical and accentuated her figure. The jeans were tight, clinging to her long legs, while the roll-neck showed off her breasts, small and firm against the cotton.
“So, you don’t think they’ll have another go today?”
She shook her head. “Not here. We should watch it when we go out.”
“Go out?”
“Weren’t you going to get food as a nice surprise for Christmas?”
“Oh, yes. Natale, yes. What happened to the Italian accent, Beatrice?” Almost sarcastically he pronounced it Beh-ah-Tree-che.
“Is gone.
“I noticed. So what’re your orders?”
“I think we should rest. Then go and do the shopping - behave normally. Thy might well try while we’re out and about, but I must make a telephone call to get those damned gates fixed. I also think we should bring in the dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“We’ve got two pairs of Rottweilers at our disposal. They’re as vicious as they come, and we can let them loose at night.”
“You’re
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