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lived by the three Fs Find, Fornicate and Forget. It was the safest way
in his job, for basically he believed Field Officers should only be
married if they needed the cover. It was a cold and clinical approach,
but the right one. Beatrice was turning it upside down.
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He thought about this dilemma for some time, then remembered there was a
new code word to collect, so lie turned back into the villa and dialled
London.
The number in England picked "\?" as usual, on the third ring.
"Predator," said Bond. "Day two.
"Dragon tooth," the voice was clear from the distant line.
"Repeat. Dragontooth."
"Acknowledge." Bond put down the receiver. So, some of the
intelligentsia who burrowed away in the Regent's Park office were trying
to be clever. In his extreme youth, Bond had read much, and his memory
was almost photographic. He called back the lines now, from Dante's
Inftrno from The Divine Comedy.
Front and centre here, Grizzly and Hellkin .
You too, Dead dog.
Curly beard, take charge of a squad often.
Take Grafier and Dragontooth along with you.
Pigfusk, Catclaw, Cramper and Crazyred.
They were some of the named demons with forked claws and rakes who
tended, and goaded, the damned in their cauldron of boiling pitch. So,
those at headquarters were now deeply influenced by the strange mystic
concept of the Brotherhood of Anarchy and Secret Terrorism - BAST, the
three-headed monster who rode on a viper.
"Dragontooth, James." He had not even heard her come in through the
french windows behind him. She had been as silent as a cat.
"Correct. Dragontooth," he said, thinking, "Cat". Could the Pennington
girl be the Cat of BAST - Saphii Boudai?
"Dragontooth," he said again, giving Beatrice a sad smile.
Behind the smile his brain worked at the equation. Saphii Boudai's file
showed her as a dedicated terrorist from her teens.
The British authorities had been close to her on two occasions, yet she
remained, like the other members of the BAST hierarchy, a ghost; an
insubstantial, if deadly, figure with no true form or shape, of which
there was no real description. The Pennington girl had a history. A
good family. He even knew her uncle, Sir Arthur Pennington, Master of
Pennington Nab in the West Country. Her cousins had both been close to
him at one time or another. The background was impeccable. Or was it?
Another thought struck him.
"What's wrong, James?" Beatrice had come to him, wrapping her arms
around his neck and looking into his face with her hypnotic black eyes.
The eyes seemed almost to weaken him, and their bottomless darkness drew
him into her brain so that all he could see was a possible future with
her: a future free from danger and responsibility - except to her.
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Bond drew back, holding Beatrice at arm's length. "I saw someone in
Forio. Someone who shouldn't be there."
Her face underwent a change. Just a slight twitch of concern, but
enough to reveal that this delightful girl had the tough inner resources
required by people in their mutual trade. She drew him over to the
couch and started to question him - her queries all aimed at the heart
of the problem, the reason he was here, in the villa on Ischia.
It was plain that, as well as everything else, Beatrice was a skilled
interrogator.
He told her everything, in its chronological sequence. First Officer
Pennington at Yeovilton, her lax sense of security, and the fact that
she was to be in charge of a section of Wrens on draft to the invincible
- something very much out of the norm for the Royal Navy.
"And she knew of your drafting?" Beatrice asked.
"To where?" he countered, still in control of his own sense of
need-to-know, the central pin of all security matters.
"Invincible, of course. James, you don't think they would have put me
in charge of this assignment without a complete briefing.
She knew you were to be in Invincible for Landsea "89 - the Pennington
girl, I mean?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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