Young Bond Read online

  James cleared his throat. ‘Couldn’t you spare anybody to give me a short tour? My father can’t collect me until much later—’

  ‘Without the letter of invitation you must have received, we sadly cannot help you.’ Madame Radek shrugged helplessly. ‘Rules and regulations – without them, where would a school be, eh? Especially one with such gifted pupils . . . and such important parents.’

  ‘Important?’ James enquired.

  ‘As you can see from the presence of Demir, here’ – Madame Radek gestured to James’s escort – ‘we attend to the safety and security of our pupils at all times. Do please request that your father telephones again at his earliest convenience, yes? Now, forgive me, young Monsieur Grande, but I have an important show to rehearse with my most gifted pupils.’ As she swept away towards the door, she threw a proud smile back at him. ‘At the Royal Opera House, you know!’

  ‘Very impressive,’ James said politely, but she had gone and the door was already closing behind her.

  ‘Move,’ Demir growled.

  ‘Yes, of course. One moment.’ James dropped and pretended to tie his shoelaces. He knew he had to decide quickly – whether to leave obediently with the taciturn Demir, or seize the day and press on.

  The choice was clear.

  James dodged Demir and burst forward. Heart pitching wildly, he threw the door open and charged through into a tiled corridor that turned sharply twenty yards ahead, just as it had on the building plans. James pelted round the corner so that he was out of sight.

  Demir, of course, came following – and fast. James ran no more, laid in wait; as Demir slewed round the corner, he kicked the Slav’s ankle out from under him. Demir fell, but his hand caught James’s sleeve and he dragged James to the floor with him. As they struck the polished tiles of the school corridor, Demir lashed out with a horizontal knife hand strike at James’s neck.

  4

  Dangerous Foundations

  WITH A GASP, James twisted aside and the blow struck him across the back of his skull. Pain whiplashed through his senses. Demir scrambled back to his feet, making for a fire-alarm plunger switch on the wall.

  No, you don’t, James thought. He jumped up and charged at Demir, propelling the man’s face into the wall. There was a smack of bone on masonry and the man’s nose burst open like an overripe fruit. Demir’s face painted a thick crimson snail-trail on the wall as he sank to his knees and then pitched backwards, unconscious.

  James breathed deeply, feeling sick as he rubbed gingerly at the base of his skull. Demir had struck like an expert with the bottom of the handbone, near the wrist. If the blow had hit James’s carotid artery, or the vertically flowing nerves in his neck, it might have killed him. This man might be employed by the Mechta Academy of Performing Arts for the protection of VIPs’ children, but he fought like a professional. James reached into Demir’s jacket and pulled out his wallet; he found no identification inside. He replaced it and, searching instead in the man’s trouser pocket, found a bunch of keys.

  That such a capable fighter would rush straight for the main alarm when confronted with an unruly schoolboy jarred with James’s expectations. What was happening here, besides rehearsals for some big show?

  There was a storeroom across the corridor. James opened the door and manhandled Demir inside, building a wall of cardboard boxes in front of him to obscure the body. ‘Stay sleeping,’ James told the supine body, and sorted quickly through the keys until he found the one that locked the door. He only hoped that Karachan wouldn’t come looking too soon.

  James pressed on along the corridor, but self-doubt began to bite. I’ve just assaulted a man trying to stop me trespassing in a school. Sweat prickled on his palms. Look at me, the dutiful, loss-torn son, out to finish whatever the hell his father started, no matter what. What the hell am I trying to prove?

  But he knew the answer. I’m trying to prove myself, Father.

  To you.

  James willed himself to stay focused. If he was caught now, he’d be in serious trouble, most likely with the police. He decided to finish his reconnaissance and, if he found nothing of note, well, let that be an end to it. I’ll get the hell out of here and never come back.

  He remembered from Kalashnikov’s plans that there were several doors that accessed the basement area. By keeping to the main perimeter corridor he came to a door marked BASEMENT – NO ENTRY WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION, and tried it. It was locked. Before he could go through the set of keys, he heard the clean squeak of another door opening, back along the corridor, the way he’d come.

  Demir? James held still and heard light footsteps coming his way. Spotting a door ajar on the other side of the corridor, he quickly crossed over and stepped into the disinfectant dark of a cleaning cupboard. Footsteps on the linoleum drew alongside his hiding place and James crouched to peer through the keyhole.

  It was the black boy with a shaved head he’d seen looking in through the door earlier. Presumably this was one of the VIPs – Very Important Pupils.

  With a sharp jangle of keys, the boy opened up the basement door and stepped through. The door started to swing closed behind him.

  Great minds think alike. James darted out from his hiding place and pressed his toe to the door to stop it closing fully. He waited, breath held, for what felt like an hour, straining to catch sounds of movement from below. He heard a low, heavy creak. Another door? James slipped through the doorway and stood at the top of a staircase lit by the feverish glare of a bright-red bulb hanging from the ceiling. Cautiously he tiptoed down the concrete steps, peering into the shadowy space beyond the banister rail – then held still at the sound of scuffles coming from the floor.

  Not just a door, James thought. A trapdoor.

  Like a mole, digging underground . . .

  The black boy was scaling a ladder, rising back up into the basement like a phantom from the floor below. After closing the trapdoor and bolting it shut, he crossed to a telephone mounted on the far wall. With his back to James, he picked up the receiver and quickly dialled.

  ‘Demir is not in the basement, Karachan.’ The boy spoke slowly, his voice, almost feminine, with no trace of an accent. ‘The cargo is undisturbed.’

  Cargo? In the crimson shadows James moved soundlessly down the stairs, back to the wall, and crouched down behind a dusty crate on the basement floor. Here was vindication: I was right to come here. The torch of investigation had passed from father to son – but just what had Andrew Bond discovered in Moscow, among the buyers and sellers of national security? For all the cautious code, to involve his brother the British spy – even his son – he must’ve believed it to be something important. Some Soviet plot that, fully three years later, had still not come to fruition. But why not? What was it?

  By God, James swore, on his next trip to the ‘fire extinguisher company’ on Broadway, he would light a proper blaze under the SIS over this: let them try to put it out!

  The black boy replaced the telephone receiver and then crossed to the steps, bare feet slapping against the concrete as he passed right by James. He climbed the stairs, switched off the red bulb and opened the door. Bright light from the corridor yawned and was swallowed as the door swung back shut. It locked behind him but James wasn’t concerned; he’d noticed the knob that turned the deadlock from the inside.

  Since this place has just been searched, it should be safe to stay here a while, James reasoned as he climbed back up the stairs, switched the light back on and then hurried down to the trapdoor. He unbolted the wooden hatch and lifted it. The space beneath was shadowy; it gave off a strong stink of almonds mingled with greasier notes of tar and plastic.

  James swiftly climbed down into the large underground area beneath the trapdoor. The floor was concrete, and though he was almost six feet tall, he could still only brush the ceiling with his fingertips. He felt around for a light switch, flicked the metal nub, and a dim glow snapped on above him.

  Looking around, James found himself in a ki
nd of concrete bunker, built beneath the basement room to the same dimensions. There was no sign of this on the architect’s plans, he thought. The sweet, oily smell was overpowering – what the hell was stored down here? He saw that the walls were stacked with wooden crates: full ones, neatly arranged, to his right, and a chaotic landscape of empties to his left.

  James peered at the dark writing stencilled on the side of one of the full crates:

  BLADE-RISE INDUSTRIES

  DANGER

  HIGH EXPLOSIVES

  HEXOGEN 50LBS 1¼ x 8

  James swore: there was enough explosive here to leave craters all over London, and manufactured by a British weapons firm too; he’d encountered Blade-Rise before, and their operations could only be described as shadowy. All can be brought down with one blow, Andrew Bond had written. But how had he known . . .?

  I suppose the military-level security makes sense now, at least, James thought grimly. Well, he’d pushed his nose into this outlandish business; now it was time to get the hell out and warn the authorities.

  Warily James climbed up the bunker ladder and emerged from the trapdoor, back into the crimson shadows of the basement. He stood up, dusted himself down, and then—

  From nowhere, hands grabbed him by his shirtfront and threw him to the ground. Down in the bunker, he hadn’t heard the door open and someone come in. James rolled with the impact, used his momentum to right himself and scrambled up to grab his attacker in a neck lock.

  It was the black boy with the shaved head; he must’ve seen James hiding, pretended to leave and then doubled back. James tried to tighten his grip on the boy, but then gasped as a hard elbow drove into his stomach. The boy spun round and propelled his left fist into James’s jaw. The blow brought black specks to James’s vision, but he stayed upright, feinted back and then darted forward to punch the boy in the chest.

  The boy neatly sidestepped James’s attack and then mirrored its movement, as if to show James how it ought to be done – swiftly and without mercy. James couldn’t feint back in time and knuckles cracked, hard, into his ribs. Angry and hurting, James slammed the boy back against the wall. Hands reached for his throat, but he brought both arms up to break the stranglehold and then turned for just a second, ready to elbow his attacker in the stomach and throw him over his shoulder. But James was too slow. Something hard struck the back of his neck – a fist like steel that sent stars shooting behind his eyes – and he knew nothing else.

  5

  In the Cell

  IT WAS THE steady pounding of his head that stirred James back to life. He awoke in a large, bare room that could’ve been anywhere. Daylight came in through a barred window high in a whitewashed wall. The reek of disinfectant burned the back of his dry throat. He was lying on a hard, narrow bunk and there was a bucket beside a door with a small grille in it – an iron door he knew must be locked.

  This is a cell, thought James, with growing certainty and a sinking heart. He’d been shut away inside enough of them to know at a glance. Where was he, and how long had he been out? Gingerly he felt the back of his head and, with a wince, introduced his fingers to a large and impudent bump there.

  Well, what of it? He was still alive, wasn’t he? Determination gathered in his sinews. The felling blow hadn’t broken the skin, and certainly not his spirit. He closed his eyes, the crates of explosives hard and bright in his memory. What was it to be used for? How much had his father known of a plot that must stretch back so many years?

  And whose lair am I caught in now?

  James got up slowly, waiting for the expected wave of nausea to catch up with him. It did not disappoint. Passport, he remembered. I was carrying my passport. He felt for it in his jacket pocket and found it intact.

  Slowly, clearing his parched throat, he crossed to the door and banged his palm on it, wincing as the metal echoes thundered about him. He held the tremor from his voice as he called, ‘Hello? What’s going on?’

  Almost at once he heard footsteps, and the shutter on the door grille jumped open. A dour-faced man peered in at him; with a rush of relief James noted his dark-navy police uniform. ‘Awake now, are you, son?’

  ‘Where . . . where am I, please?’

  ‘Lambeth police station,’ the officer replied in his broad south London accent. ‘James Bond, if that passport’s really yours’ – James nodded, and winced at the pain that caused – ‘you’ve been arrested for criminal trespass, and for inflicting grievous bodily harm upon one Demir Brachacki at the Mechta Academy, Millbank. In addition, you assaulted a pupil . . .’

  ‘That pupil attacked me first.’ As defences went, James knew that his own sounded feeble. ‘Officer, you have to listen to me: there are explosives in the basement – beneath it, in a bunker, I mean. Have you searched the school? There’s a trapdoor—’

  ‘Slow down, son. You’ll be interviewed in due course.’ The policeman’s craggy face softened. ‘Take it slow, eh? You look like you could use a cuppa. And some aspirin, maybe?’

  James nodded gratefully. ‘How long was I out?’

  ‘Four hours or so.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be in hospital? This lump on my head—’

  ‘The police surgeon checked you over. You’re fine.’

  ‘Well, can I at least make a telephone call?’

  But the policeman had already gone. James paced about, his heart beginning to pound again. He was surprised that the powers at Mechta had released him into police custody, knowing what he’d discovered, but the obvious answer didn’t elude him for long: They’ll have cleared away the evidence by now. Even if I convince the police I’m telling the truth, there’ll be nothing to find. Still, at least he was safe. In time, Charmian would get hold of the family solicitor, and he would surely smooth things over and persuade the authorities to release—

  The key rattled noisily in the lock. James looked over, surprised, as the door was pushed open and another policeman entered – a sergeant – escorting a slim, wiry woman with a bob of greying hair.

  ‘Madame Radek,’ he breathed.

  ‘We meet again, Monsieur Grande.’ The woman’s voice was almost musical, but her gaze was hard and fierce. ‘Only, now I know you are a spy, hmm? A spy named James Bond! Someone employed you to sabotage rehearsals for my gala production. I insist that you tell me who.’

  James snorted at the ludicrous accusation. ‘What?’

  ‘Was it those Notting Hill harpies at the Mercury Theatre? The London Academy—?’

  ‘I don’t care about some stupid dance show!’ James retorted, turning to the policeman. ‘I’m waiting to make a statement about what happened to me – how can she charge in and interrogate me?’

  ‘We have our instructions.’ The policeman cleared his throat. ‘A lot of important people send their nippers to this lady’s school . . .’

  ‘And if you wish to take down a statement, Officer, then know that this boy gained unlawful access to the Academy and seriously assaulted staff and pupils.’ Madame Radek was growing agitated. ‘We present a gala performance at the Royal Opera House next week, with the King himself in attendance! And Master Bond here tries to bring down a scandal upon us.’ She bustled over, chin thrust out like an offensive weapon. ‘You are sent by the press, perhaps? An agent provocateur. A thug!’

  ‘The boy took a proper wallop to his head, miss,’ the policeman pointed out.

  ‘He brought it upon himself, Officer,’ Madame Radek affirmed. ‘Mr Karachan, our Director of Operations, found him in the corridor with an injured pupil shortly before I arrived on the scene.’ She glanced quickly at James. ‘I could see that they were both in quite a state, and that he had lied about his identity – so I called the police myself.’

  And probably saved my life, James reflected. ‘Madame, please, don’t you realize what’s going on in your own school – what must have been going on for years?’ He lowered his voice, keeping calm, hoping to mollify the woman. With the ear of people in power, she could be a powerful ally – if he c
ould convince her. He launched into a brief explanation of what his father had hinted at, and of all he’d found there.

  Madame Radek heard him out, but her eyebrows were like threads tugging her forehead into a pinched frown. Finally she turned to the sergeant. ‘I trust you will promptly get to the truth behind this ludicrous story, Officer?’ She shook her head firmly as she turned back to James. ‘Whoever you are, whoever you’re working for and whatever mischief you are hoping to achieve, nothing – nothing at all – is going to interfere with my grand production.’

  ‘I told you what I saw,’ James protested. ‘You have to believe me!’ But Madame Radek was already walking away. ‘You’re making it easy for them!’ She cast one more look at him, eyes dark in her pale, powdered face. Then she slipped through the doorway and the sergeant followed her.

  As the door swung shut and the key groaned again in the lock, James kicked the wall. He’d brushed the fringes of his father’s unfinished business, but the heart of the mystery seemed only to be growing darker.

  6

  Breakout

  JAMES FINALLY RECEIVED a mug of tea and a biscuit from the first policeman. ‘I’ve been here for hours,’ he said. ‘When is someone coming to take my statement?’

  ‘Inspector’s busy,’ the officer said, walking away, but James couldn’t hear much sound of business in the station, only the rumble of traffic and trains outside through the high window.

  ‘I want to call my aunt,’ he shouted. ‘Can’t someone take me to the telephone?’

  No reply was forthcoming. James slumped heavily down on the bed. His tea had long since gone cold, and he was starting to eye the bucket in the corner without enthusiasm, when a commotion outside broke the station’s sepulchral atmosphere. A familiar voice with an edge of the East End shouted down a protesting sergeant. ‘I’m sure the old girl does have some powerful friends, mate. But James Bond’s got one or two himself. I’ve shown you my authority – now, no one and nothing’s going to stop me seeing him.’