‘Mimic, the black boy,’ James breathed. ‘Eleven o’clock.’

Anya froze. ‘He has seen us?’

‘Not yet. But I doubt he’s alone.’ He put a hand on Anya’s shoulder. ‘How far are we from the main entrance now?’

‘It is the other side of the parachute tower.’

James looked over. Peeping above the sculpted parkland was the rim of the tower, lit up like a lighthouse now as the skies geared up for the slow summer sunset. The cheers and squeals of those watching and those jumping carried through the deepening haze.

Mimic made a strange kind of high-pitched birdcall – a signal of some kind; a direction or a warning – and then stalked away towards some large sideshow tents on the other side of the field.

‘Let’s go,’ James whispered, pulling Anya after him. He walked hunched over as if he’d dropped something and was now looking for it, and half-heartedly she did the same as the good-natured crowds parted about them.

James was beginning to think they might actually make it out when the thick tang of stale smoke caught in his nostrils. He straightened to find a tall bearded figure looming up in front of him.

Karachan whistled a piercing birdcall of his own, then swung a fist at James’s jaw. The blow brought black specks to James’s vision, but he clutched hold of Karachan’s lapels to stop himself falling, then kneed the man in the groin. Karachan cried out in pain, tried to grab James – but James landed both fists on the broad chest. Karachan went down, but James’s sense of triumph was short-lived. The fight had caused a commotion: people were turning to see it or to run – either way, it was as if a collective human arrow were pointing straight at him.

James pulled Anya away from the scene. They had not gone far when they saw Mimic again, perhaps a hundred yards away, hunched over, head tilted to one side, mimicking James’s pose with eerie precision.

‘Come on.’ James felt adrenalin burst through his bone-weariness, lending him strength as he turned and bolted with Anya, running wildly towards the parachute tower. His earlier visit had been a reconnaissance, and a wild plan was forming on the fly.

He was practically dragging Anya along now, with Mimic racing after them.

‘When we reach the tower,’ James panted, ‘hide behind it. Wait for me. I’ll come back for you.’

Even as he said it, James wondered if that sounded more like a threat than a promise. Anya said nothing.

Then all thoughts but those of survival, of how to win, were pushed aside. James knew he had to act recklessly so that they’d think he was making a mistake. When they reached the tower, he shoved Anna into its shadow, forced his way past the ticket collector and broke into the busy queue, pushing people aside as they waited their turn to make the slow shuffle up to the summit. They shouted indignantly as James barged past on his way to the top – then protested again moments later as Mimic smashed his way through in pursuit.

Somewhere down below an orchestra had started up, a driving, brass-heavy melody. James’s heart pounded its own percussive rhythm alongside it as he heaved his way upwards, round and round the central tower. He heard angry voices close behind.

If I can’t pull this off, James thought, if my timing is wrong, they’ll be scraping me off the ground.

At last he reached the summit, where two operators strapped nervous customers into brightly patterned parachutes. There was no real danger if you were in a harness – the parachute was fixed to a system of ropes and cables so descent to the dropzone was controlled, and the parachute easy to winch back up to the top once its occupant had been released and sent on their way.

Without a harness, on the other hand . . .

James finally shoved his way out onto the jumping area. A dark-haired girl was making her way giddily towards the waiting operator. James dodged past her, pushed the operator aside, then grabbed hold of the parachute harness and climbed onto the parapet just as Mimic emerged behind him, sweating, panting, snarling a victorious smile.

James gave him a cheery wave and jumped off.

The blare of the orchestra’s brass mingled with the screams and shouts of onlookers as James plunged downwards, the parachute billowing above him. No one to leaven the drop, he realized. The operator’s flat on his back and—

There was a sudden jerk on the cable that almost threw James clear, burned his sore palms as he clung on, dangling perhaps fifteen feet above the ground. Had the winch mechanism jammed or had someone taken manual control? He glanced up and saw two operators struggling to keep hold of the maddened Mimic; while, below, Karachan was running over, ready to meet James as he dropped. Damn it! He groaned. The winch ropes lurched again. James felt nauseated as he plunged downwards at breakneck speed. Karachan was waiting, teeth bared in a welcoming smile, arms outstretched . . .

Then, in the confusion of his final drop, James heard a crack. Karachan pitched forward onto his knees, and James let go, twisting his body in mid-flight. He landed feet first on Karachan’s back, and went flying into an ungainly forward roll before skidding through the grass onto his side, panting for breath.

Anya was standing over him, trembling, holding a thick broken branch in both hands. ‘You are insane.’

‘You are welcome,’ James muttered, getting shakily to his feet, ignoring the jeers and babble from the crowds around him. His left leg hurt, and he found he was limping like Anya as he ran for the cover of the trees. They had to escape the park quickly – before Mimic got back down from the tower.

‘Why did you help me?’ James asked her as they stumbled and ran.

‘Because I am not the stone I try to be,’ Anya said, ‘and so I am afraid.’

You and me both, James thought.

He took her hand and led her onwards. By the time they’d left the Park of Culture and Rest and limped across the busy steel congestion of the Krymsky Bridge, Anya was holding his hand too.

It is that simple image of the wounded James Bond, with the resourceful heroine at his side, strength and resources pushed to the limit as he attempts to escape his enemies’ snare, that for me encapsulates the essence of Ian Fleming’s indestructible hero, across all media. Fitting, then, that I get to leave him there as this collector’s edition concludes what has been, for me, a most extraordinary assignment . . . and the most extraordinary fun.

Steve Cole

February 2017

LIGHTS.
CAMERA.
MURDER.

James is caught up in a sinister plot that goes way beyond any Hollywood movie. And now he must find a way out.

Or die trying.

James’s Cuban holiday has become a nightmare mission to save an old friend from a villain who has perfected 1,000 ways to kill.

With corrupt cops and hired assassins hot on his heels, James must travel through Havana and brave Caribbean waters to stop a countdown to mass murder.

Fates will be decided with the flip of a coin.
HEADS OR TAILS. LIVE OR DIE.

A flash of lightning illuminates a horrific sight. What his school claims was a tragic accident James Bond suspects was murder.

In search of the truth – and revenge – Bond risks his life to learn of a new secret weapon that could change the course of history. The trail leads across Europe to a ruthless warmonger who stands ready to unleash hell upon the world.

To survive, James must brave traps, trials and terrifying experiments – and triumph over his most powerful opponent yet.

RHCP DIGITAL

UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa

RHCP Digital is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

www.penguin.co.uk
www.puffin.co.uk
www.ladybird.co.uk

First published Red Fox, 2017
This ebook published 2017

Text copyright © Ian Fleming Publications Limited, 2017
Cover artwork copyright © blacksheep-uk.com
Male figure image copyright © Getty Images
Tower image copyright © Shutterstock

The moral right of the author has been asserted

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978–1–448–19376–9

All correspondence to:

RHCP Digital

Penguin Random House Children’s

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL

Prologue

Impacts

THE MOTOR CAR careered out of the wintry night and mounted the pavement, heading straight for the doors of a crumbling warehouse overlooking the Thames. For Anya Kalashnikova – her long nails snapping as she gripped the leather rear seat – time seemed to slow. The spilled glare of the rusting London streetlamp was like a spotlight through the window, the engine’s roar swelling like a crowd’s applause.

Just forty minutes ago Anya had been playing Giselle on stage with the youth troupe of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo. How the other girls envied her dancing such a difficult part, and at only thirteen years of age. ‘Your grace is outstanding, your musicality flawless,’ Madame Radek had said proudly, back in Paris. ‘One day you shall be prima ballerina for the finest companies and dance all across the world . . . Prima Ballerina Assoluta!’

The warehouse doors exploded as the Streamline powered through them into darkness. Anya was thrown sideways against hard, cold leather. ‘Papa!’ she shrieked.

There was no reply; her father was hunched silently over the wheel like an old woman spinning thread. He’d looked pale upon leaving the theatre – sweating, almost feverish. She knew he worked so hard, such long hours, and yet he’d insisted on waiting behind and driving her home.

‘Things will be different next year,’ he’d assured her. ‘In 1933, life will change for us.’

It was good to hear Papa sound so positive. They’d moved to London for the sake of Anya’s ballet career, and although he’d soon found work at an architectural firm, he didn’t seem to enjoy it. Papa had grown thin and forlorn – a winter branch whose leaves had dropped. Oh, he put on a good front for his bosses, she’d seen that for herself, but his unhappiness at home had grown and grown. Sometimes Anya felt guilty. He insisted on driving her everywhere himself, but tonight he’d seemed so distracted. He’d taken so many wrong turns, and now—

Darkness swallowed the Streamline as it ploughed inside the warehouse, a single glowing headlight the only dim resistance. With a lurch, the car lifted into the air as it mounted some unseen obstacle. It hit the ground, and the cocktail cabinet inside the rear passenger door crashed open. Bottles, glasses and decanters flew out, and something heavy struck Anya’s temple. She screamed, a discordant counterpoint to the screeching brakes as the car spun in a wide, protesting arc.

A cobwebbed concrete pillar loomed suddenly from tangled shadows.

Anya screwed up her eyes, and then the side-on collision punched all sense from her world. The door beside her buckled inwards and windows exploded into shards. She was thrown forward through the hail of glass, striking her head on the seat in front. The car was still in motion, gears grinding as it slewed on through the warehouse. Anya screamed again. In the cavernous space, every noise was amplified and flung back through the darkness. She clutched her ears, stomach turning.

Finally the automobile rolled to a stop that was almost tender, a short distance from a whitewashed wall. The single headlamp’s light pooled over the cracked concrete, the unearthly glow reflected back inside the Streamline. The two-litre engine chuntered and muttered as if pleased with itself. Then the noise choked and died away.

Slowly Anya opened her eyes. The way she used to as a young child in the night, afraid of the Nordmann fir’s needles tapping at her window in the wind, willing the darkness to make way for morning and the kindly smile of her governess. There was wetness on her face. Tears? she thought, touching gingerly. Or something from the decanter?

She wiped at her mouth and her hand came away sticky and dark. Blood.

Shock held back the pain, but not her fear. What do I look like? Don’t let it scar. Don’t let me be ugly. ‘Papa?’ She was afraid to speak too loudly in the sudden hush, as if she might somehow start the car moving again. The only sound was the ticking of the cooling engine and the slow shake of her breathing. ‘Papa . . . please . . .?’

Anya jumped at the clunk and creak of the door as it opened. The headlight went out; she couldn’t see anything now, but smelled Papa’s dry sandalwood cologne, and something else. A sweet, chemical scent.

‘Papa?’

A handkerchief pressed down over her nose and mouth. Papa’s wiping the blood away. Anya suddenly felt safer. This was better than waking to her governess. Papa was here. He would make things better.

Her skin grew cold and stung. An antiseptic, of course. She was feeling so sleepy. She felt like Giselle at the end of the ballet, placed on a bed of flowers and lowered slowly into the earth. Each night she descended breathless into the warm paraffin light of the under-stage, to the smell of Parma violets and wood shavings, waiting for the wave of applause to break in the auditorium above. But now she felt herself floating into a stronger, deeper darkness, beyond the audience; beyond anything.

Ivan Kalashnikov took the chloroform pad from his daughter’s bloody face and wiped tears from his eyes. The cut on Anya’s temple looked deep, but it would heal. Otherwise she seemed unhurt.

They had survived the crash, but the real ordeal was yet to begin.

Kalashnikov turned in the pitch-stinking darkness, pulled his fish-eye torch out of his pocket and played the beam around the warehouse. He’d failed to stop the car in the position he’d rehearsed. Well, small surprise: he was an architect, not a racing driver.

Outside he could hear the distant chug of a tug on the Thames, and the quarrelling of drunks. Sweating, panting for breath, he set his shoulder to the driver’s doorframe and pushed the Streamline slowly forwards, leaving it to rest beside a towering stack of scaffolding poles. He felt sick; the poles were leaning precariously against a mouldering concrete pillar, just as he’d left them.

Everything was prepared.

Kalashnikov opened the rear door and shone his torch on Anya, lying curled up on the back seat. Poor child, she looked so peaceful. Carefully he manoeuvred her sleeping body until her right foot was almost brushing the filthy floor, as if she were about to rise and step out of the car and embrace him, bubbling as usual with the excitement and glamour of her night.

‘It is as Grandfather liked to tell us,’ Kalashnikov murmured. ‘We are born under a clear blue sky . . . but die in a dark forest.’

Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the car door half-closed against his daughter’s protruding leg. Then he walked towards the heavy scaffolding poles. He stood, frozen still in the darkness for many minutes. His breathing grew huskier. He shook his head, hopeless. Helpless.

Finally, shaking and sobbing, he slammed his palms into the stack of scaffolding poles. With a torturous twist and the scrape of metal on concrete they toppled slowly, then smashed against the automobile with an unholy clamour. The door was thrown closed onto Anya’s calf. The noise, thick and hard, scared the gulls from the ruins of the rafters, sent them laughing into the night high above the charcoal shadow of the Thames.

1

Which Way Now?

JAMES BOND HID in the shadow of the war memorial, aware that his time was running out. He had to locate the target before it was too late.

‘Twenty-one steps north . . . thirty-two west.’ He looked up from the list of directions in his hand, glancing quickly around in case he was being watched.

No one in sight – yet.

James moved on from the war memorial, its looming figure of a fallen officer like a warning as he carefully counted his strides. Twenty-one steps north would take him into the parade ground, overlooked by windowed walls of ornate, castellated sandstone. The thirty-two paces west would lead him straight past a stretch of leaded-glass windows like a tin duck in a shooting gallery – unless he crouched down and waddled like the real thing. He wasn’t meant to be skulking about here by himself, and if he was spotted . . .

Sinking to his knees, James grinned and cursed his friend Perry for steering him here. Which Way Now? was a game James had devised as a young boy. It was essentially a treasure hunt using points of the compass. Whether away in some wilderness or passing the last day of 1935’s summer term here at Fettes College, the setter of the task would choose a start point and an end point and then take a haphazard walk between the two, changing bearing as often as he saw fit, recording the number of steps taken in each direction to reach the goal – where, ideally, a prize worth having would be concealed. The players had to follow the instructions precisely in order to find the treasure.

The young James had first played it with his father on an early holiday to Littlehampton, but the game had ended badly when he’d miscounted his steps, making it impossible for his father to find the end point, and the toy cavalry captain he’d hidden beneath a tree was never recovered. To commemorate that unknown soldier’s sacrifice, he and his parents had played Which Way Now? together many times in its honour.

As he counted thirty-two, hunched over beneath the window, James shrugged off the memories; they were starting to sting. His parents were both dead now, killed in a climbing accident in the Aiguilles Rouges. Will I ever be able to think about them without the hurt? he wondered.

He glanced back at the war memorial: CARRY ON was inscribed there, and James accepted the command. He and Perry had played Which Way Now? on occasion to brighten their long, slow schooldays. Just last week, James had sent his friend on a risky route through the servants’ hall for the reward of April’s edition of Spicy Detective Stories hidden in the fireplace – said magazine purloined from a particularly hateful prefect. Now, what had Perry left for him in turn? He looked down at the last instruction. Nine steps north.

The final paces took him to a wrought-iron grille set into the ground beside the building; it allowed light to pass through a dusty window on the lower-ground floor into the coal cellars. James smiled when he spied a package wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied beneath the grille. The prize was his! With some difficulty he worked his fingers into the pattern of the metal and heaved the grille up and out of its housing in the stone. He then quickly freed the bundle. It looked like a bottle.

A message was scrawled across the paper:

James smiled as he replaced the grating. Perry had departed Fettes last night on the sleeper train to London, but James had stayed on at his Aunt Charmian’s request. She’d been visiting friends in Newcastle and wished for company on the journey home. He’d offered to meet her in England, but for some reason she’d insisted on coming up to Fettes. She was meant to be arriving any time now. James wished Perry hadn’t concealed his instructions in James’s study-bedroom quite so well; he’d only discovered them half an hour ago . . .

‘Ah, James, there you are!’

James jumped at the sound of Charmian’s voice behind him and sprang up from the grille. She stood there smiling, wearing green woollen trousers, knee-length leather boots, a brown leather jacket over a cream blouse, and a silk scarf. Beside her was Dr Cooper, James’s housemaster. He was a handsome man, with a broad brow, strong features and hair as dark as the expression on his face.

‘Bond, what on earth are you up to?’ Cooper was bristling. ‘Your aunt came directly to Glencorse House to collect you. I didn’t know you’d slipped out. We spotted you disappearing round the back of the school from down the hill . . . what’s that you’re holding?’

James thought fast. ‘I . . . remembered I’d ordered a gift for Aunt Charmian to thank her for coming to get me, and had it delivered to the school reception. I ran up here to collect it and was on my way back when I heard someone shouting out.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought it was coming from the coal store, so I came to see if anyone needed help.’

Aunt Charmian’s eyes twinkled. ‘I don’t hear anyone.’

‘I suppose they must have recovered,’ James concluded.

‘I see,’ said Dr Cooper in a way that suggested he didn’t. ‘Well, Bond. It’s a shame you don’t show such admirable attention to duty in your study of the classics. But I commend you for buying your aunt a gift.’

Charmian smiled and took the wrapped package. ‘Whatever did you get me . . .?’ She pulled away the paper to reveal a half-pint bottle of Younger’s No. 3 Scotch Ale.

‘Beer?’ Dr Cooper looked askance.

‘My favourite,’ said Charmian quickly. ‘What a thoughtful boy you are.’

‘Dr Cooper teaches us to live by the Glencorse motto, Nunquam onus.’ James gave a small bow to his housemaster. ‘Nothing is too much trouble.’

James and Charmian were still laughing over their performance as the 12.34 to Euston wheezed away from Edinburgh. Aunt Charmian had bought them seats in first class, and they had a compartment to themselves, with seats upholstered in deep red against the mahogany walls.

Charmian poured the brown beer into teacups and her face grew wistful. ‘I believe we’ll need a drink on this journey.’

‘What is it?’ James was intrigued. ‘You didn’t come all this extra way just to ride with me, did you?’

‘I did not. There’s something I need to show to you.’ She rose, took her battered trunk down from the luggage rack and opened it. ‘Something unexpected came in the post to me last week, James . . . retrieved from a crevasse in the Aiguilles Rouges.’

Instantly James felt his stomach tighten. ‘What?’

‘It’s been buried in the ice for three years.’ Charmian pulled a khaki canvas-and-leather backpack out of her trunk, rumpled and stained with rust from the metal fastenings. ‘This belonged to your father, James. He must’ve dropped it as he fell, that last day. And . . . there’s something for you inside.’

2

Voice from the Past

THEY SAT TOGETHER, James and Charmian, poring over the contents of the backpack as their carriage rattled over the tracks: two survivors who had lost so much too soon. Charmian explained that Andrew Bond’s backpack had been uncovered by a summer thaw. Chanced upon by climbers and handed in to the police, it had been forwarded to the Bonds’ old address; those who now lived there had redirected the pack to Charmian.

James felt a sense of reverence and quiet devastation as he reached into the pack. It felt almost as if by playing the old childhood game he had somehow summoned his father’s memory in material form.

His fingers touched the relics inside. There was a thick woollen jumper; kid leather driving gloves (whose smell stirred in James precious memories of trips in his father’s treasured 1926 AC 12 Royal drophead coupé); thick socks; a hip flask with the remains of a good whisky still inside; and something that brought tears to James’s eyes.

Just prior to the holiday in Chamonix, Andrew Bond had visited Russia on business, as a sales representative for Vickers Armaments, the weapons company. He was away so often – and at their house just outside Basel in Switzerland young James used to love listening to his father’s tales while toying with the latest memento bagged from a foreign land: a painted toy soldier, perhaps, or a book. James remembered getting chocolate when his father came back from this trip to the Soviet Union, but it seemed that Andrew Bond had been holding something back. In a thick brown envelope marked James, was a small statuette of St Basil’s, the famous cathedral on Moscow’s Red Square: it looked like a fairy-tale castle, an intricate work with onion-shaped domes, brightly striped like Christmas baubles, set atop the ornately patterned red-brick towers. There was a note included, that read simply, Your uncle Max needs to see this!

‘He never did, though,’ James murmured; the keepsake had stayed buried and Max Bond had died two years ago. ‘Thing is, Father was back for at least a day before he and Mother put me on the train and left for Chamonix. Why didn’t he give this to me then?’

‘I couldn’t say, James. It’s strange that he didn’t post this, either, since there’s a stamp on it.’ From a buttoned sidepocket Charmian had produced an envelope addressed to Max. ‘Especially since I recall he sent a postcard to Max from Chamonix dated the day they got there . . .’

‘And within twenty-four hours he was dead.’ Looking at the letter, James felt a stab of fire deep inside. Both sender and recipient were gone from the world. It wasn’t fair. ‘Can . . . can we read what he said?’

Charmian smiled. ‘Of course. I just wanted to wait until you were here with me.’

Anticipation built quickly. James could hardly credit it: a chance to snatch a few moments of his father’s company, lost across the years! But the message, written in a hurried hand, seemed to refer back to a past conversation and read strangely.

‘Max, what you’ll find in Moscow will have great effect on London,’ Charmian read slowly. ‘Talpid Henson speaks of rebuilding the mill. You must visit. All can be brought down with one blow.’

‘What does that mean?’ James broke in. ‘And who is Talpid Henson?’

‘I’m sure I’ve come across that name before. A shared acquaintance, perhaps.’ Charmian shook her head, the memory lost to her. ‘I don’t think Talpid’s his proper first name though. Family Talpidae is the Latin classification for moles.’ She smiled. ‘A talpid is small, dark and furry with a tubular snout. Presumably your father’s nickname for this unfortunate Henson fellow.’

‘May I see what else he wrote?’ James plucked the letter from her grasp. He glanced through some trivia about a fabled fishing trip back in ’97 where the Bond men had apparently waited years for a bite, and then a thrill went through him to see his name mentioned in the last line: Read to K, play with James to get more out of the French memory for a start. Sincerely, Andrew. There was no other comment, and James was baffled. Get more out of the French memory?

‘There’d be no end of those, given how many visits we all made to Chamonix.’ Charmian shook her head. ‘Strangely put, isn’t it . . .?’

James nodded, brooding. ‘Read to K: who is this “K”, then?’

‘I can’t think who Max would be reading aloud to.’ Charmian studied the letter and smiled. ‘But, oh my, I remember that blessed fishing trip. Why he thought to write about it here, I don’t know, particularly since it happened in 1901, not 1897. I remember, because Edward VII was to be crowned King. Andrew and Max were dispatched by your grandmother to fish the lochs at Auchindrain for brown trout, ready to feed the hordes at the street party. They came home dejected with half a dozen perch, having missed the whole thing!’

James nodded. Very much a Scottish memory, it seemed, rather than one from France.

The day dragged on, as did the train; the landscape stretched past the window. By the time they had reached London, changed trains and arrived in Pett Bottom, night had swallowed the world and Charmian suggested they turn in.

James complied, but couldn’t sleep, thinking about his father and how little he’d really known him. He’d always imagined that one day he would travel the globe with Andrew Bond, become a part of his world. Now, of course, it was all too late, and the contents of the pack and the unsent letter kept scattering through his thoughts. Talpid . . . ninety-seven . . . read to K . . . the mill . . .

Then, in the very small hours, James remembered what Charmian had said about Max receiving a postcard from Chamonix.

He knew Charmian had kept her brothers’ old correspondence (‘It’s the voice that brings people back to you, James, not their belongings’); it was all packed away neatly in the attic, and so, around five a.m., it was there that James made for, quietly padding about between the battered trunks full of weighty books and papers, and files with dated letters arranged by recipient. He began to sort through them as quietly as he could, but Charmian, a scarlet robe wrapped around her and her hair in disarray, soon appeared through the hatch in the floor.

‘Inevitably, you’re looking for this.’ She held up a postcard. ‘I remembered Max saying at the funeral how this must have been the last thing your father wrote, and how poor an epitaph it made. And I knew I’d seen “Talpid Henson” somewhere before. Shall we?’

They repaired to the kitchen for cocoa by the light of an oil lamp. It didn’t take long to fully decipher the scrawled message on the postcard:

‘Polish what?’ James muttered. ‘I’ve never played an instrument.’

‘Cryptic and confounding, isn’t it?’ Charmian smiled faintly. ‘You know, to me this whiffs of a kind of overgrown-schoolboy code.’

‘And to crack that code, you’d need a different kind of “major key”.’ James frowned. ‘See also further correspondence – does that mean the letter in the rucksack that Uncle Max never got?’

‘Perhaps the two are meant to be taken together,’ Charmian agreed. ‘Our talpid friend sounds very busy, doesn’t he? Rebuilding the mill in one letter and rebuilding the bank in the other.’ She paused. ‘Rebuilding Millbank, perhaps?’

‘Millbank in London, you mean?’

‘I don’t know. But your father says that his work in Moscow will affect London.’

James remembered why the name rang a bell. ‘Millbank was mostly pulled down after the great Thames flood of 1928, wasn’t it? By 1932 rebuilding would have been well underway . . .’ He frowned, a quiet thrill travelling down his spine. ‘Uncle Max was still working for the Secret Intelligence Service back then – could this code be linked to his work?’

‘Your father was a salesman for Vickers, not a spy.’

‘He travelled the world selling weapons,’ James argued. ‘He must’ve come into contact with the sorts of people Uncle Max was spying on.’

‘Perhaps. But whatever the mystery here, we’re three years too late to do anything about it.’ Charmian put the postcard picture-side up on the table; the monochrome mountains glimmered in the oil lamp’s glow until she lowered the wick and blew hard to put out the light. ‘I declare night to be restored. Let’s go back to our beds and salvage what sleep we can.’

James dutifully trailed off to his room, but his mind was turning too fast for him to contemplate sleep. Any mystery he found tantalizing, but this – unfinished business between his father and his uncle? It couldn’t be more personal!

To meekly accept that the mystery was done with was unthinkable.

If the truth can be found, James thought, I’ll find it.

3

Tall Buildings and
Their Secrets

HE’D PLANNED TO pass the summer making his own diving equipment, ready to test it at St Margaret’s Bay, but now James had a new purpose: to learn what it was his father had been trying to tell his brother, the spy.

If the postcard and the letter were two parts of a cryptic puzzle, what was the solution? Play with James, Andrew Bond had told his brother. Polish instrument in James’s case. And yet James had never owned or kept a musical instrument, so he couldn’t see how that might fit – not yet, at least. If Aunt Charmian was right – if the mole-like Henson’s actions with a mill and a bank were linked to the rebuilding of Millbank – perhaps the fishing trip with the wrong year ascribed was another clue. Max would surely know the correct date, after all! And he’d said they’d waited years for a fish to bite, drawing attention to that number: ‘97’ . . .

Could that be part of an address – number 97, Millbank?

It sounded fanciful to James, but with no other leads, the itch of possibility needed scratching.

Charmian had decided to pass on the cryptic messages to a friend of Uncle Max’s at the Secret Intelligence Service, in case they were of any interest, so James offered to act as courier. It would give him time and opportunity to conduct his own investigations.

The SIS headquarters were situated near St James’s Park station on Broadway. It was a nondescript office building, of which SIS occupied the third and fourth floors – in secret, of course. The sign on the front door was in the name of a fire-extinguisher company. The general public weren’t supposed to know of the office’s real purpose. James had been instructed to bring his passport for inspection before he’d be allowed in.

He rang the bell, and before long the door was opened by a young man with slicked-back hair and skin the same shade of grey as his suit. James produced his identity papers, the man checked them, then showed James into a drab and dowdy hallway with not an iota of glamour about it.

‘You have something for us,’ the man said, without enthusiasm.

Reluctantly James handed over the envelope with the correspondence inside. He’d carefully transcribed the words for his own reference, but to surrender the originals was difficult.

The young man took the envelope in silence.

‘Is . . . Adam Elmhirst here?’ James asked. When he’d got caught up in danger in Los Angeles last year, Elmhirst, an SIS officer, had saved his life. James had hoped to ask him for help now. ‘I met him once—’

‘You’re out of luck today,’ the young man broke in. ‘I’ll tell him you asked after him. Goodbye.’

Before James could argue he was shown brusquely back outside. The door clicked shut and he stood smarting in the sunlight, dismissed.

So much for my errand for the day, he thought. Now it’s time to take care of my own business.

Consulting Charmian’s battered A.B.C. Pocket Atlas-Guide to London, James walked along Broadway, down Strutton Ground and Horseferry Road before turning right onto Regency Street. Ninety-seven Millbank was less than a twenty-minute walk away.

James saw that a new building now stood on the site, just beside the Thames’s north bank: an international school, the Mechta Academy for the Performing Arts.

Since the catastrophic flood that had left Millbank in dank destruction, the whole area had been razed so that smarter, safer modern buildings could be built. The Mechta Academy stood out: a kind of white concrete cascade of enormous blocks arranged around an oval central tower. Foundations dangerous, his father had written four years ago. Well, the buttressing around the base of this building looked hefty enough to protect it from further flooding.