On His Majesty’s Secret Service

On His Majesty’s Secret Service CHARLIE HIGSON Contents Title Page May 4th – 2 days to the Coronation March 7th – 60 days until the Coronation March 23rd – 44 days until the Coronation April 11th – 25 days until the Coronation April 12th – 24 days until the Coronation May 4th – 2 days to the Coronation About the Publisher About the Author Also by Ian Fleming Copyright May 4th – 2 days to the Coronation Bond’s steady, blue eyes were fixed on the spinning blur of silver. It hung in the air like a spent cartridge spat out by a handgun, and then, as quickly as it had gone up, it came down. As it did so he switched his focus to the man standing by the window, and let the gleaming circle of metal drop out of his vision and land in his palm with a tiny slap. Swiftly, he inverted his hand and flipped the almost weightless disc onto the back of his other hand. Now he glanced down. Heads. He studied the image on the coin, familiar and yet unfamiliar, and then looked back over to the window where an identical silhouette stood out against the bright, diffused early morning sunlight. A freshly minted fifty pence piece. And a not so freshly minted new monarch. The elderly tweed suit standing next to Bond gave a small tut. Not done to be tossing coins in the presence of royalty on such a grand occasion, old boy. Bond turned and smiled at him. Just enough of a smile, tinged with an edge of warning. The suit saw a man in his mid-thirties. Tall, but compactly built. A stray lock of hair falling casually over his forehead like a black comma. The hint of a scar on his right cheek. Cold, unblinking eyes that offered no promise of comradeship. And that weaponised smile. Bond lifted the coin between thumb and forefinger. Then, performing a magician’s sleight of hand, it was gone, his smile disappearing along with it. He put the old man out of his mind and shifted his gaze back to Charles, who was working his way along the line of patiently waiting guests. But Bond’s eyes weren’t on the king, they were on the people whose hands he was shaking, and the small group around him. Two discreet bodyguards. Various aides and equerries. The efficient young woman with a French braid who was briefing him. She was called Rose, or Flora, or Jacinta. Something botanical. M had sent Bond on a crash course in regal etiquette and the structure of the royal household, but he was still struggling to work out exactly what everybody did. Which one was it? Which one of them was going to betray their monarch? He discreetly pulled back his right sleeve just enough to show the face of his Rolex. 8.22. He had twenty-six minutes. Twenty-six minutes to figure out who the traitor was. And he had precious little to go on. He thought back to how this had all begun. Maybe if he went over the details one more time, he’d spot the one he’d missed. He ran through the events of the previous few weeks like a film in his head. Reviewing every moment … Like so many missions before, it had started when he walked through the heavy, reinforced door into Moneypenny’s office and took in the familiar scene. Moneypenny sitting at her desk, unruffled and crisp as ever. He was relieved he didn’t have to go through the customary banter with her. Not appropriate this morning. An agent had been killed in Hungary; a fellow Double O. Bond knew that Moneypenny had been seeing him. Not strictly allowed, but it happened. 009. Easier not to give him a name. Besides, Bond had found the man deathly dull. He may have had the moody features of an aftershave model, with manicured stubble to match – the classic ‘tall, dark and handsome’ package that women were supposed to go nuts for – but that was the end of it. Underneath it all, the man was a stuffed Charles Tyrwhitt shirt. Other agents had been known to walk up several flights of stairs to avoid being stuck in the lift with him. As far as anyone in the Double O section could be called a safe bet, 009 was just that. Or at least he had been. Like a lot of safe bets, it had ended in tears. Not that Moneypenny would ever let anyone see her cry. Never show any weakness. Any girlish emotions. She was a professional. Bond simply nodded to her, and she nodded back. She said one word. ‘James.’ He replied with one word of his own. ‘Moneypenny.’ That said it all. The green light went on over M’s door. He pushed it open and went through. Another familiar scene. M sitting at his desk, studying some documents. Didn’t hold with screens and emails. Didn’t trust the digital world – too leaky. You couldn’t hack a sheaf of hand-typed paper. He kept his eyes on the file and didn’t look up as Bond came in and quietly closed the door. ‘Sit down, 007.’ James sat and waited. He’d left a soft bed and a warm pair of arms to be here, but he felt no regrets. No tiredness. Like a modern sports car, he always started first time, even on a cold morning like today. At last, the old man straightened the papers on his desktop, leaned back in his chair and fixed Bond with his penetrating, grey eyes. Eyes that never aged. ‘You’ve heard?’ ‘How bad is it, sir?’ ‘As bad as it could be. Do you know the details of the case?’ ‘I’m officially on leave, sir. It wasn’t exactly a stag weekend in Syria. I’ve been trying to clear my head of any MI6 matters …’ ‘Yes, all right, I don’t need your blog, Bond. A simple “no” would have sufficed.’ ‘In that