Solo

following day. It was perhaps an unnecessary expense to choose first class but Bond, despite being an exceptionally well-travelled man, was not the happiest of fliers. The more pampered and indulged he was on an aeroplane the less uneasy he felt when any turbulence or bad weather was encountered. Anyway, he thought, if you’d decided to ‘go solo’ you might as well do it in style.

PART FOUR
     

THE LAND OF THE FREE
     

·1·
     

BLOATER
     
    Bond looked out of the oval window as the plane began its descent into Dulles airport, Washington DC. The sky was clear and as the plane banked steadily round he had a fine view of the capital of the United States of America. The city lay far below him – they were still thousands of feet high – but Bond could pick out the familiar buildings and landmarks: the cathedral, Georgetown University, the Capitol, the White House, the mighty obelisk of the Washington Monument, the Tidal Basin, the Library of Congress, the Lincoln Memorial – such was the clarity of the light and the angle of the sun. The umber Potomac wound lazily round the western edge of the District of Columbia, flowing down to Chesapeake Bay and, beyond it, the undulating hills and woods of Virginia stretched out towards the Blue Ridge Mountains. It all looked neat and ordered from this high altitude but Bond felt a tension building in him as he wondered what retribution was going to be meted out by him in those streets, busy with traffic. He would take his time, plan his campaign scrupulously and without emotion. Revenge is a dish best served cold, he reminded himself.
    ‘Welcome to the USA, Mr Fitzjohn,’ the immigration officer said, stamping his passport. ‘Business or pleasure?’
    ‘Bit of both,’ Bond said. ‘But it’s the pleasure I’m looking forward to.’
    He was cleared in customs and picked up his suitcase, moving into the main arrivals concourse. He had changed all his money into dollars in London and felt the comforting flat brick of notes in his breast pocket, snug against his heart. He had left his Walther PPK in London, deciding that it was both safer and more efficient to arm himself in America, and besides, he had no idea what or how much firepower he’d require on this particular mission.
    He wandered through the concourse looking for the car-rental agencies. He wasn’t particularly enamoured of American cars but decided that he’d—
    ‘Bond?’
    Bond heard his name called out but deliberately didn’t turn round – he was Fitzjohn, now. But it came again.
    ‘Bond. James Bond, surely—’
    The voice was closer and the accent was patrician Scottish and not aggressive or hostile. Bond stopped and turned, feeling angry and frustrated. Barely minutes on American soil and already his elaborate cover seemed blown – somebody had recognised him.
    The man who was approaching him – beaming incredulity written on his face – was very stout, mid-forties, Bond estimated, with thinning blond hair above a round pink face, wearing a light-grey flannel suit with an extravagant, oversized Garrick Club bow tie. Bond had no idea who he was. There was something immediately dissolute about his plump features, the bags under his eyes and the unnatural roseate flush to his cheeks. This was a man who lived slightly too well. The stranger stood in front of him, arms spread imploringly.
    ‘Bond – it’s me, Bloater.’
    Bloater. Bond thought, but nothing came.
    ‘I think you may be confusing me with somebody else,’ Bond said, politely.
    ‘I’m Bloater McHarg,’ the man said.
    And now the name conjured up some dim resonance. Bond had indeed known someone called ‘Bloater’ McHarg, about thirty years before, at his boarding school in Edinburgh – Fettes College. The fat man’s features began to assume the configuration of a familiar. Yes – Bloater McHarg, last seen in 1941, Bond calculated.
    Bloater offered his hand and Bond shook it.
    ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘Bloater McHarg. How extraordinary.’
    At the beginning of World War Two fat boys were rare in Scottish public schools. ‘Bloater’ McHarg, undeniably heavily plump – hence the nickname – had become something of a pariah, routinely mocked for his perceived obesity. Then Bond had persuaded him to try out for the heavyweight class in his newly founded Judo Society, the first ever at Fettes. Bloater learned fast and seemed to have a talent for the sport and the other boys soon stopped teasing him once they