Solo

were subject to some of his Judo holds and painful clinches. Bond had left Fettes at seventeen and had lied about his age to join the navy. All connections with his school had been cut and he’d never seen a fellow pupil or a teacher since. Until today, he thought, ruefully, here in Dulles airport, Washington DC.
    ‘It is James, isn’t it?’ McHarg said. ‘You know, I was just thinking about you the other day – not that I think about you a lot – but you saved me, Bond. Though you probably don’t remember.’
    ‘I do seem to remember you throwing an eighteen-stone man on his back when we won the South of Scotland Judo League.’
    ‘Leith Judo Club. We won seven–six.’ Bloater McHarg beamed. ‘My finest hour. You showed me how to fight.’ He put his hands on his hips and stared at Bond, shaking his head in happy bemusement.
    ‘I recognised you at once,’ McHarg said. ‘You’ve hardly changed. Scar on your face – that’s new. Always a handsome devil. What’re you doing in DC?’
    ‘Bit of business.’
    ‘We have to get together, have a drink. Allow me to show you an exceptionally good time. I’m a second secretary here at the embassy. I know all the places to go.’ McHarg searched his pockets for a card and found one. Bond took it. Bloater’s first name was Turnbull. Turnbull McHarg.
    ‘I don’t think I ever knew your first name, Turnbull.’
    McHarg took a pen from his pocket and scribbled a phone number on the back of the card.
    ‘That’s my home number,’ he said. ‘Call me when you’re settled and have an hour free – we’ll have a few jars et cetera, et cetera.’ He winked. ‘Do you ever see anything of the old crowd? Bowen major, Cromarty, Simpson, MacGregor-Smith, Martens, Tweedie, Mostyn, and whatsisname, you know, the earl’s son, Lord David White of—’
    ‘No,’ Bond interrupted, flatly, keen to stem the flood of forgotten names. ‘I haven’t seen anybody at all. Not one. Ever.’
    ‘Do call me,’ McHarg insisted. ‘You can’t leave this town without seeing me again. You won’t regret it. It’s bloody fate.’
    It’s a bloody nuisance, Bond thought, turning away with a false assurance that he’d call, a grin and a cheery wave. Over my dead body. He left McHarg to whatever errand he was on and continued in search of the car-rental franchises, but hadn’t gone more than a few steps when he stopped and cursed himself. You can’t hire a car without a driving licence and the only driving licence he had was in the name of James Bond. He considered the options – he had to have a car so perhaps it was worth the risk. Now he was through immigration he reckoned he could play with his two identities as it suited him. In fact it might cover his tracks better – confuse the issue. He went to a desk that said ‘DC Car Rental’ and asked what cars they had in the high-performance top-of-the-range category. He quickly chose a new model Ford Mustang Mach 1 hardtop. He paid a deposit in cash and was led out to the parking lot.
    He liked the Mustang – he’d driven one before – and there was something no-nonsense about this hefty new model – two-tone, red over black – with its big blocky muscled contours and wide alloy wheels. No elegant European styling here, just unequivocal 300-plus horsepower in a brutish V8 Ramair engine. He threw his suitcase in the boot – in the trunk – and slid in behind the wheel, adjusting the seat for the best driving position. Bloater McHarg, who would have thought? My God, who could predict when your past would suddenly blunder into your life? In a way it was surprising that he’d never met any of the other boys he’d known at Fettes. Still, not necessarily something to be wished for. He turned the ignition and enjoyed the virile baritone roar of the engine. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed for downtown DC.
    He had booked himself a room in a large hotel called the Fairview near Mount Vernon Square, between Massachusetts Avenue and G Street. He wanted a busy hotel with many rooms, to be just one transient individual amongst hundreds of anonymous guests. As he headed into the city he began to recognise the odd landmark. He didn’t know Washington well – it was a place he had passed through over the years, spending the occasional night, mainly in transit for meetings at the CIA headquarters at Langley. He remembered from his reading somewhere that Charles Dickens had called Washington a ‘city of magnificent