Solo

trees and bushes of the park so that he could afford himself a good view of the main facade. Here two big lamps threw a pool of light that extended down the drive to the gatehouses. Bond found his ideal position behind a small sycamore and set the Frankel on a low branch to give him a steady firing platform. Bond clicked the switch on the scope to set it to its night-vision mode. Eugene Goodforth had been right – the dimmed red glow of the reticle did not interfere with the vision beyond. Bond’s eye settled to the lens of the sniper-scope and he cleared his aim and waited. Five minutes to midnight. He hoped his diversion would be punctual.
    In fact it was ten minutes late, but no matter. At ten past midnight Bond saw the headlights of Turnbull McHarg’s car pull up at the lodge gates and heard him toot his horn loudly and peremptorily, as Bond had instructed him. When Bond had telephoned him earlier he’d invited Turnbull to a ‘surprise’ birthday party that wealthy friends were throwing for him at a big mansion house out of town, Rowanoak Hall. He’d given Turnbull precise directions and instructions. Should be fun. Lots of caviar and champagne. And girls. McHarg had been delighted. I’ll be there, James. Look forward to seeing you – lots to catch up on. Thanks a million.
    Bond knew they’d never let McHarg past the gates but that was all he wanted. A disturbance – something wrong – and his name pointedly mentioned. He could hear McHarg’s voice raised, loudly remonstrating with the intransigent lodge-keeper, demanding entry to the party, insisting he’d been specially invited by the birthday boy himself, James Bond.
    Bond drew the Frankel snug against his cheek and settled the cross hairs of the reticle on the first arc light. The sound of the big bulb popping almost drowned the gunshot. He shifted aim and took the second light out. In the sudden darkness Bond heard McHarg’s profane exclamation of shock and astonishment, then he raced off into the darkness towards the rear of the house.
    Secure in a position facing the back of the house, he quickly shot out the rear arc. Only the lights of the house now glowed and he could hear the consternation inside – shouts, doors slamming. Bond slipped the scope off the mountings on the barrel of the Frankel and slid the rifle under a bush – its job was done. He retreated into the darkness of the park, taking the Beretta out of his pocket and cocking it. As he left he saw three men race out of the rear door, guns and powerful torches in hand, running across the lawn, spreading out until they were swallowed up by the wilderness of the park, only the intermittent beams of their torches giving their positions away. Bond tracked them as best he could with the scope. Three guards, Bond thought, and no dogs – thank God. He stood with his back to a tree scanning the pulsing night around him, waiting for a guard to come close – once he had one, he’d have the others. Always wait for them to come to you, he told himself, don’t go searching for your prey. He slowed his breathing as much as he could, standing absolutely still, gun poised, waiting.
    It was the crackle of a walkie-talkie that alerted him, rather than a torch beam. Then he saw the torch, playing among the trees. He heard the man’s voice.
    ‘Dawie – can’t see a thing, man. You sure he’s in the park? Over.’
    There was the inaudible static of a reply.
    Dawie, Bond thought: interesting. Some of Kobus’s RLI buddies from Dahum.
    The man drew closer but he never heard Bond, who, as he passed, brought down the heel of his Beretta on the back of his head. He dropped at once, inert. Bond quickly lashed his hands behind his back and then tied his wrists to his ankles, using the switchblade to cut lengths of nylon rope. He ripped up a clod of earth and stuffed the man’s gaping mouth with turf. Then he fired his gun once into the air. He picked up the walkie-talkie, shouted ‘Dawie!’ fired again and switched it off.
    Bond could hear somebody blundering through the bushes then saw a swaying torch beam sweeping through the trees. The man – it must have been Dawie – was shouting harshly into his walkie-talkie trying to summon the third guard to join them.
    ‘Henrick – over here, man,’ he shouted. ‘We’re by the west gate.’
    Bond aimed slightly above the torch beam and fired twice. He heard a scream and saw the torch spin to the ground. Dawie started bellowing.
    ‘I’m down!