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Strikes me that the ladies and gentlemen of the Security Service are in the midst of a crisis。〃 ‘Does it now？〃 The last thing he wanted to do was to get drawn into any loose talk concerning MIS。 You never knew with policemen。
After a pause that went on a shade too long； Daily said that M also wanted him to telephone。
‘He asked me to tell you that he had removed surveillance on you and would you call him。 Been a naughty boy； have we； Mr Bond？〃 ‘Not so as you'd notice；' he said icily。
He telephoned M from a public coin box； or at least that was what they used to be called before the proliferation of public telephones that only took credit cards； or British Tele calling cards。
‘Just wanted you to know that our sisters have got themselves an almost entirely new Anti…terrorist Section；' M growled。
‘About time； if all I've heard is true。〃 ‘Mmm。 Well； I fear it is。 The former Head of Department has been guilty of much folly； and many a cover…up。 The work got done； but he had to watch his back； and he'll now be doing it from an easy chair on half pension…if that。 ‘You think someone was out to get His C as well as the other late lamented lady； sir？〃 ‘Could be。 I've spoken to their Director General； and the lady you saw last night is in very safe hands。 Now； I will be in touch； just make the most of this enforced rest。
‘Of course； sir。〃 He spent almost two hours getting to his final destination； running the back doubles and practising every anti…surveillance trick in the book。
no doubt； had been keeping an eye on him and he had a healthy respect for that； but； with all that seemed to be going on； he wanted to be certain that nobody else was hard on his heels。
It was almost two…thirty in the afternoon by the time he turned into the pleasant little street off the King's Road； with its plane trees dusty from the August he at。
Inside his apartment； he rapidly did all his personal security checks。 Nobody appeared to be watching the house； though he still could not rule out a listening device or telephone bug。 With an anti…bug scanner； loaned to him some time ago by Ann Reilly； assistant to the armourer who provided all hardware for the service； he scoured every inch of wall and floor。 Only when he was ninety…nine percent certain that there were no unauthorized electronics in the house； spiked through the walls； or hidden manually by some expert cut…and…run professional； did he telephone the Inn on the Park。
Fredericka picked up without answering。
‘It's me。 ‘Who's me？〃 ‘James。 ‘How do I know it's James？〃 ‘You have a small mole high on the inside of your left thigh。 That good enough？〃 ‘Yes。 Go on。〃 ‘Have you heard from your Alpine friend yet？〃 ‘They brought in a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown or at least their version of that verdict。〃 ‘And the frineral？〃 ‘Tomorrow。
She left instructions apparently。
Two o'clock tomorrow afternoon at a crematorium in Bournemouth。
It appears that she liked that area。 Do we go？〃 ‘Yes； but first I must give you some instructions。
He told her to check out of the hotel and e over to his flat。
‘Not the easy way； it would be best if you ran some interference for yourself。 I'm pretty sure that I'm clean； but anyone could have been waiting for me where you are now。 If so； they'll pick you up； so give them a run for their money。〃 ‘Will do。〃 She broke the contact。 Very professional； he considered。 Then he wondered why he had asked her to e to him。 He seldom invited ladies to the apartment。 It was one of those things he very rarely did； and even then never had he let them stay overnight。
Fredericka arrived just after six…thirty； having e via Heathrow Airport and then the Underground into central London； and again another runaround involving three taxis。 For the first time； a woman slept in the apartment； and it proved to be one of those world champion nights about which most people only fantasize。
The crematorium was about as personal as a public convenience。
Bond had the feeling that it was worked on the production line principle； with clergy of many denominations doing shifts at the numerous chapels。
Apart from Fredericka and Bond； only three other people turned up for the service； which the clergyman read as though he was bored stiff with the entire thing。 At last； the coffin slid away and the little velvet curtains closed with only a slight whirr of machinery。
Two of the other mourners had MIS written all over them； if only because they had tried to look pletely normal a man and a woman。
The woman wept as she left the chapel of rest； and the man did nothing to fort her。 The other person was a man of around forty； dressed in a well…tailored suit。 He showed no emotion and walked quickly away from the place as soon as it was all done。
At the door of the chapel； the undertaker told them that there had been a few floral tributes； though the deceased had asked for none。
‘It was all a bit of a rush； I'm afraid；' he said； looking at Bond as though he would know exactly what was meant。
He pointed the way to the garden area where Laura March's flowers were lying in a rather pathetic little row； and they went to take a quick look。
There was a medium…sized wreath with a card that simply said； ‘From the Director and Members of the Board with tender memories。〃 Bond thought it reeked of officialdom。 There was another from the aunt in Birmingham； a third ‘To Laura from her many friends at the office。 You will always be remembered。〃 At the end of this little row； one single flower lay like a boutonniere； the stem wrapped in crisp Cellophane； and the flower backed by green fronds。 The flower itself was enough to cause interest。 It was a rose； but a rose that neither Fredericka nor Bond had ever seen before： a luminous white； the colour intense in its depth； and the most extraordinary thing about the bloom was that each of the petals had a tip； blood red and almost symmetrical。 It was as though someone had taken a very beautiful white rose and carefully painted the spots of blood identically at the end of each petal。 So odd was the effect that Bond even leaned forward and brushed it with his fingertips to make certain it was real； and not some reproduced piece of plastic。 It was real enough； and he bent again to read the card。
The card was plain。 No florist's address or little picture： just a plain oblong of white； with a carefully written message。 The copperplate writing reminded him of M for a moment； then the words suddenly seemed very familiar。 He had read them and； it struck him that he had also seen a description of this same kind of rose at least four times before。 The message was very simple ‘This is how it must end。 Goodbye。
He stood； looking at the single flower； more eloquent than any wreath or spray； then he turned to Fredericka。 ‘I think we should go； my dear。 I have something to show you back in London。 After that it might be the right time for us to visit Germany。〃 ‘The Rhineland？〃 Bond nodded； took her arm and walked briskly back to his car。 He knew that he had found in this extraordinary rose a tangible link between the death of Laura March and the four assassinations of that one week o