Never Send Flowers

by John Gardner

‘Yes, but outhing e one hundred per cent certain that we are not compromised.’

  ‘If she had been compromised, is there any reason to believe that any one terrorist organization had a motive for taking her out?’

  ‘No!’ It was Ms Chantry who replied, her voice rising, breaking, the single word coming out just a little too quickly. ‘No! No, I really think you can rule that out.’

  ‘What about her private life?’

  ‘What about it?’ Now Grant sounded almost aggressive, his forehead wrinkling belligerently.

  ‘If she died an unnatural death, it could be of great importance.’

  ‘She kept herself to herself. Didn’t talk much about her personal life,’ from Ms Chantry, once more a shade fast and easy.

  ‘What about positive vetting?’ asked Bond, referring to the regular background checks on officers working in the twin labyrinths of intelligence and security. He cocked an eyebrow at Grant. ‘We still do positive vetting, even in this piping time of peace. You were her superior, Mr Grant.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Of course. Yes.’ This time Grant fussed with his tie. ‘I regularly saw the results of her positive vetting.’

  ‘Well?’

  Grant spoke like a small man trying to pull himself up to his full height. ‘It would not be proper for me to divulge the results of a colleague’s PV in the present company.’

  ‘Then just give us a pencil sketch.’

  ‘I don’t . . .’

  ‘Mr Grant, I would suggest that you either allow Ms Chantry to leave the room, or get on with it,’ M growled. ‘We’re all adults here. Do as Captain Bond suggests. A pencil sketch; outline map, eh?’

  Grant gave a petulant sigh. ‘Very well.’ He did not actually speak through clenched teeth, but came within an ace of it. ‘Thirty-five years of age; entered the Service after taking the Diplomatic Corps examination at age twenty-five. A First in modern languages, Cambridge. No brothers or sisters. Both parents killed in that wretched PanAm bombing – going to spend Christmas with friends in New England. No overt political affiliations. Basically clean.’

  ‘Boyfriends?’

  ‘Not currently, no.’

  ‘Girlfriends then?’

  ‘She was heterosexual, Captain Bond, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.’

  ‘I wasn’t but it’s as well to know. No boyfriends currently, you say. What’s that mean exactly?’

  Grant hesitated for just too long. ‘She was engaged. It was broken off a month or so ago.’

  ‘The fiancé, then. Clean?’

  ‘Scrupulously.’

  ‘Service?’

  ‘No, neither ours, nor yours.’

  ‘You want to tell me about him?’

  ‘I think that would be unwise.’

  ‘Right. Thank you, Mr Grant.’ Bond rose. ‘I think we’ve heard enough, and I suspect I’ve a lot to do before I leave for Berne . . .’

  M gestured for him to sit down again, then turned to Grant and Chantry. ‘You can tell your DG that the whole matter will be dealt with efficiently and discreetly.’ He made a gesture with his right hand leaving no doubt this time that the visiting firemen should go.

  As he mov">‘Yes, but outhing ed his arm, so Moneypenny appeared in the doorway, in response to some hidden signal activated by the Old Man.

  ‘Moneypenny, our friends will be leaving now. Perhaps you’d have them escorted from the building.’

  Grant’s face was a picture of barely controlled anger. Chantry, on the other hand, seemed to accept M’s blatantly rude instructions as part of the normal cross she had to bear.

  They had hardly left the office before M grunted a half-amused laugh. ‘I’m always amazed at our sister service, James.’ He now seemed almost amiable.

  ‘Wouldn’t trust Grant to mail a letter for me.’ Bond looked towards the door, his lips set in a curving cruel smile. ‘As for the Chantry girl, she’s very upset about the death. Grant kept her on a short leash, and I suspect he’d rather have come on his own. There’s something missing, sir.’

  ‘Just a lot, my boy. Just a lot. Never trust Greeks bearing gifts, nor Five coming for help. They can’t bear telling the entire story, and there’s something about the March girl that they’ve no intention of telling us. Just watch your back, James. It wouldn’t surprise me if Grant put some kind of leech on you in Switzerland. So take care.’ He began to load his pipe, tamping down the tobacco with near ferocity. ‘Couple of things before you go. First, there’s no convenient scheduled service to Berne, so you’ll be going out in the company jet which is standing by at Northolt.’ The so-called ‘company jet’ was an ageing RAF-owned Hawker Siddeley 125 Series 700, in a white livery with the Transworld Consortium logo on fuselage and tail. M, careful as he was, only used the aircraft when absolutely necessary. Ever since the retreat of the Russian threat, he considered it far too high profile. ‘Incidentally, you’re going out as a grieving relative. The March girl only had one old aunt, living up in Birmingham, so you’ve been dubbed as a second cousin. Get back to me if you think Five’ve put surveillance on you. They’re like a barrel load of monkeys when they become paranoid. Now . . .’ He began to give his agent some specific instructions regarding Switzerland.

  At five o’clock, Swiss time, that same afternoon, the company jet taxied in, coming to a halt at the main terminal of Berne International Airport, and Bond walked quickly into the main building.

  Immigration was, as always, dourly efficient, and he emerged into the arrivals hall, carrying his compact pigskin garment bag slung over his shoulder, eyes rapidly taking in the array of boards held by limousine drivers, looking for his name.

  M had given him the name of his contact. ‘Freddie von Grüsse. Never met the fellow, but he’s a “von” so probably an insufferable bore, and a snob to boot. You know how the Swiss upper crust are, James.’

  There was no driver holding a card for Bond, so he walked further into the arrivals hall, and was about to approach the enquiry desk when a deep, pleasant female voice whispered at his ear, ‘James Bond?’

  He caught the subtle scent of Chanel, turned and found himself looking into a pair of wide, twinkling green eyes.

  ‘Mr Bond, I’m Freddie von Grüsse.’ Her hand was firm in his, and her elegance was of the kind rarely seen outside the pages of fashion magazines. ‘Fredericka von Grüsse actually, but my close friends call me Flicka.’

  ‘Can I be counted as a close friend?’ It was a lame opening, but she had literally taken his breath away.

  3

  FLICKA

  She was tall, around five-eleven, which meant the full six-feet-plus in high heels. Tall and slender, though not what bad journalists would call willowy. One glance was enough to confirm athleticism in all senses of the word. She had the look of someone who worked out regularly, and took great care of her personal appearance. She also gave off that indefinable static, immediately recognizable in some women, which said she was a sexual knock-out, but on her own terms. The kind of woman who got exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it.

  She wore a white flared skirt, which ended just above the knee, and swung around her thighs with every movement. A wide, studded black leather belt divided the skirt from her light blue silk shirt, decorated at the throat by a loosely knotted scarf. Her hair, black and shoulder length, had a thick silky texture. The right hand fall of hair, cut longer than the left, tended to drop over one eye, and she pushed it back, raking it with long fine fingers, her head tilted, green eyes sparkling in tune with her laugh. The body of hair fell back into place as though she had never even touched it. Flicka von Grüsse, Bond considered, would be thoroughly disliked by most women.

  ‘Come along, then, James. We’ve got a nice drive ahead of us. You want to eat first or shall we catch something on the way?’ She was off, striding a few paces ahead of him, and he saw the ripple of her thighs and the firm movement of her buttocks beneath the skirt. From long ago, he recalled a partly remembered line of poetry:

  ‘. .
. then (methinks) how sweetly flows; the liquefaction of her clothes.’

  She paused, looking back over her right shoulder. ‘James, there are lots of better views where we’re going.’

  Bond walked a little faster, and with more bounce to his step than he had felt for some time. ‘Doubt it, but where are we going anyway?’ He felt their shoulders touch, and the merest hint of mutual attraction sparking between them.

  ‘Interlaken, of course. Where else?’ The woman was a witch, moving their invisible emotions close together with speed.

  ‘Then, as you say, we’d better get moving. Can we eat in Thun?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Oh, just one thing.’ He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, feeling her flesh through the silk, like static on his fingers.

  ‘Yes?’ She turned, _s ffont-family: sans-serifslowing to a halt.

  ‘I hate to do this to you, Flicka, but I need some ID. A man can’t be too careful these days.’

  Once more the silver dust of her laugh spread around them. ‘Okay, James. I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ He flipped open his wallet to reveal his service ID, beneath its little laminated shield, and Flicka reached into a large leather shoulder bag, producing her own card. As she returned it, he caught a glimpse of an automatic pistol, snug in a holster built into the bag. He had been denied carrying a weapon into the country, and suddenly felt naked and vulnerable.

  Within ten minutes, they were settled into her three-year-old white Porsche, which was in need of a wash, and heading out of Berne on route six, following the river Aare to Thun, the lovely old town which always reminded Bond of the Frankenstein story. If you stand in the small Town Hall Square – the Rathausplatz – in Thun, and look up beyond the Rathaus itself, you can see the great castle looming above you, and the whole view is reminiscent of every Frankenstein movie ever made.

  She drove fast, but with experienced skill, her shoes kicked off, stockinged feet dancing on the pedals, and her long, slim arm moving almost lazily over the gear shift. From the moment they left the airport parking area, she made it clear that they would not talk business.

  ‘We’re supposed to be an item,’ she said, glancing at him, a delightful smile glowing from mouth and eyes. ‘That’s what my people have decreed, and who am I to disobey them?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ Bond clutched at the corner of his seat as she negotiated a long bend just a fraction too fast for his liking, but hanging into the turn, not allowing the car to drift. ‘By item, you mean lovers, I presume?’

  ‘Correct. We’re to stay where she stayed, and my papers show that I’ve just flown in from London with you. You’re a relative, aren’t you?’

  ‘Distant cousin. Was that your people’s idea?’

  ‘A joint decision with your Chief. Now, I’ll tell you the rest over dinner. Oh, and don’t worry, I won’t hold you to the entire details of our cover.’

  ‘Why a cover at all?’

  ‘Later. Over dinner, I’ll tell you.’

  Silence for half a kilometre, then, ‘You speak exceptional English.’ Too late he realized how trite that sounded, and heard her laugh again.

  ‘And we have been getting such good weather this August, yes?’ She changed up as they reached a straight stretch of road, piling on a little speed. ‘I ought to speak good English, my mother came from Hastings, where your King Harold was taken by William the Conqueror.’

  ‘I know the story. Harold got an arrow in his retina.’

  ‘You know what one of the Norman archers said? “That’s one in the eye for Harold.” ’ Again, the laugh. ‘My father was Swiss, but I got my degree at Cambridge.’

  ‘What in, history?’

  ‘Modern languages. Why would you think . . . ?’

  ‘History? Your exceptional grasp of the Battle of Hastings.’

  ‘Oh, I have an exceptional grasp of many things, James.’

  ‘I’d bet on it. You weren’t up at Cambridge with the deceased by any chance?’

  ‘Later, James. I’ll tell you

  In less than an hour they were in Thun. They parked, then walked across to the old Falcon, an hotel in which Bond had spent many happy days years before. Less than fifteen minutes later they were seated in the restaurant, being fussed over and looking forward to dinner, for the Falcon has a reputation for good food.

  For the first time since their meeting at the airport, Bond now had a real opportunity to study more than Flicka von Grüsse’s body. The laughing green eyes and Carly Simon mouth were her best assets, for, while her skin was clear and flawless, the rest of her face was long, her nose slightly crooked and her jaw a shade square. Not beautiful by any standard, but interesting, replete with character. She gazed contentedly at him across the table, making him aware that the eyes and mouth contained more than simply surface humour.

  ‘So, Flicka. You’re ready to tell me a story?’

  ‘Some of it, yes.’ She rolled a piece of smoked salmon on to her fork, popping it daintily between her lips. ‘You were right, of course. Part of the reason they’ve assigned me to this is because I was up at Cambridge with Laura March. I didn’t know her well, but we attended the same lectures, had the same supervisor. After Cambridge I saw her occasionally – after all we were both in the same business – but I really didn’t know her well.’

  ‘So why the cover? Lovebirds off on a spree. Us, I mean.’

  ‘She was murdered, James. That’s fact. We all know that now, and in our line of work . . .’

  ‘We can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Exactly. You have any idea why she was killed?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have asked if I knew. We’re completely in the dark, so, as you can imagine, there’s a certain amount of panic. Have we got part of some terrorist cell operating on our turf? Did someone choose Switzerland as a killing field? I know it’s paranoid, but we need information, and we’re not getting it from her colleagues. That’s one of the reasons we refused them the okay to come over and work the case.’

  ‘You know as much as I do.’ Bond leaned back in his chair pushing his plate away, swallowing the last morsel of his salmon. ‘In fact you probably know more than I do. Her colleagues were about as chatty as a bunch of turtles. I saw her immediate superiors, with my Chief, and we both knew they were holding something back. You knew she worked the anti-terrorist beat?’

  ‘Of course, that’s why we’re nervous. Also, the method was odd and smacked of the old Bulgarian DS.’ She was speaking of the Durzharna Sigurnost, the former Bulgarian intelligence and security service. The DS had once contained a ruthless death squad, which at one point had access to the highly secret laboratory run by the KGB’s Operational and Technical Directorate. It was from liaison between the KGB’s First Chief Directorate, the DS, and OTD, that plans were made for the secret killing of a number of Bulgarian émigrés, using exotic poisons like the feared ricin which was almost undetectable.

  ‘Tell me about how she was killed.’ He leaned forward as a waitress, plump and smiling, cleared their used plates and set down dishes of succulent lamb chops and rösti – those delicious potato cakes flavored with onion and cheese – together with tomatoes stuffed with ground lamb’s liver, mixed with herbs and spices.

  Initially, Flicka had asked Bond to order for both of them. ; text-indent: 0; margin-left: outhing ‘I never know what I want.’ She had looked up at him, under flirting eyelids. Now she nodded and smiled as she began to serve him, and the waitress brought the Beaujolais, which Bond sipped, nodding his approval.

  Only when they had started to eat did Flicka continue to talk. ‘The method? I have the entire report with me.’ Her eyes flicked in the direction of her shoulder bag which she kept near to her all the time, constantly allowing a hand to drift towards it, touching the leather as though anxious to reassure herself that it was there. ‘The weapon was undoubtedly a high-powered air rifle or pistol. Maybe one o
f the type that uses a CO2 charge. You know about the capsule in her neck?’

  Bond nodded. ‘What was in it?’

  She swallowed a piece of lamb, raising her eyes to heaven, signifying that the meat was incredibly good. Even in the way she ate, Flicka gave the impression of being a very sensuous woman. She was also fond of the tactile senses, reaching over to touch the back of Bond’s hand with her fingertips, tracing her fingers across her own breast, then giving a short sigh. ‘We’ve been unusually lucky. Our own people might’ve gone on looking for weeks. It just so happens that the cops in Berne are hosting three Japanese forensic specialists. They’re over here for a year, examining European methods, and advising on some of their techniques. It was an off-the-cuff thing. They thought one of these men might be interested. Unpronounceable name, but he spotted a couple of things, pointed them out, suggested the tests. In a word, the capsule contained tetrodoxin.’

  ‘As in blowfish?’

  ‘You’ve got it. They don’t come more exotic than that.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  So, as they ate, Flicka talked, at first almost casually, about tetrodoxin.

  Tetrodoxin was the poison of choice of the ancient Japanese shadow warriors, the followers of Ninjitsu, the Ninjas. They would use it to anoint the now familiar shuriken – throwing stars – and for centuries one of the most secret arts of Ninjitsu was the method for preparing the deadly nerve poison.

  During World War Two one of the legends of those who fought in the jungle, was the story of the silent night-killers who moved, hooded, like cats through dense foliage, reaching out to touch sentries, or sleeping soldiers, who would die of ‘snakebite’. Only later did military doctors realize the bite had been delivered from a piece of sharpened bamboo dipped into tetrodoxin.

  The poison comes from the reproductive sac of a species of blowfish called the tetrodontidae. This fish is a native to the coastal waters of Japan and Hawaii, and, as it is a pretty creature, it can often be seen gracing tropical aquariums, in homes as well as zoos. Tetrodoxin is found in the female fish, and then usually only in the mating season – February.