by John Gardner
‘James. James, you’re going the wrong way. You left the Bentley in the car park to the left. Remember?’
‘Don’t tell the whole world, Sukie. We’re not using the Bentley.’
On his way back, after parking the Saab, he had made a quick detour, and used the old trick of sticking the Bentley’s keys up the exhaust pipe. It was not as safe as he would have liked, but it would have to do. Now they were lugging their suitcases to the Saab.
‘Not . . .’ There was an intake of breath from Nannie.
‘We have alternative transport,’ Bond said crisply, his voice sharp with authority.
His plan to outflank SPECTRE depended entirely on caution and timing. He had even considered ditching Sukie and Nannie, leaving them in the hotel. But, unless he could isolate them, it was a safer course to take them along. They had already shown their determination to remain with him anyway. Dumping them now was asking for trouble.
‘I hope your American visas are up to date,’ Bond said, once they had packed everything into the car and he had started the engine.
‘American?’ Sukie’s voice rose in a petulant squeak.
‘Visas not okay?’
He edged out of the parking place and began to negotiate the streets that would take them on to the airport road.
‘Of course they are!’ Nannie sounded cross.
‘I haven’t a thing to wear,’ Sukie said loudly.
‘Jeans and a shirt will do where we’re going.’
Bond smiled as he turned on to the Innsbruck road. The Flughafen sign was illuminated for a second in his headlights.
‘Another thing,’ he added. ‘Before we leave this car you’ll have to stow your hardware in one of my cases. We’re heading for Zurich, then flying direct to the States. I have a shielded compartment in my big case and our weapons will have to go in there. From Zurich we’ll be on commercial airlines.’
Nannie began to protest and Bond quickly cut her short. ‘You both decided to stay with me on this. If you want out, then say so now and I’ll have you taken back to the hotel. You can have fun going to all those Mozart concerts.’
‘We’re coming, whatever,’ Nannie said firmly. ‘Both of us. Okay, Sukie?’
‘You bet your sweet . . .’
‘As arranged, then.’ Bond could see the Flughafen signs coming up fast now. ‘There’s a private jet on its way for us. I shall have to spend some time with the people who will be arriving on it. You cannot be in on that, I’m afraid. Then we take off for Zurich.’
In the airport car park, Bond opened up the hatchback and unzipped his folding Samsonite case. Q Branch had taken it apart and fitted a sturdy extra zipped compartment in the centre. This was impervious to all airport surveillance and Bond had found it invaluable when travelling with airlines not allowing him to carry a personal weapon.
‘Anything you should not be carrying, ladies, please.’
He held out a hand while both Sukie and Nannie hoisted their skirts and unclipped from their suspender belts the identical holsters carrying automatic pistols. When the case had been returned to the luggage compartment, he ushered them back into the car.
‘Remember, you’re unarmed. But as far as I can tell, there’s no danger. The people who are on my trail should have been diverted. I shall be with the airport manager.’
He told them he would not be long, and then walked towards the airport buildings. The airport manager had been alerted and was treating the arrival of the executive aircraft as a normal routine matter.
‘They are about eighty kilometres out, and just starting their approach,’ he told Bond. ‘I believe you need a room for a small conference while the aircraft is being turned around.’
Bond nodded, apologising for the inconvenience of having the airport opened at this time of night.
‘Just be grateful the weather is good,’ the manager said with an uncertain smile. ‘It’s not possible at night if there is a lot of cloud.’
They went out on to the apron, and Bond saw that the airport had been lit for the arrival. A few minutes later he spotted the flashing red and green lights creeping down the invisible path of the approach to the main runway. In a few seconds the little HS 125 Exec jet, bearing no markings but a British identification number, came hissing in over the threshold. It touched down neatly and pulled up with a sharp deceleration. The pilot had obviously used Salzburg before and knew its limits. The aircraft was brought to a standstill by a ‘batsman’ using a pair of illuminated batons.
The forward door opened and the gangway was unfolded. Bond did not recognise the two women, but was glad to see that at least two of the men coming down the steps were people he had worked with before. The more senior was a bronzed, athletic young man called Crispin Thrush, with Service experience almost as varied as Bond’s.
The two men shook hands, and Crispin introduced him to the other members of the team as the manager led them to a small, deserted conference room. Coffee, bottles of mineral water, and note pads were set out on a circular table.
‘Help yourselves,’ Bond said as he looked around at the team. ‘I think I’ll go and wash my hands.’ He jerked his head at Crispin, who nodded and followed him from the room out into the airport car park. They spoke in lowered voices.
‘They briefed you?’ Bond asked.
‘Only the basics. Said you’d put the flesh on it.’
‘Right. You and one of the other chaps take a rented Saab – the one with the two girls in it, over there – and go straight up to the Klinik Mozart. You’ve got the route?’
Thrush nodded. ‘Yes, they gave us that. And I was told something almost unbelievable . . .’
‘Steve?’
He nodded again.
‘Well, it’s true. You’ll find him there, sleeping off some dope the clinic’s Director, Doktor Kirchtum, gave him. You’ll find Kirchtum a godsend. Quinn and a couple of heavies have been holding him there.’
He went on to explain that there was some cleaning up to be done, and Quinn was to be made ready to take a telephone call from the KGB man watching the road for the Bentley. ‘When he makes his radio report, listen to him and watch him, Crispin. He’s a rogue agent, and I’ve no need to tell you how dangerous that can be. He knows all the tricks and I’ve only got his cooperation because of threats against his wife . . .’
‘They pulled Tabby in, I understand. She’s stashed in one of the Rome safe houses. Gather the poor girl’s a bit confused.’
‘Probably doesn’t believe it. He says she had no idea that he’d defected. Anyway, if the whole team will fit into the Saab, you’d better drop your two girls, and the other lad off at the Goldener Hirsch. If we keep it short in the conference room, you can get the Bentley team on their way. The car will be spotted, so make sure you’ve got time to get settled into the clinic, with Quinn awake, before the Bentley leaves. Their watcher will take it for granted that I’m in it, with my companions, heading for Paris. That should throw them for a while.’
He told Crispin where the Bentley could be found, with the keys in the exhaust, and the route the team should take to Paris. Once the messages had been passed on, Crispin and his man were to get Steve Quinn to Vienna by the fastest means possible.
‘Tickets. With the Resident’s compliments.’
Crispin reached into his jacket and pulled out a heavy, long envelope. Bond slid it unopened into his breast pocket, as they began walking slowly back to the conference room. They stayed there for less than fifteen minutes, drinking coffee and improvising a business meeting concerning an export deal in chocolate. Eventually Bond rose.
‘Right, ladies and gentlemen. See you outside, then.’
He had already arranged that Sukie and Nannie would not even see the team that had flown in. He used some charm to get a man to remove their luggage from the Saab, and now he briskly ushered them into the airport building, where the manager was waiting for them. He joined them a few minutes later, having passed on the Saab keys to Crispin, and wished
the new team good luck.
‘M’s going to boil you in oil if this goes wrong,’ Crispin said with a grin.
Bond cocked an eyebrow, sensing the small comma of hair had fallen over his right temple. ‘If there’s anything left of me to boil.’
As he said it, Bond had a strange premonition of an unsuspected impending disaster.
‘VIP treatment.’ Sukie sounded delighted when she saw the executive jet. ‘Just like the old days with Pasquale.’
Nannie simply took it in her stride. Within minutes they were buckled into their seat belts, whining down the runway and lifting into the black hole of the night. The steward came round with drinks and sandwiches, then discreetly left them alone.
‘So, for the umpteenth time, where are we going, James?’ Sukie asked as she raised her glass.
‘And what’s more to the point, why?’ said Nannie, sipping her mineral water.
‘The where is Florida. Miami first, and then on south. The why’s more difficult.’
‘Try us,’ Nannie said with a smile, peering over the top of her granny glasses.
‘Oh, we’ve had a rotten apple in the barrel. Someone I trusted. He set me up, so now I’ve set him up, arranged a small diversion so that his people think we’re all on the way to Paris. In fact, as you can see, we’re travelling in some style to Zurich. From there we go by courtesy of Pan American Airlines to Miami. First class, of course, but I suggest we separate once we reach Zurich. So here are your tickets, ladies.’
He opened the envelope given him by Crispin and handed over the long blue and white folders containing the Zurich-Miami flight reservations made out in their real names, the Principessa Sukie Tempesta and Miss Nannette Norrich. He held back the Providence and Boston Airlines tickets that would get them from Miami to Key West. For some reason he sensed it was better not to let them know the final destination until the last minute. He also glanced at his own ticket to check it was in the name of Mr J. Boldman, the alias used on his B passport, in which he was described as a company director. Everything appeared to be in order.
They arranged to disembark separately at Zurich, to travel independently on the Pan Am flight and to meet up again by the Delta Airlines desk in the main building at Miami International.
‘Get a Skycap to take you there,’ Bond advised them. ‘The place is vast and you can easily get lost. And beware of legal panhandlers – Hare Krishna, nuns, whatever, they’re . . .’
‘Thick on the ground,’ finished Nannie. ‘We know, James, we’ve been to Miami before.’
‘Sorry. Right, we’re set then. If either of you have second thoughts . . .’
‘We’ve been over that as well. We’re going to see it through,’ said Nannie firmly.
‘To the bitter end, James.’ Sukie leaned forward and covered his hand with her own. Bond nodded.
He caught sight of the pair at Zurich having a snack in one of the splendid cafés that seem to litter that clean and pleasant airport. Bond drank coffee and ate a croissant before checking in for the Pan Am flight.
On the 747, Sukie and Nannie were seated right up in the front, while Bond occupied a window seat some way behind on the starboard side. Neither gave him a second look. He admired the way Sukie had so quickly picked up field technique; Nannie he almost took for granted, for she had already shown how good she could be.
The food was reasonable, the flight boring, the movie violent and cut to ribbons. It was hot and crowded when they landed at Miami International, soon after eight in the evening. Sukie and Nannie were already at the Delta desk when he reached it.
‘Okay,’ he greeted them. ‘Now we go through Gate E to the PBA departures.’
He handed them the tickets for the final flight.
‘Key West?’ queried Nannie.
‘The Last Resort, they call it,’ said Sukie, laughing. ‘Great. I’ve been there.’
‘Well, I want to arrive . . .’
The ping-pong of an announcement signal interrupted him. He opened his mouth to continue, expecting it to be a routine call for some departure, but the voice mentioned the name Boldman.
‘Would Mr James Boldman, passenger recently arrived from Zurich, report to the information desk opposite the British Airways counter. Mr Boldman, please.’
Bond shrugged. ‘I was going to say that I wanted to arrive incognito. Well, that’s my incognito. There must be some development from my people. Wait for me.’
He pressed his way through queues of people and baggage waiting to be checked in. At the information desk a blonde with teeth in gloss white and lips in blood red batted her eyelids at him.
‘Can I help y’awl?’
‘Message for James Boldman,’ he said, and saw her glance behind his left shoulder and nod.
The voice was soft in his ear, and unmistakable.
‘Good evening, Mr Boldman. Nice to see you.’
Steve Quinn pressed close as Bond turned. He could feel the pistol muzzle hard against his ribs, and knew his face to be etched with surprise.
‘How nice for us to be meeting again, Mr – what do you call yourself now – Boldman?’ Doktor Kirchtum stood on his right, his big face moulded into what appeared to be a big smile of welcome.
‘What . . .’ Bond began.
‘Just start walking quietly out of the exit doors over there.’ Quinn’s smile didn’t change. ‘Forget your travelling companions and the PBA flight. We’re going to Key West by a different route.’
14
FROST-FREE CITY
The aircraft was very quiet in flight. Only a low rumbling whine from the jets was audible. Bond, who had managed no more than a quick look before boarding, thought it was probably an Aerospatiale Corvette, with its distinctive long nose. The interior was decorated in blue and gold, with six swivel armchairs and a long central table.
Outside there was darkness, with only the occasional pin of light flashing in the distance. Bond guessed they were now high over the Everglades, or turning to make the run in to Key West across the sea.
The initial shock of finding himself flanked by Quinn and Kirchtum had passed very quickly. One learned to react instantly in his job. In this situation he had no option but to go along with Quinn’s instructions: it was his only chance of survival.
There had been a moment’s hesitation when he first felt the gun pressing into his ribs. Then he obeyed, walking calmly between the two big men who kept close beside him, as though making a discreet arrest. Now he was really on his own. The other two had their tickets to Key West, but he had told them to wait for him. They also had all the luggage, and his case contained the weapons – Nannie’s two little automatics, the ASP, and the baton.
A long black limousine with tinted windows stood parked directly outside the exit. Kirchtum moved forward a pace to open the rear door, bent his heavy body and entered first.
‘In!’ Quinn prodded Bond with the gun, almost pushing him into the leather-scented interior and quickly following him so that he was sandwiched between the two men.
The motor was started before the door slammed shut, and the vehicle pulled smoothly away from the kerb. Quinn had the gun out now – a small Makarov, Russian made and based on the German Walther PP series design. Bond recognised it immediately, even in the dim glow thrown into the car from the airport lights. By the same light he could see the driver’s head, like a large, elongated coconut, topped with a peaked cap. Nobody spoke, and no orders were given. The limousine purred on to a slip-road which, Bond guessed, led to the airport perimeter tracks.
‘Not a word, James,’ Quinn whispered, ‘on your life, and on May’s and Moneypenny’s as well.’
They were approaching large gates set into a high chain-link fence.
The car stopped at a security shed and Bond heard the electronic whine as the driver’s window was lowered. A guard approached. The driver offered him a clutch of identity cards and the guard muttered something. The nearside rear window slid down and the guard peered in, looking at the cards in
his hand and then glancing in at Quinn, Bond and Kirchtum.
‘Okay,’ he said at last in a gravel drawl. ‘Through the gate and wait for the guide truck.’
They moved forward and stopped, lights dipped. Somewhere ahead of them there was a mighty roar as an aircraft landed, its reverse thrust blanketing all other sounds. Dimmed lights appeared as a small truck performed a neat turn in front of them. It was painted with yellow stripes and a red light revolved on the canopy. The rear carried a large ‘Follow me’ sign.
Keeping behind the truck, the car moved slowly past aircraft of all types – commercial jets being loaded and unloaded, large piston-engined aeroplanes, freighters, small private craft, the insignias ranging from Pan Am, British Airways, and Delta to Datsun and Island City Flying Service. They made for an aircraft that stood apart from the rest near a cluster of buildings on the far side of the field, pulling up so close that Bond thought for a moment they might touch the wing.
For large men, Quinn and Kirchtum moved fast. Like a well-drilled team, Kirchtum left the car almost before it had come to a standstill, while Quinn edged Bond towards the door, so that he was constantly covered from both sides. Once in the open, Kirchtum kept a steel grip on his arm until Quinn was out. Using an arm-lock, they forced him up the steps and into the aeroplane. Quinn’s pistol was now in full view as Kirchtum hauled in the steps and closed the door with a solid thud.
‘That seat.’ Quinn indicated with the pistol. Kirchtum placed handcuffs on each of Bond’s wrists, which he then attached to small steel D-rings in the padded arms of the seat.
‘You’ve done this before,’ Bond said, smiling. There was no edge in showing fear to people like this.
‘Just a precaution. It would be foolish to be forced to use this once we’re airborne.’
Quinn stood clear, the pistol levelled, as Kirchtum looped shackles around Bond’s ankles, and secured them to similar steel D-rings on the lower part of the seat. The engines rumbled into life and seconds later they were moving. There was a short wait as they taxied in line, then the little jet swung on to the runway, burst into full life and roared away, climbing fast.