No Deals, Mr. Bond

by John Gardner

  At five to seven he asked if she had a coat, and she nodded, going to the small, built-in wardrobe and slipping into a white trenchcoat that was far too easily identifiable, and very definitely French, for only the French can make raincoats that have flair. He ordered her to lock up the Woodsman. Then, together, they left her office, switching out lights as they went, and into the elevator cage, hissing down to street level. The lights went out of their own accord just as they reached the small ground floor foyer and, as the doors opened onto gloom, Heather screamed and the attacker came at her like a human typhoon.

  4

  DUCKING AND DIVING

  The man who hurled himself into the elevator cage must have thought that Heather was alone. Later Bond realised that all he would have seen from the gloomy foyer would have been the white trenchcoat, for Heather had taken a step forward as the doors swung open. Bond was thrown against the glass side of the cage and, taken by surprise, he was uncertain whether to reach for the pistol or baton. But he could not afford to hesitate. The assailant already had one hand firmly on Heather’s shoulder and was spinning her round, his other arm raised high, holding an object that looked like a large hammer. Desperately fighting to regain his balance as he slithered against the glass, Bond struck out with his right leg, aiming a hard, straight blow with his heel forced forward, in the direction of the intruder’s lower legs. He felt his shoe make contact and heard a muffled grunt as the man missed striking Heather with the hammer by inches, instead smashing the rear mirror glass of the cage.

  As the attacker tried to recover his balance, Bond was tugging the collapsible baton from its holster on his right hip. He flicked it down sharply so that the telescoped steel clicked into place, making a formidable weapon, and he struck out at the man’s neck. He went down without even a cry. There was just the dull thud of the steel baton, followed by a scraping noise as the killer’s head hit the splintered glass.

  Suddenly there was silence, punctuated only by the sound of Heather’s little choking sobs. Bond reached out to see if there was an emergency light switch inside the elevator cage. His hand touched the control panel and the doors began to close. They opened again as the safety mechanism came into play when they hit the assailant’s legs sprawled out into the foyer. The same thing happened three times before Bond found an override button and the cage was flooded with light.

  Heather was hunched in the far corner, away from the inert body clad in black jeans, black rollneck and gloves. The man’s hair too was dark, but the crimson streaks of blood lent a macabre, punk-like effect. The shattered mirror reflected the gory patches and the great star-shaped cracks produced a kaleidoscopic picture of black and red.

  With his right foot, Bond heaved the body over. The man was not dead. His mouth had fallen open and his face was patterned with cuts from hairline to mouth where his face had hit the glass. Some of the slashes looked quite deep, but the quick breathing was audible, and the blood seemed to be flowing normally. When consciousness returned, he would probably feel more pain from Bond’s blow than the cuts.

  ‘A couple of aspirins and he’ll be as right as rain,’ Bond muttered.

  ‘Mischa,’ Heather said vehemently.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He’s one of the heavies they kept in Berlin; Moscow-trained.’ As she spoke, Heather seemed to be pushing herself away, attempting to put as much space as possible between herself and the man she recognised as Mischa. All the time, the doors kept closing and opening against Mischa’s legs, sounding a regular tympanic beat in the background.

  ‘Persistent things, elevator doors,’ said Bond as he bent over the unhappy Mischa. He probed around and finally pulled from under the body the weapon meant for the back of Heather’s skull. It was a brand new carpenter’s mallet. He weighed it in his hand, a heavy wooden hammer with a king-size head. Then he wiped the handle with his handkerchief and put it back on the floor. Bending again, he began to go over the body, searching for any other weapon that might be concealed.

  ‘He doesn’t even have loose change or a pack of cigarettes,’ Bond announced, straightening up. ‘Do we, by any chance, Heather, have another way out of this wretched building? A fire escape or something?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a metal zig-zag thing at the back of the salon. I had it put in when we refurbished the place. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because, sweet lucky Heather – and you’ve been damned lucky – friend Mischa did not come alone. Not if comrade Colonel Maxim Smolin did for the two other girls and meant you to go by the same unpleasant route.’

  ‘But Maxim wouldn’t . . .’ she began, then after a pause asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Mischa carries nothing else on him, only the instrument to bludgeon you to death. There’s no knife; no little medical instrument for the swift removal of tongues – and that’s the trademark isn’t it?’

  She gave a small, frightened nod. Bond kicked the mallet to the back of the cage, grabbed the unconscious Mischa by the scruff of his rollneck and, lifting him without effort, pushed him out into the foyer. Once Mischa was free of the doors, Bond slammed the heel of his hand on to the up button. They made the silent ascent to the entrance of the beauty salon. Heather switched off the security alarms in a neat metal cupboard set into the wall. Then she pushed open the double doors.

  ‘No lights,’ Bond ordered. ‘Lead me.’

  He felt her hand, remarkably cool for one who had just escaped death, clasp his as she negotiated her way past the basins and dryers of the hairdressing salon, then into a corridor punctuated with clinical white doors. A final door, with the sign Emergency Exit visible in red overhead, opened with a push bar, and the cool of the evening hit them as they emerged on to a metal platform. From there you could almost reach out and touch the neighbouring buildings. To the right, narrow swaying steps zig-zagged down.

  ‘How do we get out? At the bottom, I mean,’ Bond asked, looking down. He could see nothing but a tiny square courtyard surrounded by tall buildings.

  ‘Only key-holders can use the exit. We have four sets, one for each of my managers – hairdressing, beauty consultant, massage – and one for me. There’s a door into a passageway that runs alongside the car showroom and a door at the other end. The same key works for both doors. The far door takes you into Berkeley Street.’

  ‘Go, then! Go!’

  She turned towards the fire escape, one hand on the guard rail, and at that moment Bond heard the thudding of feet running towards them from the other side of the door.

  ‘Quick!’ He did not raise his voice. ‘Get down there and leave the doors open for me. There’s a dark green Bentley parked opposite the Mayfair. Go into the foyer and wait for me. If I arrive in a hurry with both hands showing, run straight to the car. If my right hand’s in my pocket and I’m taking my time, lose yourself for half an hour, then come back and wait. Same signals at half-hour intervals. Now, move!’

  She seemed to hesitate for a second, and then went down the metal stairs which seemed to shake precariously as her speed increased, while Bond swivelled towards the exit. He drew his ASP 9mm, holding it low against his hip. The thudding grew louder and when he thought the distance right, Bond pulled back sharply, opening the door. He did it the text book way, leaving just enough time to check that his targets were not policemen – who were likely to be unfriendly if they thought he was a criminal intruder.

  By no stretch of the imagination were these men police, unless London’s forces had taken to using Colt .45 automatics without warning. The men who had been pounding down the passage slithered to a halt as soon as Bond showed himself. Oddly, they had put the lights on in the corridor so that they could be seen quite clearly; though Bond was aware that he was an equally good target, even standing sideways, as he’d been taught so often on the small arms course. There were two of them, well-muscled hit men, one moving fast behind the other.

  The one ahead, to Bond’s right, fired, his big .45 sounding like a bomb in the confines of the corridor. A h
uge piece of the door jamb disintegrated, leaving a large hole and sending splinters flying. The second shot passed between Bond and the jamb. He felt the crack of the bullet as it cut the air near his head, but by this time he too had fired, low to damage only feet or legs with the wicked little Glaser slugs always loaded in the ASP. The men would have been easy to take out with that ammunition. The No. 12 shot suspended in liquid Teflon within the soft bullet would explode inside the body. But Bond had no desire to kill anybody. M’s message had been clear enough: ‘In the event of anything going wrong we shall have to deny you even to our own police forces.’ He had no intention of being denied by his Service and sent up for murder to the Old Bailey. He squeezed the trigger twice, one shot to each wall, and heard a yelp of pain and a shout. Then he turned about and hurtled down the fire escape. Glancing below, he saw no sign of Heather.

  He thought he heard another shout from above as he reached the first door, which Heather had left open. Bond raced through, slammed it after him and put up the Yale catch. He tore down the passage to the street door. Seconds later he was in the street itself. He turned left and left again, keeping both hands in sight. Instantly the hotel doorman appeared with the car keys and unlocked the Bentley. Bond tipped him lavishly and smiled casually at Heather as she came across the road from the hotel entrance.

  The car was parked facing Berkeley Street. He slid left into the street, then around Berkeley Square. At the top he bore left again, then right, past the exclusive Connaught Hotel, and left into Grosvenor Square, Upper Grosvenor Street and the heavy traffic of Park Lane.

  ‘Keep an eye open,’ he told Heather, who sat silently at his side. ‘I presume you can spot a tail. I’m going through the park, down Exhibition Road and then right towards the M4. I take it I don’t really have to tell you the rules, but in case you’ve forgotten . . .’

  ‘I don’t forget,’ she snapped back at him. ‘We are ducking and diving, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, according to the rule book. Never fly straight for more than half a minute. Never walk ahead without watching your back. Always mislead.’

  ‘Even when they know you’re there,’ she added tartly.

  ‘That’s right.’ Bond smiled, but the streak of cruelty still played around his mouth. ‘What, incidentally, were you going to do about luggage, Heather?’

  ‘I had a case packed at home. There’s nothing I can do about it now.’

  ‘We’ll have to buy a toothbrush at the airport. Anything else can wait until we get to Ireland. Are you booked under your own name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to cancel it. Let’s hope the waiting list isn’t too long. We’ll call from a service station. Those two must have been Smolin’s men as well, expecting to find your battered corpse and remove your tongue. From what I saw of them, they seemed to be quite capable of it.’

  ‘Did you . . . ?’

  ‘Kill them? No, but at least one of them’s hurt; maybe both. I didn’t stop to find out. Now, think of a good alias.’

  ‘Smith.’

  ‘No. The house rules are not Smith, Jones, Green or Brown. You’ll have to produce something more convincing.’

  ‘Arlington,’ she said. ‘Like Arlington Street. That sounds distinguished.’

  ‘It’s also the American cemetery. Perhaps it’s a bad omen, but it’ll do. Are we still free of company?’

  ‘There was a Jaguar XL behind that I didn’t like the look of, but it turned off into Marlowes Road. I think we’re clear.’

  ‘Good. Now listen, Heather. You cancel your Aer Lingus booking, and try to get a seat in the name of Arlington as soon as we arrive. I’ll take care of anything else. All right?’

  ‘Whatever you say.’ She was reasonably calm. He could detect only the merest tension in the cool, collected voice. It was impossible for him to deduce how professional she really was.

  They stopped at the first service station on the M4, about three miles from the Heathrow exit. Bond directed her towards the telephone booth that was free while he loitered by the next one, waiting as a woman appeared to dial every number she had in a little black book. In the end Bond was able to take Heather’s place. She nodded to him, confirming that she had cancelled her flight. Bond delved into his telephone number memory and dialled the British Airways desk at Heathrow. He asked if there were seats available on the 20.15 shuttle to Newcastle. Assured that there were, he asked them to hold two in the names of Miss Dare and Mr Bond.

  Back in the parking area, using the opened car boot for cover, Bond slid the baton and his ASP pistol into the lined compartment of his getaway case. There the weapons were entirely safe from detection by airport scanners, and almost as secure from discovery by search. In the last resort he would have to use his Service permit but then every Special Branch officer of the Irish Garda would know he was in the Republic.

  Within fifteen minutes they had reached the airport and Bond drove the Bentley to the long term car park. During the bus ride from the car park to the terminal building he explained his plan for getting on the Dublin flight to Heather. It was something he had pulled off before.

  ‘They don’t often have accurate passenger listings for the internal shuttles. And we shall be going through the same gate to get to our shuttle as the passengers for the Irish flight.’

  He went on to tell her exactly what she should do if she was unable to get a seat on the Aer Lingus Flight 177.

  In the first stages they were to go their separate ways, meeting up only when, as Mr Boldman, Bond checked in at the Dublin desk. He also suggested that she try to buy a small carry-on flight bag and the bare essentials.

  ‘Not that you’ll ever be able to buy anything really essential at Heathrow,’ he added, his mind darting back to those halcyon days when airports and railway stations could provide practically everything around the clock.

  They got off the bus at Terminal One. It was just twenty minutes to eight, and they both moved quickly. Heather went to the Aer Lingus desk and Bond to the shuttle area, where he picked up the tickets booked in their real names, paying for them with his own credit card. Carrying his small case, he walked briskly back to the Aer Lingus check-in, collected his ticket in the name of Boldman and waited until Heather reappeared with a small, very new-looking overnight bag she had bought at the airport shop.

  ‘I was able to get toothpaste, a brush, spare underwear and some scent,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Now let’s head for the Newcastle shuttle,’ said Bond.

  As they passed down the ramp and through the gates to the walkway, showing their tickets to the security guards, Bond checked on the departures monitor that Flight EI 177 was already boarding at Gate 14. There was the usual crush around the shuttle check-in, and he took the boarding cards for them both. They had no difficulty slipping quietly to the back of the queue and then back through the door into the walkway again. Bond allowed Heather to go well ahead of him towards Gate 14. If anyone was looking for them, it would be confirmed that they had checked in for the Newcastle shuttle.

  If M had broken the rules further and had people watching at a discreet distance, they would not discover the Dublin booking until too late. But Bond was thinking more of Smolin’s people, who could well be searching the airport and making enquiries already. That instinctive sense acquired over long years of experience with SMERSH and SPECTRE was well tuned, but Bond picked up nothing. He neither felt nor saw anyone watching on behalf of Smolin.

  They boarded Flight EI 177 separately and sat three rows apart, not joining up again until they had gone through the green customs channel at Dublin airport an hour later. Outside it was raining and dark, but Bond felt quite ready for the lengthy drive to County Mayo. While Heather went off to see if the main airport shop was open, where she could buy clothes, Bond hired a car at the rental desk. They had a Saab available – his preference as a Bentley Turbo was out of the question – and he filled in the necessary forms, using his Boldman licence and credit card. A red-
uniformed girl smiled like a true Irish colleen and had just told him she would take him down to the car when he turned to see Heather a few yards away, leaning against a pillar. She looked stunned, her face chalk white. As Bond came up to her, he saw a copy of the Dublin Evening Press in her hand.

  ‘What is it, Heather old love?’ He spoke gently.

  ‘Ebbie,’ she whispered. ‘Look.’ She raised the newspaper for him to see the headlines. ‘It must be Ebbie. The bastards.’

  Bond felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. In bold print, two inches high, the headlines shouted, GIRL BATTERED TO DEATH AND MULTILATED IN HOTEL GROUNDS. He scanned the report. Yes, it was the Ashford Castle Hotel in County Mayo, and the girl, who was unidentified, had been battered to death. Part of her body had been mutilated. Yes, Bond thought, it had to be number three – Ebbie Heritage, or Emilie Nikolas. Smolin, if indeed it was Colonel Maxim Smolin behind the murders, must have two teams operating. As he glanced at the trembling Heather, Bond knew they were not safe anywhere.

  ‘We’ll have to move fast,’ he told her softly. ‘Now, follow that nice girl in the red uniform.’

  5

  JACKO B

  It was not merely what in Ireland is called ‘soft weather’. The rain lashed against the windscreen so that the tail lights of other vehicles were barely visible. Bond drove with excessive care while Heather sat hunched next to him, crying.

  ‘It’s my fault . . . three of them gone . . . Ebbie now. Oh, Christ, James . . .’

  ‘It’s not your fault. Get that out of your head,’ he said, but he understood how she felt, having heard the whole story from her in her office only a few hours ago.