No Deals, Mr. Bond

by John Gardner

  ‘You can get out of the car now, Mr Bond.’

  Bond blinked, adjusting to the bright light as he tried to massage life back into his arms. Stiffly, he pulled himself on to the seat and then through the door. His legs felt as though they did not belong to him, while his back and arms ached so that he could hardly move. He had to clutch at the car to steady himself.

  It took several minutes for him even to stand properly, and he made good use of the time to examine the surroundings. They seemed to be on a circular driveway in front of a solid grey building with a square tower at either end. The top of the building was castellated with rows of tooth-like battlements and the main door was of heavy oak, set in a Norman arch. The windows bore similar decoration. The whole, Bond thought, added up to a typical early Victorian neo-Gothic castle. This one, he saw, had a number of twentieth-century refinements, such as a large number of antennae sprouting from one tower and a big satellite dish aerial on the other. The building was set in a green bowl at least three miles wide. There was no sign of trees or other cover.

  ‘Welcome.’

  Smolin was in a peaceful mood now, apparently at his most charming. As he spoke, Bond saw Heather being helped from the Mercedes parked in front of them. He could hear dogs barking from behind the main door, together with the sound of bolts being drawn back. Seconds later the doors swung open, and three German Shepherds raced on to the gravelled drive.

  ‘Hey, Wotan, Siegi, Fafie. Hey-hey!’ called Smolin.

  The big, sleek-coated dogs bounded towards Smolin with obvious pleasure. Then, as they sensed Bond, one turned and bared its fangs, growling.

  ‘Good, Fafie, good! Stay! Watch!’ All this Smolin said in German, and then to Bond, ‘I should not make any sudden moves if I were you. Fafie can be particularly vicious once I’ve told him to watch someone. They’re well trained, these animals, and they all have a good killer instinct – so take care.’ He stopped petting the other two Shepherds and quietly motioning towards Bond, said, ‘Siegi, Wotan. Watch! Yes, him. Watch!’

  Two men had come through the door, followed by a young girl with fluffy blonde hair. She was dressed in a claret coloured tight silk shirt and a pleated skirt, which lifted and flared around her legs as she started to run towards Heather, calling out in German, her eyes shining and her face a picture of happiness. She turned and moved with an almost innocent sexuality, as though she was unaware of her body and its beautiful proportions. Bond’s heart sank as he heard the words.

  ‘Heather – Irma – they have you safe as well. I thought we were going to be left out in the cold. But they haven’t let us down.’ She was close to Heather now, embracing her.

  ‘A small deception, I’m afraid.’ Smolin looked at Bond, as Heather gasped, ‘Ebbie? What . . .’

  ‘Inside!’ Smolin’s voice cut loudly across the several conversations that had started up among his men and the bewildered girls. ‘Everybody inside! Now!’

  The men closed in, the dogs circling as though on guard. They seemed to be particularly concerned with Bond and the two girls, herding them through the door into a vast flagstoned hallway. It was dominated by a stripped pine gallery running round three sides and a wide staircase.

  Heather appeared to be calm, still under the effect of the drugs, Bond supposed, but Ebbie trembled visibly. There was horror in her wide blue eyes as she looked towards Bond. Recognition slowly dawned as she recalled that night, five years before, when Bond and the Special Boat Squadron men had plucked Heather and herself from the German coast.

  ‘Is he?’ Ebbie spoke loudly, turning towards Heather and half raising a hand to point accusingly at Bond.

  Heather shook her head and said something quietly, glancing quickly first at Smolin and then at Bond, who glanced around the hallway, taking in everything: the dark blue velvet of the curtains, the three doors and one passage that led off to other parts of the castle, and the large eighteenth-century portraits, so much at odds with the group now gathered there.

  Smolin snapped orders at the two men who had appeared with Ebbie. The four from the ambulance and the two who had driven the cars stood near the door. From their manner and the distinct bulges beneath their clothes it was obvious that all of them were armed. Armed to the teeth, Bond thought. As though the very thought produced the fact, he saw a folded machine pistol appear from behind one of the drivers’ backs. There would be more of those and probably other men as well – watchers on the rim of the grassy bowl. Men, guns and dogs; locks, bars and bolts; and a long haul across open ground if they were even to get that far.

  ‘Irma, my dear, bring Emilie over here, although I think she knows Mr Bond.’

  Bond was pleased to see that Ebbie had regained enough wit to cloud her face with a puzzled expression.

  ‘I don’t think . . .’ she began.

  Smolin spoke coldly. ‘How remiss of me. Mr Bond, you do not know Fräulein Nikolas – or Miss Ebbie Heritage as she now prefers to be called?’

  ‘No, I haven’t had the pleasure.’ Bond walked over with his hand outstretched and gave Ebbie’s a reassuring squeeze. ‘This really is a pleasure.’

  He meant this last remark, for, now he was close to Ebbie Heritage, Bond sensed a desire he rarely felt on first meeting a girl. Through his expression he tried to convey that all would be well, a difficult task as the German Shepherds moved with him, not aggressively but still letting him know of their presence.

  ‘How strange,’ Smolin commented, ‘I could have sworn that she recognised you out there, Bond.’

  ‘He . . .’ Ebbie began. Then, as her confidence returned, she said, ‘He reminded me of someone I used to know. Just for a second. Now I see he’s English, and I’ve not met him before. But, yes, for me also it is a pleasure.’

  Good girl, Bond thought to himself, looking towards Heather and trying to pass on a reassuring look to her also. Heather’s eyes did not appear to be properly focused, but she managed a firm, confident smile. For a moment, Bond could have sworn that she was trying to convey him a message of deeper significance. It was as if they had already reached a mutual understanding.

  ‘So.’ Smolin was standing beside them. ‘I suggest we eat a hearty meal. A full stomach before work, eh?’

  ‘What work, Colonel Smolin?’

  ‘Oh, Maxim. Please call me Maxim.’

  ‘What kind of work?’ Bond repeated firmly.

  ‘There is much talking to be done. But first you must see your quarters. The guest accommodation is good here in . . .’ He paused, as though stopping himself from giving away their location. Then he said, with a contented smile, ‘Here, in Schloss Varvick. You recall Schloss Varvick, James?’

  ‘It’s familiar,’ he said with a nod.

  ‘As a boy you probably read of it in Dornford Yates. I forget which book.’

  ‘So, for the want of a better name, Maxim?’

  Smolin nodded. ‘For want of a better name.’

  ‘Then this is your base in the Republic of Ireland? Schloss GRU. Or perhaps Schloss Gruesome?’ said Bond without a smile.

  Smolin exploded with laughter. ‘Good. Very good. Now, where is our housekeeper? Ingrid! Ingrid! Where is the girl? Somebody get her.’

  One of the men disappeared through a service door and a few seconds later returned with a dark, sharp-faced, angular woman. Smolin ordered her to show his ‘guests’ to their quarters, adding that Miss Heritage was already nicely settled in.

  ‘You won’t be cramped,’ he said as he stood hands on hips and head thrown back. ‘There is a communal sitting room, but you each have a separate bedroom.’

  Two of the men closed in on them and Smolin ordered Fafie to follow. The thin figure of Ingrid moved up the stairs silently as though she walked on a cushion of air. Yet her movement appeared sinister rather than graceful.

  ‘It is very comfortable.’ Ebbie’s voice was strong and pleasant. ‘I quite enjoyed it last night, but then I thought it to be sanctuary.’

  Her English was not quite so flawles
s as Heather’s but she seemed at least initially to have a more outgoing personality. Heather, he felt, had disappeared into the shell of her long legs, slim body and beautiful mask of a face. Ebbie was full of fun and had an unselfconscious sense of her own attractiveness. She held herself well as though to show off her fine body.

  The little group, followed by Fafie, climbed to the gallery, and turned right along the polished pine floor. At the end of a short corridor was a solid door, also in pine. This led into a large sitting room decorated in heavy mid-European style with flock wallpaper, a buttoned sofa, matching chairs and solid oak side tables. A card table with ball and claw feet, a Gothic breakfront bookcase reaching almost to the ceiling containing only magazines piled into the shelves and a heavy bureau filled the remaining space. Three dark German prints of mountain scenes, with clouds gathering between valleys, in ugly wooden frames hung on the walls. The floor was of the same polished pine with a number of thick rugs placed haphazardly around a central oblong carpet. Bond was deeply suspicious of rugs. It also worried him that the room had no windows. There were three doors besides the entrance, one in each wall, which Bond took to belong to the bedrooms.

  ‘I have the room over here,’ said Ebbie as she went to a door set almost opposite the entrance. ‘I hope nobody minds?’

  She looked Bond straight in the eyes, then invitingly through slightly lowered lashes. She stood with one leg forward, bent at the knee, showing the curve of her thigh under the thin material of her skirt.

  ‘First come, first served, as my old Nanny used to say,’ he said, nodding at her. Then, turning to Heather, he told her to take her pick. She shrugged and went to the door on the left. Sinister, Bond thought, recalling the old theatrical tradition of the pantomime devil making his entrance stage left: a sinister, the side of evil omen.

  The whole tangle of questions and theories came into the open again. Where did Jungle Baisley fit in? Had M misled him? Had Swift really made a terrible error of judgment in telling Heather to activate Smolin? How was Smolin so well briefed about his movements, and why had he felt it necessary to distance himself from the London incident, when Heather had almost died? Had the delicious Ebbie lent her raincoat and scarf to the Ashford Castle chambermaid on purpose?

  He entered his bedroom and found the furniture equally oppressive. There was a huge bed with the head intricately carved in solid oak, a heavy free-standing wardrobe and an oldfashioned marble topped washstand doubling as a dressing table. The bathroom was modern, in unlikely avocado green, with pine surrounds to the tiny cupboard, a bath built for a midget and even a bidet squeezed between the bath and lavatory. Bond went back into the bedroom to find one of the men standing in the doorway holding his getaway case.

  ‘The lock is, I fear, broken,’ he said in English. ‘The Herr Colonel ordered the contents inspected.’

  The Herr Colonel can take a running jump, thought Bond. Aloud, he thanked the man. It was highly unlikely that they had found anything to interest them. His two overt weapons, the ASP and the baton, had been removed, but they had left his cigarette lighter, wallet and pen – all three from Q Branch with Q’ute’s blessing. It struck Bond as odd that so far Smolin had not subjected him to a body search, which could easily have revealed items secreted in his clothing. Such an oversight was out of tune with his reputation.

  As Bond was about to open the getaway case, he heard the two girls talking loudly in the sitting room. Quickly he went out, motioning them to stop – pointing at the telephone and lighting to remind them that the rooms were almost certainly bugged.

  He needed to find some way of talking unheard to the girls, to discover the three key questions Heather had been instructed to ask Smolin, and more details about Swift. Once they could have crowded into one of the bathrooms, turned on all the taps and talked. But that old dodge had long gone out of the window with modern filtering systems that cut out extraneous sound. Even talking in whispers with a radio on at full volume was no longer safe.

  He strode to the bureau and tried the flap. It was not locked and sure enough, writing paper and envelopes had been left in the pigeon holes. Taking some of the paper, he gestured at the girls to sit down near one of the heavy side tables and carry on talking while he went to the door and looked out. They must have been very sure of themselves, for the door was unlocked and there appeared to be no guards in the corridor.

  Back at the table, seated between the girls, he bent over the paper and took out his pen. Writing quickly, trying to make some logic of his own confused suspicions, he set questions in order of importance. The girls were flagging, their conversation becoming stilted, so he asked Ebbie how she had been picked up.

  ‘It was done by telephone. After the girl’s murder.’

  Ebbie moved a fraction closer to him, her hand brushing his arm. Bond started to write his questions, two to each sheet of paper, and double sets, one for Ebbie, another for Heather.

  ‘They telephoned you?’

  ‘Ja. They said I was to leave as soon as the police had no use for me. I was to drive to Galway, to the Corrib Great Southern Hotel and they would contact me there.’

  She allowed her shoulder to press hard against his arm, leaving in its wake a tingling sensation that he found decidedly pleasant.

  Bond passed two sheets of questions to Heather, and a couple to Ebbie, miming for them to write replies. Heather had a pen, but Ebbie looked lost, so Bond gave her his. Meanwhile he continued the conversation, as though desperate to know the answers.

  ‘And they said they were from Britain?’

  There was a slight hesitation, for Ebbie was trying to write. Then she said, ‘Yes, they said they came from the people we used to work for.’

  She smiled at him, revealing small, perfect teeth and the tantalising pink tip of her tongue.

  ‘You had no doubts?’

  ‘None. They seemed to be perfect English gentlemen. They promised me one night at a safe place, then an aeroplane would come and I would go to some other place.’

  She frowned and continued to write, still allowing her arm to press against Bond’s shoulder.

  ‘Did they say anything about Heather?’

  There was an agonising silence while she wrote some more.

  ‘Safe. They say she is safe and will be coming soon. I never . . .’

  He turned to Heather, who had apparently been writing without trouble. ‘You were unconscious in the ambulance,’ he said, giving her a broad wink so that she would not be disturbed by what he was going to say. ‘Smolin talked to me about something called Cream Cake. Do you know about that?’

  Her jaw dropped, her mouth starting to form the word ‘but’, then she remembered their audience and said she was not to speak of it. The whole business had been a despicable trick; neither she nor Ebbie were responsible for it.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ she repeated, ‘A most horrible mistake.’

  Bond leaned over and began to read what they had already written, his eyes moving quickly first down one page, and then the other. As he read, the suspicion that had started earlier returned. At that moment the door burst open to reveal Smolin flanked by two of his men. There was no point in trying to hide the papers, but Bond pulled them off the table, hoping to misdirect Smolin’s gaze by rising to his feet.

  ‘James, I’m surprised at you.’ Smolin’s voice was soft, almost soothing and therefore more threatening. ‘You think we only listen to what we call our guest suite? We have son et lumière, my friend – sound and pictures.’ He gave one of his regular laughs. ‘You would never guess how many times we’ve compromised people in these rooms. Now, be a good fellow and hand over the papers.’

  One of the men stepped towards them, but Heather snatched the sheets from Bond and headed for her bedroom door, light and very fast on her feet. The man sprang at her in a rugger tackle, missed and fell against the wall as her door slammed and the key turned in the lock.

  Smolin and the other man had automatics in their hands, while the o
ther man who had fallen was back on his feet, pounding on the door and shouting in German for Heather to come out. But there was no sound until eventually the door opened and Heather stalked haughtily into the room. From behind her, smoke curled out of a metal waste bin.

  ‘They’re gone,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘burned. Not that they would have meant much to you, Maxim.’

  Smolin took one pace forward and hit her hard in the face, first with the back of his hand, then the palm smashing into her cheeks. She staggered with the blows and then straightened up, her face scarlet.

  ‘That’s it. Enough!’ Smolin drew in a breath through his clenched teeth. ‘We won’t wait for food. I think the time has come to talk – and talk you will. All of you.’

  He turned back to the door and shouted for more of his men, who came noisily up the stairs, weapons drawn.

  ‘You first, I think, James.’ Smolin’s finger was aimed like a dagger.

  There was little point in struggling as two of the men seized Bond’s arms and hustled him out along the corridor and down the main staircase.

  Ingrid stood overseeing the whole incident like a thin black insect, surrounded by the growling dogs. The men pushed Bond through one of the other doors, down another pine staircase and along a passage. They sat him down in a small room, bare but for a metal chair bolted to the floor. Handcuffs were snapped on his wrists and ankles, shackling him to the arms and legs of the chair. He was conscious of the two men standing behind him, while Smolin, his face set in cold anger, was directly in front of him.

  Bond braced himself for physical pain or, even worse, the ordeal the Soviets always spoke of as a chemical interrogation. He did everything they had taught him, emptied his mind, putting in layers of rubbish and forcing the truth deep into his subconscious. When it came, Bond was shocked into mind-bending fear. Smolin, the main target of Cream Cake, spoke very quietly.