by John Gardner
“All murder’d: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court, and there the antick sits . . .”
‘Jesus!’ In spite of himself, Bond breathed the blasphemy as the shock hit him like a bucketful of the cold water that sprayed around them. The launch continued to plough slowly over the lagoon. The quote was Shakespeare, from Richard II, and automatically he supplied the answerback to the man’s IFF code:
‘This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise.’
‘Thank you, Vanya. I’m very glad I was following you. I really believe you’re going to run into big problems when we get to the hotel, actually.’
‘I imagine I’ve already run into problems just meeting you, Kapitan Wimper.’ He was still slightly alarmed to discover that the smooth, beautifully dressed and immaculate man sitting next to him was August Wimper, Orphan of Cabal. The ex-Volkspolizei officer whom both Praxi and Harry had fingered as Weisen’s agent. The man who had both penetrated Cabal, and been the original Eagle’s lover and murderer.
Casually he reached behind him and slowly drew the ASP from where he had stuck it, in his waistband, hard against the small of his back. He turned, so that neither the launch’s helmsman, nor the hotel rep could see the gun.
‘Please don’t try anything stupid, Orphan. If all I hear is true, then you’ve a great deal on your conscience already. You can almost certainly answer some questions that’ve been worrying everybody connected with Cabal. Just sit quietly until we get to the Cipriani. After that, who knows? We might even get you to tell us where your boss, Wolfie’s, hanging out with his lady friend . . .’
‘Please put that thing away.’ Wimper looked at the automatic with a touch of scorn etched around his eyes and mouth. ‘I’ve had a lifetime’s experience with guns and they’ve taught me one thing, James – I may call you James, yes?’
‘If you must. What have guns taught you, Wimper?’
‘That the gun, in itself, incites to violence. The gun alone can’t harm you. But the man who carries one is bloody dangerous.’
‘You speak exceptional English for a German.’
Wimper gave a little smiling bob of the head which was his way of saying ‘thank you’.
‘Is that why you got on so well with Liz Cearns, Eagle, the girl you murdered in Berlin? Your former lover?’
Wimper gave a long sigh. ‘So,’ he said quietly. ‘So, that’s what you’ve been told.’
‘Told and deduced for myself. Liz kept a diary in some cack-handed code that could be cracked by a ten-year-old.’
‘Yes, I know about that. I warned her, actually.’
‘She took no notice of you. She kept the thing. It was left in her room. You didn’t even remove the evidence.’
‘I didn’t, did I? Well, let me tell you something, James. If it was found, then someone put the damned diary there. Because she did as I told her. She got rid of the thing. She didn’t have it with her when she went from the Kempi to the Hotel Braun. She left it with me. I was going to destroy it. Then some bright spark stole it. Right from under my nose.’
‘From the Kempi, I presume?’
‘Right. From the Kempi.’
‘You were seen there – by Praxi.’
He gave another sigh. ‘Yes. Yes, I thought she’d seen me, actually. Was Spraker around at the time?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’
‘I would suspect he was. Just as I’d suspect he saw me as well.’
‘You’re not trying to tell me you’re on the side of the angels after all, August?’
‘Please. Please call me Gus. That’s what my friends always call me, and put away that damned gun, James. You do have the wrong man. You’ve had the right one for some time, actually, but we’ll go into that when we get to the hotel. As I’ve told you, I think we’ll find there’s one hell of a problem when we get there.’
They both had to speak very loudly because the launch was bucking under them and the helmsman kept increasing, then decreasing, the power. They were gliding into a canal now, walls rising on either side of them, passing under a bridge, the patchy mist giving their surroundings a sinister look, like something out of a thriller movie. You could almost hear a soundtrack score by the late Bernard Herrmann who wrote a lot of music for Hitchcock movies.
‘So, you’re telling me that you’re a Boy Scout? That you didn’t sell Cabal down the river to Weisen?’
‘I can do more than tell you. I can prove it to you.’
‘You can? I suppose you’ve got the answer to why you went missing before Cabal got the order to scatter? Before the Nacht und Nebel signal.’
‘That was actually a coincidence. A lucky one for me, as it’s turned out.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Don’t pull the trigger of that thing if I reach into my pocket, James. I’m getting the proof for you.’ He slid a hand into the inside of his silk suit and pulled out a cream envelope.
‘I think you’ll find part of the answer here. Complete, actually.’ He proffered the envelope with one hand.
‘No, you open it,’ Bond commanded. ‘Actually,’ he mimicked.
August Wimper nodded and slit it open with the index finger of his right hand. ‘Want me to read it to you as well? I don’t think it would convince you unless you take a look yourself. It was handed to me only an hour and a half before I got on the flight. I’d have given it to you on the aircraft if I hadn’t seen friend Ritter was around. The last thing I needed was to be spotted by him.’
‘Read it, then I’ll make up my mind.’
‘Let me turn it around so that you can, at least, see the paper, which I think you’ll recognise.’
Slowly he reversed the letter so that Bond could see, not only the paper with its embossed heading, but also the writing which was immediately recognisable. The heading was M’s name and private address. He had seen that notepaper on many occasions – Sir Miles Messervy, Quarterdeck, and then the address, on the edge of Windsor Forest.
In his usual green ink, in the familiar hand, M had written:
Predator, the bearer of this letter is Orphan, formerly a member of Cabal. You may, by this time, have reason not to trust him, but I can assure you that Orphan has my whole unequivocal backing and trust. Call me by telephone if you still doubt. In the meantime, perhaps proof is best given to you with the word Byline.
It was signed M, and the one word, Byline, was an adequate testimonial. Years ago, M had devised a warning code, known only to himself and Bond. He almost certainly did the same thing with other agents, though Bond liked to think this was a unique understanding between him and the head of the British Secret Intelligence Service. They changed the words annually. If August Wimper had coerced the Chief, he would have used Crossroad. Instead he had written the safe signal: Byline.
‘Actually, he sent his best wishes.’ Wimper gave a deprecating smile, as though he was now a member of a small and trusted circle: which, in a way, he was.
Bond nodded and returned the pistol to his waistband. ‘And you know where Comrade Weisen can be found?’
‘If I don’t, then we’re in more trouble than I think we are already. If you’re expecting to meet friends of yours here, I should forget about it. Wolfie would never allow that, which means he might have relaxed his guard in time for us to do something about matters in hand.’ Wimper adjusted the camel-hair coat around his shoulders as they slowly came abreast of the Cipriani’s landing stage.
13
TALK OF DEATH AND DISASTER
The Hotel Cipriani, like most Venetian hotels, can only be reached by water. Some have entrances accessible from the narrow streets and small piazzas, but the Cipriani, located on a separate island, needs a water-borne trip every time.
The launch glided in towards a series of gold-topped black and white striped poles, r
eaching up from the water, like large fireworks, all set for Guy Fawkes Night. These poles are seen all over the Venetian waterways, gaily decorated, and there for securing gondolas. Not that many gondolas come out to Giudecca and the Cipriani, for the hotel itself is served mainly by its own fleet of launches, which run between the hotel steps and the Piazza San Marco as often as residents require, and at no extra charge.
The launch tied up at a set of stone steps, above which there were wrought-iron gates, hovering bellboys, and a couple of guests waiting to be taken over to the Piazza San Marco. Bond and Wimper were assisted from the boat, shepherded by the dark-suited representative, who, discarding his cap, was transformed into an obvious undermanager. They followed him through the gate into an enchanting garden, walking under trellised archways, with bushes, ferns and flowers on either side. To their left a small fountain splashed into the misty cold early evening.
Another undermanager greeted them both by name, as though he possessed some sixth sense which told him exactly who was who. ‘Mr Bunyan, Herr Kray. Welcome. All is ready for you.’
‘You didn’t tell me your name was Kray.’ Bond gave Wimper a sidelong look. ‘Not connected to the Bethnal Green Krays, I trust?’
‘Your wife, who is registered in her maiden name, has left a message for you, Mr Bunyan.’ The manager handed over an envelope. ‘Your friends have gone out to dine, I understand.’
Bond nodded, feeling the alarm rise slowly as he took the envelope. In spite of an acute desire to rip it open on the spot, he quietly filled in the registration form, then offered an American Express Platinum card, which the manager waved away. ‘We don’t require to check any guests’ credit here.’ He sounded a whisper away from condescension, just keeping to the right side of social convention. What he really meant, Bond thought, was if you cannot afford to stay here we would already know and you would not get a room.
As Wimper completed his registration, he slit open the envelope and read the short message in Easy St John’s round, almost schoolgirl, American hand.
Darling – she had written – we’ve all decided to go across for a look at the sights, and have an early dinner at La Caravella. If you get in at a reasonable time, come over and join in the festivities. I’m sure you’ll find us. If not, I’ll see you in bed. We’re all as hungry as wolves. Love ever E.
The last sentence jerked at Bond’s stomach, while he immediately noted the penultimate line and the hint in the word ‘wolves’. ‘See you in bed’ really meant something else.
The immaculate manager came around to their side of the reception desk, preparing to show them to their rooms.
‘Your wife and friends have gone out?’ Wimper gave him an ‘I told you so’ look. ‘Shall we dine here together, Mr Bunyan? I could do with the company, and I dare say you’d welcome it also. It’s unpleasant out there and I certainly have no intention of wandering around Venice in this mist.’
‘You’re right, sir. It can be unpleasant in this kind of weather.’ The manager was eager to please. ‘I think they must be right about the ozone layer and the ecology. We seem to be close on winter already. I’ve never known it like this in October.’
Bond nodded, as if to say the manager was right. Then, turning to Wimper, ‘Of course. Join you down here in, say, an hour?’
‘An hour would be admirable. I look forward to it.’
A bellboy had appeared with Wimper’s suitcase, and another of the dark-suited managers arrived to show the German to his room.
Bond’s guide led him along passages and up short flights of steps to a large suite, ‘One of our junior suites, sir.’ He opened the door, and began to enumerate the amenities. Easy’s clothes were in the closets, and there were other signs of her recent occupation of the room. He had not really thought about sharing a room with her, but Ms St John had obviously made the decision for him.
It was a large room, with a king-sized bed, comfortable chairs, a couch, table and desk. French doors opening onto a small path that led, cunningly, between the rooftops to a private sun deck. ‘I fear you’ll not be using that if the present weather continues.’ The manager appeared to be taking the entire blame for the inclement weather.
To the right of the bed, a large curved screen, fashioned in a thick opaque dark brown unbreakable glass, reached up to the ceiling, and marked the bathroom area. He followed the manager back to the entrance vestibule and was shown the bathroom design, of which the man was obviously very proud. The curved screen had been added to make room for a small swimming-pool-sized jacuzzi. It was a clever use of space, and, had this journey been one of pleasure, he would have enjoyed living in the comfortable surroundings provided by the hotel.
The pièce de résistance was saved until last. With a great flourish the manager pointed to a glass-topped table which stood at the foot of the bed. When a button was pressed by the bed, a television rose with an almost silent hum from the centre of the table. It was all very 1960s kitsch, but Bond managed to keep a straight face.
As soon as the manager departed Bond made for the bed. Easy’s note pointed him in that direction, and, after stripping all the linen back, he found what he was looking for: a piece of paper, crumpled into a small ball, which he took over to the desk.
Unfolding and smoothing out the paper, he read the note which covered the page in tiny script:
I am concerned. Things are just not right. Praxi and Harry insist that we should go into Venice, but something stinks. Praxi has put the 800 machine under lock and key at reception and I have already seen a pair of well-dressed thugs hanging around. They attached themselves to me at the airport and are registered as Dominic Jellineck and Dorian Crone. The names seem to fit as they are both English with the kind of accent that renders ‘round’ as ‘rind’ and ‘house’ as ‘hice’, but, if they are merely a pair of yuppies, they are very muscular yuppies. Neither Praxi nor Harry sees anything wrong. Have we backed the wrong horses? I will try and leave you a note at reception that will lead you to this. Urgently suggest that you use one of your magic telephone numbers to get instructions. It all feels wrong, as though we are about to be thrown to Wolfie and his crew. I shall feel better when I see you again.
E.
Certainly, Easy had taken a chance leaving this en clair letter, which Bond burned in one of the ashtrays before putting the bed back together again.
Have we backed the wrong horses? Possibly, he thought, but he would have been the first to admit that his own mind was in a state of confusion. Wimper’s story, with the back-up letter from M, certainly had weight, but, while he had already suffered second thoughts about Harry Spraker, he trusted Praxi completely. Since the whole Cabal business began nobody, it appeared, was who they seemed.
Bond sat, looking at the gathering gloom outside the French doors, turning matters over in his mind. Without the 800 machine there was no completely safe way he could make contact with London, except one particular line which they kept as well screened as possible.
He dialled the Italian get-out and UK access codes, followed by the number. A quiet voice answered. ‘Prodigal Hotline.’
‘Can you get hold of the Chairman?’ Bond asked.
‘I think so. Who’s calling?’
‘Just tell him it’s an old friend from the European office.’
M was on the line in seconds with a curt ‘Yes?’
‘Surprise,’ said Bond. ‘I’m in Venice and thought I should ask you about an orphan I’ve just heard from.’
‘One hundred per cent credit rating. Highest possible line.’ M was not going to remain on the telephone for a long, and possibly unsafe, talk.
‘What about the man we used as a Tester?’
‘Unsure. Until we know more, I would not grant him any credit at all.’
‘And the one who smells like Sulphur?’
‘Again, ninety-nine per cent rating. Not quite as good as the fellow you’ve just met. We’re still checking for a more convincing rating.’
‘Thank you, si
r.’
‘You can always use the 800 number if you want more details.’
‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question now, sir. Some of the baggage has gone missing.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Nasty accident earlier this afternoon, I see.’
‘It became worse, sir. Completely finalised.’
‘That all?’
‘Thank you, sir. Yes.’
‘Kindly don’t use this number again until you’re back in the UK. Good day.’ M closed the line abruptly. That was it, Bond thought. As he suspected, he was deniable, which meant there was no official sanction for any operations in France or Italy. M had cut him loose. The Chief was never a man for taking chances with communications. He had once confided to Bond that, early in his career as head of British Intelligence, he had lost two agents because of a terrible foul-up concerning a series of conversations on an insecure line. Since that time M had been paranoid about using telephones for sensitive matters. Neither did he like the irritable and time-consuming business of getting formal permission for his agents to work in other European countries.
Bond gave a sigh of exasperation, and turned to the business in hand.
The new briefcase was a two-sided piece of luggage: a normal briefcase with an extra, double-sized, section attached to it by hinges and a combination lock. He snapped the tumblers to the correct set of four numbers, and removed the larger leather box which contained neatly packed clothes and his toilet set. Then he opened the briefcase section, took the silver pen which had been the undoing of Axel Ritter out of his pocket, unscrewed the two sections and took a refill from one of the many compartments built in to what he thought of as the business side of the case. If he needed the non-lethal weapon again, it would be ready.
He stripped, went through into the bathroom, showered and shaved for the second time that day. Half an hour later he was in reception waiting for Wimper, who arrived looking like an ad in a male fashion magazine, having changed into a dark suit which would have left little change from two thousand dollars. Bond was amused to see that the German was improperly wearing an Old Etonian tie. He probably liked the colours.