by John Gardner
At the end of the visit, the Colonel grasped Bond’s hand. ‘I understand you put an end to things, Captain Bond.’ The eyes softened. ‘Thank you. On behalf of my unit and the French people, thank you.’
‘Luck. Getting to the right place at the right time.’ Bond made a gesture which, from any other man, would have meant ‘It was nothing’. 007 was too much of a realist to indulge in that kind of phoney heroics. He really meant it was luck, more than skill. Luck and quick thinking, though when he heard the truth of things, he put it down solely to Dame Fortune, and thanked whatever god or saint had been looking out for him.
The facts were that Weisen had attached no less than five hundred pounds of a Semtex-type plastic explosive, in fifty pound packages, to the underside of the train. All ten bombs were interlinked with electronic detonators. When Bond arrived in the main Northbound Tunnel, they had been fixing the final bomb to the back of the train. They had yet to attach its detonator, together with the prime detonator for the first bomb in the chain, under the engine itself. Had the detonators already been attached, the huge pulse of electricity which had killed Wolfgang and his cohorts, would also have set off an explosive reaction which would not only have destroyed the train, and everybody in or near it, but also smashed through the tunnel wall.
They found the detonators, and a remote control unit, in an armoured case, lying only a few yards from where Bond had entered the tunnel. Weisen, they deduced, had intended to activate the bombs from the Maintenance Tunnel, then make his escape in the confusion which would have undoubtedly followed. It was later revealed that they had taken the explosives, and weapons, aboard the VIP train in champagne crates and assorted boxes which should have contained food.
M told him that he was one of the luckiest men alive.
The official story, released to the Press within an hour of the bloody incident, was that a terrorist group had penetrated security at the Coquelles Terminal and made an unsuccessful assassination attempt on the European leaders. Nobody had yet claimed responsibility.
The dead train attendants, and those soldiers of the GIGN who had given their lives on that fatal morning, were buried at a military funeral near the French Terminal four days later. Neither Praxi nor Bond was allowed to attend. It was essential that both the agents should keep low profiles from now on. Weisen still had many followers on the loose in Europe, and an international alert was out for Monika Haardt and the woman they knew as Michelle Gris.
The captured members of Weisen’s crew were in for a long interrogation, as were Praxi Simeon and Bond. Both British and American authorities needed names, and descriptions, of men and women who had sided with Wolfgang Weisen’s organisation after the reunification of Germany and the collapse of Soviet Communism.
Praxi and Bond were allowed to make one short visit to the United States, so that they could attend Easy St John’s funeral in the small town of Culpeper, Virginia, where her father lived in some luxury, chairman of several companies. It was a sad and moving occasion for all of them, and Bond was asked to read a few lines from one of Easy’s favourite poems. He knew it well enough, for it was declaimed at Armistice Day ceremonies each November throughout the United Kingdom. His voice cracked only once as he spoke:
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They flew back to France, where combined French, German, British and American interrogation teams were debriefing everyone concerned with the last days of Wolfgang Weisen.
After that, they were taken to London, spending some three weeks in a safe house while inquisitors from Bond’s own Service probed their minds for more facts, and more information.
So it turned out, on a raw December evening, they were told to report to M’s office where the Old Man had particular news for them.
The French government had awarded each of them the Croix de Guerre, and, at the British Prime Minister’s request, HM The Queen wished to make James Bond a KBE and Praxi Simeon an honorary DBE. With great respect, they both refused the latter honours. The French medals, however, were presented to them there and then in M’s office by the French Ambassador. After the short ceremony, Bill Tanner took Bond’s citation and medal from him and locked the items in a safe which contained many such awards, earned in secret. The Brits still cling to their secrecy with the fanaticism of an arcane religious sect. Later, Bond said he thought being an island race had something to do with it. In private he wondered whether, with the advent of the Eurotunnel, they would ever regard themselves as an island nation again.
That evening they dined, as he had promised, at the Italian restaurant in Marylebone High Street where the padrone and his partner, Umberto, were pleased to see him and fussed over the pair, constantly referring to Bond as dottore.
It was well after ten at night when Bond told the taxi to drop them off in the Kings Road – some ten minutes walk from the tree-lined square and the Regency building in which he owned a ground-floor flat.
It was force of habit. He rarely drove, or was taken, directly to his front door. It was always preferable to be dropped some small distance away – a routine security adhered to by most active members of the Service. It allowed people like Bond to check there were no unusual cars, vans, or people parked, or loitering nearby.
Some of the lower windows of houses around the square were lit up with early Christmas decorations: a tree twinkling with lights in one, another decked out with spray frost on its windows and a holly wreath on the door.
He had telephoned May, his fussy, elderly housekeeper, from headquarters, so knew there would be a fire in the book-lined living room, that the curtains would be drawn, and the bed made up. It was good to be home, and he watched Praxi in amusement as she admired the ornate Empire desk, the other antique pieces, and the rows of books, many of them rare first editions which he collected as a hedge against inflation or hard times.
She was particularly interested in the misty-bright painting over the mantelpiece which so captured the light of Venice burning off the mist of an early morning. ‘It can’t be.’ She turned to him, one eyebrow raised. ‘Is it?’
‘Is it what?’
‘A Turner. This looks like a Turner, James. It must be worth a fortune.’
‘It could well be.’ His mouth twitched into a half-smile, and he was about to tell her that, in certain circumstances, he might even be able to pass the painting off as the real thing. For a second, he deliberated as to whether he should show her the back of the picture, and the words written on it. Lovejoy Fecit – a joke appended to it by his doctor friend who was also a very accomplished forger: as a pastime, naturally, not as a way to dupe members of the art world. The good doctor had learned his art from one of the greatest art forgers who ever lived.
He took a step towards the fire, his arm rising to the gilt frame when, with no warning, the long red velvet curtains drawn across the windows which looked out on the square suddenly parted and a hellion leaped into the room, launching herself towards Bond, taking him completely by surprise.
Praxi screamed as a second figure hurled herself from behind the curtains covering the other window.
It took him a few seconds, struggling with the woman, to realise that he was face to face with Monika Haardt. He had seen her once only, on the day of her departure from Venice, but the thing with whom he now wrestled, looked nothing like the original. Her hair had been dyed a jet black and the face seemed older than he remembered. Now, close to his own face, Monika Haardt’s features had become wrinkled, gouged with deep lines around the eyes and mouth, as though the events in France had prematurely aged her.
She was fit, though, and she held the glittering silver dagger low, in the classic knife-fighting position: the haft in her right hand, blade protruding from the thumb and first finger side of the clenched fist.
‘Hold her. We�
�ll deal with that little slut when I’ve ripped this bastard apart,’ she hissed towards the other figure. Out of the corner of his eye, Bond had seen the second woman spin Praxi around and hold her, right arm across the neck, the hand grasping her own left biceps, and the left hand to the back of the head. It required only a quick, strong tightening of the muscles to break Praxi’s neck. He had resorted to that hold himself, many times in the past.
Monika made two quick upward jabs, which he parried with his arm, then she turned, the blade moving at lightning speed. As he stepped back, crouching, with his right hand scrabbling for the Sykes-Fairbairn commando dagger strapped to the outside of his right calf, he heard the blade as it whistled past his face, barely an inch from the skin.
He felt his legs touch the back of the beautifully restored leather, buttoned settee, which stood side-on to the fireplace, and with a feint to the right, he put all his weight on his left hand and vaulted backwards over the piece which now stood between him and Monika.
It gave him a moment’s advantage: time to draw his own blade, adopt the bent-kneed stance, and circle the piece of furniture. Monika did not take her eyes from him. She crouched low, thrusting with quick short jabs across the settee, keeping him just far enough away from the obstacle as she tried to edge around it, and so come in close to him again.
Just as she jabbed, so Bond parried, stepping closer, using the same tactic to keep her from the edge of the settee. It was like a terrible, deadly game of tag, and it seemed to go on for ever.
‘Come on, brave Mr Bond,’ she said, her mouth twisting into a red gash. ‘You were courageous enough to kill my Wolfie. Can you not bear to meet me face to face?’
He did not waste his breath. This was not a gentle, quiet business. Each movement had to be fast, drawing on maximum energy, as they both used every variation of the feint, thrust and parry, trying to break the deadlock forced upon them by the piece of leather furniture between.
Now he began to increase the pace, his steps to left and right becoming faster, feet dancing across the carpet: first to the left, then another to the left again, followed by two quick steps to the right. If he could wear her down, tire her, or even force her into a moment of extreme frustration, Monika Haardt might make a fatal move.
Yet she kept up with him, dancing to and fro, skilfully moving her feet and body. She was good, knew all the thrusts and parries, every move and counter-move. She had been taught by an expert in the field. Bond knew there were few really good knife fighters left these days. It was fast becoming a forgotten art which he had learned from a wizened little Spaniard who, it was said, had fought three hundred duels with the knife and won every one of them.
While Bond had tried to quicken the pace, Monika now upped the stakes by moving even faster than him. After some ten minutes, he was aware that she could possibly tire him: that she was at least as good, possibly better, than him. Already his breathing had become heavy, and he felt as though the room was a steam bath. Sweat trickled from his hairline, down onto his eyebrows, then into his eyes, distracting him from the target.
The first law of knife-fighting is never to lose concentration: always keep the whole of your opponent in view. Your eyes should not simply watch the knife hand, but take in the face, eyes and feet all at the same time, for it is often a hand or foot movement, or a sudden shifting of the eyes which signals your adversary’s next manoeuvre.
Monika Haardt gave no such signal, and if she did Bond missed it because of the sweat now making him blink constantly to clear his eyes. With no warning, Monika, while moving fast to her right, suddenly pushed off, springing into the air, doing a forward roll like a diver going off the top board, then extending her legs, smashing her feet into his face before landing, squarely, on his side of the settee.
She wore neat, flat black shoes with ridged rubber soles, but they caught his face like a champion boxer’s pile-driving straight right. He knew his nose was broken before he slammed back into the wall, now blinded by pain as well as the sweat.
He was aware of a scuffle to his right, but tried desperately to regain balance. His head still swam from the blow, and he was almost down as the silver blade of Monika’s dagger curved towards his throat in a long, slamming stroke.
He rolled to one side, face contorted with fear as the blade swept in with the speed of a jet. Somehow he knew this was the end, and, in that last moment of desperation, Bond reversed the direction of the roll, thrusting out his own hand, twisting his knife so that it became the tip of a spear at the end of his rigid arm.
The pain went through his left shoulder like a great lance of fire. Then he felt the sudden weight of the body, heard the terrible gurgle of pain and death as Monika, moving fast and out of control, impaled herself on his dagger. His right hand even sank a short way into the wound, so revolting him that he let go of the knife, struggling to his feet, pushing the writhing thing away.
She was pulling with both hands at the hilt of the Sykes-Fairbairn as her entire body gave a reflex twitch, jack-knifing to the tune of her death rattle.
He rolled clear, his hand going for the ASP to deal with Michelle Gris holding Praxi. Michelle was not there. She lay on the carpet, with Praxi bending her right arm almost to breaking point, her own right hand holding the Baby Beretta which had belonged to Gus, ramming the barrel into the back of the fat girl’s neck.
There was blood, damp on his left shoulder, and the Haardt woman’s dagger still protruded from the wound, the pain shrieking through him.
‘I thought I’d better do something about Big Michelle, James. You going to be okay?’ Praxi did not loosen her grip on the girl, but her eyes reflected the concern of her words.
‘I’ll live.’ He struggled to the telephone and dialled the number which would put him through to the duty officer at that tall headquarters building overlooking Regent’s Park. He told them to send a clean-up squad as quickly as possible, and a doctor. He also said they should let themselves in.
The last thing he remembered saying was, ‘May they all rest in peace.’ He saw Praxi’s mouth move, and could have sworn she was saying she loved him.
When he came round, in the hushed hospital room, she was the first person he saw. Behind her, M’s and Bill Tanner’s heads seemed to be floating in space.
‘You’re going to be fine, James,’ M said.
‘It’s a nasty wound and you lost a lot of blood. Up and around in no time.’ That was Tanner’s voice.
He thought he should ask Praxi how she had turned the tables on Monika’s partner, and exactly what she had tried to say to him in his sitting room, as she knelt on Michelle’s back. Then he changed his mind. Tomorrow would be soon enough, so he closed his eyes and slipped back into a peaceful, drug-induced sleep, where there was no death and no violent ends.
By John Gardner
Licence Renewed
For Special Services
Icebreaker
Role of Honour
Nobody Lives For Ever
No Deals, Mr Bond
Scorpius
Win, Lose or Die
Licence to Kill
Brokenclaw
The Man from Barbarossa
Death is Forever
Never Send Flowers
SeaFire
GoldenEye
COLD
John Gardner served with the Fleet Air Arm and Royal Marines before embarking on a long career as a thriller writer, including international bestsellers The Nostradamus Traitor, The Garden of Weapons, Confessor and Maestro. In 1981 he was invited by Glidrose Publications Ltd – now known as Ian Fleming Publications – to revive James Bond in a brand new series of novels. To find out more visit John Gardner’s website at www.john-gardner.com or the Ian Fleming website at www.ianfleming.com
An Orion ebook
First published in Great Britain in 1992 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd
This ebook published in 2012 by Orion Books.
© Glidrose Publications Ltd. 1992
The right of John Gardner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
James Bond and 007 are registered trademarks of Danjaq, LLC, used under licence by Ian Fleming Publications Ltd.
Extracts from ‘The Hollow Man’ by T. S. Eliot taken from Collected Poems 1909-1962, ‘Letter to Lord Byron’ from Collected Longer Poems by W. H. Auden and ‘May’ from Collected Shorter Poems by W. H. Auden, reproduced by kind permission of Faber & Faber. Extracts from ‘The Raft’ and ‘A Bracelet’ are taken from Collected Poems 1975 by Robert Graves and are reproduced with the kind permission of A. P. Watt on behalf of The Trustees of the Robert Graves Copyright Trust.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-4091-2727-7
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