Trigger Mortis

by Anthony Horowitz

  Bond was one of twenty-four drivers. The race would begin with a three-two-three formation and – following a poor time trial that morning – he was starting five rows back. He had known almost straight away that he’d fluffed it, fumbling a gear change and causing the crankshaft to whirl. He’d been very lucky not to blow the engine and when he’d returned to the pits he hadn’t been surprised to see Bernardo shaking his head in dismay. Bond had already put the error behind him. Anyone can have a good circuit just as they can have a bad one, and perhaps it was as well to have got it out of the way. This was his moment of truth, the reason he had come to Nürburgring – and there was something that none of the other drivers knew or could possibly guess. He alone had no interest in winning the race. He wouldn’t even finish it. He was going to do this his own way.

  He saw Lancy Smith striding towards his car, at the same time waving to the crowd who in turn rose to their feet, cheering him on. And there was Dimitrov, surrounded by his teammates, fixing a red silk scarf around his neck. The Russian hadn’t shaved that morning and his cheeks were covered with grey stubble. His eyes were fixed on Smith, following him as he walked over to his Vanwall, and if Bond had ever had any doubts about his intentions, they were dispelled at that moment. He knew exactly what he was seeing. Dimitrov had the same eyes, the same intensity as an assassin behind a sniperscope. Bond himself had lain in position with the wooden stock of a rifle against his cheek and his entire being focused on the cross hairs as they settled on his target. There is no relationship in the world quite like the one between the man who intends to kill and the man who is about to die. The snake and the rabbit. That was what he was seeing now.

  Bernardo was waiting for Bond at his Maserati, and if the other racers were puzzled that a former champion was devoting so much attention to a completely unknown driver – and worse than that, a playboy who had bought his way into this simply for the fun of it – none of them had dared say so. Bernardo smiled ruefully as Bond approached. ‘You really loused it up this morning.’

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry about it. I won’t make the same mistake again.’ It was time for Bond to play his ace of spades. ‘I want you to empty the tank,’ he said. ‘Preferably without anyone else seeing.’

  ‘Empty? What do you mean?’

  ‘I want to start with a quarter of a tank.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Bernardo looked unhappy. ‘It means you’ll have to stop at the pits very early on for a refuel. And you may find it hard to recover.’

  ‘Just leave me enough for two or three circuits. That’s all I need.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’ Evidently Logan hadn’t told him anything about Bond’s mission and, as far as he could see, Bond was already throwing in the towel. But there was no time to argue. He called another mechanic over and the two of them went off to do the work.

  Bond was gambling. He was convinced that Dimitrov would make his move early in the race, when the cars were still close together. It made sense. After a couple of laps, Lancy Smith could pull ahead and the Russian wouldn’t get another chance.

  At the same time, Bond was giving himself a huge advantage. With so little fuel in the tank, the Maserati would be the lightest vehicle on the track – and what it lost in weight, it would gain in speed. The only problem was that he was crippling himself when it came to distance. If Dimitrov didn’t make his move very quickly, Bond would have to pull in to refuel and after that the only way to catch up would be to drop an entire lap. That would not only be very difficult, it would draw attention to himself: something he most certainly didn’t want to do. But Bond knew he would never keep up with professional racers if he played on their terms. For him, it was all or nothing. If this really was a game of roulette, he had just put all his chips on one number.

  He watched as Bernardo set about his task, drawing a screen around the Maserati so that none of the other drivers would see what he was doing. At the same time, Bond got himself ready. He pulled on the gloves, screwed in the earplugs (he’d forgotten them that morning and the shriek of the exhausts had almost shattered his eardrums) and lowered the goggles. He had worked out what he had to do, and, in his mind, there was no longer any possibility of failure. He saw Dimitrov snapping at a mechanic who had been leaning over his vehicle. The Krassny was already snarling, warning the other cars to stay away. There was a poisonous cloud of black smoke spitting out of its exhaust. The other cars were starting up all around and Bond felt the roar of the pack envelop him. He glanced at his watch. Four minutes until the start. It would be a while before he next had the leisure to check the time.

  The screen had been withdrawn. Bond saw one of the mechanics hurrying away with two jerrycans. Bernardo called him over and he slipped into the Maserati, already ticking off a mental checklist. Get comfortable. Goggles adjusted, seatbelt and shoulder straps locked. Sit close to the wheel with your arms well bent. How many times had Logan Fairfax told him? The maximum force and the maximum precision come from your arms. Get that wrong and you won’t get anywhere. He was aware of two more mechanics approaching him, one on either side. They rolled him forward and suddenly he was there, on the starting line, one eye on the flag but already plotting how to weave through the other drivers. Smith was in the front row. Dimitrov was just behind Smith and over to the left. The other contestants – Germans, Italians, Czechs, French, Americans and, of course, the English – were lined up in formation. He was alone in the middle of them, the sun warming his shoulders, his senses already assaulted by the noise and the petrol fumes, waiting for the sudden scream that would tell him it had begun. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. For a moment, Bond thought of the perimeter track at Foxton Hall. It was a kindergarten compared to this. Briefly he remembered his interview with M in the office overlooking Regent’s Park. ‘Done any racing lately?’ Well, he had never done anything quite like this. He was definitely in big school now.

  The flag came down.

  And at that moment time disappeared, sucked into itself, as twenty-four racing cars simultaneously exploded into life with a deafening roar and Bond found his thoughts being torn between the first gear change, the road surface, the wheels, the steering, the weight transfer and the possibility of finding a way past the other drivers without causing a pile-up at the very start. Part of him wanted to check his rev counter. He should be holding the engine at about half the rev capacity (when the clutch is home, that’s when you accelerate – but make sure you avoid wheelspin and for God’s sake don’t break something in transmission) but was he already overdoing it? Surely the needle had already crept past the little red line? He didn’t dare look down. His eyes were in front of him, behind him. He was aware of everything around him – everything and nothing. The spectators had disappeared, a vague blur, no heads and no bodies and – God almighty – he was already on the downhill section with the first hairpin right in front of him and the road surface turning to pavé. He wrenched the wheel – no, that was too much! Keep it subtle – and found himself edging past a Porsche and a couple of Coopers. The Maserati was doing half the work for him, and with the lighter load nothing could hold it back.

  He’d reached the first corner and he was already silently shouting at himself. Come on, you bastard. You’ve already been round this a dozen times and you’ve studied every inch. Find the right line. That’s good – as close to the verge as you can. All the diagrams and photographs he had studied in Wiltshire were gone, scattered like leaves in a storm. He was driving by instinct, fighting the centrifugal forces that threatened to push him into oblivion, countering them with the force of adhesion that kept him on the road. It was all in his legs, his stomach, that extraordinary feeling of being one with the car. And – goddammit – he was edging ahead! He slipped past two of the Italians in Ferraris. Addio, signori! Now where was he? And, more to the point, where were Lancy Smith and Dimitrov? They had both started ahead of him. He had to find them, quickly, and then do what had to be done.

  He risked a quick gla
nce at the speedometer and cursed as that single microsecond, the lack of attention, caused him to mistime his next move. The car had come off the crest of a hill and he was in the air. He should already have been straightening up, preparing for the next corner. Instead, he came down with a bone-shaking crash and almost lost control. He was doing 120 mph. He didn’t need to know that. Not if it was going to kill him. Bond only just made it out of the corner. Go in slow, come out fast. It was one of the oldest dictums in the racing book and he had managed to do the exact opposite. Once again he screwed himself down. Into the next curve, touch the brakes, slide – but not too much – now more throttle. What’s that ahead? A pool of oil. Get round it, you idiot! He did.

  One after another the various sections of the Nürburgring flashed past. The Peak, the Mine, the Carousel, the Little Fountain. The innocent names didn’t do justice to the horrors each one contained. A tight right-hand corner, then a sharp left-hander, then a sudden drop-off, one after another, testing him over and over again. The last section welcomed him with a blind corner followed by a stomach-churning drop that Bond didn’t see until the last half-second because it was concealed behind a bridge. The Planting Garden that followed almost did for him altogether. Once again Bond found himself in the air and as he came plummeting down into the next switchback he felt the hideous lurch that told him he had gone into a deadly slide. If he had touched the brake at that moment, it would all have been over. Somehow he managed to correct himself with his steering, and brought the car under control. But it had cost him several seconds and both Lancy Smith and Dimitrov were out of sight.

  Bond knew now that he would never have managed to keep up for the entire twenty-two kilometres. His arm and leg muscles were already aching as he fought to keep each turn under control and he could feel the blisters on his hands and feet. His whole body had been pummelled by the different G-forces and the constant centrifugal pull made him sick to the stomach. God! These drivers had to be fit to put themselves through this week after week. But he still had his one big advantage over them. They were driving carefully. They had to protect their cars. But Bond didn’t care how badly he drove, how much damage he did to his engine in the long term. He was over-revving. He was braking hard and late, overheating the drums. None of it mattered provided this was over soon. A couple of laps. That was all he needed. Where were they? Yes – just ahead of him. Despite everything, he was managing to keep up.

  And then the Maserati coughed. Bond felt that the sweat on his chest and forehead was suddenly cold against his skin. He couldn’t be out of fuel . . . could he? It was impossible! Had he punished the racing car too much and too quickly or had the almost-empty tank somehow caused a blockage in the fuel-injection system? It coughed a second time. He felt the wheel shudder in his hands. A huge poster flashed past with words in red paint: SPRICH ZUERST MIT FORD. He had already seen it once, surely to God. Either the Ford Motor Company had paid for two identical advertisements or he had completed an entire circuit and begun another. But that wasn’t possible. The record lap time on Nürburgring was nine minutes and forty-one seconds. Surely he’d only been driving for two or three minutes since the flag had gone down? That was what it felt like. But in fact it had been much, much longer. He had misjudged everything. What a fool he had been! He could already see himself grinding to a halt and while he was being refuelled, the Russian would take out Lancy Smith.

  With his concentration momentarily broken, Bond took the next corner in a straight line, putting two wheels onto the grass – and for one horrible second he had no grip at all. But the manoeuvre saved him a few precious microseconds, and with a new sense of determination he put the near-empty tank out of his mind and pressed on. Where exactly was he? Green trees and green bushes were rushing past, a green tunnel. There were no barriers, nothing other than a painted line to show the edge of a road. Now he came to a straight, which allowed him to rest his arm muscles, to check his oil pressure, water temperature and revs. Everything shipshape. He stamped down on the throttle. The Maserati, as light as it could possibly be, surged forward, overtaking another car, and with a huge sense of relief he saw the pulsating black profile of the Krassny. Somehow, despite everything, he had made it to the very front of the pack.

  Lancy Smith was in front. Then it was Dimitrov. Then Bond. For a few moments the three of them were separated from the other racers, if only by a matter of yards. Bond crept into Dimitrov’s slipstream and got the benefit of its tow. The two of them were incredibly close. He gritted his teeth – 110 mph. That was 160 feet per second. Thirty-two feet in one fifth of a second. At this speed, one tiny miscalculation and he would kill both the Russian and himself. Smith would be saved but not the way he’d planned.

  Bond saw Dimitrov’s hand reach over his shoulder, as if he were adjusting his seatbelt, and the next moment he was blind. Something had hit him in the face. He felt his goggles break and at the same time the Maserati swerved left and right, the tyres screaming, almost escaping from his control. What had happened? Bond fought with the steering wheel and somehow managed to right himself. He put his hand to his face and felt blood. It was incredible! The Russian had thrown something, stones or grit, and it had been carried by the slipstream and had hit Bond full in the face. His eyesight was partly obscured. One of the lenses was cracked.

  Dimitrov and Smith had leapt ahead and Bond knew with a sick feeling that this was where the murder was to take place. It was why the Russian wanted him out of the way. There were no spectators in sight. The track was hemmed in on both sides by thick trees. Inch by inch, Dimitrov was closing in on Smith, the Krassny howling, a black beast out of Hell, and Bond had been left behind, running on fumes. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, hoping there was enough precious juice left in his tank to propel him forward. There was nothing else he could do.

  The Russian was closing in on Smith, halving the distance between them, ignoring any safety margins, performing exactly the manoeuvre that Bond had described to M. There could be absolutely no doubt of his intentions. He wasn’t going to overtake. He was going to give the other car the fatal nudge that would send it spinning off the road and Bond was too far back to stop him. But then, at the last second, Smith became aware of the Russian creeping up on him. He touched his wheel, skewing over to one side, and Dimitrov found himself too far ahead, out of line. He was forced to reposition himself and that gave Bond the chance he needed. He pushed down on the throttle and, for one last time, the Maserati responded, leaping forward.

  This was it. This was the moment. Bond pulled out as if to overtake and for two, maybe three seconds, he was right next to the Russian, the nose of the Maserati about halfway along the Krassny. Bond saw Dimitrov turn, as if aware of the catastrophe that was about to befall him. It was too late. Bond tugged at the steering wheel so that his car edged over and suddenly his front left tyre was right next to the chassis of the Krassny, inches away from where Dimitrov was sitting. It was actually between the front and back right tyres of the Russian’s car. Grimly, Bond pressed down on the brake. His front tyre and the Russian’s back tyre made contact.

  The whole world was jerked out of his vision. He had never felt anything like it. His own car fishtailed away, and if he hadn’t been ready for it he would have been smashed. He felt his neck and spine being twisted out of shape as different forces wrenched at him and his eyes seemed to pull back in their sockets, his mouth opening in a rictus grin. He was turning, twisting, out of control, and other cars were whipping past him, brightly coloured bullets fired from an invisible machine gun and, miraculously, none of them had hit him. He heard an almighty bang. His feet were scrabbling at the pedals. He was aware of grass under his tyres and trees looming up. Was he going to hit them? No. Somehow he had come to a halt at the side of the track. His engine stalled. The race was over.

  Feeling sick and dazed, Bond pulled off his helmet and goggles and climbed out of the Maserati. The world came back into focus, and after the incredible speed of the last fou
rteen or fifteen minutes, everything was very slow, as if he was walking in a dream. He was alone. The other cars had rushed past, disappearing around the next corner. If there had been an accident, it wasn’t their problem, not now. Had Dimitrov managed to keep his car on the road? Had he gone with them? Then Bond remembered the sound of the impact that he had heard. He turned his head – slowly. His neck was stiff and hurt like hell. Finally he saw a sight so extraordinary that at first it was hard to make sense of it.

  The Krassny was facing upwards, at ninety degrees to the ground, as if it was trying to take off. It was wedged against a thick oak tree, the bonnet with its bright number 3 crumpled beneath an overhanging branch. How was that possible? As Bond walked unsteadily towards it, he realised what had happened. Dimitrov had come off the track at a point where a bank of grass formed a steep curve and it had acted as a launch pad, forcing the Krassny onto its back wheels and catapulting its front into the upper reaches of the tree. The Russian was still trapped behind what was left of the steering wheel. It had crumpled on impact. His arms were writhing and he was shouting but it was only now that Bond realised he couldn’t hear anything. The pandemonium of the race, the howl of the engines, the intensity of the experience had deafened him. Then he remembered that he was still wearing the earplugs. He wrenched them out. Dimitrov was screaming. He could hear him now all right. The screams weren’t entirely human.