Trigger Mortis

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘It is the morning. And I don’t want to wake up in another hotel room on my own.’

  ‘I’m sorry I did that to you, James. OK? Is that what you want to hear? But try and see it my way. I didn’t know who you were or what you were doing in Germany. I was just doing my job.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’ Bond tried a guess. ‘Are you CIA?’

  The two of them were alone in a long, desolate diner: Edward Hopper without the colours. Bond wondered why it stayed open all night. The waitress was half asleep behind the bar, the cook bleary-eyed and in need of a shave. The counter was a long slab of mahogany with a row of empty chairs.

  ‘All right. I don’t see why you shouldn’t know. I’m with the US Secret Service, attached to the Department of the Treasury. I’m a kind of field agent. I investigate financial crime.’

  ‘What sort of financial crime?’

  ‘Well, all sorts. Mainly counterfeiting.’

  Bond’s head swam. Maybe it was too late – or too early – for this conversation. What could counterfeit money possibly have to do with the launch of the Vanguard and Sin’s involvement with SMERSH? ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this now?’

  ‘Put it this way. I’m not letting you out of my sight until you’ve told me the truth.’

  ‘All right.’ She opened her purse and took out a brand new one-hundred-dollar bill which she laid on the table, as if she wanted to pay for the meal. ‘Take a look,’ she said. ‘Maybe you can tell me. Is it real or fake?’

  Bond picked it up. He knew that this was an impossible challenge. He was familiar enough with American currency but not down to the finer details and certainly not at four o’clock in the morning. Even so, he made a show of examining it, feeling the paper stock and holding it up to the light so that he could see the tiny red and blue fibres that had been woven in. Benjamin Franklin gazed at him impassively on the front. There was a building named as Independence Hall on the back but it occurred to Bond that he had no idea where it was situated. Washington, presumably. The note was brand new. He laid it down. ‘It looks real enough to me,’ he said. ‘But I imagine you’re going to tell me that it isn’t.’

  ‘The note is near perfect,’ Jeopardy replied. ‘One quarter linen, three-quarters cotton. It’s been manufactured using an intaglio printer, with the ink applied at high pressure. The images couldn’t be crisper. And this is just one of a hundred and eighty-five identical one-hundred-dollar bills received by my department about a week ago. We were suspicious straight away. First off, they were all brand new notes. Look at this one. You can see that it’s never been in circulation. But what makes that really strange is that it’s at least seven years old.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Back in 1950 they made a few changes to the design, particularly to the two seals. They added spikes to the Federal Reserve seal and the Treasury seal got smaller. This note predates that – and from the time it was produced, until now, it has never seen the light of day. There’s got to be a reason for that. Of course, it could be real. It could have been stolen and hidden away for all that time. But look closer. The eyes are a little dull. And some of the details of the hair coming down over the collar are crude, unfinished. This is as good as I’ve ever seen – but it’s counterfeit. There’s no doubt.’

  As she was talking, Bond noticed a different side to her. There was a passion that he hadn’t seen before, a little spark of excitement in her eyes and a hint of colour in her pale, gamine cheeks. He knew plenty of women who enjoyed spending money but Jeopardy was the first one he had met who had such a passion for money itself.

  ‘The stash of money, eighteen thousand five hundred dollars, was found by the Nevada State Police. There was a woman staying in a hotel in Las Vegas. The High Roller suite! She’d arrived a couple of nights before and she’d gone crazy, drinking and gambling – and losing like there was no tomorrow. They reckon that she managed to get through five thousand dollars in just one session, playing roulette. It was the casino owners who tipped off the cops. Those cold-hearted bastards don’t mind taking money off anyone who comes through their doors but at the same time they’re sensitive to trouble and they knew something was wrong. It’s hard to be sure what happened, but a couple of patrol guys came knocking at the door and it seems the woman took fright. She went out of the window onto the balcony and when they broke down the door, she jumped. Shame she was on the twenty-first floor.’

  ‘Her name was Gloria Keller.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s right. Captain Lawrence told you about her?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything.’ Bond picked up the story. ‘She saw the police. She assumed they were there because of her husband—’

  ‘And she was so liquored-up she didn’t stop to think. That’s about it. They searched the room and found the cash in a suitcase and some bright spark in the LVPD decided to send it to us. We quickly saw that the whole lot was fake and I was put in charge of the case.’

  ‘So how did you find your way to Nürburg?’

  ‘Slow down. I’m coming to that.’ She had finished her cigarette. She lit another. Bond pushed his plate away. He had only eaten half of the food. ‘First of all, you have to understand that the cash was a big deal for us. How do you think I got onto this so quickly? These aren’t the sort of crap you usually find in the streets; they’re the best forgeries we’ve ever seen. In fact, they’re so good, we believe they may have come from Operation Bernhard.’

  ‘Sachsenhausen? The Nazi concentration camp?’ Bond frowned, recalling the conspiracy that dated back to the Second World War. ‘I always thought the Germans only produced sterling there.’

  ‘The plan was to undermine the British economy by flooding it with fake cash. Using a team of prisoners stuck in a concentration camp, Major Bernhard Krüger counterfeited over a hundred and thirty million pounds and the bills were said to be the best ever made. Then, at the end of the war, he turned his attention to American dollars – with the same results.’

  ‘He was shut down before he could complete them.’

  ‘That’s the official story. But there was always a rumour that a few batches of one-hundred-dollar bills were completed and – along with the printers – fell into Russian hands. As it happens, we already had proof of their existence. I’ll come to that in a moment.’ This was a very different girl from the one Bond had met in Germany. She spoke slowly, completely absorbed by her work. ‘The point is, we had good reason to believe that the money we found in Las Vegas came from Operation Bernhard, and the moment we realised that Gloria Keller was married to Thomas Keller, who was a general supervisor at Wallops Island, we got very worried indeed.’

  Bond’s mind was already racing ahead. He had been right about the connection. So . . . Keller is bribed by the Russians to commit some act of sabotage. He comes home with a suitcase full of cash but, with a typical piece of Soviet petty-mindedness, they’ve paid him off with counterfeit bills. His wife seizes the opportunity to break loose, kills him and runs off to Las Vegas with the cash. When the police knock on her door, she assumes they’ve tracked her down for his murder and kills herself. All very neat. Except . . . ‘Do you know what they wanted him to do?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it must connect with the launch of the Vanguard.’

  ‘The NRL doesn’t think so. Look. They can’t see any reason why the Soviets would want to blow up an American rocket. They don’t understand what could be gained.’ Bond understood. He’d already heard the same from Captain Lawrence. It was typical military thinking: if they couldn’t see the danger, then it couldn’t possibly exist. ‘Anyway, if someone did want to hurt the American space programme, there are plenty of better targets.’

  ‘So what were you doing in Nürburg?’

  ‘That was the one lucky break. It’s all down to those earlier counterfeit dollars I mentioned. Last year, one of our other investigators was called in to look into a payment of one thousand dollars
that had been made using exactly the same fake currency. Operation Bernhard. Even the serial numbers were in sequence. The money had been put down as a deposit for a smart car and for some reason the dealer got suspicious. Anyway, the buyer was a multimillionaire New York businessman and when we went knocking on his door, he played the complete innocent. Why would a man in his position risk everything by using dirty money? Somehow it must have been passed to him by somebody else. No. He couldn’t remember who; he often dealt in large sums of cash. He was shocked that such a thing could happen and that the Treasury Department was involved. Of course we had to believe him. The man was a major employer. A Korean. Highly respected in his community.’

  ‘Sin.’

  ‘Sin Jai-Seong. We looked into him, but as far as we could see he was clean. He’d come to the States from South Korea eight years ago. He’d started in Hawaii where he’d been taken in by distant relatives and he’d built up his business from scratch. There were some questions about where he found his initial funding – he got very rich very fast. In fact, for such a major operator, he’s a completely blank page – and that’s enough to set the alarm bells ringing. Anyway, in our business, we always follow the money. That’s the first rule. Sin has homes in New York, Hawaii – all over the world – but I heard he was in Nürburg so I flew out to take a closer look. That was when I met you.’

  ‘And the photographs?’ Bond couldn’t keep the accusation out of his voice.

  Jeopardy shrugged. ‘As soon as I saw those photographs, I had the connection back to Thomas Keller and of course I had to get them back to my people. I’m not going to apologise for running out on you, James. I was just doing what I thought was best. Anyway, you never told me who you were or what you were doing. I still don’t know. You said you were an investigator but that could mean anything.’

  Bond had already come to the conclusion that he was going to have to tell her everything. Jeopardy had just saved his life and now she was taking over the whole operation and being utterly businesslike and unapologetic with it. She was impressive in every way and even though it was half past four in the morning, he had a sudden impulse to grab her by the neck and to kiss those serious lips of hers so hard they bled. Instead, he told her what she wanted to know, taking her from the briefing with M to the point where she had come to his rescue.

  ‘So we’re in the same business,’ she said. ‘I should have guessed. The British Secret Service!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me to begin with?’

  ‘You weren’t telling me anything either.’ There was a moment’s silence. Bond examined the round, boyish face, the cropped hair, the watchful eyes. ‘It was lucky you showed up,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting quite such a reception at the Starlite Motel.’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly luck,’ she replied. ‘I sent the photographs to the NRL but they weren’t having any of it. How much more stupid could these people be? So I came down to Wallops Island to see if I could find out more about Keller and his work on the space programme. I was actually there when you came out of the office and walked to your car and I decided to follow you. I wasn’t the only one. As you drove off, a second car pulled out and drove behind you. I saw it right ahead of me. You led them to your motel and I decided to stick around and see what happened.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe that was luck. I don’t know. All I can say is, they were pretty serious about wanting you dead.’

  ‘Well, it looks like we’re in this together now,’ Bond said. ‘We’re both involved in the same operation. We’ve just come at it from opposite ends.’ He met her eyes. ‘Do you agree? Or am I going to wake up and find you gone again?’

  ‘Of course I agree. I just need to talk to my office. But don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and put some dollars – real ones – down on the table. ‘I’m in a hotel on the other side of Salisbury.’

  ‘Are you offering me another night on a sofa?’

  Jeopardy ignored the insinuation. ‘There’s no need for that,’ she said. ‘They’ve got plenty of rooms. Let’s get some sleep and tomorrow we can decide what to do.’

  She called over the waiter and paid the bill. Outside, the sun was already beginning to rise, the first tendrils of dawn feeling their way over the horizon. It was the last full day before the launch.

  SIXTEEN

  The Lion’s Den

  Bond awoke reluctantly. The flight from Europe, the events of the day before and the long night that had followed, all pressed down on him, forcing him to fight his way through the tunnel back to consciousness. He was in a room that was perfectly square and perfectly uninteresting and, a depressing thought to start a new day, he was in it alone. He threw back the covers and got out of bed. The curtains were drawn but the sunlight was blasting its way in at the sides. He opened them and looked out onto a patio, a swimming pool, a figure knifing through the water, reaching the end, then turning and beginning another length.

  He knew at once that it was Jeopardy. Her shoulders were bare, her arms well-developed, powering her forward in a slow, steady rhythm. The strands of fair hair, darkened by the water, kissed her neck. She was wearing a flesh-coloured costume that, for a moment, gave the illusion of complete nudity. Bond looked at the water separating on either side of her behind, which was small and round, like a child’s. She reached the end of the pool and, without stopping for a breath, corkscrewed back, her whole body contorting. Bond had seen enough. He went and had a shower, then made phone calls to London and New York.

  Later, at breakfast, her hair still damp, Jeopardy came over and joined him.

  ‘Jason Sin is back in America,’ Bond told her. ‘I’ve spoken to the CIA. He landed at Idlewild two nights ago and disappeared from sight, but yesterday he was seen being driven into a compound just outside Paterson, New Jersey.’

  ‘Blue Diamond?’

  ‘Yes. Some sort of depot.’

  Jeopardy nodded. ‘I’ve seen pictures. He does a lot of work in construction and he has his own heavy plant: excavators, dump trucks, lowboys . . . that sort of stuff. It’s quite a place. Totally fenced in. There are security guards, the whole works.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But why? What do you think he’s doing there? What’s he hiding?’

  ‘Whatever he’s doing, I think we should go there.’ Bond had instantly made up his mind. There was nothing to be gained by hanging around in Maryland. Both the British and the US Secret Service had given the Naval Research Laboratory every warning they could possibly need but they were determined to press ahead. Which left the two of them with no choice but to take the fight to the enemy. ‘If Sin is there the day before the launch, there must be a reason. If I can find a way in, at the very least I can take a look around.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Jeopardy said.

  Bond smiled. ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing this alone. Seriously, Jeopardy, what you did last night was amazing. I think the American Secret Service are very lucky to have you.’

  ‘Forget it. I’ve settled the tab. Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  There was a seven-hour drive between them and New Jersey. Jeopardy drove a two-door Chevrolet Bel Air and they left together, stopping after half an hour at a low wooden cabin that advertised itself as Harry’s Gun Shop (Everything for the Outdoorsman). Bond had left his ammunition back at the motel but he had his gun and his wallet which, he decided, was all you really needed to get by in America. He bought what he needed from an old, gap-toothed sales manager who handed the goods across as if they were loose change and they set off again. For a while they drove in silence. Bond lit a cigarette and offered one to Jeopardy but she shook her head. ‘Not while I’m driving.’

  ‘So are you going to tell me about yourself?’ he asked. ‘How did you get to be a spy?’

  ‘I’m not a spy,’ she replied. ‘I told you. I’m a field agent. I don’t have a gun and I don’t creep around sending people messages in code or things like that. I’m not like you.�
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  ‘Then how did you get to be a field agent with the American Secret Service?’

  ‘Why are you asking?’ She was suddenly defensive.

  ‘Because I’m interested.’ Bond rolled down the window, releasing the smoke. ‘You don’t have to worry, Jeopardy. This is just between the two of us and if we’re going to get into trouble together, it would be nice to know who I’m with.’

  She softened. Not taking her eyes off the road, she answered him. ‘There’s not much to tell. I was brought up in a pretty rough neighbourhood, if you want the truth. You could say I was born on the wrong side of the tracks – and I mean that literally. Our house backed onto a big railway depot at Coney Island. There was a fence at the end and all the kids used to break in to play on the tracks and sneak around the workshops. Of course it was dangerous – and the transit people put up a big sign on a chain. It had a single word on it, written in red ink. JEOPARDY. That was how I got my name. My mom looked out and saw it the day she was having me and somehow she just thought it was right.’

  She slipped the car into a higher gear, using the three-speed Synchro-Mesh transmission, and pulled out, overtaking a Pontiac in front of her. Bond liked women who drove confidently. He wasn’t surprised that Jeopardy was in total command of the road.

  ‘My dad drank himself to death when I was six years old,’ she went on. She said it in such a matter-of-fact way that she could have been discussing the weather. ‘My mom tried to look after me but she couldn’t even look after herself. I spent my childhood out on the streets, playing Stoopball with the other kids, hanging out at Nathan’s hot-dog stand. That sort of stuff. When I was about thirteen, I got sucked into the carnie. A lot of kids did. It was easy money and nobody asked any questions. I spent three months working in a sideshow. I was “Olga the headless girl”. Did you ever see it? I had to sit there with my head hidden behind mirrors and with all these tubes running out of my neck and the showman would step out: “You’ve all heard of artificial hearts and artificial lungs. Now here’s the girl with the artificial head.” I used to quite enjoy it, sitting there, taking off my gloves and crossing and uncrossing my legs. I could hear all the people gasping in horror. And they paid me ten cents an hour.