High Time To Kill rbb-3

by Raymond Benson

  The remaining two cyclists darted in and out of the traffic to catch up with Bond. Road repairs had caused the far left lane to be closed at one point. Now relegated to only two lanes, the traffic was thicker. Bond sped up and soon found himself tailgating two ten-wheel lorries that were blocking both lanes. They were both traveling at unsafe speeds, attempting to outrace each other. Bond honked the horn, hoping that one would pull into the other’s lane. The driver in the lorry in front of him blasted his own horn, challenging Bond to do something about it.

  “Defense systems on,” Bond said aloud. One of the new features that Q Branch had put in the car was voice activation for all systems— phone, audio, lighting, and, of course, weaponry. An icon flashed on the telematics screen on the dashboard, indicating that Bond’s command had been executed.

  “Activate flying scout,” he said. An outline of the scout, a device the size of a small model airplane, appeared on the screen. It was stored underneath the chassis until it was activated from inside the car. The scout could fly out from under the vehicle and reach an altitude of Bond’s choosing. It was steerable by joystick or satellite navigation.

  The display changed to read SCOUT READY.

  “Launch scout,” he commanded. He felt a sudden whoosh behind the Jaguar as the scout ejected from its bay. The batlike vehicle soared out and up into the air, then turned so that it was traveling thirty feet above and parallel with the Jaguar. The two motorcyclists couldn’t believe their eyes. One of them pointed to the scout and shouted something.

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, Bond used his left hand to manipulate the joystick. He sent the scout forward and increased its speed so that it would move up beside the lorries, which were still barreling down the road neck and neck.

  Bond lowered the scout slowly without decreasing its speed. Like a hummingbird, the aircraft gently positioned itself so that it was flying at door level in between the two lorries. The driver of the Lorry on the right looked to his left and saw the strange contraption flying just outside his window. He gasped and almost ran off the road, but he managed to straighten the wheel in time.

  The chobam armor, which also coated the scout, was quite effective for battering purposes. Bond moved the joystick so that the plane swung to the right with great force, shattering the driver’s window with its wing. He pulled the scout up and out of the way as the driver then completely lost control of the lorry. It careened off the road, over the shoulder, then turned over and crashed into the ditch.

  That should get the attention of the police, Bond thought. He increased the speed and shot past the other lorry, whose frightened driver had dropped his speed to forty. The scout, meanwhile, returned to its place above the Jaguar.

  Surprisingly, a stretch of road ahead of Bond was relatively traffic free. He opened up, hoping that the two pursuers would follow him into the clear area. In a moment he saw them zoom past the lorry that he had left behind. One Kawasaki was gaining fast, the other dropping back a bit.

  “Prepare silicon fluid bomb,” Bond said. Another new feature on the car, the oil or silicon fluid explosives could be dropped from the rear bumper into the path of a pursuing vehicle. They were more direct and caused “cleaner” damage than the Jaguar’s heat-seeking rockets, which were meant for heavier targets.

  The Kawasaki moved into position behind Bond, and the rider fired its machine gun again. Bond felt the impact ricochet off the back of the car, then said, “Launch bomb.”

  A device the size of a compact disc dropped out of the bumper and rolled out onto the road. The rider on the motorcycle saw it and attempted to swerve around it, but it was too late. The device exploded with a tremendous blast, sending pieces of the Kawasaki and its rider into the air. The highway was soon littered with black smoke, burnt metal, and seared body parts.

  The other rider pulled into the left lane and zigzagged around the debris, staying on Bond’s tail. When he was in range, he fired his guns at the Jaguar, too.

  “Ready rear laser,” Bond said. The icon appeared on the screen.

  The cycle moved closer, the bullets still flying. One of the back tires burst, but the car was engineered so that it could run on flats.

  “Count of three for one-second laser flash,” Bond said. “One . . . two . . . three.”

  The sudden bright light confused the rider behind him. At first he thought it was glare from the sun, bouncing off a piece of reflective metal on the back of the Jaguar. Momentarily blinded, he kept the handlebars straight, hoping that his sight would clear in a few seconds— but then the pain began. His eyes felt as if they were being burned with hot pokers, and then there was nothing but darkness. The laser flash had permanently seared his retinas.

  Bond watched in the rearview mirror as the Kawasaki wobbled and veered to the left. It crashed through the repair lane and guardrail, then slid into the oncoming traffic on the other side of the road. Horns blared and drivers slammed on their brakes. Several cars crashed into one another in an effort to avoid hitting the motorcycle, but the Kawasaki was run over by a van and dragged at least two hundred yards before both hunks of metal came to a stop.

  Bond could hear sirens in the distance. They were coming from the city, the opposite direction from which he was traveling. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw that the third motorcycle, the one he had bumped off the road earlier, had rejoined the chase Bond presumed correctly that this rider was unaware of the flying scout soaring above the Jaguar at a safe distance. He gently pushed the joystick so that the scout decreased speed, then made an about-face. Bond brought the scout down to a level equal to that of the cyclist, then pushed the throttle. It shot back toward the cycle at full speed.

  The rider gasped when he saw the strange, birdlike thing headed straight for him. He barely had time to scream.

  The scout met the cycle head-on, knocking the rider off the bike. Bond pulled the scout up and away as the motorcycle skidded on its side and eventually came to rest in the ditch.

  “Prepare to dock scout,” Bond said as he maneuvered the remarkable device back behind the Jaguar.

  He gave the command, and the bird pulled underneath the chassis] and locked into place just as Bond entered “the Ring.” Blending in with heavy traffic, the Jaguar safely drove past the power plants, car dealerships, and business parks that dotted the landscape.

  Bond activated the mobile speaker phone, then called out the speed dial code for headquarters in London. After the normal security checks, he was put through to Bill Tanner’s office. His secretary answered and told Bond that M and the Chief of Staff were off-site at a meeting.

  “Damn,” he said. “Put me through to Helena Marksbury please.”

  In a moment he heard his personal assistant’s lilting voice.

  “James?” she answered. Bond could hear her apprehension. She probably had looked forward to a few days of his absence.

  “Helena, we have a problem,” he said. “Someone knew I was on my way to Brussels, and three men on motorcycles tried to kill me.”

  “My God, James, are you all right?” she asked with concern.

  “Yes. I need you to get this message to the Chief of Staff immediately. He and M are at a meeting off-site.” He gave her the detail “Find them and tell them that a Code Eighty is in effect.” This MEANT that a security breach had occurred.

  “Right,” she said. “I’m on it now, James. Are you in Brussels?”

  “Almost. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Be careful,” she said, then rang off. Despite the awkward situation that existed between them, Bond was thankful that Helena was capable of carrying on in a professional manner.

  He soon got off the Ring road and onto Industrial Boulevard, which led toward the center of Brussels, and once again offered a silent thanks to Major Boothroyd and the rest of Q Branch.

  It was a beautiful, sunny, spring day. Bond parked the car in a garage near the Grand Place, the magnificent square that is considered the centerpiece of Brussels. Bordered
on all four sides by icons of Belgium’s royal history, the Grand Place is a dazzling display of ornamental gables, gilded facades, medieval banners, and gold-filigreed rooftop sculptures. The Gothic Town Hall, dating back to the early 1400s, remains intact; the other buildings, the neo-Gothic King’s House and the Brewers Guild House, date from the late 1600s. The Brussels aldermen continue to meet in the Town Hall, the exterior of which is decorated in part by fifteenth- and sixteenth-century insider’s jokes. The sculptures include a group of drinking monks, a sleeping Moor and his harem, a heap of chairs resembling the medieval torture called strappado, and St. Michael slaying a female-breasted devil. Bond had once heard a story that the architect, Jan van Ruysbroeck, committed suicide by leaping from the belfry when he realized that it is off center and has an off-center entrance.

  It was nearly two o’clock. Bond put on a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers sunglasses that would identify him to his contact, then walked southwest through the colorful and narrow cobblestoned streets to the intersection of Rue du Chene and Rue de l’Étuve. There, surrounded by camera-snapping tourists, was the famous statue of the urinating little boy known as Manneken-Pis. Although not the original statue (which was subject to vandalism and was removed), the current idol is an exact replica and is perhaps the most well known symbol of Brussels. Bond didn’t know what its origins were, but he knew that it dated from the early 1400s and was perhaps the effigy of a patriotic Belgian lad who sprinkled a hated Spanish sentry who had passed beneath his window. Another story -was that he had saved the Town Hall from a small fire by extinguishing it using the only means avail-able. Today, “Little Julian,” as he is called, was dressed in a strange red cloak with a white fur collar. Louis XV of France began the tradition of presenting colorful costumes to the little boy and since then he has acquired hundreds of outfits.

  “He must have a very large bladder to keep peeing like that,” a female voice said in English, but with a thick European accent.

  Bond glanced to his left and saw in attractive woman dressed in a smart beige trouser suit and a light jacket. She was wearing Ray-Bans; had strawberry-blond, short, curly hair, a light cream complexion; and her sensual lips were painted with light red lipstick. A toothpick lodged at the corner of her mouth. She appeared to be around thirty, and she had the figure of a fashion model.

  “I’m just glad this isn’t considered a drinking fountain,” Bond replied.

  She removed the sunglasses to reveal bright blue eyes that sparkled in the sunlight. She held cut her hand and said, “Gina Hollander. Station B.”

  Bond took her hand, which felt smooth and warm. “Fond. James Bond.”

  “Come on,” she said, gesturing with her head, “let’s go to the station house, then we’ll get your car and take it to your hotel.” Her English was good, but Bond could tell she wasn’t terribly comfortable with it.

  “Parlez-vous français?” he asked.

  “Oui,” she said, then switched “back to English, “but my first language is Dutch, Flemish. You speak Dutch?”

  “Not nearly as well as you speak English,” he replied.

  “Then let’s stick to English, I need the practice.”

  She was not beautiful, but Bond found, her very appealing. The short, curly hairstyle gave her a pixielike quality that most people would describe as cute, an adjective Bond always avoided. She was petite, but she walked with confidence and grace, as if she were six feet tall.

  “Which is my hotel, by the way?” he asked.

  “The Métropole. It’s one of the best in town.”

  “I know it. I’ve stayed there before.”

  “Our target is staying there, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when we get to the station house. It’s just over here.”

  She led him into a very narrow street off Petite Rue des Bouchers, near the famous folk puppet showcase Theatre Toone, and into a pastry shop. The smell of baked goods was overpowering.

  “Care for a cream puff?” she asked.

  He smiled and said, “Later, perhaps.”

  Gina said something in Flemish to the woman behind the counter, then led Bond through a door, into the kitchen, where a large, sweating man was loading a tray of rolls into an oven. She went through another door to a staircase that led to a second-floor loft: the headquarters of Station B.

  It was a comfortable one room/one bathroom flat that had been transformed into an office, just barely large enough for an operative and some equipment. Besides the usual computer gear, file cabinets, fax machine, and copier, there was a sofa bed, a television, and kitchenette. It was decorated with a decidedly feminine touch, and there was an abundance of Belgian lace draped over the furniture.

  “I don’t live here, but the sofa bed is handy if I ever have to stay late,” she said as they entered. “Have a seat anywhere. You want something to drink?”

  “Vodka with ice, please. Before we do anything, though, I have to call London. We have a little problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We have a security leak. Someone knew I was coming. I was attacked on the E19.”

  “Really? That was you? I heard about the accidents on the road! Are you all right?”

  Bond removed his gunmetal case and took out a cigarette. He offered one to her, but she shook her head.

  “I’m fine, but they’re not,” he said. “Three men on motorcycles. Came from nowhere, tried to kill me. I’m afraid a lorry was smashed, and a few passenger cars, too. I tried to call London earlier, but everyone was in a bloody meeting.”

  She pointed to the desk. “I assure you there’s been no security breach here. The phone is there. Please.”

  Bond reached for the phone and removed from the inside pocket of his jacket a device that looked like a small black light meter. He pulled out a three-inch antenna and flicked a switch. He scanned the phone with the detector.

  “I do that every morning, Mr. Bond,” Gina said. “With more sophisticated equipment.”

  “I doubt it could do much better than this little toy,” Bond said, satisfied with the reading he got. The CSS 8700V Bug Alert was usually accurate. “Sorry, I had to check.”

  “That’s all right.” She went to the kitchenette to get the drinks.

  Bond picked up the phone and called the secure line again. This time Tanner picked up.

  “Hello, James, sorry I was away earlier. M wanted me to—”

  “Never mind, did Helena give you the message?”

  “Yes, she did. We’re looking into it now. How many people knew you were on the way to Brussels?”

  “Just you and M. Moneypenny and Helena, of course. Major Boothroyd, Head of S., Records . . . well, I suppose there could be quite a few people, Bill.”

  “No one outside the firm?”

  “No, not even my housekeeper. She never knows where I am.”

  “Right,” Tanner said. “Look, don’t worry, we’ll see if we can find the hole and plug it. In the meantime, M has new orders for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Since Agent Hollander has tracked down Harding, you are to observe him. Repeat, observe him. We want to find out who he’s working for or dealing with. He must have Skin 17 or he wouldn’t have fled the UK.”

  “Understood. You do realize that there is the possibility that he doesn’t have it anymore. . . . What would you like me to do when he makes a move?”

  “Use your judgment. We’d like him brought back to the UK, certainly. We’re already making arrangements for extradition. If it looks like we might lose Skin 17, do whatever it takes to retrieve it.”

  Bond signed off and stretched back in the large reclining leather armchair behind the desk. Right on cue, Gina brought Bond’s vodka and a bottle of Orval beer for herself. She sat on the sofa bed and put her feet up.

  He held up his glass and said, “Cheers.” He took a sip of the ice cold vodka and was pleasantly surprised. “Wolfschmidt from Riga. Well done. I think you and I will get
along splendidly.”

  “Thanks. I save it for special occasions,” she said. “I heard that Brits are hard to impress.” She laughed.

  “Quite the opposite. England is such a bore most of the time, so we’re really quite easy. Anyway, you impressed this one. Is that the stuff made by Trappist monks?” he asked, indicating her beer.

  She nodded, taking a long drink from the bottle. She managed to keep the toothpick sticking out of her mouth as she swallowed. For the first time, Bond noticed how fit she really was. Her shapely, strong leg muscles could be traced through her clothing. Her arms were also well toned. Although she was dressed as if she might be the manager of an upmarket women’s department store, the toothpick in her mouth gave her an impish, mischievous quality. There was no mistaking that this woman was streetwise. She was a mature little Peter Pan with breasts, which also happened to be quite shapely.

  “So, tell me about Dr. Harding,” Bond said.

  “When I got the alert on him from London, I ran a routine check with immigration at the Midi terminal. They caught him on camera, coming through as Donald Peters. Once I knew that, it was a matter of finding the right hotel with a Donald Peters registered there. He was at the Métropole. I waited at the cafe just outside. I drank a hell °f a lot of coffee! He finally came out last night after dinner.” She giggled slightly and said, “He went to the street where women . . . where Women sell sexual favors.”

  Bond smiled with her. “Did he have a good time?”

  She blushed. “Don’t ask me,” she said. “Afterward he went back to the hotel. I tipped a bellhop to phone my pager if he left. He was there all night. This morning he took a taxi somewhere . . . and I lost him. He hasn’t checked out of the hotel, though.”