Nobody Lives for Ever jb-20

by John Gardner

  Since he had first encountered this devious arm of the KGB, SMERSH (an acronym for Smiert Spionam: Death to Spies) had undergone a whole series of changes. For many years it had been known as Department Thirteen, before becoming completely independent as Department V. In fact, Bond’s Service had allowed all but their inner circle to go on referring to Department V long after it too had disappeared.

  What had happened was very much the concern of the Secret Intelligence Service, who had been running an agent of their own, Oleg Lyalin, deep within Department V. When Lyalin defected in the early 1970s, it took a little time for the KGB to discover he had been a long-term mole. After that Department V had suffered a purge which virtually put it out of business.

  Even Bond had not been informed until relatively recently that his old enemies were now completely reformed under the title Department Eight of Directorate S. Was this new KGB operations unit now the likeliest dark horse in the race for his head?

  In the meantime, there were very pressing problems. Check out the rooms which he thought contained Nannie and Sukie; and do something about getting out of the apartment block. The Bentley Mulsanne Turbo cannot be called the most discreet of vehicles. Bond reckoned that, with the alert still on, he could get about half a kilometre before being picked up.

  Searching Der Haken’s swinging body was not pleasant, but it did yield the Bentley keys, but not those to the guest bedrooms or to the elevator.

  The telephone was still working, but Bond had no way of making a clandestine call. Carefully he dialled the direct number for the Service Resident in Vienna. It rang nine times before a befuddled voice responded.

  ‘It’s Predator,’ Bond said quickly, using his field cryptonym. ‘I have to speak clearly, even if the Pope himself has a wire on your telephone.’

  ‘Do you realise it’s three in the morning? Where the hell are you? There’s been an almighty fuss. A senior Austrian police officer . . .’

  ‘And four of his friends were killed,’ Bond interrupted.

  ‘They’re out looking for you . . . How did you know about the policeman?’

  ‘Because he didn’t get killed . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bastard was doubling. Set it up himself.’

  ‘Where are you?’ The Resident now sounded concerned.

  ‘Somewhere in the new town, in a very plush apartment block, together with five corpses and, I hope, the two young ladies who were with me. I haven’t a clue about the address, but there’s a telephone number you can work from.’ He read out the number on the handset.

  ‘Enough to be going on with. I’ll call you back as soon as I get something sorted out, though I suspect you’re going to be asked a lot of questions.’

  ‘The hell with the questions, just let me get out to the clinic and on with the job. Quickly as you can.’

  Bond closed the line. He then went to the first of the two locked rooms and banged hard on the door. This time he thought he could hear muffled grunts coming from inside. The deadlock would have to be dealt with by brute force, whatever the noise.

  In the kitchen he found a sharp, heavy meat cleaver, with which he demolished a section of door round the lock. Sukie Tempesta lay on the bed, bound, gagged, and stripped to her plain underwear.

  ‘They took my clothes!’ she shouted angrily when he got the ropes untied and the gag off.

  ‘So I see,’ Bond said with a smile as she reached for a blanket.

  He went across to the other room, where he succeeded in breaking in more quickly. Nannie was in the same situation, only she looked as though she bought her underwear from Fredericks of Hollywood. It was always the plain-looking ones, Bond thought, as she yelled,

  ‘They took my suspender belt with the holster on it.’

  At that moment the telephone started to ring. Bond lifted the receiver.

  ‘Predator.’

  ‘A very senior officer’s on the way with a team,’ the Resident said. ‘For heaven’s sake be discreet, and tell only what is absolutely necessary. Then get to Vienna as fast as you can. That’s an order from on high.’

  ‘Tell them to bring women’s clothes,’ Bond snapped, giving a rough estimate of the sizes.

  By the time he was off the telephone he could hear squeals of delight from one of the bathrooms, where the clothes had been found bundled into a cupboard. Sukie came through fully dressed but, almost blatantly, Nannie appeared doing up her stockings to her retrieved suspender belt, which still had holster and pistol in place.

  ‘Let’s get some air in here,’ Sukie said, advancing towards the windows. Bond stepped in front of her, saying that he would not advise even opening the curtains, let alone the windows. Quietly, he explained why and told them to stay in the main room. Then he made his own way behind the drapes to let air into the room.

  The doorbell rang violently. After shouted identifications, Bond explained in German through the closed door that he could not get it open from inside. He heard sets of keys rattling as they were tried in the lock before the seventh worked and the door swung open to admit what seemed like half the Salzburg police force, headed by a smart, authoritative, grey-haired man whom the rest treated with great respect. He introduced himself as Kommissar Becker. The investigative team got on with their job on the terrace while Becker talked to Bond. Sukie and Nannie were led away by plain-clothes men, presumably to be questioned separately elsewhere.

  Becker had a long patrician nose and kindly eyes. He knew the score and came quickly to the point.

  ‘I have been instructed by our Foreign Ministry and Security Departments,’ he began in almost unaccented English. ‘I understand that the Head of the Service to which you belong has also been in touch. All I want from you is a detailed statement. You will then be free to go. But, Mr Bond, I think it would be advisable for you to be out of Austria within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Is that official?’

  Becker shook his head. ‘No, not official. It is merely my own opinion. Something I would advise. Now, Mr Bond, let us take it from the top as they say in musical circles.’

  Bond recounted the story, omitting all he knew about Tamil Rahani and SPECTRE’S Head Hunt. He passed off the shoot-out on the autobahn as one of those occupational hazards that can befall anyone involved in his kind of clandestine work.

  ‘There is no need to be shy about your status,’ Becker said with an avuncular smile. ‘In our police work here in Austria, we come into contact with all kinds of strange people, from many walks of life – American, British, French, German and Russian – if you follow me. We are almost a clearing house for spies, only I know you don’t like to use that word.’

  ‘It is rather old-hat.’ Bond found himself smiling back. ‘In many ways we are an outdated tribe and a lot of people would like to see us consigned to the scrap heap. Satellites and computers have taken over much of our work.’

  ‘It is the same with us,’ the policeman said with a shrug. ‘However, nothing can replace the policeman on the beat, and I’m sure there is still a need for the man on the ground in your business. It is the same in war also. However many tactical or strategic missiles appear over the horizon the military needs live bodies in the field. Here we are geographically placed at a dangerous crossroads. We have a saying especially for the NATO powers. If the Russians come, they will be in Vienna for breakfast; but they will have their afternoon tea in London.’

  With a detective’s knack of moving from a digression back to the mainstream of questioning, Becker asked about the motives of Heinrich Osten – Der Haken – and Bond gave him a word by word account of what had passed between them, again leaving out the core of the business concerning the Head Hunt.

  ‘He has apparently been looking for a chance to line his pockets, and get away, for many years.’

  Becker gave a wry smile. ‘It doesn’t surprise me. Der Haken, as most people called him, had an odd hold over the authorities. There are still many folk, some in high office, who recall the old da
ys, the Nazis. They remember Osten all too well, I fear. Whoever brought him to this unpleasant end has done us a favour.’ Again, he switched his tack. ‘Tell me, why do you think the ransom has been set so high on the two ladies?’

  He tried his innocent expression. ‘I don’t really know the terms of the ransom. In fact, I have yet to be told the full story of the kidnapping.’

  Becker repeated his wry smile, this time wagging a finger as though Bond were a naughty schoolboy. ‘Oh, I believe you know the terms well enough. After all, you were in Osten’s company for some time after the reports of his death. I took over the case last night. The ransom is you, Mr Bond, and you know it. There’s also the little matter of ten million Swiss francs lying, literally, on your head.’

  Bond made a gesture of capitulation. ‘Okay, so the hostages are being held against me, and your colleague found out about the contract, which is worth a lot of money . . .’

  ‘Even if you had been responsible for his death,’ Becker cut in, ‘I don’t think many police officers, either here or in Vienna, would go out of their way to charge you – Der Haken being what he was.’ He lifted an inquisitorial eyebrow. ‘You didn’t kill him, did you?’

  ‘You’ve had the truth from me. No, I didn’t, but I think I know who did.’

  ‘Without even knowing the details of the kidnapping?’ Becker enquired sagely.

  ‘Yes. Miss May – my housekeeper – and Miss Moneypenny are bait. As you say, it’s me they want. These people know I will do everything I can to rescue the ladies, and that in the last resort I’d give myself up to save them.’

  ‘You are prepared to give your life for an elderly spinster and a colleague of uncertain age?’

  ‘Also a spinster,’ Bond said with a smile. ‘The answer is yes, I would do that – though I intend to do it without losing my head.’

  ‘My information is, Mr Bond, that you have many times almost lost your head over . . .’

  ‘What we used to call a bit of fluff?’ Bond smiled again.

  ‘That is an expression I do not know – bit of fluff.’

  ‘Bit of fluff, piece of skirt – young woman,’ Bond explained.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I see, and you are correct. Our records show you as a veritable St George slaying dragons to save young and attractive women. This is an unusual situation for you. I . . .’

  Bond cut in sharply, ‘Can you tell me what actually happened? How the kidnap took place?’

  Kommissar Becker paused as a plain-clothes officer came into the room and there was a quick exchange. The officer told Becker that the women had been questioned. Becker instructed him to wait with them for a short time. The team on the balcony were also completing their preliminary investigation.

  ‘Inspektor Osten’s case notes are somewhat hazy,’ the Kommissar said. ‘But we do have a few details, of his interviews with Herr Doktor Kirchtum of the Klinik Mozart, and others.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, it appears that your colleague, Miss Moneypenny, visited the patient twice. After the second occasion she telephoned the Herr Direktor asking permission to take Miss May out – to a concert. It seemed a pleasant and untaxing suggestion. The doctor gave his consent. Miss Moneypenny arrived as arranged in a chauffeur driven car. There was another man with her.’

  ‘There is a description?’

  ‘The car was a BMW . . .’

  ‘The man?’

  ‘A silver BMW, a Series 7. The chauffeur was in uniform, and the man went into the clinic with Miss Moneypenny. The staff who saw them said he was in his mid-thirties, with light hair, and was well dressed, tall and muscular.’

  ‘And Miss Moneypenny’s behaviour?’

  ‘She was a little edgy, a tiny bit nervous. Miss May was in good spirits. One nurse noticed that Miss Moneypenny treated her with great care. The nurse said it was as though your Miss Moneypenny had nursing experience. She also had the impression that the young man knew something about medicine. He stayed very close to Miss May the whole time.’ The policeman drew in breath through his teeth. ‘They got into the BMW and drove off. Four hours later, Herr Doktor Kirchtum received a telephone call saying they had been abducted. You know the rest.’

  ‘I do?’ Bond asked.

  ‘You were told. You started out towards Salzburg. Then there were the shoot-out and your unpleasant experience with Inspektor Osten.’

  ‘What about the car? The BMW?’

  ‘It has not been sighted, which means that either it was out of Austria very quickly with the plates changed and maybe a respray, or it’s hidden away somewhere until all goes quiet.’

  ‘And there’s nothing else?’

  It was as though the Kommissar was holding something back, uncertain whether to speak. He did not look at Bond but towards the men on the balcony, taking their photographs and measurements.

  ‘Yes. Yes, there is one other thing. It was not in Osten’s notes, but they had it on the general file at headquarters.’

  He hesitated again, and Bond had to prompt him. ‘What was on file?’

  ‘At 15.10 on the afternoon of the kidnapping – that is, around three hours before it took place – Austrian Airlines received a last-minute booking from the Klinik Mozart. The caller said they had two very sick ladies who had to be transported to Frankfurt. There is a flight at 19.05, OS 421, which arrives at Frankfurt at 20.15. That evening there were few passengers so the booking was accepted.’

  ‘And the ladies made the flight?’

  ‘They went first class. On stretchers. They were unconscious, and their faces were covered with bandages . . .’

  A classic KGB ploy, thought Bond. They had been doing it for years. He recalled the famous Turkish incident, and there had been two at Heathrow.

  ‘They were accompanied,’ Kommissar Becker continued, ‘by two nurses and a doctor. The doctor was a young, tall, good-looking man with fair hair.’

  Bond nodded. ‘And further enquiries showed that no such reservation had been made from the Klinik Mozart.’

  ‘Exactly.’ The Kommissar raised his eyebrows. ‘One of our men followed up the booking on his own initiative. Certainly Inspektor Osten did not instruct him to do it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They were met by a genuine ambulance team at Frankfurt. They transferred on to another flight, the Air France 749, arriving in Paris at 21.30. It left Frankfurt on schedule, at 20.25. The ambulance people just had time to complete the transfer. We know nothing about what happened at the Paris end, but the kidnap call was placed to Doktor Kirchtum at 21.45. So they admitted the abduction as soon as the victims were safely away.’

  ‘Paris,’ Bond repeated absently. ‘Why Paris?’

  As though in answer to his question, the telephone began to ring. Becker himself picked it up and said nothing, but waited for an identification on the line. His eyes flicked towards Bond, betraying signs of alarm.

  ‘For you,’ he mouthed quietly, handing over the mouthpiece. ‘The Herr Doktor Kirchtum.’

  Bond took the handset and identified himself. Kirchtum’s voice still held its resonance, but he was obviously a very frightened man. There was a distinct tremor in his tone, and there were pauses between his words, as though he was being prompted.

  ‘Herr Bond,’ he began, ‘Herr Bond, I have a gun . . . They have a gun . . . It is in my left ear, and they say they will pull the trigger if I don’t give you the correct message.’

  ‘Go on,’ Bond said calmly.

  ‘They know you are with the police. They know you have been ordered to go to Vienna. That is what I must first tell you.’

  So, Bond thought, they had a wire on this telephone and had listened to his call to the Resident in Vienna.

  Kirchtum continued very shakily. ‘You are not to tell the police of your movements.’

  ‘No. Okay. What am I to do?’

  ‘They say they have booked a room for you at the Goldener Hirsch . . .’

  ‘That’s impossible. You have to book months ahead . . .�
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  The quaver in Kirchtum’s voice became more pronounced. ‘I assure you, Herr Bond, for these people nothing is impossible. They understand you have two ladies with you. They say they have a room reserved for them also. It is not the fault of the ladies that they have been . . . have been . . . I’m sorry, I cannot read the writing . . . Ah, have been implicated. For the time being these ladies will stay at the Goldener Hirsch, you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You will stay there and await instructions. You will tell the police to keep away from you. You will on no account contact your people in London, not even through your man in Vienna. I am to ask if this is understood?’

  ‘It is understood.’

  ‘They say, good, because if it is not understood, Miss May and her friend will depart, and not peacefully.’

  ‘It is understood!’ Bond shouted in the mouthpiece.

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘The gentlemen here wish to play a tape for you. Are you ready?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  There was a click at the other end of the line. Then Bond heard May’s voice, unsteady, but still the same old May.

  ‘Mr James, some foreign friends of yorn, seem to hae the idea that I can be afeard easy. Dinna worry aboot me, Mr Jam . . .’ There was a sudden slap as a hand went over her mouth, then Moneypenny’s voice, thick with fear, sounded as clear as if she were standing behind him. ‘James!’ she cried. ‘Oh, God, James . . . James . . .’

  Suddenly an unearthly scream cut into his ear – loud and terrified, and obviously coming from May. It made Bond’s blood run cold. It was enough to place him in the power of those holding the two women captive, for it would take something truly terrifying to make tough old May scream like that. Bond was ready to obey them to the death.

  He looked up. Becker was staring at him. ‘For pity’s sake, Kommissar, you didn’t hear any of that conversation.’

  ‘What conversation?’ Becker’s expression did not change.