As yet there was no need to put out a call for von Glöda, Bond decided. If the man’s colleagues were around to see him off, there would still be a chance to corner him on this side of the terminal. If not, then Bond would simply have to bluff to get him back from the air-side.
Keeping behind as much cover as possible, Bond edged his way past the kiosks, trying to position himself near the passage on the extreme left of the complex which led to passport control and the air-side lounges.
At the far end of this section of the departure area, set in front of high windows, was a coffee shop – separated from the main complex by a low, flimsy trellis barrier covered with imitation flowers. To the left of it, very close to where Bond now stood, was the passport control section, each of its little booths occupied by an official.
Bond started to look at faces, searching through the crowds for von Glöda. Departing passengers were constantly moving through passport control, while the coffee shop was crowded with travellers, mainly seated at low, round tables.
Then quite unexpectedly – almost out of the corner of his eye – Bond saw his quarry: von Glöda rising from one of the coffee shop tables.
The would-be heir to Adolf Hitler’s ruined empire appeared to be just as well-organised in Helsinki as he had been at the Ice Palace. His clothes were immaculate, and even in the grey civilian greatcoat, the man had a military look about him – a straightness of back and a bearing that singled him out from the ordinary. No wonder, Bond thought momentarily, that Tudeer imagined the world was his destiny.
He was surrounded by six men, all smartly dressed – each one of them looking like an ex-soldier. Mercenaries, perhaps? Von Glöda spoke to them in a low voice, punctuating his words with quick movements of the hands. It took Bond a second or two to realise the movements were similar to those of the late Adolf Hitler himself.
The radio announcement system clicked and played its little warning jingle. They were about to announce the Paris flight, Bond was certain. Von Glöda cocked his head to listen, but he’d also apparently decided, before the jingle finished, that it was his flight. Solemnly he shook hands with each of his men in turn and looked around for his hand baggage.
Bond moved closer to the trelliswork. There were too many people in the coffee shop to risk taking von Glöda there, he decided. The best place would be as the man walked clear of the coffee shop towards passport control.
Still maintaining cover among the constantly changing throng, Bond edged to the left. Von Glöda appeared to be looking around him, as if alerted to some danger.
The jingle died away, and the voice of the announcer came from the myriad speakers – unusually loud and clear, almost unbearably so. Bond felt his stomach churn. He stopped in his tracks, eyes never leaving von Glöda, who also stiffened, his face changing at the words:
‘Would Mr James Bond please come to the Information Desk on the second floor?’
They were on the second floor. Bond quickly looked around, eyes searching for the Information Desk, aware that von Glöda was also turning. The voice repeated, ‘Mr James Bond, please go to the Information Desk.’
Von Glöda turned fully. Both he and Bond must have spotted the figure, standing by the Information Desk, at roughly the same moment – Hans Buchtman, whom Bond had first known as Brad Tirpitz. As their eyes met, so Buchtman moved towards Bond, his mouth opening, words floating, lost in the general noise and bustle.
For an instant, von Glöda stared at Buchtman, scowling, incredulous. Then, at last, he saw Bond.
The whole scene appeared to be frozen for a split second. Then von Glöda said something to his companions. They began to scatter as von Glöda grabbed for his cabin baggage and started to move quickly from the coffee shop.
Bond stepped into the open in an attempt to cut him off, aware of Buchtman elbowing his way through the crowd. Bond’s hand touched the Redhawk’s butt as Buchtman’s words finally reached his ears: ‘No! No, Bond! No, we want him alive!’
I’ll bet you do, Bond thought, as he hauled on the Redhawk, closing towards von Glöda who was crossing in front of him, moving rapidly. There was no stopping Bond now. ‘Halt, Tudeer!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll never make the flight. Stop now!’
People began to scream, and Bond – only a few paces from von Glöda – realised that the leader of the National Socialist Action Army held a Luger pistol low in his right hand, half screened by the small case in his left.
Bond still hauled on the Redhawk, which would not come free from his waistband. Again he shouted, glancing back to see that Buchtman was bearing down on him from behind, thrusting people out of his path. In the midst of the panic erupting around him, Bond heard von Glöda shouting hysterically as he turned full on towards Bond.
‘They didn’t get me yesterday,’ von Glöda yelled. ‘This is proof of my mission. Proof of my destiny.’
As though in answer, the barrel of the Redhawk came free. Von Glöda’s hand rose, the Luger pointing towards Bond, who dropped to one knee, extending his arm and the Redhawk. Von Glöda’s hand and the Luger filled Bond’s vision as he called again, ‘It’s over, von Glöda. Don’t be a fool.’
Then the spurt of flame from the Luger’s barrel, and Bond’s own finger squeezing twice on the Redhawk’s trigger.
The explosions were simultaneous, and a great hand seemed to fling Bond sideways. The passport control booths spun in front of him and he sprawled across the floor while von Glöda twisted and reared like a wounded stag, still screaming, ‘Destiny . . . Destiny . . . Destiny . . .’
Bond couldn’t understand why he was on the ground. Vaguely he caught sight of a passport control officer diving for shelter behind his booth. Then, still sprawling, he had the Redhawk zeroed in on von Glöda, who seemed to be trying to aim again with his Luger. Bond squeezed off another shot, and von Glöda dropped the Luger, then took one step back as his head disappeared in a thick red mist.
It was only now that pain began to overtake Bond. He felt very tired. Someone held his shoulders. There was a lot of noise. Then a voice: ‘Couldn’t be helped, Jimmy. You got the bastard. All over now. They’ve sent for an ambulance. You’ll be okay.’
The voice was saying more than that, but the light ebbed away from Bond’s eyes, and all sound disappeared, as though someone had deliberately turned down the volume.
21
THIS CAN’T BE HEAVEN
The tunnel was very long, its sides white. Bond wondered if he was back in the Arctic Circle. Then he was swimming. Warm and cold by turns. Voices. Soft music, and the face of a girl leaning over him, and calling his name, ‘Mr Bond . . . ? Mr Bond . . . ?’
The voice seemed to sing, and the girl’s face was truly beautiful. She had blonde hair and appeared to be surrounded by a halo. James Bond opened his eyes and looked at her. Yes, a blonde angel with a shining white halo.
‘Did I really make it? I couldn’t have. This can’t be heaven.’
The girl laughed. ‘Not heaven, Mr Bond. You are in hospital.’
‘Where?’
‘In Helsinki. And there are people here to see you.’
He suddenly felt very tired. ‘Send them away,’ he said in a slurred voice. ‘I’m too busy now. Heaven is great.’ Then he retreated, back down the tunnel which had turned dark and warm.
He could have been asleep for hours, weeks, or months. There were no guidelines. But when Bond finally woke, he was conscious only of the pain down the right side of his body. The angel had gone. In her place a familiar figure sat quietly in a chair near the bed.
‘Back with us, 007?’ asked M. ‘How do you feel?’
The memories returned like a series of clips from an old movie. The Arctic Circle; snow scooters; Blue Hare; the Ice Palace; Paula’s observation post; the bombs; then the last hours in Helsinki. The eye of the Luger.
Bond swallowed. His mouth was very dry. ‘Not bad, sir,’ he croaked, then remembered Paula, prostrate on the bed. ‘Paula?’
‘She’s fine, 007. Right as r
ain.’
‘Good,’ Bond closed his eyes, recalling all that had happened. M remained silent. In spite of himself, Bond was impressed. It was rare enough for his boss to leave the safe confines of the building overlooking Regent’s Park. Eventually, Bond opened his eyes again. ‘Next time, sir, I trust you’ll give me a full and proper briefing.’
M coughed. ‘We thought it better for you to find out for yourself, 007. Truth is we weren’t sure about everyone ourselves. The general idea was to put you in the field and draw the fire.’
‘There you appear to have been successful.’
The blonde angel came in. She was, of course, a nurse. ‘You’re not to tire him,’ she chided M in impeccable English, then disappeared again.
‘You stopped two bullets,’ M said, seemingly unconcerned. ‘Both in the upper part of the chest. No serious damage done. On your feet again in a week or two. I’ll see you get a month’s leave after that. Tirpitz was going to bring Tudeer to us, but you had no alternative in that situation.’ M, uncharacteristically, leaned over and gave Bond’s hand a fatherly pat. ‘Well done, 007, Good job well done.’
‘Kind of you, sir. But I was under the impression that Brad Tirpitz’s real name is Hans Buchtman. He was a crony of von Glöda’s.’
‘It was what I had to let you think, Jimmy.’ For the first time, Bond realised that Tirpitz was also in the room. ‘I’m sorry about the way it turned out. Everything went wrong. I had to stay with von Glöda. I guess I waited a hair too long. It was pure dumb luck that we weren’t killed with the rest. The Russian Air Force did some kind of number on us. Jesus Christ Almighty. It was the worst I’ve ever been in.’
‘I know. I watched it,’ said Bond, feeling, in spite of his condition, an irritation with the American. ‘But what about the whole Buchtman business?’
Tirpitz went into a lengthy explanation. About a year before, the CIA had instructed him to make contact with Aarne Tudeer, whom they suspected of doing arms deals with the Russians. ‘I met him in Helsinki,’ Tirpitz said. ‘I speak German well enough, and I had a phony background all set up, under Hans Buchtman. I got to know him under the name of Buchtman and insinuated myself as a possible arms source. I also dropped some pretty heavy hints that I bore a strong physical resemblance to a CIA guy called Brad Tirpitz. That was for insurance, and it paid off. I guess I’m one of the few people living who got to kill themselves, if you see what I mean.’
The nurse returned with a large jug of barley water and warned them they only had another few minutes. Bond asked if he could have a martini instead. The nurse gave him an official smile.
‘There wasn’t a hell of a lot I could do about the torture, or getting you out any earlier,’ Tirpitz continued. ‘I couldn’t even warn you about Rivke, because I knew nothing. Von Glöda didn’t confide much, didn’t tell me about the hospital set-up until too late. And the information from my own people was pretty half-assed, to say the least.’
Half-assed indeed, Bond thought vaguely. Then he drifted off again, and when he came to, a few moments later, only M was in the room.
‘We’re still rounding up the remnants, 007,’ M was saying. ‘The N-S-Double-A, We’ve scuttled them for good, I think.’ M sounded pleased. ‘I can’t see anyone else reactivating what’s left of it now – thanks to you, 007. In spite of the lack of information.’
‘All part of the service,’ Bond replied sarcastically.
But the remark ran off M’s back like water from the proverbial duck.
After M left, the nurse returned to make sure Bond was comfortable.
‘You are a nurse, aren’t you?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Of course. But why, Mr Bond?’
‘Just checking.’ Bond managed a smile. ‘How about dinner tonight?’
‘You are on a restricted diet, but if you fancy something I’ll bring you our menu . . .’
‘I meant you – dinner with me.’
She took a step away from the bed and looked him full in the eyes. Bond thought she was built from a mould long broken. Rarely did they make figures like that any more. Only occasionally. Like Rivke. Or Paula.
‘My name’s Ingrid,’ the nurse said coolly. ‘And I’d love to have dinner with you as soon as you’re fully recovered. And I mean fully recovered. Do you remember what you said to me when you first became conscious after you were shot?’
Bond shook his head on the pillow.
‘You said, “This can’t be heaven.” Mr Bond – James – maybe I’ll show you it is heaven. But not until you’re quite better.’
‘Which will not be for a very long time.’ The voice came from the door. ‘And if anyone’s going to show Mr Bond what heaven Helsinki can be, it will be me,’ said Paula Vacker.
‘Ah.’ Bond smiled weakly. He had to admit that, even next to the impressive nurse Ingrid, Paula had the edge.
‘Ah, indeed, James. The minute I turn my back, there you are, getting shot at, flirting with nurses. This is my city, and while you’re here . . .’
‘But you were asleep.’ Bond gave a tired grin.
‘Yes, but I’m wide awake now. Oh James, you had me so worried.’
‘You should never worry about me.’
‘No? Well, I’ve arranged things. Your chief – he’s rather cute, by the way – he says I can look after you for a couple of weeks once they let you out of here.’
‘Cute?’ Bond said, incredulous. Then he put his head back, drifting off once more as Paula bent over to kiss him.
That night, in spite of all the memories – the Arctic, the terrors, the double and triple crosses – James Bond slept without dreams or nightmares.
He woke around dawn, then drifted into sleep again. This time, as always when content, he dreamed of Royale-les-Eaux. As it had been.
By the same author:
Licence Renewed
For Special Services
Role of Honour
Nobody Lives for Ever
No Deals, Mr Bond
Scorpius
Win, Lose or Die
Brokenclaw
The Man from Barbarossa
Death Is Forever
Never Send Flowers
SeaFire
Cold
Licence to Kill
GoldenEye
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Orion Books.
This eBook first published in 2011 by Orion Books.
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The right of John Gardner to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.
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