He made straight towards the Rue de Rivoli, and the Tuileries Metro station. By the time he reached the entrance he was certain he had thrown the girl with the Hermès scarf, but he had no way of knowing how many others were nearby. Everyone was a potential enemy, and he scanned his fellow travellers, looking for the telltale signs of danger. Everything around him seemed magnified and even malignant – from the clatter of echoing footfalls, the buzz of conversation, the shouts of the raucous, the sweet and sour smell of humanity trapped underground, the sudden blasts of wind bellowing from the tunnels, to the clamour of the trains themselves.
At the Opera Station he changed trains, plunging into the crowds, heading towards one platform, then going back in the opposite direction, convinced that he had marked two people on his tail: a man and a woman he had spotted before. They rode in the same compartment with him as far as the Gare du Nord, where they both did a quick change somehow: reversible coats, eye glasses, a carrier bag heavy in the man’s hand. But the woman still carried a bulky shoulder bag, and he could almost see the weapon inside it.
Eventually he threw them on the station concourse, ducking from one platform to another: onto a train about to leave, then off again.
In all it took an hour – riding the Metro, changing trains, using every trick of surveillance throwing – before he was one hundred per cent sure he was clean. Nobody had shown up twice, and the couple who had been the most successful appeared to have vanished completely. By this time he had reached the Trocadero Station, only a ten-minute walk to his goal, a small hotel which lay off the Avenue Kléber, a stone’s throw from the Arc de Triomphe.
The Hotel Amber had been owned and run by the same family since the end of World War II. Three generations of Ambers had actively operated this comfortable, pleasant, if small, hotel in a quiet backwater. Indeed, the current manager, Antoine Amber, was the grandson of the founder, a man who had been with Section F, the French Section, of SOE: the Special Operations Executive which had run resistance, intelligence and sabotage groups in Nazi-occupied France.
Antoine’s parents and grandparents had left Paris for a warmer retirement in the shadow of the Alpes Maritimes, but Antoine and his wife Dulcie had known James Bond for years, and under a dozen different names. In a simple sense they were, like their ancestors, working assets of the British Secret Intelligence Service: assets who had never been either discovered or suspected by the omnipresent French counter-intelligence organisation: the murky DST. The Ambers were living proof that allies mistrust each other, and run the secret gauntlet even in the heart of mutual friendship. Suspicion within the European Community is as strong as the mistrust between long-standing enemies. It is one of the facts which assures that the game of espionage will go on until the end of time.
Rarely did the Ambers refuse a member of the SIS, and when Bond arrived on this evening, he was greeted with delight, shrouded in the reserve which was necessary to secrecy. He registered as James Bates, a computer software salesman: an identity he had never used in France until now. Then, in a pleasant second-storey room, he briefed Antoine about the other guests who would eventually arrive, and the young man assured him that they would all be safe.
Alone, Bond went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. He hardly recognised the reflection staring back at him. His hair was tousled, and his eyes showed the strain of the past twenty-four hours: they looked bleak and tired with dark smudges below them. He needed a shave and shower. He needed sleep, but there was little time. Even if Sprat and the girl were dogs set on him by Weisen, it was necessary to take them seriously. The team he had thrown off was dangerous. He had felt the hot breath of their killer instinct on the back of his neck and, if he was not careful, they might find him again. Next time luck could run out.
He was also certain that, if the pair in the car were honest-to-goodness French Intelligence, or even the more malign Security Service, he had to make some show of leaving the country. A day. Less now.
Bond splashed cold water over his face, then went into the bedroom, sat down and dialled the Sofitel Hotel at Orly airport, asking for Martha Grazti. Easy St John was on the line seconds later.
‘James, what happened? I’ve been . . .’
He cut her off quickly. ‘No time to talk. Things’ve got tricky. How tired are you?’
‘I’m okay.’
‘There’s a lot to do. You’ll have to keep your eyes open. Now, listen carefully.’ He gave the instructions clearly, telling her to take a cab to the Montparnasse Station. ‘Get a porter. Take all your luggage.’ She was then to board the next train to Chartres. ‘They run about every hour. Just ride and watch your own back. Get off at Chartres and wait for the next train back to Paris. It’s less than an hour’s run. Don’t return on the train that takes you out. Wait and watch, then ride back. You have to be certain nobody’s with you. If it’s clear, you get a cab at the Gare Montparnasse and come straight here.’ He gave her the address of the Hotel Amber.
‘What if . . . ?’
‘If they are on to you, call me on this number. Ask for Bates.’ He rattled off the digits. ‘Then head for the hills – which means go to the Sofitel at Charles de Gaulle airport. They might have a team there, but we’ll have to take a chance on it. If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll join you there and we’ll get the hell out on the first flight back to London.’
‘What about Harry?’
‘Don’t concern yourself with Harry.’
When he was satisfied she understood everything, he called the Crillon and asked a helpful girl to page Maurice Charpentier. There was a long wait. Then a male voice came on the line.
‘You are waiting for a M. Charpentier?’ The voice was one of authority.
‘Yes.’
‘I am the duty manager. You are a friend to M. Charpentier?’
‘Yes, I’m supposed to meet him. I’m running late.’
‘Then I have some unpleasant news. There has been an accident, Monsieur. Outside the hotel. M. Charpentier was not a guest with us . . .’
‘I know. He was with a friend. I was coming over to see them.’
‘I’m sorry, Monsieur. M. Charpentier is all right. His friend, a M. Rivière, was killed. It is most . . .’
‘How?’ He heard the shock in his own voice.
‘Unfortunate, Monsieur. It is not the kind of thing that happens near our hotel. It is unpleasant. M. Rivière was stabbed. He died just outside our main entrance. The police seem uncertain of how it happened. Possibly a mugger, but here it is unusual. There were problems . . .’
‘And my friend? M. Charpentier?’
‘He is still with the police. There were some plain-clothes men, who were a little rough with him.’
A voice in his head told Bond to get off the line now.
‘I heard one of them say something about taking him to the Rue des Saussaies . . .’
Bond heard no more for he quickly replaced the receiver. The headquarters of the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire – the DST – was at number 11 Rue des Saussaies, and the DST had one of the most efficient telephone-tapping organisations in the world. They ran their telephone surveillance out of a large office close to the great military museum at Les Invalides. He had been on the telephone to the Crillon for a good two minutes. It was possible that they had traced his number. He was not going to hang around and find out.
Grabbing his briefcase, Bond went downstairs and out into the night.
Harry was with the DST. Harry’s friend, The Jockey, whom he did not know from Adam, was dead. Harry had given him a telephone number which he was to call and ask for Peggy Jean, in English. This, Harry had claimed, would put him in direct contact with Praxi Simeon, but he wanted to take her by surprise for there were too many unknowns about Praxi Simeon, Sulphur of the Cabal network.
Out on the street, he headed straight for the Avenue Kléber, and towards the Place Charles de Gaulle and the Arc de Triomphe, crossing the wide road and walking quickly. The tempera
ture was dropping and the usual evening rush hour was in full swing, the streets clogged with traffic. He paused at cafés and shopfronts two or three times, crossed the road, and recrossed at two points, still checking that he was alone.
Finally he turned right into the Rue Copernic, then left into La Perouse, praying that the post office had not yet closed. It had not, and he changed notes into a pile of change, then waited for one of the telephone booths to become vacant.
Inside he dialled the direct number of the Secret Intelligence Service’s resident at the Paris Embassy. The line, he knew, was secure, even from the snooping operation at Les Invalides.
‘Bruton et Hicks.’ A female secretary answered.
‘Predator.’ Bond gave his international work code.
‘Un moment, Monsieur.’
There was a click on the line, then—
‘Ecstasy.’
‘Predator.’
‘How’s the weather?’
‘There’s a storm coming up. South cones have been hoisted.’
‘Can I help?’
‘I want a reverse directory address on this number.’ He slowly recited the digits Harry Spraker had given him.
It took less than a minute. The address was an apartment building, off the Champs-Elysées near the Lutheran church. ‘Apartment Fifteen,’ he was told. Less than quarter of an hour’s walk. He spun it out to a full half-hour, going through the routines like a man whose life depended on it: which it probably did. Every sense was strained to detect the unusual. The events of the afternoon had unnerved him. He could not remember when he had felt so vulnerable.
The apartment building was in the de luxe class, with a doorman who looked like a former heavyweight champion, and a reception desk from behind which two security guards eyed him with open suspicion.
He took no notice, going straight for the internal phone which sat in a small alcove just inside the door.
One of the security men called out, asking if he needed help, and Bond just shook his head, dialling one-five. There was no way he was going to use Harry’s ‘Peggy Jean’ code. He would stick to the one given to them in London.
The voice that answered sent a tiny frisson up the back of his neck, as though a piece of ice had been run against the grain of the short hairs. It was the kind of female voice which he loved best and came across rarely. A voice that sounded like a magnificent instrument, the deeper notes of a cello, perhaps.
‘Hallo?’ One word, two syllables that dipped musically.
‘Can I speak to Carlotta?’
‘Who wants her?’ No hint of suspicion, just the music, now covering three notes rising and falling.
‘My name’s Joe Bain. I met her at a conference last year . . .’
‘That would be in Boston, yes?’ The merest hint of an accent, hardly a touch.
‘Yes, Boston. We shared a car from the airport and I promised I would look her up whenever I was in Paris. I work for Dombey and Company.’
‘Of course. Come up. It’ll be nice to see you again.’
‘I think you’ll need to tell the Guardians down here, before they’ll allow me even to get into the elevator.’
‘I’ll call straight down. Wait until their phone rings, then walk to the reception desk. It’ll be fine.’
The line was disconnected, and he put down the receiver very slowly, and very deliberately picked up his briefcase.
The telephone at the reception console rang and one of the security men answered, giving Bond the fish eye.
‘You may go up, Monsieur. Fifteen’s on the second floor.’
He nodded and walked to the elevator. The doors opened as silently as he had ever heard elevator doors. The carpet under his feet seemed ankle deep, and the car moved up without a sound.
He saw the light wink on for the first floor, but did not even feel the car stop. When the doors opened, his hand was nowhere near the ASP automatic, rammed against the small of his back.
The man who came in was tall, even distinguished-looking, well dressed in a tailored grey suit. He wore the striped tie of a regiment that Bond could not identify. The pistol in his hand was easier: a Browning Compact, the one with the very short butt that was still capable of firing full-power 9mm Parabellum cartridges. One shot would make a large hole, leaving a high portion of Bond splattered over the glass.
‘You understand that we have to take precautions.’ He spoke English with a distinct American accent.
‘Of course.’ He sounded edgy, and why not. Once in twenty-four hours could be plain bad luck. Twice was inefficiency.
When the doors next glided open, the view had improved dramatically.
She wore a white silk shirt and beautifully cut white slacks. A broad snakeskin belt, with an ornate buckle helped show off the narrow waist, and her eyes seemed huge: brown with long lashes that were a gift from God, not a purchase from Estée Lauder.
‘Vanya?’ she asked, her cello soaring over the one word.
Bond nodded, glancing down at the shoes, which matched the belt and did not come from a chain store.
‘Yet, having always drifted on the raft
Each night, always without provision,
Loathing each night.’
It was the way any poem should be spoken. She would have made a good actress. Perhaps, indeed, that was what she was.
Bond replied with the IFF answerback. The same one he had tested on the girl in the car:
‘A bracelet invisible
For your busy wrist,
Twisted from silver.’
‘Oh, it’s good to meet you, Vanya,’ she said, and Bond had to force himself to remember that, if this was, at last, Praxi Simeon, she would have a large number of questions to answer. At her apartment door, he asked the first one.
‘Praxi, a small question. Would you introduce me to your friend the gunman?’
She laughed and invisible silver seemed to shimmer around her. ‘Of course, but you must know already. This is Tester, Heini Spraker, though he prefers to be called Harry.’
This might just be the end of a promising friendship, Bond thought.
9
DEATH ON WHEELS
James Bond did his best to suppress the anxiety which enveloped his mind, and turned his stomach over in unpleasant, lazy, drooping circles. There were so many question marks against Praxi Simeon already, and now he was faced with this new, unbelievable, claim that the man with her was Tester – ‘Harry’ Spraker.
He had been with Harry right up to the time they had arrived in Paris. The man he knew as Harry had provided the correct IFF code – something so individually secret it was unlikely to have been given to anyone else. The Harry he knew fitted the description, and had assisted before, and during, the journey from Berlin. He had also given Bond the telephone number of this apartment – Praxi Simeon’s apartment – and now, it seemed, that Harry was in the hands of the DST.
It felt longer, but, in less than three seconds, Bond’s mind flashed through a series of pictures and conversations. Harry Spraker, Tester, and their first meeting at the Kempi. The exchange of codes; Tester’s version of the way he and Vomberg had traced Bond and Easy from Tegel to the hotel; the story of the death of Mab, Oscar Vomberg; his version of the events which had led to the deaths of the original Vanya and Eagle; the identification and sapping of the former Stasi man, Korngold, directly outside the Kempinski; the fingering of the strange pair of thugs, Felix Utterman and Hexie Weiss, on the train; his lack of emotion on learning that Bond had killed them: two ex-Stasi enforcers who had once worked for the HVA under Wolfgang Weisen. All this, plus the physical description committed to memory in London. He heard Easy’s voice as she had parroted that delineation:
‘Exactly six feet; well built; muscular; full dark hair; complexion dark; eyes black; very piercing look. Small scar, in the shape of a bracket, just to the right of his mouth.’
He turned, with a smile, towards the man who now claimed to be Tester, to see he was quietly sliding the
magazine from the butt of the Browning Compact, clearing the breech and putting the weapon on a side table near the door, the magazine protruding from the butt: safe and unloaded.
Bond looked him up and down, lingering on his face. It was all there: height, curly dark hair, the black eyes, striking and twinkling. As he looked at Bond, the new claimant to Tester’s name appeared to duplicate the piercing look that had been described in London – a look he had first detected in the Kempi with the man he had known, until now, as Harry Spraker. There was also the scar, the curved bracket to the right of his mouth, though on this man’s face the mark was more pronounced, telling of a deeper wound.
‘Give me your IFF,’ Bond said, hearing a somewhat overstated calm in his own voice.
‘Again?’
‘What d’you mean, again?’
‘We established bona fides in Berlin, when you called me. Poor old Vomberg gave you the number.’
Bond sighed. ‘I’ve never spoken to you in my life, Tester. Now you say that I called you in Berlin?’
‘Just after Vomberg telephoned, telling me to meet him.’
‘Where were you to met him?’
‘Charlottenburg U-Bahn station. I arrived too late. Oscar did his swan dive in front of the train just as I spotted him.’
‘And you didn’t call me back?’
‘I got hold of Praxi. Here in Paris . . .’
‘And I told him to get the hell out.’ Praxi was beginning to look edgy, her eyes flicking around the room: from Bond to the door, then towards the table where the little Browning Compact lay, and back to Bond again. ‘He was in obvious danger, and I felt it might be linked to you. I even flashed London, asking them for another, definite, identification. It was the first time I’d spoken with London since Cabal scattered. I broke the rules to check you out.’
‘Did they reply?’
‘Yes. They said you had an emergency password, should there be any doubts about your identity, or the new Eagle. London knew we needed extra safeguards. They told me to trust you. We’re all pretty paranoid.’