The voice at the distant end had identified himself as Moonshine – the base in Oxfordshire which had monitored everything from the original Vanya and Eagle. They were asking, in soft desperation, for the new Vanya. It did not take Bond long to realise that London was pulling his chain.
There had been no reports, no traffic on the frequencies which swept the air to pick up conversations, messages and telephone calls via the credit-card-sized transceivers. The simple answer was that neither Bond nor Easy had even bothered to activate the slim pieces of gee-whizz electronics. In Easy’s case it had been first night nerves – her baptism in the field. She had forgotten. But Bond had deliberately left his card deactivated from the start. He had no desire to see his words and actions boiled down to transcripts on M’s desk.
Moonshine sounded almost panic-stricken, though there was little doubt that the contact was being made on M’s orders. The Old Man wanted to keep track, and the message was clear. Everything should be heard. There was even a sour line about not switching off if Bond was up to no good: M’s way of telling him to watch the sexual escapades which, in this day and age, Bond had more than watched with extreme caution.
He apologised, after a fashion, then, because the 800 line was one hundred per cent clean, asked a couple of favours. Could Moonshine run some kind of check on the French police and DST wavelengths? In particular he wanted information about a stabbing earlier that evening outside the Crillon Hotel, and a brawl in one of the side streets off the Avenue Kléber.
They promised to try, and would call back on the 800 line in an hour. Information would be forthcoming. The Service had human lines into the Paris gendarmes and, no doubt, the DST also.
While they waited, Bond asked more questions, talking first about Axel Ritter, and then the smartly turned-out grey man who had forced him into the Honda at gunpoint, to meet the chubby lady passing herself off as Praxi. After the fight outside the Hotel Amber, Bond would not be surprised if his tall grey chum was dead.
They began with Ritter.
‘Those of us with a way into information at Karlshorst, knew Ritter as one of Weisen’s agents,’ Praxi told them. ‘Axel was forever in and out of the Poison Dwarf’s office. He often used to eat in the canteen with Monika Haardt as well. Eventually we realised that Weisen was attempting to use him as a penetration agent, and the target was Cabal. He didn’t make it, of course. Weisen suspected several people, and was right ninety-five per cent of the time, but we were able to keep Axel out. The man is very dangerous, as you’ve already discovered. He also knows a great deal about Weisen’s contacts, his secret army. If we had been given enough warning that Axel was in Paris, he would be a prime target for us. I should imagine there are ways we could have made him talk.’
Bruin gave a seraphic smile. ‘I would know ways.’
‘Now if the French DST have him, maybe they’ll get him to squawk,’ Easy grumbled.
‘If he talks to them, it’ll not be the truth.’ Bond looked at Praxi as though wanting her to confirm a theory. ‘Friend Axel’s more likely to blow all of us out of the water, than give away his own people.’
Praxi agreed, and they turned to the second subject.
‘When he came barrelling out of the van shouting “Police!”, was he telling the truth?’ Bond asked.
Harry Spraker shook his head, but it was Praxi who answered. ‘We know for a fact that he’s a Weisen man, and has been since ’88 when they threw him out of the DGSE. A cipher clerk died while he was being interrogated by Cold Claude.’ It sounded better in translation, she actually said ‘Claude de Froid’.
‘His full name?’
‘Claude Gaspard. He works for a security firm here in Paris, but that’s a front for Weisen’s people.’
Bond described the dark-haired girl whom Claude had introduced as Praxi, and Harry Spraker laughed. ‘Michelle, ma belle.’ He sang the old Beatles number. ‘She’s also known as Fat Michelle, and Michelle Roundheels. Her real name’s Michelle Gris, as in Grey. Camp follower, occasional operator, but mainly the light relief for Weisen’s Paris people. No, that’s not fair. She’s really very bright and rumour has it that she’s Monika Haardt’s protégée. I wouldn’t be surprised. She also works out of the security firm. It’s called Sécurité de la Bastille. They have a smart little shop near the Pont Neuf. Windows full of briefcases with tape machines in them, and microphone pens. They advertise security systems but I don’t think they do much work in that direction.’
Something jabbed at Bond’s memory. It had something to do with this Michelle and their conversation in the car. He worried at it for a minute or so, then let it rest. It would pop back to his mind through the maze of information he was now stacking away.
They had just begun to discuss The Jockey, Dmitri, and his place in the pecking order (he was, it appeared, a gofer for Weisen’s Paris operation) when the 800 line screeched again.
This time the conversation went on for around ten minutes, and when he had finished, Bond turned back to the remnants of Cabal, his face hard and serious.
Axel Ritter, he told them, was still at the DST headquarters and, it seemed, was providing the French with a catalogue of crimes and information – mainly concerning the remaining Cabal people, plus Easy and himself.
‘They’re advising us to get out before half the cops and DST people start clamping down on the harbours and airports. We should get out very fast, and in any way we can, so you’d better grab a little sleep while I try to find the best routes. You’ve got an hour at the most.’
‘The fight?’ Praxi asked. ‘Our melee outside the Amber?’
‘Two still unconscious; three kept in for observation. The cops are guarding their wards, and Cold Claude is one of the pair still in a coma. They’ve got a plain-clothes man at his bedside.’
‘And Dmitri?’ from Harry.
‘Dead,’ Bond sighed. ‘Seems like one of those things. Genuine. Some little thief, they suspect it was a junkie, went for Axel’s pocket right outside the Crillon. Daring, therefore unexpected. Axel tried to fend him off, but the guy ran away. Not before using a chiv on Dmitri though. My folks say they get the impression the DST had been trying to lure Axel inside for quite a while. This was a good excuse, but bad for us.’
They began to drift away. Bruin curled up on a couch, the others found beds. Easy gave Bond a little look which said she was ready even if he was not. He told her to rest. ‘I’ve a lot to do,’ he called out across the room. ‘Oh, and switch on.’ Though he had not yet activated his transceiver, he would do so before morning.
Just as he was about to use the 800 machine, Praxi came over.
‘Can I be of help?’ She stood over him, tall and slim-waisted, looking cool in the tailored white trousers and snakeskin belt. Her pleasant face showed signs of strain, dark smudges under the eyes, her rather thick lips braced in the semblance of a smile that looked as though it was not felt by any other part of her.
He wanted identities – names, passports, documents – for her, Harry Spraker and Bruin. Preferably ones they had not used before. In London they had said the major Cabal people were well supplied with that kind of paper.
At one point Cabal itself had run an experienced forger who worked in a basement near the old Berliner Ensemble Theatre, on the Friedrichstrasse – the theatre which had been home to the late great Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill, and was still haunted by songs like ‘Mack the Knife’, and ‘Moon of Alabama’. The forger had been a legend. Almost ninety years old when he died after a lifetime of creating replicas for people escaping Hitler, and then for other men and women working secretly against the Communist regime.
Praxi had all the answers in her head, ready for him. She would travel as managing director of a company specialising in fabric design; Harry had an unused passport which gave his occupation as an assistant movie director for Phobius Films. They even had a real office in Potsdam: a room, desk, chair and answering machine tended once a week by one of Praxi’s casuals – or drones a
s she preferred to call them. Bruin was easy. He travelled everywhere as a small time prize fight promoter, under half a dozen different aliases.
Bond noted the names they would be using. Praxi lingered. ‘Something else?’ he asked.
‘Yes, James. The business with August Wimper.’
‘What about it?’
‘I wanted to make certain that you understood the seriousness.’
‘If he’s still alive, it’s serious, yes.’
‘He is still alive. I have no doubt, just as I’m now certain he was Weisen’s man within Cabal. There had to be someone with all the details. Weisen’s tracked down all but three of us, and most of those who died were killed very soon after we got the phoney Nacht und Nebel order.’
He gave her a hard look. ‘How’re you so sure he’s not the floater they fished out of the Grand Canal? I see how it might be dubious, but what if Weisen had finished with him? Let him go, so to speak?’
‘The report I had came from a very good source. Right there in Venice. The body they took from the water had been immersed for the best part of three weeks . . .’
‘So?’
Her eyes held his and then cut away. ‘There was something I didn’t tell you. I’m ninety-nine per cent sure I saw August. In Berlin. The day before Eagle was killed. If forensics in Venice are correct, he couldn’t have been in Berlin.’
‘Not unless he wanted to frighten people and drip all over their carpets.’
‘James, don’t be frivolous. August knows everything, and he was Liz Cearns’ lover. Read the book.’ She gestured to the Filofax on the floor beside the telephone. ‘Whatever else, if August Wimper knew, then Weisen knew.’ Her hands washed each other constantly, the fingers tying and untying imaginary knots.
‘I’ll bear it in mind, Praxi, but I really believe we have to try and beard the little dwarf in Venice. You say you know where he is . . .’
‘Near enough. I can find out.’
‘Okay, one more question for you. He will presumably have people watching the airport and railway. Where would he not expect his enemies to go? I mean just that. Where would he not look for enemies in Venice?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Wolfgang has a blind spot. As a convinced Communist, a Stalinist, he cannot believe that people opposing him would stay in luxury. That’s why Eagle – Liz – and I always showed ourselves in the best places. The Poison Dwarf just doesn’t expect men and women in our line of business to stay in de luxe hotels, or even visit really high-class shops. He thinks that we would prefer to fight him on his own terms: among society’s lower-paid workers.’
‘What you’re really saying is that he’s a cheapskate?’
Praxi actually laughed as she nodded, ‘You’ve got it.’
Alone, Bond began to make telephone calls. Cabal’s original scattering was to be repeated, but this time the remnants, plus Easy and himself, would end up in the same place. Venice.
Now, at dawn, alone on the balcony, he reviewed what had happened since M had called him into his office, less than three days ago. In the field he rarely stopped to think deeply of the dangers. Life was too short. But looking out at the beauty of Paris, unveiling herself to another day, he went cold with the knowledge that death had been stalking him from the moment of his arrival in Berlin.
There had been the macabre incident with the Fiddleback spiders; the attempt to take Easy St John and himself from the Ost-West Express. He did not doubt that the final outcome of that botched effort was meant to be the separation of his mortal body from his immortal soul. Then there was the equally fumbled try to pull Easy, Praxi, Harry and himself off the street.
Lastly, he pondered the most mystifying puzzle of the lot. Cold Claude, as he now knew the man, had unmistakably shadowed him from the Gare du Nord to the Place Vendôme. The man was manifestly a surveillance professional of great expertise, for he had not even felt Claude’s breath on his neck. Claude, and the girl, Michelle, had him cold: in a car and with no easy method of escape. Yet they had let him walk away. That did not make sense.
What was it Harry Spraker had said? ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to have lines out to the worst terrorist organisations, people who still want to see the Western alliance fall apart.’
Also Praxi: ‘Wolfie Weisen is a special kind of person . . . holed up in Venice, James. He’s sitting there pulling secret strings all over Europe.’
Was that it? Did the former East German spymaster have some plan already in motion? And did he require the remains of Cabal to pull it off? Perhaps.
The only way they would find out would be by confronting the man: but was that just what he wanted them to do? Possibly.
Behind him someone was moving about in the apartment. As he came back into the main room, he could smell freshly brewing coffee.
Within an hour they were preparing to leave. Bond had given them instructions, and they would all meet, later in the day, at the most luxurious hotel Venice had to offer – the famous Cipriani on the island of Giudecca, five minutes by motor launch from the fabled Piazza San Marco, and the only Venetian hotel to boast a swimming pool. If Praxi was right, this was certainly not the kind of place from which Wolfgang Weisen would expect an assault.
Bruin was the first to go. From Paris he would fly to Rome, then on to Venice. Praxi and Harry were to leave together, then split up at Charles de Gaulle airport. Praxi to Venice via Madrid, Harry to the same destination via Lisbon.
Bond and Easy would leave last. Easy to take an Alitalia flight to Pisa, and from there a commuter aircraft to Venice. Bond would fly Air France into London, Heathrow, where after a short meeting he would take a British Airways flight out to Marco Polo airport, Venice.
The Air France A-310 was on time into Heathrow Terminal Two. He had two hours to kill, and took his time deplaning, lingering and walking slowly down the endless ramps, people-movers and corridors that take you into the Immigration, Customs or Transit areas.
Long before he reached any of the authorised zones, a figure appeared in a doorway marked Private. Minutes later, James Bond was sitting down in a comfortable office. Across the table was his old friend and ally, the leggy, tall and elegant young woman who was Assistant to the Armourer, that is, second in command of Q Branch, Ann Reilly, known to everyone in the Service as Q’ute.
‘Well, fancy meeting you here.’ Bond gave her a quick appraisal with his eyes, smiling with the pleasure which he could never conceal, for Ms Reilly had always been a faithful friend as well as a very useful adviser over the past decade. ‘D’you come here often?’ he asked, the good humour lighting his eyes.
‘Only when I’m off to romantic places, James – which means rarely. I bring you gifts.’
‘And I have a couple for you.’ He unlocked his briefcase, touched the button springing the specially lined compartment which made small handguns invisible to airport X-ray machines, and took out the Browning Compact stowed next to his own ASP. It was the weapon he had taken, less than twenty-four hours earlier, from Harry Spraker, the real Tester. ‘I want you to go over that with everything you’ve got. My fingerprints are all over it, so I think you should concentrate on the ballistics. Check them particularly against any of the stuff on file concerning dead Cabal agents.’
‘Even if they were strangled?’
‘I think you should confine it to those who bought it with a bullet, but use your discretion.’
‘Fine.’ She slipped the pistol into a plastic evidence bag.
‘As for this,’ he slapped Liz Cearns’ Filofax onto the desk. ‘It is either an outrageous forgery, or something that could blow all of us out of the water. I talked to the Chief of Staff about it last night. Well, in the early hours of this morning actually.’
‘I know.’ She took the black-bound book. ‘He’s going around like a man in a dream this morning. Bill needs his beauty sleep, James. You shouldn’t wake him in the middle of the night.’
‘If I have to be up, I don’t see why he shouldn’t be up,’ he c
huckled.
Ms Reilly slid the Filofax into another evidence bag. ‘Now, I suggest you take anything else you need from that old briefcase, because I’ve brought you a brand new Cardin, complete with detachable side for spare clothing. Major Boothroyd himself provided the shirts, ties, socks and underwear: and I must say I didn’t take you for a man who wore silk next to his skin.’
‘Always, in the mating season.’ He raised his right eyebrow.
Ann Reilly did not even blush. ‘This is the business side of the case.’ It took half an hour for her to explain all the extra refinements which had been added into the special piece of equipment.
‘You don’t let the grass grow, do you?’ He was impressed with the new, and very sophisticated, additions to the case, which was slightly larger than the one he had handed over. Carefully he stowed away the ASP and spare magazines in the compartment similar to the one he had been using for several years; transported a few necessary papers, and his sleek shaving kit, into their correct places and snapped his new acquisition shut.
‘Very nice. All the tricks of the trade.’
‘And a couple of other things we’ve dreamed up. Just in case.’ She demonstrated the use of two pens – one gold, the other silver.
‘Just what I wanted. Santa’s little elves’ve been working overtime.’ He accepted the pens and clipped them to the inside pocket of his blazer.
‘Use them well, James.’
‘I’ll do my best. No last words for the condemned man?’
‘Yes, M sends his regards and says would you please keep the transceiver on at all times.’
‘Tell him his boon is granted.’
As he reached the door, Ann Reilly stopped him. ‘And, James . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Take care.’
‘Oh, I shall.’
‘I mean, take care of the briefcase. It’s very expensive. It’s also a prototype.’
‘So am I.’ He winked. ‘They smashed the tools and burned the plans when they completed me.’ Hefting the briefcase, he added, ‘Death comes expensive these days.’