Gus took the wheel and set the launch on a course up the Grand Canal, gently handling the craft as he turned to port, into one of the many narrow waterways that eventually led to the wider Rio Nuovo which, in turn, took them to the Piazzale Roma on the fringe of the city.
Bruin and Praxi went to sign the papers and take possession of the Previa. So, about an hour after they had left Weisen’s Venetian hide-out, they were driving across the bridge which links both road and rail services to the mainland. Gus drove, and soon they were heading north, following the signs, taking side roads off the 245 which led to Scorzè, then onto the 515 to the airport at Quinto di Treviso. They had agreed that it would probably be easier to use these, relatively rural, roads than the arterial A27 where the traffic could be heavy.
It was not until they turned onto a narrow secondary road a few miles south of Scorzè that Gus told them, ‘I think we have company, actually.’
Weisen was on his stretcher towards the rear of the van, and they had only folded down one of the back seats which Bond had agreed to take. The road from which they had turned off had not been busy, but he had watched several cars overtake them, leaving one which kept pace with them, lagging behind. Twice other car headlights had lit up what he thought was a dark-coloured Ferrari. Now, as Gus spoke, he saw that the Ferrari had turned off, following them onto the secondary road.
Inside the Previa, tension sparked for the first time since they had left. The air seemed to have suddenly become charged with static. There was a sharp metallic double click, as Bruin cocked the Uzi. Bond drew the ASP, aware of Praxi, up front, sliding her hand up a thigh to get at the Beretta.
‘What am I to do, James?’ Gus asked.
Since leaving Weisen’s house they had all deferred to him as their natural leader. He peered, narrowing his eyes, squinting to see that the Ferrari was just holding back from them by around thirty yards. Ahead there were no signs of life or cars, just the occasional turning onto even narrower roads – tracks almost – with signposts to villages you would only find on the most detailed maps.
‘When you get to the next right-hand turn-off, just go,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t signal. Just turn. Put on some speed, then stop – in the middle of the road, no matter if it’s only a track.’ The land seemed flat and there were bushes and trees, stark and black in the lights of the Previa. ‘As soon as Gus stops, I want everyone out. Jump for it, dive for the roadside and keep down. If the car follows, do nothing unless they either see you or try to get at Weisen. Use your common sense.’
‘I’ll try to give you a warning.’ Gus tightened his hands on the wheel, then asked if the car following them was close. ‘Their headlights are damned bright and I can’t judge the distance.’ His voice hit the upper register, another indication of the anxiety that filled the van.
Bond turned, squinting his eyes against the lights. ‘I think they’ve dropped back a little. Maybe thirty-five, forty yards.’
‘Okay, here we go!’ Gus shouted. The Previa van slewed to the right, leaped forward into a road only about half its width, and came to a halt with a screech of burning rubber.
The doors slid and clicked open. Bond threw himself from the back, hurling himself into a clump of bushes to his left – the right of the van. He was aware of the others – mostly in shapes and sounds – scurrying for cover. Nobody was in sight when the van and road were lit up like day by the Ferrari’s powerful headlights. The car stopped, with only inches to spare, behind the Previa. Then the doors opened, and death vaulted into the night.
There were four of them. Big men whose silhouetted shapes gave them an even more menacing and sinister look. Two walked forward towards the back of the Previa while the other pair, one on either side of the Ferrari, leaned against the car and began to spray short bursts of automatic fire along the side of the road.
Bond felt the bullets chopping into the earth beside him, and wriggled back, down a slight incline. There was a short lull, during which he smelled the cordite, and felt the fact of death close to his shoulders. Then came the click of new magazines going into the machine pistols, followed all too soon by a renewed, terrible, clatter.
They were firing systematically, little bursts of six or seven rounds, the machine pistols moving from left to right, then back again: mowing down anything in their path. Bullets whined off the road paving, thumped into the earth, or ripped through the bushes. A burst hit the road directly in front of Bond, then, as the shooter moved his feet, another tore into foliage on his right.
Then, with no warning the shooting stopped. He felt the earth cold on his cheek, tensing for the shooting to begin again.
The car doors slammed shut and the engine noise rose, as the car reversed at speed. Bond cautiously peered over the incline. The Ferrari had almost reached the turn. He raised his pistol and fired four rounds in quick succession. All must have gone wide. The car stopped for a second as it slewed broadside on. There was a flicker of fire from a rear window, and a hail of bullets splattered the road ahead of him. Then, the car was gone with a roar and clash of gears, its engine note fading on the night air, leaving a terrible silence behind.
Bond went to the back of the van. Even before he reached the doors he knew what he would find. Weisen had gone, the blankets thrown off the stretcher, which hung halfway out of the open door.
‘They got him,’ he shouted. ‘The bastards’ve rescued him.’
‘James! James, quickly!’ Praxi’s shout almost touched the barrier of hysteria. She was calling from the left of the van, right by the roadside. She continued to shriek until he found her, kneeling over Bruin whose head was almost completely blown away by the three or four bullets that had smashed into it. In the light from the Previa he could see that her dress was soaked with Bruin’s blood.
He took her gently by the shoulders, held her tightly, lifting her, half carrying her back to the van, cradling her head as she sobbed with shock, disgust and horror at the way death could come so quickly by an Italian roadside.
‘Just stay here, in the van,’ he whispered.
Then James Bond went in search of Gus, knowing already what he was likely to find, for there had been no other sound near at hand, apart from Praxi’s screams.
20
CURSE OF DEATH
The roar of the twin Rolls-Royce Dart engines had settled into a soporific hum. Bond looked out, across the Swiss Alps far below, marvelling at the beauty of the sunrise. At this height the great crags and peaks were backed by a soft, pink glow, which slowly changed to an explosion of crimson, fading against a pearl sky that would soon be blue and cloudless.
Beside him, Praxi Simeon dozed. She had hardly slept in the past twelve hours, and her features bore the marks of anguish and horror which still lingered from the events by the roadside on the previous evening.
As he had feared, Gus lay in a clump of grass, some ten feet from the spot where Bruin had died. Gus was not as terribly disfigured as Bruin. For a moment Bond had even thought he was still alive, until he turned him over and saw, in the lights of the Previa, the black spreading pattern of blood from the chest wound that had killed him.
‘You bought the farm, actually, Gus,’ he muttered. Then went about the business of concealing the two bodies, covering them with leaves, fallen branches and whatever he could find. He hoped they would not be discovered until Praxi and himself were far away. The Italian Intelligence and Security Services were as touchy as the French when it came to other countries operating on their turf. If they caught up with him it would be a storm in a teacup, but a great deal of time would be wasted: even in these days of struggle towards a new understanding between members of the European Community. Whatever lip service the governments of the twelve countries gave to open frontiers, and the ideal of free trade, each had, in reality, clung onto their individual sovereignty.
He went back to the van, closed the doors and climbed into the driver’s side. Praxi sat in the front passenger seat, shaking her head, unable to stop the flow o
f tears down cheeks which were smudged with dust and dirt from the roadside. Gently, he told her that it was all over. ‘They’ve got Weisen, and Gus has bought it.’ There was no simple way to break the news, and she began sobbing again.
He took a deep breath. ‘I feel the same, Praxi, but we have to go on.’
‘Why?’ She looked at him in the light of the van – he had yet to close the driver’s side door – and her eyes spoke bleakly of shock, dismay, grief and incomprehension. ‘Why, James?’ she repeated, as though about to argue with him.
‘Because the Poison Dwarf’s got something going for him. Because so far he’s won, and if we don’t keep after him, he’ll win again.’
‘So?’ A tiny voice which broke between the sobs.
‘I don’t know what he’s planning.’ He took her hand in his, feeling Bruin’s sticky blood on her fingers. ‘I have no idea what Weisen’s up to, but going by his past form it’s something unpleasant.’
‘He said it would happen whether he was there or not. Wherever there is. What can we do? We don’t know anything, and the man has allies all over Europe. Truly, he has an army of men and women.’ The sobbing stopped, now anger set in. ‘There really are hundreds of them.’ Her grip tightened on his. ‘People who’ve spent their entire lives believing and being faithful to an ideal, and a goal. Now they’ve been told their hearts have been in the wrong place; their countries have let go of the order they hold very dear. How do you expect these people to react? In the end they’re not going to try and stage half-baked drunken coups, like the Moscow Putsch last year. Eventually, because there are enough of them, they’ll rise up and strike. Wolfgang had a huge following in Berlin, and his tentacles stretched out across the whole of Europe. Whatever he’s planning, there’s not much we can do now.’
‘We can try.’
‘How, James?’
‘We know he was heading for Calais. We go there and see if we can pick up a clue. If we don’t find anything, we’re close enough to England to get back to London. They might know something by now, but I’m certainly going to be careful about contacting them before we have any facts.’
They drove into the outskirts of Scorzè where Bond found a telephone kiosk. Praxi had to stay in the van. If he allowed her to be seen she could be arrested on sight, covered as she was with blood, and in a dangerous state of near hysteria.
He called Aero Tassì at Quinto di Treviso airport – introducing himself as the doctor whose assistant had booked a charter flight to Calais – and told them that, unhappily, their patient had died. They would not require the Gulfstream that night, but he would like to book the same aircraft, to the landing strip at Calais, leaving at dawn. He would telephone again later to see what kind of a flight plan they had been able to file, and to settle take-off time.
By then it was seven forty-five in the evening. In Scorzè itself shops were still open. He asked Praxi what her dress and shoe sizes were, and she told him, glumly, with no enthusiasm. It took him almost half an hour, a great deal of embarrassment, and many oohs and aahs from salesgirls, to buy a conservative, navy blue suit, plain, no frills underwear, tights, shoes, a shoulder bag and toiletries for them both. He paid for the whole lot with an Amex card in his Bunyan identity, and walked casually back to the parking area where he had left the van.
Praxi did not seem to have moved. She appeared to be detached, impervious to anything he said. She did not even thank him when he told her about the clothes.
They drove on towards Quinto di Treviso and found a motel about five miles from the airport. It was clean, and had a small restaurant attached. The manager at reception, a thin, lugubrious, harassed-looking man, appeared to be delighted to have had another couple of guests for the night. ‘Around here we do little business in the winter,’ he said. ‘A few lorry drivers, but it’s hardly worth opening. All the major traffic goes by the A4, or the A27. I’d close the place, but my wife comes from Treviso, and we manage to scrape by.’
Bond nodded sympathetically, but the man was piling it on. They obviously had regulars, for there were three TNT lorries parked outside, not to mention another five private cars. He took the keys, inquired how late the restaurant stayed open, and drove over to park outside the ground floor room: a pleasantly large bedroom, with bathroom attached. There was no TV. The manager had apologised about it. ‘We’re refitting all the rooms. The rental place we used to do business with has closed. If you come back in a week we’ll have everything, including the Sky Channel and BBC’s World Service.’
They wouldn’t be looking at TV anyway, he told the manager with a broad wink, and the Italian had nodded, knowingly.
He hurried Praxi inside, clutching the carrier bags with one hand. Then he closed the door and told her she would have to shower, get the fresh clothes on, and make herself look respectable. When she opened her mouth, as if to start haranguing him again, he took her by the shoulders.
‘Praxi,’ his fingers dug hard into her flesh. ‘I feel as bad as you do, but we have to make an effort. You were the driving force of Cabal for years. London and Washington relied on you . . .’
‘And look where it got me . . .’ she began.
‘That doesn’t matter . . .’
‘It got me nowhere. We were compromised all the way. That’s been made very clear in the past few days . . .’
‘Stop it!’ He was near to slapping her face to haul her out of this slough of despair. ‘You, Praxi Simeon, worked for us. You showed courage, discipline, devotion, and all the other things it takes to do a job like that. I know, Praxi, I’ve been there before. Don’t let it all go now. Get yourself a shower. Change your clothes, and we’ll have a meal, and grab some sleep. At least we deserve that.’
She glared at him and, for a few seconds, it seemed that they were locked in a long struggle of wills. Then her face sagged and her body seemed to drain of the tension that had inhabited it since Bruin’s death. She turned away, sorted through the carriers, found the toiletries and walked slowly towards the bathroom. As she reached the door, she turned.
‘I’m the only one left now, James. You realise that? I’m the only member of Cabal left alive. How long do you think I’ve got?’
‘All the time in the world,’ he said, then immediately regretted it as a bolt of anguish came out of nowhere and struck him like a knife. There was another time and another place. A time when he had said those very words to another woman whose memory still clung to him: sometimes, if he woke in the night, her memory was so strong that he could swear she lay beside him in the dark. For some incredible reason and for a fragment of time, Easy had banished that guilt and pain which still lay just under the surface of consciousness. Now it was back, and he felt an almost superstitious shiver of horror. Had he sealed Praxi’s own fate by simply repeating those words, like a terrible curse of death? He sloughed the foolishness from his mind.
There were five rounds left in the magazine of the ASP, and one spare magazine which he had salvaged from Weisen’s Venetian home. That was it. Fourteen 9mm Glaser slugs, and a girl with a Baby Beretta pistol. She had held it in one hand from the moment he found her with Bruin. The only time she let go was for a few minutes while he clasped her hands in his. She had even taken it into the bathroom, as if it were a talisman to wear and fend off the evil spirit of that revolting hairless tub of a man whose power did, indeed, seem boundless.
All the depression that had swamped Praxi seemed to fill his body now. He dropped heavily onto the bed, the ASP pistol in one hand, and allowed the exhaustion to take him down into a deep pit of unknowing.
Seconds later, it seemed, Praxi was shaking him by the shoulder. ‘James? James? Wake up! Oh, please wake up!’
He grunted, felt the day return, squeezed his eyelids a couple of times and propped himself on one elbow. ‘Praxi . . .’ he began.
‘God, you gave me a fright. I thought, for a moment, you were dead, like all the others.’
‘I’m sorry.’ His mouth tasted vile. ‘I must’ve
been more tired than . . .’
‘Of course you were. Don’t you think we should eat? You said that’s what we needed, and deserved.’
He swung his legs off the bed. She wore the smart navy blue suit, had redone her make-up and hair, yet she still clutched the Baby Beretta.
She must have seen the look in his eyes and nodded. ‘You have taste, James. It’s a perfect fit. And the shoes also. I feel better, thank you. Thank you very much. You can depend on me now.’
Yes, he thought, you feel better, but it is really only skin deep. You are putting on a good front. Well done. He touched her shoulder lightly. ‘You look terrific,’ he smiled at her. ‘Let me get myself together.’
She leaned forward and kissed him: a peck on the cheek, but he had the distinct feeling that she wanted to move to his mouth. He stood, grabbed the bag with the razor and other toiletries he had bought, and headed for the bathroom. In less than twenty minutes he had shaved, showered, and dressed again. He had nothing new to wear, but that did not matter. He brushed the dust from his blazer, combed his hair and went back to the bedroom.
Before they left for the restaurant he called Aero Tassì. They had filed a flight plan which meant leaving a little before dawn, but it would get them into Calais by ten thirty. ‘There’ll be a lot of traffic in the area tomorrow.’ For some reason Bond could not explain, the familiar picture of Cold Claude and Big Michelle, in the car, came into his head with the unsolved spoken sentence still just out of reach.
He said they would be there by five in the morning so the flight would be able to leave on time. The Aero Tassì operator rechecked the American Express number Praxi had used from Weisen’s place, and said the company looked forward to flying them.
‘Okay, let’s get some food.’ Bond replaced the receiver and rose. ‘We’ve got an early start, and you need sleep.’