As they trotted past the GIGN men, Bond saw they appeared to be preparing themselves for some kind of move. ‘The train has been stopped?’ he called, asking the young Frenchman.
‘But yes, it has been stopped.’ The man turned to take a curious, long look at him. ‘You are Captain Bond, yes?’
Still at a trot, he nodded.
‘We received your signal, via Colonel Tanner, from the helicopter. It came in at almost the same moment as the train was stopped in the tunnel.’
‘Was stopped?’ His heart skipped and his stomach turned over.
‘Was stopped, sir. Yes, and there is more. The entire carriage crew – the attendants who should have been on board – have been discovered in the crew facility. All ten of them. Dead. Shot to death. Left naked. I personally viewed the bodies just now. Horrible. Dreadful.’
The Operations Room, high up on top of a great skeletal structure, had been designed like an airport control tower. Through the tall glass windows its occupants could view the entire Terminal, and, on two of its sides, desks and electronic arrays winked as information was displayed on VDUs and CRTs, similar to those in Air Traffic Control centres.
Several men and women sat at the displays, and in the middle of the room, a six foot, uniformed Colonel of the GIGN was talking quietly to a small man in a white coat. The Colonel vaguely resembled the late Charles de Gaulle, hard-faced and with a stubborn jaw.
Bill Tanner introduced Colonel Henri Veron, who looked at Bond with piercing light-blue eyes. The skin of the Colonel’s face was like well-tanned leather, his hands were strong and scarred, and there was a worm of distrust stirring deep in the eyes. His right hand constantly hovered over the big, holstered 10mm automatic at his hip.
They shook hands, but the Colonel did not smile. ‘I’m told you think you can tell us what is going on?’ The voice was sharp, and he spoke as though every sentence was an order.
‘No.’ Bond had already made up his mind that he would be the one to settle old scores. He was not about to let the Colonel take that away from him. ‘No, Colonel. I know who’s behind it. He might even be there, in the tunnel, and I should tell you that he has a large following, and plenty of arms at his disposal. If you’d care to brief me, I can tell you what should be done.’
Veron gave him a long hard look, then, with a small shrug, told the story so far. The train had travelled some twenty kilometres when it stopped. ‘There, you can see exactly where it is, on that display.’ He pointed to one of the screens which showed a long, thin rectangle of light against a map of the tunnel systems.
The driver had reported a malfunction, and asked that all power to the rails be turned off. About the same moment, word had come that the crew of train attendants had been found dead. ‘It was, of course, obvious to us that we had a serious terrorist action on our hands. We waited for some word from the driver, and when he last came on – five minutes or so ago – he managed to give the code word for hijack.’ Colonel Veron had exceptionally disconcerting eyes. He gave the impression that he could see deeply into Bond’s mind.
‘So,’ he snapped. ‘We have a hijack, and I am personally mortified. You see I’ve been responsible for all the security systems and procedures on the French side of the tunnel. A hijack was always a possibility when the regular service began, but today? The place has been sealed off like a fortress. I would not have thought it possible . . .’
‘With respect, Colonel.’ Bond had now assumed his own sharp and clipped manner. ‘You have not got a hijack situation. If you’re waiting for these people to make demands, you’ll wait till hell freezes over. This is a multiple assassination. Until last night I had the man responsible. I was in the process of taking him to England, when he was rescued. He’s ruthless in the extreme, and knows exactly what he’s doing. Now, sir, what are we doing?’
Colonel Veron was in no way shaken by the Englishman’s assessment. ‘Yes, we had considered this possibility, and we’re ready to move now.’
‘With what kind of plan?’
‘As you can see from the display, Captain Bond, the train is in the first Northbound tunnel. Between the North and Southbound tunnels there is what we call a Maintenance Tunnel. This has a number of uses. The air-conditioning units can be serviced from this middle tunnel, for instance. Men and equipment can be moved along and into the tunnels on its right and left, through metal doors and connecting chambers set every kilometre. These access chambers are also there for safety purposes. In the event of a serious problem, passengers can be got out of the trains and brought into the relative safety of the Maintenance Tunnel, and so ferried back here – or to the British Terminal.’
‘Not if they’re in small pieces they can’t.’
‘There I would agree with you. That is why we must go now. You can see from the display that the train is lying between two of the access chambers.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘We plan to perform a kind of pincer movement. Half of my men will enter by the furthest chamber, the other half by the near one. In that way we can surprise and confuse . . .’
‘. . . And maybe even precipitate whatever they plan to do.’ Bond frowned. ‘I know this man, Colonel. In all probability he’s not there – not in the tunnel itself. If that’s the case, his men, and women for all I know, will have very clear instructions. If attacked before they’re ready to act, they’ll sacrifice themselves.
‘Even if he’s with them, the man concerned will almost surely allow himself to be killed also. He’s a crazy, Colonel – a political crazy – and I suspect he imagines he is not as other men. In other words, I think there’s the distinct possibility that he thinks he’s immortal.’
‘Then you were very careless to lose him, Captain Bond.’
‘I lost a number of very good friends as well. You control the power and lights from here?’ He turned to a white-coated man who, so far, had not been allowed to speak, and now was able to introduce himself as M. Charles Daubey, Chief of Operations, Coquelles Terminal.
‘Yes, Captain Bond. We control the power along the central rail, and the lighting. Also emergency power.’
‘And, presumably, there are safety locks on the train doors?’
‘They are operated from the driver’s cabin and from large rubber buttons outside each set of carriage doors.’
‘Not from inside?’
‘Yes, but the driver can disengage that function . . . He probably . . .’
‘We presume that has already been done.’ Veron was grabbing the initiative again.
‘We have radios?’ asked Bond.
‘Of course. I suppose, as you have some personal score to settle with this man, you wish to come with us?’
‘I don’t wish to come, sir. I am coming.’
‘Under my command only, Captain Bond.’
He nodded, and Veron looked grimly happy. ‘Very well. You’re armed?’
The ASP was in his hand. ‘The radios, sir.’
The French officer pointed to a Motorola HL-20 radio, complete with earpiece, being held by Charles Daubey. These were the same small radios used by people like the American Secret Service whose main occupation is a twenty-four hour guard on the President and Vice-President of the United States, together with visiting, and other, political VIPs. The HL-20s were exceptionally reliable and could stand up to practically any mishandling short of a direct missile hit.
‘Might I suggest,’ Bond touched the radio with the fingers of his right hand. ‘Might I suggest that we have a special series of click codes.’
The French Colonel smiled. ‘We were just finalising that when you arrived, Captain Bond. Two clicks, cut off the lights. Three clicks, resume power to the rails. Four clicks, cut power to the rails again. Five, turn on lights only.’
‘And one click?’
‘Restore power to lights and rails. You can remember all that, Captain Bond?’ The Frenchman was already striding towards the door. ‘If you’re coming, you’d better hurry.’
‘I need a radio,’ Bond w
as at the Colonel’s side as he went down the stairs two at a time, calling back to Praxi: telling her to stay where she was.
‘You shall have one.’
‘How do we go in?’
‘You are familiar with our VAB IS vehicles?’
‘Yes.’ The ugly-looking, grey armoured cars he had seen as they landed were known as VABs. With their six-wheel drives, heavy protection, searchlights, missile-launchers and twin machine guns, the VABs could carry twelve men, including the driver. Sturdy, and exceptionally constructed, the VAB is one of the best anti-riot, anti-terrorist vehicles in the world.
They were ready, with motors running, when Veron and Bond reached the helicopter pad. Veron led him to the first vehicle, opened the rear hatch, and told the men inside to look at Bond. ‘He is with us. Remember him.’ He asked for a spare radio which Bond clipped onto his belt, running the earpiece up the inside of his blazer and into his ear. Deafening static blasted into his ear as soon as he turned it on, and he saw Veron give a supercilious little smile as he twisted the squelch to reduce the noise.
They went to the back of the second vehicle, where Veron gave the same little speech to his men. It was as though he was telling them to look after their civilian colleague.
‘I am in the first vehicle,’ the Colonel told him. ‘You will travel here, in the second one.’ He introduced the young lieutenant who had first broken the news on the helicopter pad – André Bucher. Only fifteen minutes ago, Bond thought, looking at his watch.
Veron gave his orders, signals, and other necessary information, speaking in the same, clipped French. Bond heard him use a number of single words that were obviously coded instructions, used for speed and secrecy among the unit.
While Bond did not like the man, he at least conceded that he appeared to be an efficient and well-organised soldier. He would give the same orders to the men in his own VAB when they were on the move.
Bond climbed into the back, heard the clang of the armoured door coming down, and nodded to a grim-faced little tough who moved up to let him sit on the hard metal bench with the other five men. A similar seat ran down the opposite side of the vehicle, and he noticed that the five men across from him gave him knowing winks and smiles of welcome.
The engine purr rose, and they began to bump forward.
‘Bonne chance!’ he said, and felt the atmosphere become more friendly as his new comrades in arms called, ‘Good luck,’ and ‘Cheers’ in English.
It took almost twenty minutes to get near the rear access chamber. After ten minutes young Bucher ordered one of the men to man the roof turret. Ten minutes or so later, they rolled quietly to a stop, and Bucher nodded, indicating the rear hatch should be opened.
Bond climbed out, behind the officer. The sides of the tunnel were still in their natural state, and it was lit by high-powered bulbs set at intervals, in a maze of wiring, into metal reflectors with thin grilles as their only protection.
He saw the big steel door to the chamber as soon as his feet touched the floor. It lay only five or six paces away, and he was just about to move towards it when the explosion ripped through the tunnel.
For a second, he thought it was the VIP train, but the sudden hot blast on his face, and the magnified rattle of machine-gun fire which followed the blast, made it plain that they were under attack.
An image of Weisen went through his head. He saw the pudgy little man, drumming his feet on the floor and laughing with glee, like some monstrous overgrown baby. Wolfgang, he thought, had considered everything. Somehow he had found a way to infiltrate the Terminal and take out the train attendants – which meant there were only ten of his men and women on the train itself. He had also pre-empted the only chance of rescue by putting some of them in the Maintenance Tunnel. Unless he had somehow managed to get more people into the tunnel system, this meant that the ten who had travelled on the train were now split into two groups – one section with the VIP train, the others here, waiting in ambush in the Maintenance Tunnel.
The other GIGN soldiers were piling out of the VAB, and the cannon in the turret had started to rap into life. Peering around the side of the vehicle, he could see about half a kilometre up the tunnel.
Colonel Veron’s VAB was on fire, shattered and burning, slewed side on. There was no sign of life, but the ammunition had begun to explode, and he thought he could see movement behind the smashed and crumpled death trap. No explanations were necessary. The VAB had been hit by a high-powered antitank missile. Where there was one, he thought, there would be another.
Without waiting for young Bucher, he shouted to the men to get away from the VAB, but nobody moved. These soldiers only took orders from their own: after all they spent years of training as a team, knew each other’s ways, understood particular orders given in single-word commands.
He knew none of them, but he was not about to hang around with these undeniably brave men. He lunged for the chamber door, slammed down on its long metal handle, and pulled. The heavy slab of steel swung back easily, and he was just stepping inside when the second missile hit.
He almost believed he had seen the thing streaking through the flames and explosions of the first wrecked VAB; for a few moments he even imagined that he was in the centre of the blast, which threw the armoured car back for some five yards as it exploded and burned with a white heat. Then he realised he had only imagined the horrors of the direct hit. The door was closing as the missile struck, and he merely experienced a vivid mental picture of what was happening as his ears were clapped by the violent crump, the whump of flame and the other dreadful sounds that followed. He heard pieces of metal clang against the door, and it was a good thirty seconds before he truly knew that he was alive.
His ears still rang, and he thought he might be slightly wounded, for his body ached from the sudden onset of tension in his muscles. He was in a narrow chamber. At the other end, a door – twin to the one he had just come through – stood shut against the main Northbound track.
Gently he pushed down on the handle. It slid easily in his hand and the new, well-oiled door swung forward, sending him sprawling into the vast tunnel.
‘Oh, look. Captain Bond, how nice of you to join us. We’re just putting the finishing touches to a lovely big firework. You can enjoy it with all your friends.’
Wolfgang Weisen stood, with four other men, behind the sleek French train. In the seconds that passed, Bond saw the Uzi in one man’s hand, the square package they were fixing to the back of the last coach, the wiring running forward from the package, and, fleetingly, some of the imprisoned people within the train. Helmut Kohl, and the President of France were certainly there, in the rear carriage, their faces white and drawn.
‘Just put the gun down very carefully, James. We really don’t want that going off, do we?’ Weisen wore the uniform of an SNCF attendant, as did the four other men, but on him it looked ridiculous, making him seem even more bizarre than ever. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re here, somehow it makes things complete.’ He continued, ‘Though I’m cross, very cross with you. In fact, I’m only just feeling better. You gave me a very bad hangover, you know. I’ve had to drink gallons of coffee. The gun, James. Down, James. We haven’t got much time and I, for one, would like to get clear before I detonate this train.’
Slowly, Bond let the pistol’s butt drop into his left hand, then he held it flat, as he bent his knees, not taking his eyes off the group as they huddled around the carriage. He kept his feet well away from the rails, and, as the pistol reached the ground, so his right hand touched the send button on the HL-20. He pressed it three times – three clicks. Restore power.
For a second nothing happened, then the five men, with Weisen in the centre, began to go through a terrible ballet of smoking death.
He had seen that Weisen had one foot on the centre rail, and was steadying himself by holding onto the arm of the man with the Uzi. The other three were crouched, fixing the package of explosives directly under the coach. They were all in contact
with each other, and at least two of them were kneeling on the centre rail.
The whole group seemed to freeze, as though petrified. Then Weisen appeared almost to levitate as each of them began to tremble, shaking violently. There were sparks around their legs, and a horrible burning as they performed this puppet-like movement, arching their backs, shivering, their arms waving like branches in a gale. All wreathed in blue fire.
Weisen’s face became a twitching macabre mask, eyes bulging out of their sockets, lips drawn back from his teeth, the pudgy fat around his jaw vibrating.
Smoke began to come from the men’s hair, and the most revolting thing of all was the burning of Weisen’s bald scalp. It looked as though someone was slowly melting a kind of black wax across the pink little head. The skin wrinkled, and, in a few seconds, the baby face turned into the visage of a mummified head.
He did not know how long it lasted. Only that by the end, they were burned and charred, the remains still jerking when he pressed the send button again. Four clicks, asking for the power to be cut.
To himself, Bond muttered, ‘An absolutely electrifying experience.’
Then he retched and vomited as the stench of death hit his nostrils.
22
R.I.P.
Many things happened in the hours following Weisen’s death. One at least was miraculous. A team from the British Special Air Service had been alerted by the French, and began to sweep the Maintenance Tunnel from the Folkestone end.
They took three of Weisen’s men, killing the other two, and retrieved a number of weapons, including four LAW80 short range anti-tank systems. Two had been fired – the LAW80 is a one-shot, disposable weapon – and two were intact.
As they moved forward to the burnt-out shells of the two Internal Security vehicles, they were amazed to find six of the French GIGN Special Forces men still alive, including the redoubtable Colonel Henri Veron. He was badly wounded, but Bond visited him in hospital the next day and he still had the hard, uncompromising glint in his eye.