‘Well, they’re two aces in two holes now.’ Bond smiled grimly and began to turn his attention to Easy who was shaking her head wildly in a fear that gripped her as she came out of her personal nightmare.
In a couple of hours, Bond thought, they would be in Paris, and he would be able to ask Praxi Simeon a few awkward questions about Utterman and Weiss, the pair of aces he had just trumped.
7
DEATH THREAT
Easy St John wept for a good twenty minutes after recovering consciousness. Bond put it down to the drug, and the extreme fear she had experienced in the minutes before Hexie Weiss – Very Big Hans – injected her. She shook with terror, and her eyes were wide with fright as Bond poured several cups of coffee into her. He even thought, briefly, of having her relieved of the job once they arrived in Paris, but rejected the idea. He would allow things to progress for at least another twenty-four hours before making a final decision. In the meantime he spoke to her calmly, soothing away her stark memories.
When things had returned to normal he decided to drop the bombshell he had been keeping in reserve.
‘Harry,’ he began, ‘you know your way around. You’re streetwise and smart, so I’m going to ask you something once, and once only. I want you to give me an honest reply. If you decide you’re not up to what I suggest, then we’ll have to think again.’
They were less than an hour out of the Gare du Nord, and Harry looked at him with interest. There were no traces of either alarm or concern in the dark, good-looking Lothario’s eyes. ‘Shoot, James. What’s the score?’
Bond told him. When they arrived in Paris, he said, they would have to leave the train separately. ‘I’m not going to take any chances. The two thugs were experts. You’ve described them as old hands, friends of people like Wolfgang Weisen and Monika Haardt. They were out either to take us somewhere safe – for themselves, that is – or kill us here. My reading of the situation is that, in the long run, we were to be disposed of anyway: just as the bulk of Cabal has been wiped out.’
He watched as both Harry and Easy nodded in agreement before continuing. ‘My main problem is who can we trust? I have to be honest with you, Harry. I cannot, as yet, rule out Praxi Simeon as dubious. In turn, this means I can’t really trust you either . . .’
‘They were after me as well, James. Surely . . . ?’
‘They appeared to be after you, yes. I am going to suggest some very simple safeguards. When we arrive in Paris, I’m going straight to an address where I know I can be safe. It’ll be a question of hiding in plain sight. It’s not a safe house or anything like that, but I know that I shall be okay. I also imagine that I can get rooms for you and Easy, but I’m not going to do that immediately . . .’
‘We’re supposed to contact Sulphur – Praxi – as soon as we arrive,’ Harry quickly reminded him.
‘Yes, that’s what you told me Praxi wanted. In turn, I said I needed to talk to her as soon as possible. But, Harry, I honestly don’t know if I can trust her – or you, for that matter.’
‘James, this is . . .’
‘This is precautionary, Harry. No more and no less. What I am going to propose is a simple damage control. A test of loyalty.’
The silence which followed hung in the air for around a full minute, until Harry asked what Bond intended to do.
‘I want you, Easy, to get a cab and go straight to the Sofitel Hotel at Charles de Gaulle airport. They deal mainly with overnight travellers, so you should have no difficulty getting a room. Check in and wait. I’ll call you there and give further instructions. In a few minutes I think we should all head for different carriages, with our baggage, so that we do not all leave the train from the same point. Easy, you’ll go from here: you have the most luggage. I’ll leave from the middle, while Harry’ll be the last to go, and from the furthest point possible from the gate. None of us will show any recognition if we happen to see each other in the taxi queues, and you have a very special job, Harry. You will watch my back. If you don’t feel happy with that . . .’
‘What about my back?’ Easy asked, with a tinge of petulance.
‘You’re trained. You speak French . . .’
‘Like a native – a native of Uruguay.’
‘It’ll do. Just run the back doubles. Get the cab driver on your side. Paris cab drivers know their way around, but they are not the most helpful folk in the world. The French really don’t like any of us, but it’s nothing personal. They just can’t stand foreigners – except when you give them a world-class tip. If you do that, they laugh at you behind your back, but they will cooperate. Got me?’
Easy nodded, but did not look completely happy.
‘What about me?’ Harry asked. ‘What do you really expect me to do?’
‘I’ve told you – the most difficult job. The test of a lifetime, Harry. You’re simply going to watch my back. Follow me. See if anyone else is on my tail. If you happen to lose me, or if there’s trouble, I want you to go straight to the Ritz. Try to look respectable, and wait for someone to page you. You’ll be paged in the name of Maurice Charpentier, okay? How good are you at surveillance, incidentally?’
‘Sixty per cent good, ten per cent luck, and thirty per cent incompetent.’
‘Big word, incompetent.’
‘Just telling the truth.’
‘But you’ll take a shot at it?’
Harry shrugged, ‘Praxi’s not going to like it.’
‘Praxi has no option in the matter. She’ll just have to sit and wait until I decide to see her.’
Both Harry and Easy looked unsettled by the news, but Bond let it pass, and a few minutes later told Harry to move. ‘Get yourself back to the far end of the train and watch me as though I’m carrying a million dollars of your money.’
Spraker left, subdued and carrying his little case.
‘You’re playing games.’ Easy gave him a knowing grin.
‘Yes and no.’ He reached up and kissed her. ‘What idents do you have on you?’
‘I’ve got a Gail Merchant, editor for a New York publisher – medical books; and a Martha Grazti, company secretary to Shelley, Byrd & Stretcher, law firm in DC. They exist. Agency legal, and very respectable.’
‘They are? Don’t people know they’re Agency?’
‘Very few.’
‘Okay. Get your luggage together. I presume you can manage it?’
‘I’ll get a porter.’
‘Yes, why not? Draw attention to yourself.’ He looked up at her three cases. ‘There’s one change in plan.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t go to the Sofitel at Charles de Gaulle. Go to the one at Orly. You’ll still get a room. No problem. Tell the driver Charles de Gaulle, then as you pull away, get him to do the runaround. Give him big money. Don’t be mysterious. Just tell him you’re trying to throw off a persistent lover. They like that, Paris cabbies – that and the money . . .’
‘What if he’s like the Berlin driver?’
‘No chance. You’ll be taking a lucky dip at the Gare du Nord. It’s first come, first served, so there’s no way anyone can force you into a particular cab. Take your time. Really make him do a runaround, then head out to Orly. I’ll call you as Martha Grazti as soon as things become clear.’
‘What’s the real game, James?’
He paused, lifted an eyebrow, then gave her a quick, parting kiss. ‘I thought we deserved at least one more night in a decent bed. Lord knows where we’ll be sleeping once we’ve made contact with Praxi.’
Easy looked extremely happy.
Of all the railway stations in Europe, Bond liked the Gare du Nord best. The place held special memories for him. It was also within walking distance of one of his favourite restaurants in Paris – Terminus Nord.
Bistros and restaurants hovering in the shadow of any great railway terminus should normally be avoided. Inevitably their clientele consists of birds of passage, people leaving and arriving at the station. So it follows that the service is
perfunctory, at best; at worst, slapdash; while the food is only passable. Happily Terminus Nord, directly opposite the Gare du Nord, is a prestigious exception. Its service is impeccable, while the food attracts gourmets who are not merely passing through the French capital or using the railway station.
Bond, therefore, did not join the queue at the cab rank. Instead he crossed the suicidal road from the station, pleased that the Parisian weather was mild, with an autumn sun giving more than usual warmth for this time of year.
He loved Paris, had spent much time there, and knew the city as well as he knew London. Avoiding it in the summer when it was crammed with tourists, he preferred either early spring or this very time of year. Autumn in Paris, he always thought, should have been the name of a popular song. He certainly preferred it to April.
Terminus Nord was full, but a table on the sidewalk had just been vacated, and a lithe, white-aproned waiter, who slid through the crush of people with the agility of a fencing master, showed Bond to the table, held back the empty chair for him, placed a menu on the table and asked what he would like to drink, all in fluid movements and in a voice which hinted that his customer was safe with him.
Bond ordered a Martini, giving none of his usual directions. The Terminus Nord could be trusted to provide a reasonable facsimile of what he regarded as the perfect Martini – an idiosyncrasy not shared by many of the great experts in the art of cocktail-making.
At his kerbside table, Bond had an excellent view of the station fac¸ade, and while he examined the menu he also kept an eye out for signs that Harry Spraker was doing his job. If he had read the man correctly, he was an expert, but it was still possible that Bond could turn the tables on him. Indeed the whole object of his exercise was to outmanoeuvre Spraker, who was too much of a cipher to be anything other than a first-class operator in the trade of espionage and terrorism, two activities which have a great deal in common.
This was not the only reason Bond had left the station confines so quickly and headed to a place where he could both eat and observe. Though Spraker had been charged with watching his back, James Bond wanted to watch his own back. His mistrust of everyone connected with the shattered Cabal network had trebled since he had boarded the Ost-West Express, and his years of training and intuition told him he could trust only one person – himself.
He ate a plate of escargots doused in garlic and butter, followed by a medium-rare filet de boeuf with Lyonnaise potatoes and a mixed salad. He drank a small carafe of the house red. There was no point in ordering anything more expensive than the house red at Terminus Nord for the wine was as excellent as anything else on their list, unless you were going for a real gastronomic experience, or were out to impress a client or a young woman. Finishing the food, he now sipped his coffee as he sat back enjoying the farce that was being played out across the street.
At first, Harry had been completely thrown. At the very moment Bond was shown to his table, so Harry had come out and joined a swelling taxi queue. Easy, with a porter in attendance, arrived soon after, but Harry, realising that Bond was not there, obviously imagined that he had either already left, or was loitering on the main concourse.
He dodged out of the queue, showing the same kind of irritation he had done outside the arrivals terminal at Berlin, Tegel. He waited to see Easy get away in her cab, and stayed in sight long enough to assure himself that nobody appeared to follow her. No car stirred from the parking spaces behind the taxis, and the people who had been behind her in the line, a pair of elderly ladies, went off in the other direction.
In the end, Harry disappeared into the station again, and, while he was there, Bond watched the taxi line, and the people who were hanging around in the vicinity. Also, he made sure the bill was presented long before the meal was completed, in case he had cause to leave quickly. Sure enough, he soon spotted at least two watchers. One sat in a small blue van parked just behind the taxis, while another detached himself from the queue, as though suddenly changing his mind about travelling in a taxi.
He was a short man who walked and dressed like a second-rate jockey: tweedy trousers and jacket over a dull beige roll-neck sweater. There was a small-checked cap on his head, and, even in this clothing, he appeared to have the ability to blend into a crowd. It was an art beloved of watchers: a man who would be immediately apparent and easily picked out by those who knew him, yet the kind of person others would not look at twice; a man who could disappear into a crowd and merge completely into the background.
Fifteen minutes after he had left the queue, The Jockey, as Bond now thought of him, reappeared, seconds behind Harry who came out of the station looking bewildered. This time, The Jockey carried a small cheap suitcase, and placed himself directly behind Harry in the taxi line.
So, Bond decided, Harry would almost certainly be heading for the Ritz to await the message for Maurice Charpentier, and behind him, The Jockey would be playing tag – his shadow.
He left exact change, plus a tip for the waiter, poured himself a second cup of coffee and was ready to move at a minute’s notice.
Over in front of the station, the long queue slowly wound down, and when Harry was only three places from the front, Bond moved, catching his waiter’s attention and pointing to the table.
There were plenty of empty taxis passing on his side of the road, and he managed to flag one down before Harry reached the top of the queue.
‘Keep your engine running, but pretend to have trouble pulling out.’ He spoke French with a Parisian accent, and passed a large-denomination note to the driver. ‘Police,’ he added. ‘Undercover, not from the local shop.’
The cabbie did not appear to be impressed. ‘What am I to do? A uniform’ll come up any minute and move me on or worse.’ It was plain that the cabbie regarded Bond as a possible crook rather than a flic.
‘Let me deal with any uniforms coming this way, just do as I say. This is something of national importance.’
‘Naturally.’ The cab driver stared straight ahead. There was no way he was going to even look at his fare.
Harry was climbing into his cab now, and The Jockey again slipped quietly from the queue and trotted back to where the little blue van waited. The van pulled out two cars behind the taxi.
‘You see the blue van?’ Bond spoke quickly. ‘Follow him. Don’t get close, but don’t lose him. If you foul up, you won’t have a licence to drive by tomorrow morning.’
‘Sure, I’d bet on it.’ The driver imagined this was heavy sarcasm.
‘Just do it!’
The cabbie nodded and mouthed a quiet curse against all cops and lawbreakers. The Parisian cabbie hates the police almost as much as he hates foreigners. Lawbreakers he can take or leave.
They were now in the dense traffic which flows in a never-ending stream through the main streets of Paris, and there was no doubt that Harry was heading for the Ritz. There was also no doubt that the blue van was keeping tabs on him.
So, Bond reasoned, Harry Spraker was already either well known to the opposition – whoever they were – or the men shadowing him were freelances hired by the remnants of Cabal. At this point he would not like to have put money on it either way.
He did not even have to follow the route closely, for it soon became obvious that Harry, with the van at a safe distance behind, was making straight for the famous, and fabulous, Place Vendôme. They were on the Faubourg St Honoré now, crossing the Rue Royale, which links the great Place de la Concorde with the Madeleine, that incredible Christian church which looks like a Roman temple. Then, quite unexpectedly, the taxi was braking and the driver agitatedly asked what he should do now. Ahead, he saw the blue van had pulled over for a few seconds: just enough time to allow The Jockey to exit onto the pavement.
‘Let it go. Then drop me another hundred yards up.’ The van was still ahead of them, back in the main stream of traffic again. Peering from the rear windshield, he saw The Jockey walking, unconcerned, to a street crossing.
‘Pull over an
d let me out.’ He pushed a bundle of notes into the driver’s hand and left without even looking back.
The Jockey was on the other side of the road, walking jauntily and quite unaware that anybody else had any interest in him. What was happening became quite clear. The Jockey knew exactly where Harry was headed, for the Place Vendôme lay only a hundred yards or so to their left. All he had to do was turn into the narrow Rue St Hyacinthe and, a minute or so later, he would emerge into the splendid, possibly most prosperous, square in the whole of Paris.
Sure enough, as he glanced back, The Jockey turned left.
It took several minutes to cross the wide street. There was plenty of pedestrian traffic on the pavements, and Bond wove his way through the crowds, hurrying into the Rue St Hyacinthe. The Jockey had disappeared, and he quickened his pace, breaking out into the lovely square with its great arcade at ground level, and the Corinthian columns rising to two storeys above; Napoleon’s statue in the centre, and the expensive shops glittering, their stylish windows beckoning to those who had enough money to shop in this most extravagant area. The Place Vendôme really boasts nothing but banks, high-priced shops, the Ministry of Justice and the luxurious Ritz Hotel.
Then he saw The Jockey again, as his head turned towards the entrance to the, arguably, most famous hotel in the world.
There, on the pavement, he was greeting Harry Spraker like a long-lost friend. The pair embraced in full view of passers-by and the smiling doormen. He could almost read their lips. Harry was speaking in German, ‘Good to see you again, old friend,’ he seemed to be saying. ‘Let’s get a drink.’
The pair, looking almost comically tall and short, turned and disappeared into the gilded extravagance of the Ritz.
It was time, Bond thought, for him to make his call to Monsieur Charpentier, and within minutes he was standing in one of the little line of telephone booths, which, in the Place Vendôme, seem to take only Visa, Master Card or American Express.