Bond kissed her hard on the mouth and told her they would certainly be together again.
‘If,’ she told him finally, as they got to her car, ‘if anything does go wrong, James, rely on me. If it happens here, I’ll do my best to help. I love . . .’
Bond stopped her with a last kiss. ‘It’s too easy to say.’ He smiled in the darkness. ‘Just think of what we’ve had, and hope for more.’
He stood near the Saab, in the clearing, watching the little car’s lights disappear into the trees. Then, refreshed and cleansed by the loving contact of another person, Bond gathered his things together, climbed into the Saab and drove away, using only the parking lights. He took the route down the track, then the road bordering the knoll, climbing up the far side to the hidden layby where he had sat, with Nena, hearing her story of poverty in Paris and the dream of wealth turned sour with Bismaquer.
Having concealed the car as well as possible, he set out for the last long walk that would take him to the Conference Centre.
There was not much time left before dawn – less than two hours, he supposed – so Bond, still lightly dressed, carrying only the Heckler & Koch automatic, spare ammunition, and the ring with its picklocks and tools, adopted the old commando speed-marching technique of alternate fast walking and running.
The trek was longer than even he had gauged, and the darkness of night had already given way to that grey half-light before dawn by the time he reached the manhole cover on the edge of jungle. The metal cover came away easily, and Bond threw the big handle underneath, watching, and willing, the large slab of stone to move faster on its hydraulic jacks.
Once the entrance was clear, he replaced the metal cover and climbed down inside the tiled chamber, looking around for the mechanism which Nena had assured him was there to seal the stone from the inside. He was a good twelve feet underground and could see the entrance to the tunnel itself, lit by small blue bulbs which glowed into the distance.
The mechanism was there, near the final rung of metal holds. Pulling the lever below ground brought the hydraulic sound even closer, so that the whole tunnel seemed to reverberate as the stone slab lifted itself back into place. The faint light which had filtered in through the opening was now obliterated, and Bond was bathed in the low, eerie blue light which did not even reflect off the white tiles.
The tunnel was curved at the top, to a height of about eight feet, and wide enough for a man of Bond’s size to stretch out his arms and just touch the walls with his fingertips.
From the initial chamber, one could walk straight through the tunnel archway, and Bond had not gone far when he noticed the ground begin to slope downwards slightly. There was no sound, and no dank chill, as he had expected. The rope-soled shoes, which he had chosen to wear for comfort, made little noise; yet he still took the precaution of stopping, every minute or so, listening for any sounds coming either from ahead or behind. If the complex was already in use, there was always the possibility of Bismaquer’s people using this entrance to move freely between the ranch and the centre.
Bond encountered nobody in what he judged to be a mile-long walk. After sloping down and then seeming to flatten out for a few hundred yards, the ground rose again more steeply on the far side. After the speed march from the knoll, Bond could feel a dull ache in his thigh muscles.
He plodded on, as silently as before. Soon the path began to rise even more steeply and to turn in a gentle curve. Then, with hardly any warning, the whole tunnel widened and the end was in sight: another arched entrance to a chamber, this one larger than the entrance from the road.
Facing Bond was a smooth, tiled wall. He turned to examine the entire chamber, remembering Nena had told him there was a mechanism at this end too, which led to a janitor’s closet. She had given him no details, however, of the device. All Bond could see in the blue light were the smooth tiled walls. No boxes, metal covers or switches.
Logic told him that the wall facing him as he came into the chamber was the most likely exit point. Furthermore, if the door was at the rear of a closet, the handle would be situated in line with a man’s hand.
Starting with the centre of the wall, Bond began to examine the individual tiles, one by one, working along the rows, methodically. He pushed and probed each tile in turn, until, after fifteen minutes or so, he found the right spot. The tile slid back on a small metal runner, operating like a model of a push-up garage door. Behind it was a perfectly normal door knob.
Gently, he tried the knob. Part of the tiling moved and, as Bond pulled back, a whole section was revealed as a hinged door. The door moved noiselessly, with great ease. On the far side was a plaster wall, complete with shelving angled to the left, so that the door could carry parts of the shelves back with it.
Bond stepped out, holding the door back until he had checked the handle on the other side which was hidden out of sight, directly under one of the shelves. Only then did he allow the door behind him to close.
The closet afforded little room – just enough for a man of reasonable build to hide behind its normal door, about a pace and a half from the rows of shelves.
Once the secret door was closed, Bond had to wait for a moment so that his eyes could adjust to the darkness before edging towards the main closet door.
Again he found himself turning the handle gently and, this time, pushing the door outwards.
After the blue light and silence of the tunnel, it was startling to hear noise. Men’s and women’s voices echoed from above and to the side. The passageway in which Bond stood, by the closet door, was flooded with light. A window, almost adjacent, showed him that dawn had broken, and sunlight poured in.
The whole journey down from the knoll and the long walk through the tunnel had taken him much longer than he imagined. Glancing at his watch, Bond saw it was almost seven-thirty. At least that would reduce the waiting time. But where to wait? How could he infiltrate the conference without being noticed?
Leaving the closet door open for a quick getaway, Bond took a few steps into the passage. The voices were very loud and seemed close at hand, possibly just around the angle at the end of the passage some twenty feet away. The sounds reminded him of something, and it took a moment to sort out the various combinations in his head – the lively chatter, the clink of china. He was somewhere near to a communal dining room.
From the window, Bond could see out across a wide lawn, in the centre of which a large H had been inlaid in white stone. In the far distance was a tall wire fence, then a wall above which the greenery of jungle showed clearly. He was looking out directly on to the helipad.
Turning back towards the closet, Bond spotted a pair of double doors, each with a panel of thick clear glass in the upper half. Neat gold script told him that the doors led to the Conference Hall. He crossed the passage to peer through the glass panel, immediately moving to one side, out of sight.
The quick look had revealed a plush hall, like a modern and most exclusive theatre. Row upon row of tip-back, well-padded chairs ran in a wide crescent, aisles cutting through them like a sunburst. At the front of the seats was a wide stage, already prepared with a long table, behind which stood a dozen chairs. In front of the table a microphone appeared to be guarding a large lectern, while behind, like a backdrop, hung a cinema screen.
The conference hall was not empty. At least a dozen of Bismaquer’s security men were passing through it – a couple of them with dogs and some armed with explosives-detection devices and anti-bugging sniffers. They were obviously screening the hall before use. Before Walter Luxor’s paper to the automotive engineers? Bond wondered. Or was it really Markus Bismaquer who was going to address the meeting?
Alert now, Bond realised that some of the Bismaquer security people were quite near the conference hall doors. Silently, he moved back inside the janitor’s closet, the Heckler & Koch automatic steady in his hand with the safety catch off. The security men could well pass this way; on the other hand, other Bismaquer aides might even now be
using the tunnel.
No sooner was he inside the closet, the door not quite closed, than there came the sound of the security men emerging into the passage. Voices were quite clear, only a few feet away.
‘Okay?’ a man said.
‘They all say it’s clear, Mack,’ came from a second voice.
Then a third: ‘You went right under that damned stage, didn’t you, Joe?’
‘Right under, right through the access flap down there on the left. Took my flashlight too. It’s clean as a new bar of soap down there. ‘Cept for the dirt and spiders and all.’
There was a chorus of laughter, and Bond guessed the inspection was now finished.
‘What time they coming over?’ someone asked.
‘The ladies and gentlemen have to be in their seats, ready and waiting, by eight forty-five. That’s the order. Eight forty-five sharp.’
‘Well, we all got plenty of time then. Let’s get some chow ourselves.’
‘Is Blofeld coming over?’ It was the man called Joe who asked, and Bond felt the hair on his neck bristling with anticipation.
‘Guess so. Won’t do the talking though. Never does.’
‘No. Too bad. Okay, fellas, let’s tell the folks where they’ve got to be, and when . . .’
The voices receded, the clarity blurring, then vanished altogether. Bond heard boots clicking down the passage. The cleaning squad had gone.
Bond did not have to think about his next move. He stepped from the closet, gun still in hand, glancing up and down the passage. It was clear. A few seconds later he was inside the conference hall and running down one of the aisles, making for what the man called Joe had described as ‘the access flap’ on the left of the stage.
Within five seconds he had found it, an ordinary hinged flap with a recessed brass ring to lift it. Bond had the flap up, and had crawled under the stage, within sixty-five seconds of leaving the janitor’s closet.
All he had to do now was wait. At eight forty-five the delegates would start coming in. Then, soon after that, Blofeld would arrive. Not the Blofeld he had killed, but the new Blofeld. The name was in the open now, and soon, James Bond knew, he would be able to identify the man from his two suspects. Would it be Luxor or Bismaquer himself? He knew whom his money would ride on.
17
HEAVENLY WOLF
Lying, silent, in the dark under the conference hall stage, Bond pondered again the question of Blofeld – the original man, the first leader of SPECTRE. Was his successor – the here-and-now leader – a relative? In organisations like this, a chain of command would not necessarily demand kinship. Yet, having known and fought Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Bond knew there had been a streak of dynastic ambition in him. The king is dead; long live the king.
When Blofeld had died at Bond’s hands, some provision must have been made for a future leader, even if that person did not immediately appear – and there had certainly been a lengthy period before SPECTRE rose again.
Bond considered the arrogance, cunning, and madness of the original Blofeld – the shadowy figure he had first glimpsed, through reports, who worked behind the cover of Fraternité Internationale de la Résistance Contre l’Oppression, in Paris, on the Boulevard Haussmann.
A man of many faces, yes. Disguise, with Blofeld, had been a way of life, and with those various faces came the same sense of purpose: complete ruthlessness and determination.
Bond thought of the known lineage: half Polish, half Greek; born in Gdynia, and a wizard with money. If the new Blofeld was related, then Bond still had scores to settle. The death of his beloved wife, of but a few hours, was already avenged. Ernst Stavro Blofeld had paid the ultimate penalty for that. But now Bond again made a silent vow: anyone remotely connected with the original Blofeld would also pay. The light of his own happiness had been extinguished without compassion. Why, then, should he show compassion now?
He felt his own fatigue begin to swamp him and he thought of Nena. If anyone commanded compassion, it was this gorgeous lady – undeniably mistreated by her husband and put psychologically off-balance by a deformity which made her feel only part woman. This was nonsense of course, as Bond had proved to her. Poor wretched woman. When this was over, he thought, Nena would need some very special care. A picture of her, naked on his bed, came vividly into his mind, and it was with this image before him that Bond drifted into sleep.
He woke with a start. Noise around him – the babble of conversation. Shaking sleep from him like a dog, Bond stretched his limbs and settled down to listen. Out there a large audience – male and female – was already gathered. He looked at his Rolex, gleaming in the darkness. It was almost nine o’clock.
A minute or so later, the murmur of the audience subsided. Applause took its place, rising to a thunder as Bond heard feet, heavy, on the stage itself; above him.
Slowly the applause diminished. There were some coughs, a clearing of throats, and then a voice – not Bismaquer’s as he had expected; but the thin reed of Walter Luxor. There was a difference, though. As Luxor spoke, so the odd high notes altered. The dreadfully disfigured man appeared to find a new confidence, testing his vocal cords until he caught the acoustics of the hall, at which the voice dropped down the scale.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. Fellow members of the Executive Council of SPECTRE. World Section Heads of our organisation. Welcome.’ Luxor paused. ‘As you see, our Leader – Blofeld – is among us, but has asked me to speak to you. It is I who have been at the centre of planning for the operation which, until now, we have spoken of simply as HOUND
‘Let us dispense with the preliminaries as quickly as possible. Time is short. We have known from the outset that, when the moment came, it would come quickly, leaving little time for manoeuvre. That moment is at hand.
‘To set your minds at rest, you should first know two things. The very large sum of money earned from those daring, and, I must say, imaginative series of airplane operations, has proved to be ample for our purposes.
‘Secondly, we have had a client for the major objective of our present operation for some time now. If all goes well, the profit from HOUND will not only fill SPECTRE’S coffers but give each and every member of our organisation a handsome return on investment.’
Bond heard an outbreak of applause, which died as quickly as it began. Then Luxor seemed to be shuffling and rearranging his papers. Bond heard him clear his throat and begin again.
‘I do not wish to make this into a marathon briefing. However, there are certain strategic and tactical points which must first be made clear to each of you. This is necessary so that a full understanding of the military and political situations can be grasped.
‘The world, as we all know, appears to be permanently on the brink of chaos. There are the usual wars, terrorism, skirmishes and rumours of war. People are afraid. It should be quite plain to us all that many of their fears are fomented, and manipulated, by the military men and politicians of the so-called superpowers.
‘We see marches, demonstrations, and pressure groups building, particularly within the powerful Western countries. These action groups are motivated by fear: fear of a nuclear holocaust. So, as we hear and see, people take to the streets in an attempt to halt what they see as a nuclear arms race.
‘We, of course – like the great military strategists – know that the whole of a conventional nuclear arms race is a piece of neat misdirection. Agitators, foolish and ill-informed people, see only a nuclear threat.’ He gave a tiny, dismissive cackle of laughter. ‘What they do not see is that the bogeymen – the neutron bombs, Cruise missiles, intercontinental ballistic missiles – are merely makeshift weapons, temporary means of attack and defence. The same applies to the coast-to-coast tracking systems, and the idiocies that are proclaimed about the airborne early warning systems, such as the AWACS Sentry aircraft. All these things are like slingshots, to be used as stop-gaps until the real armament is unleashed.
‘The problem is fear – fear that homes, countries, lives, are
at stake. Those who take to the streets and demonstrate can think only in terms of war here, on this planet. They do not see that, in a matter of a very few years now, the ICBMs and the Cruise missiles will be negated, outdated, useless. The so-called arms race is purposely being allowed to dominate the public mind, while the superpowers pursue the real arms race: the race to provide the true weapons of attack and defence – most of which will not be used here on this planet, Earth, at all.’
There was a shuffling among the audience, before Luxor continued.
‘What I am telling you is already common knowledge among the world’s leading scientists and military experts. The arms race is now not directed towards the stockpiling and tactical deployment of nuclear or neutron weapons, though that is exactly what both Soviet and American propaganda would like people to believe.
‘No.’ Luxor thumped his lectern, sending vibrations through the joists and boards above Bond’s head. ‘No. The arms race is really concerned with one thing – the perfection of an ultimate weapon which will render all existing nuclear weapons utterly impotent.’ Luxor gave his reedy laugh again. ‘Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is the mad scientist’s dream, the substance of science fiction for years past. But now the fiction has become fact.’
Bond held his breath, already knowing what was to come. Luxor would, he was certain, talk about the ultrasecret Particle Beam Weapon.
‘Until recently,’ Luxor went on, ‘the Soviet Union was undoubtedly ahead in its programme for the development of what is known as a Particle Beam Weapon, a charged particle device, very similar to a laser, combined with microwave propagators. Development of such a weapon is indeed well on the way to finalisation, and this weapon can, and will, act as a shield – an invisible barrier – to ward off any possibility of nuclear attack.
‘As I have said, the Particle Beam Weapon was thought to be more advanced in the Soviet Union than in the United States. We now know that both superpowers have reached roughly the same point in development. Within a few years – a very few years – the balance of power could swing dramatically in one direction; or become absolute on both sides. For the Particle Beam is designed to effectively neutralise any of the existing nuclear delivery systems.