Two days, Bond calculated. Two days lying low and keeping their eyes open. Then they could head west, and, to use his own words, drive like hell. ‘With luck we should get to Amarillo within forty-eight hours. One night’s stop somewhere, to conserve energy, and, by that time, we should know if Bismaquer’s put a tail on us. If not . . .’
‘Straight into the lion’s den,’ Cedar finished for him. She seemed cool enough about the prospect, though neither of them could fail to remember the fate of their colleagues – dragged dead and putrefied from the Louisiana marshes.
On Bond’s balcony, as the dawn came up over distant Washington, they made plans.
‘Time for a reverse in disguises,’ Bond announced.
The management had them registered in new names, but had seen Bond in what he liked to call his ‘Penbrunner hat’. Now he washed the grey from his hair, removed the moustache and spectacles, and – apart from the thinner hair, which would grow again quickly enough – looked almost his old self.
Cedar would be easily recognised by Bismaquer’s lieutenants, so she worked for an hour or so on her own appearance – restyling her hair, darkening her eyebrows, adopting severe pebble-lens spectacles. These simple devices changed her looks completely.
The main problem, as Bond saw it, was keeping a careful watch for Bismaquer’s men. ‘Six hours on and six hours off. In the main lobby,’ he decided. It was the only way. ‘We find suitable vantage points, and just mark faces. If one, or all, of that unholy quartet turns up, then we take the necessary action. Two days, and I reckon we’ll have thrown them.’ They then made the final decision – to leave the motel late the following evening. Bond was to stay out of his disguise, and Cedar would change back to her normal appearance before starting the journey.
The routine began straight away. They tossed for the first watch, and Cedar lost, heading down to the lobby to keep her six-hour vigil.
Before taking a rest, Bond quickly checked his luggage, the most important piece being the briefcase. The knives were back in their slots, but he removed one, strapping it to his left forearm before going through the other items in the case: Q Branch’s personal survival kit.
The upper section contained papers, a diary, and the normal accoutrements of any businessman – calculator, pens, and the like. In the lower section, which was accessible by both hinged and sliding panels, Q’ute had assembled what she called back-up material: a small, snub-nosed S & W ‘Highway Patrolman’ with the four-inch barrel and spare ammunition; a series of toughened steel picklocks, gathered together on a ring, which also held a slim three-inch jemmy and other miniature tools, all built to Q’ute’s specifications; a pair of padded leather gloves; half a dozen detonators, kept in a compartment well-removed from a small lump of plastic explosive, and a length of fuse.
Originally Q Branch had planned to include an electronic device for detonation purposes, but at the last moment it was decided that thirty-five feet of nylon half-inch rope, together with a couple of miniaturised grappling hooks, would be more likely needs. Even though the rope was slim and easily concealed, it took up space, leaving no room for any more sophisticated climbing gear. If put to it, Bond would be using the bare minimum. Everything in the hidden compartment was protected by moulded foam rubber.
After checking the VP70 and spare magazines, 007 stretched out on the bed, quickly dropping into a deep, refreshing sleep from which he was awakened, five hours later, by the alarm call he had ordered: ‘This is your three o’clock alarm call, the temperature is 67 degrees and it is a pleasant afternoon. Have a nice day . . .’ Bond replied, ‘Thank you,’ and the voice chattered on, ‘This is your three-o-one alarm call, the temperature is 67 degrees and it is a pleasant afternoon. Have a nice day . . .’
‘And you,’ Bond mouthed at the computerised voice.
Bond showered, shaved and changed into dark slacks and one of his favourite Sea Island cotton shirts, then slipped his feet into a pair of heavy rope-soled sandals. A short, battledress-style navy jacket hid his holster and VP70 automatic. Right on time, he took over from Cedar in the motel lobby.
They did not speak; merely a glance and nod effected the change-over. Bond soon discovered that you could view the lobby from a seat at the coffee shop counter, as well as from the bar.
On that first spell of duty – during which 007 ate a large portion of ham, two eggs sunny-side up with pan-fried potatoes, and visited the bar for a disciplined single-vodka martini – there was no sign of anyone showing photographs to the reception staff, for identification purposes; neither did any of the four heavies from New York make an appearance.
So the time passed, without a hint of any tail. Between shifts, both Bond and Cedar monitored the television newscasts. There was no story about men being found bound and gagged, at the Drake Hotel in New York; or of Professor and Mrs Penbrunner and their prints going missing.
Bismaquer was either playing a waiting game, or his henchmen were carrying out a fruitless search.
Neither Cedar nor Bond were to know that a sharp-eyed bellboy had noted their punctual comings and goings in the hotel lobby. The bellboy waited for twenty-four hours and, instead of reporting the fact to the management, made a telephone call to New York.
During the call, he was closely questioned about the appearance of the man and woman. At the other end of the line, the man to whom he had reported sat back and thought for a while. He was one of the many agents on the payroll of a large consortium, the criminal nature of which remained unknown to him. What the private eye did know was that the consortium was on the look-out for a man and woman. The descriptions were different from those he had been given, but, with a few simple changes, this pair might well be those for whom a handsome bonus was being offered.
It took him some ten minutes to make up his mind. At last he picked up the telephone and dialled. When a voice came on the line, the private eye asked, ‘Hello, is Mike there?’
‘We’ve either thrown them,’ Bond said at the motel, on the second evening, ‘or they’ll all be waiting for us somewhere along the route to Amarillo.’
He took a bite out of a large tuna fish sandwich, washing it down with a draught of Perrier water. Cedar had brought food up from the coffee shop after her last watch. Tuna fish sandwiches were hardly Bond’s style, but they seemed to be Cedar’s favourites. She was very silent, combing out her hair, returning to her normal appearance.
‘Something worrying you?’ Bond asked, noticing the look of concern on the girl’s face, reflected in the mirror.
She took a long time to answer. Then: ‘How dangerous is it going to be, James?’
So far, Cedar Leiter had shown no sign of anything but utter professionalism. ‘Not losing your nerve, Cedar?’ he asked.
Again a pause. ‘No, not really. But I’d like to know the odds.’ She turned from the mirror, crossing the room to where he sat. ‘You see, James, this is all kind of unreal for me. Sure, I’ve been trained, well-trained, but the training always seemed, well, kind of fantastic to me. Maybe I’ve been behind a desk too long – and not the right desk at that.’
Bond laughed, nevertheless feeling the twitch in his own stomach, for he was not without fear when facing a threat from SPECTRE. ‘Believe me, Cedar, it’s often far more dangerous to stalk the corridors of power. I’m never really at my best sitting in at those endless meetings, sharing secrets with the Whitehall mandarins – in your case the people from State – or the military. Back in London, my firm all look like grey faceless men. You never know where you stand. But in the field, it’s still the old story: you have to be blessed with nerve, cheek, and a lot of luck.’
He took another sip of the Perrier. ‘This one is trouble, for two reasons. First, we have no proper back-up team, nobody we can turn to at the last minute.’
‘And second?’ the girl asked.
‘That’s the worse part. If it really is SPECTRE we’re up against, they’re a hard and ruthless enemy. Also, they hate me personally. I killed their ori
ginal leader, so they’ll be out for blood; and when SPECTRE has a blood lust, nothing is done by halves. You can’t expect it to be quick and painless with them. If they get the upper hand, SPECTRE will make sure we suffer either stark terror or what the books used to call a painful and lingering death. Cedar, if you want to get out, tell me here and now. You’re a great partner and I’d like you with me. But if you can’t make it. . . Well, better we should split up now.’
Cedar’s large brown eyes melted into a look which Bond recognised as both appealing and dangerous.
‘No, I’m with you all the way, James. Sure I’m nervous, but I won’t let you down. You’ve kept your part of the bargain.’ It was her turn to laugh. ‘I was worried to start with, I admit it. My Dad painted a pretty lurid picture of you – a swashbuckling Lothario, he called you once. I guess you’re still a bit of a swashbuckler. As for being a Lothario, I haven’t had time . . .’
She moved closer, looping an arm around his neck. Bond took hold of her hand and gently removed the arm. His smile was touched with sadness.
‘No, Cedar. And don’t think I’m not both flattered and tempted. It would be tremendous. But you’re the daughter of one of my best friends – and one of the bravest men I know.’
Still, in a different place and time, James Bond knew he would have taken Cedar Leiter to the bed across the room and slowly, languorously, made love to her.
‘Come on, let’s get going,’ he said, hearing the huskiness of his own voice. ‘When we get downstairs, I want you to pay the bill, while I bring the car around to the front.’
Cedar nodded, picking up the phone and alerting reception: they would be leaving in about fifteen minutes. ‘Can you have our checks ready, please? And send someone up for the luggage in ten minutes.’
Bond was already completing his packing. ‘You can do the map-reading, too,’ he grinned. ‘And what do we want a bellboy for? To take the luggage down? That’s usually my partner’s job.’
He ducked, just in time, as Cedar tossed a hair brush at his head.
While Bond and Cedar were thus engaged, a black limousine pulled up at the main entrance, twenty floors below. Bond, himself, could have described the occupants precisely. A dark, tanned and agile man, with a slightly hooked nose, was at the wheel. Next to him, sat a large, tall and barrel-chested figure, dressed in a dark suit and a somewhat old-fashioned, broad-brimmed fedora. In the rear lounged a man with rodent-like features, the thinness of his face out of balance with the broad shoulders and large hands. A fourth man whom Bond might have expected, with a military moustache, in ostentatiously expensive clothes, was not in the car. This was strictly Joe’s business, and Mazzard could go to hell if he didn’t like it. No creep could make a mug of Joe Bellini and get away with it.
‘Just do your jobs,’ Joe Bellini ordered. ‘Louis and me’ll go through the routine cop act. Okay?’
Joe and Louis got out of the car, walked into the lobby and, eyes taking in anything that moved, went up to the reception clerks, to whom they flashed leather-walleted police badges. The badges were followed by a few terse questions and the handing over of photographs for identification.
Two of the clerks immediately identified Professor and Mrs Penbrunner, adding their room numbers and the fact that they had checked in under different names.
‘Is there something wrong?’ one of the girls asked, looking concerned.
Bellini gave her a dazzling smile. ‘Nothing serious, honey. Nobody has anything to worry about. We’re just supposed to be looking after them. The Professor’s an important man. We’ll stay out of their way and be discreet.’
He went on to say that he had another man in the car outside and would deeply appreciate it if his boys could have the run of the place – just to check it out.
That would be perfectly okay. The receptionists would report it to the duty manager. Was there anything else they could do to be of help? Yes there was. Joe Bellini fired a dozen questions at them, and in less than five minutes had the answers he wanted.
Back in the car, Joe went through the plan once more. ‘We only just made it,’ he told the Kid at the wheel. ‘They’re leaving in the next few minutes. You got the walkie-talkie?’
His ear throbbed under the neat, fresh plaster. They had done their best with it at the hospital, but were fearful it would not heal as Joe had left it too long before getting proper attention. His hand kept going up to the wound as he detailed the Kid to watch the elevators, which luckily were grouped and could be seen easily from a hidden vantage point on the twentieth floor. There were no back stairs, so it would be that way out or by the fire escape.
‘Louis and me’ll be in the maintenance complex under the building. Don’t get seen and don’t miss ’em. Just use the walkie-talkie. Got it?’
Joe Bellini, with Louis in attendance, clutching a high-powered walkie-talkie, again left the limo and entered the building. The Kid parked the car and followed the other two.
Having been given precise directions by staff anxious to co-operate with the police, Joe and Louis descended the four sections of concrete steps into the basement complex from which all the utilities – electricity, heating, air conditioning and the elevators – were monitored.
The engineer on duty was a smart, fresh-faced young man, who looked puzzled when the two strangers entered, and even more puzzled as he crumpled into unconsciousness, following a chop from Louis’s right hand.
Bellini worked quickly, checking off the various banks of instruments and switches controlling the smooth running of the hotel’s utilities, rather like the engine room of an ocean-going liner. It took him two minutes to find the section which controlled the elevators. Producing a small oblong box from his pocket, he located the sections he needed to work on, then opened the box, revealing a set of electrician’s screwdrivers.
Each of the four elevators was operated by a separate bank of controls, the elevators themselves being standard, electrically-propelled cars with a supplementary system for each unit: generator; motor; final limit switches; counterweights; drum, and secondary sheaves; plus the usual safety devices, designed to cut off power and apply clawlike brakes. Each electrical component was triple-fused, so the likelihood of all the fuses failing, on one elevator, was minimal.
Carefully, Joe Bellini began to unscrew the fuse boxes for each elevator car. As he did so, Louis took a pair of heavy wire-cutters to the thick metal seals on the four levers marked ‘Drum Release. Danger,’ at the top of the banks of instruments and fuses. The drum releases, unlocked the governors controlling the drums that wound, and unwound, the elevators’ main cables. Unlocking a drum would immediately allow it to spin freely. Only maintenance engineers would need to release the drums in this fashion, and then, only when the car in question had been isolated and placed at the foot of the shaft, against the special buffer.
To release the drum when a car was in motion would mean certain death for any occupant were it not for the safety devices, with their back-ups.
Within six minutes, all four elevators were at grave risk. The fuse boxes were unscrewed, the fuses themselves plainly visible and accessible to Bellini, while the drum releases could be pulled at any time.
Standing back to look at their handiwork, they suddenly heard a familiar voice, clear on the walkie-talkie. ‘Christ,’ the Kid was whispering urgently into his unit, ‘we’re just in time. They’ve left the room. Some luggage just went down. They’re coming now. It’s her all right. He looks kinda different, but it’s him too. It’s them, Joe.’
On the twentieth floor, Cedar and Bond, briefcase in hand, sauntered towards the elevators. Large leafy plants decorated the elevator alcove. Bond, his back now to the plants, pressed the down button.
In the basement, facing the uncovered fuses Joe Bellini waited, screwdriver in hand, while Louis’s right arm hovered over the four drum release levers. The third car stopped at the twentieth floor. With a smile, Bond ushered Cedar in, then followed. The doors closed noiselessly, and Jam
es Bond pressed the button for the lobby.
As he did so, the Kid’s voice echoed around the maintenance room, far below. ‘Car three! They got into car three!’
Joe Bellini quickly flicked every fuse out of the banks controlling car three. As he did so, Louis hauled down on the drum release lever for the same car.
Bond smiled at Cedar. ‘Here we go then. Heading West.’
‘Wagons roll . . .’ Cedar’s words were cut short as the lights went out, and they were both thrown to one side. The elevator car lurched, then began to drop down the shaft at a sickening, gathering speed.
9
WHEN THE FUN REALLY STARTS
Cedar opened her mouth in a scream, but there was no noise, only her face contorting in terror. Bond, seeing her dimly in the gloom, did not know if the sound was blotted out by the terrible crash and banging as the elevator plummeted, swaying and smashing against the sides of the shaft.
In those seconds, though, Bond seemed to hear her – a horrible diminishing shriek of terror, as if he stood apart, still at the top of the elevator shaft. It was a strange experience, in which half of his mind remained detached.
‘Hold on!’ Bond’s yell was drowned by the cacophonic crash of metal and wood, combined with a rushing windlike noise and pressure on his ears. When the car had started its fall he had his palm loosely on one of the hand rails which ran along three sides of the car. Pure reflex tightened his grip at the first jolt, before the long drop began.
A picture of the car, splintered, and shattered out of all recognition at the bottom of the shaft, flashed in and out of Bond’s mind.
From the twentieth floor, with increasing speed, they went past the fifteenth . . . fourteenth . . . thirteenth . . . twelfth . . . eleventh . . . unaware of their position in the shaft, only knowing the final horror would soon be on them.
Then, with a series of shaking bangs, as the sides rattled against the metal runners, it happened.