Down in the maintenance complex, Bellini and Louis had already taken to their heels. Their getaway would be simple in the panic which would follow – at any moment – when the elevator car disintegrated against the huge buffer at the bottom of its shaft. But Joe Bellini had no way of knowing that the motel elevators were built with one, old-fashioned, extra safety device which did not depend upon complicated electronics.
Two metal cables ran down the length of the shaft, their use unaffected by loss of power. These thick, hawser-like ropes were threaded loosely through the claw safety brakes under the car itself. The very action of the car overspeeding on a downward path caused the hawsers to tighten, exerting pressure inwards, with the result that two of the claws were activated, one on either side at the front of the elevator car.
In the first few seconds of the downward plunge, one of these ‘last chance’ automatic devices, on the right of the car, had been sheared off by the buffeting of metal against metal. The left-hand cable held, slowly pressing inwards. At last, as they streaked past the eleventh floor, the safety brake clicked, and the claw automatically shot outwards. Like a human hand desperately grasping for a last hold, the metal brake hit one of the ratchets in the guide rail, broke loose, hit a second, then a third.
Inside the car, there was a series of reverberating, jarring bumps. The whole platform tilted to the right, and each jolt seemed to slow the downward rush. Then, to the sound of tearing wood and metal, the car tipped to the right. Bond and Cedar, both trying to keep a grip on the hand rail, were conscious of part of the roof being torn away, of the ripping as they slowed; then of the final, bone-shuddering stop which broke the forward section of the floor loose.
Cedar lost her grip.
This time Bond heard the scream, and, even in the dimness, alleviated by light coming in through the splintered roof, saw Cedar sliding forward, her legs disappearing through the hole in the floor. Still gripping the rail hard with one hand, he lunged outwards and just managed to grasp her wrist insecurely with the other.
‘Hang on. Try to get some kind of a hold.’
Bond thought he was speaking calmly until he heard the echo of his distraught voice. He leaned forward at full stretch, allowing his hand to loosen its grip for a second, then tighten on Cedar’s wrist.
The whole car creaked under them, its floor sagging downwards like a piece of cardboard so that almost the entire length of the shaft below became visible. Slowly, giving her encouragement, goading her into trying to get her other hand on to his arm, Bond began to pull Cedar back into the car.
Though she was not heavily built, Cedar Leiter felt like a ton weight. Inch by inch, he hauled her back. Together they balanced precariously, almost on tiptoe, clinging to the hand rail.
How long the car could stay as it was, insecurely jammed in the shaft, was impossible to tell. Bond was sure of only one thing: unless some of their weight was removed, their chances diminished with every minute that passed.
‘How are they going to . . . ?’ Cedar began, in a small voice.
‘I don’t know if they can.’
Bond looked down. He saw that his briefcase was, miraculously, still with them, trapped behind his feet. Moving gently, pausing after each shift in position, he reached down for the case.
Even this simple action proved the urgency of their situation, for, every change of attitude caused the car to groan, rock, and creak.
Quietly he explained what he was about to do. Balancing the briefcase at an angle against the hand rail, Bond sprang the tumbler locks. Carefully he delved into the hidden compartments for the nylon rope, gloves, the set of picklocks and tools and one of the small grappling hooks.
The hooks would take immense weight. In the closed position, each of them was about seven inches long, roughly three inches from the point of the hook to the base, and a couple of inches in thickness. It was necessary to go through a three-part unlocking sequence to unspring one of them, which then shot out to form a circle of some eight claws, all running from a steel securing base.
With the gloves on, tools and pick-locks hanging from a large thong and clip on his belt, and the rope coiled over one arm, Bond closed the case. He passed it to Cedar, telling her to hang on to it at all costs, then secured the nylon rope to the grappling hook. He leaned forward, one hand still on the hand rail, to peer down through the ripped and broken floor. The sides of the shaft, with its criss-cross of metal girders, were plainly visible.
Taking the bulk of slack on the rope and coiling it into his left hand, Bond dropped the grappling hook through the gaping mouth which formed the forward end of the floor. It took three or four swings on the rope before the claw clamped into place around one of the strengthening girders some five feet below the car. Gently Bond payed the rope out, trying to gauge the exact length that would take him clear of the car and past the grappling hook.
Bond went through the scheme for Cedar, trying to give her as many tips as possible. Then, with a grin and a wink, he took hold of the rope and wound it around himself in the simple old abseil fashion – the rope merely being passed under the right arm, down his back and through the legs, being taken up again in the left hand, and coming in under the arm. There was no time for improvised safety karabiners or double rope techniques.
Slowly he allowed himself to slide forward, feeling the car move; shuddering, as his weight shifted. It was now or never. Then, as he neared the final gap, the whole car began to vibrate. There followed a rasping noise, as though the metal holding it in place would give way at any moment. Suddenly, he was clear and falling, trying to control the drop, keeping his body straight and as near to the side of the shaft as he dared. Metallic vibrations from the car seemed to surround him and the fall seemed to go on for ever, until the sudden jerk on the rope cut into his back, arms, and legs.
As Bond had feared, the weight of his fall pulled the nylon tight, then the tension released, and he felt himself rising again like a yo-yo. It only needed too much of a backward spring on the rope for the grapple to become unhooked.
Winded, and not quite believing it, Bond found himself hanging, swinging hard against the concrete and girdered wall. He felt his muscles howling in protest. The rope cut deeper as his wrists and hands struggled to hang on.
The small, enclosed world gradually swung into focus: dirty cement; girders, with traces of rust; oil, and, below, the dark cavern that seemed to descend into hell itself.
Bond’s feet were firmly against the wall now, and he was able to look up. The car was jammed across the shaft, but for how long was anyone’s guess. Already the upper section of woodwork had developed a long crack. It was only a matter of time before the whole section split. The car would then drop heavily on its side.
It would be a hideous way for them to go. But it was SPECTRE’S way, Bond was certain of that. He took a deep breath and called up to Cedar.
‘Be up for you in a minute.’
Kicking out from the wall, he allowed his hands to slide on the rope, bringing his feet within touching distance of the nearest girder. As the bottoms of his rope-soled shoes slammed into the metal, Bond hauled on the rope, grabbing for support from the big oily guide rail.
The latticework of girders was reasonably easy to negotiate, and Bond climbed it with speed, keeping the rope firmly around himself, until he reached the grappling hook. There he paused for breath, the car rattling in the breeze that came up the shaft’s tunnel. Vaguely, among the creaking, metallic noises, he thought he could hear other sounds – shouting and steady hammering.
The sagging floor of the car was some five feet from his head. Unhooking the grapple, he climbed higher, eventually finding a suitable place among the girders to refix the hook; this time less than a foot below the car.
Turning his body so that he could lean back against the wall, Bond once more shouted to Cedar, giving orders in a voice designed to command immediate obedience.
‘I’m going to throw the rope in. Tie the briefcase on, then let it
down slowly. But don’t lose the rope. Keep hold of it until I tell you.’
By this time he had pulled in all the slack of the rope, which had snaked down the shaft almost out of sight. Hanging on to the girders with one hand, Bond coiled several feet of rope around the other. Then, with a cry of ‘Ready?’ – and an answering call from Cedar – he aimed the balled rope at the flapping mouth which was all that was left of the open floor of the car.
The ball of rope went straight as an arrow. For a second or two, he saw that the length now protruding from the opening in the car was sliding back. Then it stopped, and Cedar’s voice came filtering down.
‘Got it.’
About a minute later the briefcase, tied now to the end of the rope, descended slowly towards him.
Cedar payed out the rope until Bond shouted for her to stop. Very carefully he reached forward, took the case, and, balancing it on the girder, untied the knot. He attached one of the metal fastenings on the briefcase to the large clip on his belt. Then he shouted to Cedar to haul in the rope and get a tight hold on it. ‘Wrap it around your wrists and shoulders if you want,’ he called to her. ‘Then just slide out. It’s around fifteen feet down to the next floor and set of doors. If we can make that, we’ll have a secure ledge, and I’ll try to open the damned things. Come on when you’re ready.’
She came quickly. Too quickly. Bond saw her legs emerge and the rope drop past him. Then he felt the blow as the side of her shoulder hit him.
He was conscious of the grapple taking the strain, and of the car shifting just above his head. But by that time his balance had gone, and he was suddenly scrabbling for the swinging rope in front of him.
He wrapped his hands around the nylon, and they were both swinging gently, one above the other, bouncing off the walls of the shaft.
‘We’re going to have to go down one above the other,’ he called, short of breath. ‘Just straight rope climbing stuff to the ledge on the next floor. The rope’ll just about make it.’
Cedar’s voice came back, breathless and excited. ‘I only hope it’ll hold our weight.’
‘It’ll do that all right. Just remember not to let go!’
‘You really think I’d forget?’ she shouted back, starting to move, hand over hand, the rope wrapped around her ankles as she went.
Bond followed Cedar’s lead, trying to imitate her rhythm on the rope in order to reduce the swing. He had been bruised and battered enough from bumping against the girders. Finally he saw that below him Cedar had made it, and was standing on the narrow ledge, both hands still tight on the rope, her feet spread out and body leaning forward.
She was calling something up to him.
‘There’s someone on the other side of the doors,’ he heard her shout. ‘I’ve told them we’re here.’
Nodding, Bond continued his climb down until he felt his feet touch the ledge. Even as they did so, there was a hiss and the outer doors opened. A fire chief, and three other uniformed, helmeted men stood aside, mouths agape, as Cedar and Bond stepped into the corridor.
‘Ah, thank you,’ Bond said as though a commissionaire had just held the door open for them. Then he staggered, feeling the strain hit him. Cedar grabbed his arm, and he took a deep breath.
The firemen and motel staff gathered around them. Bond waved away a doctor and asked that they be taken straight downstairs. ‘We’ve got a plane to catch,’ he added.
As they went, he whispered instructions to Cedar: ‘Pay the bill and get what information you can. Then slip away and meet me at the Saab. We don’t want too many questions, and certainly no cameras.’
When the party reached the crowded and noisy lobby, Bond was no longer with them. Even Cedar did not see him go. ‘One of my disappearing tricks,’ he told her later. ‘Easy when you know how.’
In fact it was relatively easy. Bond always worked on the principle that, in a crowd that was confused and uncertain, all you had to do was to be positive: a determined move, in a definite direction, assuming the look of a man who knew precisely where he was going and why. It worked nine times out of ten.
In the underground parking lot, Bond did not go straight to the Saab, but waited, out of sight, behind another car directly opposite. It was over half an hour before Cedar appeared, running from the service elevator.
Bond emerged as soon as he saw she was alone. ‘I told them I had to go the john,’ she said. ‘They want you as well. Questions and more questions. We’ll have to move fast.’
In a matter of seconds they were in the Saab, and, a few minutes later, out and away, roaring down the Anacostia Freeway.
‘You’re the navigator,’ Bond told her. ‘We want Amarillo, Texas.’
As she directed him, Cedar gave Bond what information she had gleaned. ‘Definitely our friends from New York,’ she told him. ‘I got their descriptions.’ She went on to explain how they had come in posing as detectives, asked for directions to the maintenance complex, and how the duty man had been found unconscious. ‘Apparently they’d stripped the controls for all the elevators,’ she added. ‘Whichever one we used, they had us.’
Bond smiled grimly. ‘I told you. When SPECTRE wants you dead, they don’t like doing it clean. Well, at least we know what we need to know. First Bismaquer wanted us as his house guests, then he tried to have us killed. I guess he’ll have to settle for the first.’
As he said it, the delayed shock took hold. Bond felt his heart pumping and hands shaking on the wheel. He slowed slightly and, after a minute or two, the reaction passed. Taking a deep breath, he glanced at Cedar.
‘We’ll have to stop and buy some new luggage on the way. But at least we’ve got the essentials, including the prints.’ The prints remained hidden in one of the many secret compartments in the Saab.
‘So, my dear Cedar’ – he grinned again, then relaxed and his mouth reformed into its hard, cruel line – ‘so now the fun really starts.’
10
THE ROAD TO AMARILLO
They drove steadily through the night, skirting Pittsburgh around dawn, then heading west again. The Saab, set on its cruise control, gobbled up the ribbon of road, and during that first long day they stopped only for snacks and gasoline. The car, tuned to perfection before being flown to America, took to the broad four-lane highways like an unleashed jet.
Just before nightfall, they were already nearing Springfield, Missouri. Bond pulled off the highway and drove into a small motel, where they registered in separate cabins, Cedar as Mrs Penbrunner, and Bond under his own name.
Already, before the incident with the elevator, he had explained their tactics to Cedar. ‘Even if Bismaquer doesn’t know my true identity, I have to go in as myself.’
Cedar was concerned. ‘Isn’t that pushing our luck, James? You’ve already told me SPECTRE has a private and personal grudge against you. Why not keep the Penbrunner role going as long as possible . . .’
Bond shook his head. ‘It’s not going to fool them for long – even if it’s done so already, which I doubt. Now, you are really not known. Mrs Penbrunner will probably pass, and we may just get some advantage by making them believe I’m here to look after you.’
She was still concerned about this when they reached the motel. ‘You’re setting yourself up as a target. Doesn’t that worry you?’
‘Of course,’ said Bond, ‘but I’ve done it before. Anyway, Cedar, do you really believe that the great Markus Bismaquer would go to all the trouble of having us removed, by way of an elevator shaft, if he didn’t know it was me? Think about it: first the fearsome foursome turn up with an invitation: Bismaquer requests the pleasure of seeing the Hogarth prints before anyone else. Then we manage to disappear. True to form – SPECTRE’S old form, that is – they winkle us out near Washington, and without the aid of any law enforcement agencies. Think about it, Cedar, and you’ll see how good they are. They always were in the past. So they find us and try to give us the fast elevator trip. No niceties about the Hogarth prints. Just death, sudden, and
a very nasty way to go.’
She nodded agreement. ‘I suppose you’re right. But it still sounds crazy – the idea of just turning up at Bismaquer’s Rancho Notorious . . .’
‘Tethered goats have been known to catch tigers.’
‘And goats often end up sacrificial,’ Cedar countered. ‘With their throats cut.’
‘Tough on us goats.’ Bond gave a sardonic smile. ‘Remember, Cedar, we go with knives as well. The fact is I have no option. Our job is to find out if Markus Bismaquer’s running the show. If it really is a reconstituted SPECTRE it’s most important to discover what they’re up to. We’re snoops, like the others. They got chopped. Why?’
The conversation went on in their rooms and in the car, when they drove into Springfield to provide themselves with new clothes, and again over a meal in a small restaurant, where Bond declared the chicken pie one of the best he had ever tasted and Cedar insisted that he try Apple Jonathan, a delicious baked concoction of green apples, cream, maple syrup and eggs.
Back at the motel, they unwrapped their parcels, filled the newly-purchased suitcases, and arranged a series of signals to be used in the event of trouble during the night.
Bond quietly checked out the motel, and its surroundings, paying special attention to the parked cars. Satisfied, he returned to his cabin, laid out a new pair of jeans, shirt, boots, and a windbreaker. He then luxuriated under a shower – scalding hot, followed by a fine spray of ice cold water. Thus refreshed, he slid the VP70 under his pillow, placed a chair against the door, and secured the windows before getting into bed.
Almost as his head touched the pillow, he was asleep. He had long ago learned the art of resting, allowing the problems and anxieties to be swept from his mind, yet never dropping into really deep oblivion while he was on an assignment. Sleep he certainly had; but his subconscious remained active, ready to prod him into instant awareness.
The night passed without incident, and by noon the next morning they had circumvented Oklahoma City. The Saab, cool with its interior air conditioning, whined at high turbo power along the flat endless terrain of prairie and desert leading to the edge of the Great Plains and the panhandle of Texas.