Seafire

7 – Mr. Cuthbert and Mr. Archibald

Bond remained absolutely still, balancing on the balls of his feet, not moving a muscle as he tried to calculate the risk involved in any immediate action. The man who had spoken kicked the door closed, then moved in behind Bond. His breath was warm and the quiet voice full of menace. The hard cold touch of the automatic on the back of his neck banished all thoughts of any instant attempt at turning the tables.

"Now, Mr. Bond, sir. We're going to take a little trip. A short journey by car. Just the four of us. Very cozy and nothing to be concerned about." The voice was low, though there was something curious about the pitch.

"Take me." Bond matched the volume of his voice to that of his captor. "Just take me. Leave Fräulein von Grüsse out of it."

"Very chivalrous." The man holding Flicka moved slightly, pressing the muzzle of his pistol harder into her neck. "Don't you think that's chivalrous, Mr. Archibald? Something you rarely come across these days." The timbre of his voice was almost identical to that of his partner.

"Exceptionally unselfish, Mr. Cuthbert. What a pity it's not in our power to grant such a plea."

Flicka had been very accurate in her description of these two men. As the one called Archibald moved around Bond, coming into his line of vision, he saw that the pair looked like escapees from a cartoon. In spite of their immaculate turnout, they presented a bizarre couple. Both had dark hair, cut very short in a style once favored by the Beatles, and the hair coloring seemed at odds with their pink, almost feminine, complexions. The pair were obviously related, for each had unnaturally thick pale lips, while their eyebrows were clownish – inverted thick Vs – which made them look as though they were permanently asking questions.

"I really think it's time we got moving." Archibald moved again. "Let me tell you what we're going to do."

"Excellent thought, Mr. Archibald. I was about to suggest the same thing."

"We're going out of this room," Archibald continued, "and down the service stairs. It's five floors down and – though it sounds a shade melodramatic – if either of you makes a wrong move, both of you will die."

"Instantaneously, wouldn't you say, Mr. Archibald?"

"Couldn't have put it better myself, Mr. Cuthbert."

"And what happens then?" Bond tried to sound casual as he desperately thought of some way of immediate escape that would pose no threat to Flicka.

"We head for the service exit, don't we, Mr. Archibald?"

"Right again, Mr. Cuthbert. The service exit, outside of which there should be a car, complete with driver."

"Then we take this cozy little journey?"

"You're very quick, Mr. Bond. That's about it. Into the car and away. At this time on a Sunday evening it's unlikely we'll be seen by anyone."

"Aren't the two of you going to miss choir practice?" Flicka asked with no trace of fear.

"Very droll, Fräulein von Grüsse, but we'll have plenty of time for that later. Actually, we do have rather fine voices. Maybe we'll get a chance to sing at your funerals."

"Well, that's very nice for the pair of you." Bond shifted a little to his right. "But what if we don't really want to make the journey?"

"Mr. Bond, you have no option." Archibald hefted the pistol uncomfortably in his left hand, and Bond could see the bandages showing under the cuff of his right sleeve. It was clear that he was not happy using a weapon held in his left hand.

"Oh, no, Mr. Bond. Please don't even think about it." Archie moved back a couple of paces as he saw Bond's eyes take in the damaged right wrist. "You actually broke a bone, did you know that?"

"Only one?"

"Very painful. But I'm quite good at pain. I can take it and inflict it, as you'll probably see. Now, could you move over to your lady friend." He made a small gesture toward Flicka with his pistol. "Oh, come on, Mr. Bond, don't be tiresome. Just move."

"Better do as he says, darling." She smiled across the room. "I think they've both got slightly mercurial tempers."

Bond slowly went over to her, flashing a look that told her that, in spite of their grotesque appearance, he had already taken in the extent of the danger they represented. When people like Cuthbert and Archie came in pairs they were usually psychotics, and he had no desire to even attempt taking them out until a foolproof moment presented itself.

Cuthbert had stepped back from Flicka, and Archie told them to hold hands. "Pretend you're on a nice little lovers' walk to Grantchester," he added, signaling that Tarn's people had kept them under surveillance from the moment they had arrived in Cambridge.

As their hands touched, Cuthbert stepped forward and snapped a pair of handcuffs around both their wrists. "There," he cooed. "Isn't that a nice lovers' knot? Now, I suggest we move at a steady pace. Mr. Archibald will lead the way, you will follow, and I'll bring up the rear."

"And please don't make us do anything we'd regret," added Archibald.

He paused just outside the door, nodded, and led them along the passage to the plain door marked "Staff Only."

The rear staircase was bare: concrete steps and whitewashed walls all the way down. Bond noted that these unlikely toughs both moved with the quick surefooted speed of highly trained soldiers, and the thought that they might possibly be paid mercenaries flicked through his mind. But for their appearances they could have been a couple of men from the SAS or the American Delta Force.

They were both obviously very alert during the journey down. Bond had no doubt that any attempted escape would result in fast, sudden death.

At the ground floor, Archibald made a quick gesture with his head, nodding toward a pair of doors with an interior automatic bar lock. For the few seconds it took to get to the doors the pistols disappeared, but both men hemmed in their prisoners, using their bodies to keep them close and moving in the right direction.

The doors opened onto a side street, where Tarn's other Rover sat, its engine purring and a man at the wheel. Archibald opened the nearside door, pushing Flicka and Bond into the vehicle, while Cuthbert had the door open on the farside and slid into the rear. In seconds they were moving, crammed close in the back of the car, flanked by the two gunmen.

"Everything okay?" The driver did not move his head, concentrating on taking the car out into the main flow of traffic.

"Like a charm," Cuthbert replied.

"Clockwork, I'd say," Archibald added.

"Wherever we're going, you'll be stopped long before you're out of the city." Bond felt confident about that probability. With the surveillance teams around, it should not take long for one of the units to latch on to the second Rover.

Yet nothing happened. The only moment that caused any tension in the car was when they had to pull over as, with a shriek of sirens, two fire engines, a pair of ambulances, and a police car hurtled past. They reached the ramp onto the M11 without any sign of police or paramilitary roadblocks, though the driver was constantly warned by Cuthbert to check nobody was following.

Occasionally Bond glanced toward Flicka, and several times their eyes met in cold comfort, reflecting that they were both at a complete loss as to how they could evade their two weird captors.

One further worry was that neither of them had been blindfolded. Nobody seemed in the least concerned that they could follow the route with ease.

"You don't mind us seeing where we're going?" Bond finally asked.

"Do you mind, Mr. Cuthbert?"

"Not in the least, Mr. Archibald."

The odd pair sniggered and Cuthbert added, "I can't see the Chief letting you trace the way back."

"No return ticket," Archibald snapped smugly.

Eventually they came off the Motorway at Exit 8, and for a few minutes Bond thought they were heading toward Stanstead Airport, but they continued on through the town of Tackley, then turned off onto a minor road about a mile farther on.

Now it became difficult to follow directions as they twisted and turned through a series of lanes and secondary roads with few signposts. At last the Rover made an abrupt turn through an open gateway, up a long, winding drive flanked by shrubbery that appeared to have been allowed to grow wild and out of hand. There were places where the bushes, encroaching on the drive, scraped against the car. Finally the headlights picked out what looked like a large Victorian house. In the darkness the gables and brickwork took on a sinister look: a Gothic pile gone to ruin, its silhouette black against the dark sky. It could have come from the Brontës or Dickens: Wuthering Heights or Bleak House.

The driver flashed the lights of the Rover, and an answering pinpoint of light came from the doorway.

"Not here yet, by the looks of things," the driver muttered.

"Late for their own funerals," Cuthbert said brightly.

"Never mind, we can all make ourselves comfortable." Archibald gave Bond a prod in the ribs. "We've arrived, Mr. Bond. Everyone out."

"All ashore who's going ashore," Cuthbert added.

Still handcuffed together, they climbed from the car into the chill night air. There was a hint of rain in the wind, and the driver was talking, low and fast, to a sixth person – a tall young woman carrying a large electric torch.

The driver turned to speak to Archibald, while Cuthbert remained close to the two prisoners. "At least Beth's got food ready for us."

"I don't know about food, but I'm dying to use a bathroom," Flicka spoke up.

"Well, you're the lucky one," from Archie. "Beth here'll make certain you won't try and run for it."

Inside, the house appeared to be deserted, with little furniture and no electricity. Candles had been set at vantage points, and the three men took great care in uncuffing Bond from Flicka, crowding them both, making sure they were given no opportunity to try an escape.

In turn they were taken to a ground-floor bathroom covered in mildew, which was quite visible in the light from a pair of candles. The newcomer, Beth, who was careful to keep her face in shadow, guarded Flicka, and Cuthbert watched over Bond. They were then taken up the main stairs, which creaked and cracked underfoot. The house smelled damp, musty, full of decay, and the room – two flights up – in which they were eventually locked had the paper hanging in great triangles off the wall. In one corner there was an old iron radiator to which they were handcuffed – two pairs this time – and left with a single candle burning in the center of the room.

It was a long narrow chamber with one dormer window and bare wooden boards underfoot. At one time this could easily have been a servant's bedroom, and Bond wondered what misery the place had seen in die shape of young girls sent away from home for the first time and finding themselves with this small room as their only place of privacy.

A few moments after they had been secured to the radiator, Beth returned with two cups of a nondescript soup and a couple of chunks of bread. She said nothing to either of them, even though Flicka tried to make bright conversation and thank her. They heard a key click in a lock outside and her footsteps echoing away on the dry rotting boards as she went downstairs.

"What do you think, James?" Flicka whispered.

"I think we'd better try and get out of these damned handcuffs."

"I've already taken a look at the pipe they've got me hooked to. Solid as a stone."

"This one's rusty as hell, but I'm going to try." He felt up and down the pipe with his free hand. It was obviously the conduit for hot water to flow into the radiator, but a professional plumber would have problems getting it unscrewed.

"You think they've got orders to kill us?" Flicka asked.

"Not yet, but I think it's an even bet that they're waiting for orders. If they had been told to do away with us, it would be all over by now."

"A happy thought."

"They're a happy little pair. Psychopaths of the kind who take a pride in their work. I guess they're Tarn's human Rottweilers." He was twisting the cuffs against the pipe, turning his right hand over and over so the short chain tightened. Eventually he could move it no further. Now he used his left hand to add pressure on the right-hand cuff, trying to see if he could get enough leverage to shatter the pipe, or even break the chain between the cuffs.

After half an hour he stopped; drank the soup, which had gone cold; and ate a couple of mouthfuls of bread. He did not want to raise any false hopes, but the radiator pipe was bending slightly against the steel of the cuff, causing a cutting bruise in his wrist but certainly doing damage to the rusted metal.

He rested for a few minutes and then began again. Far away, deep below them in the house, they could hear voices as the three men and Beth talked.

"We must be well away from any other houses," he said, panting with the exertion of working on the pipe. "They're behaving as though they own the place."

"Of course, we've no way of knowing if they do." For the first time, she began to sound really concerned.

Bond told her to try and get some rest. "Who knows, we might need all our strength before tonight's through."

He worked on, making a little progress, and shortly heard her breathing take on the deep, steady note of sleep.

Bond was not about to give up, though his wrist soon became torn and bleeding. He had no idea of what time they had left, but slowly the old radiator pipe was cracking under the tough steel of the handcuffs. Minutes turned into hours and time had absolutely no meaning, then suddenly, with a loud wrenching crack, the pipe gave way and he gently pulled his hand free of the radiator.

The candle was guttering, almost out, and from beyond the one grimy window came the first sign of dawn, the sheer black night turning into an unearthly pearly light.

There was nothing he could do about getting Flicka free, as she was shackled to the main section of the old radiator. Flexing his torn, bruised, and bleeding wrist, he stretched out his legs and began to try and move all his limbs, which were cramped and singing with pain. He had just managed to get himself into an upright position, leaning his back against a wall, when the bright light of a pair of headlamps swept across the window and there was the sound of a car stopping behind the Rover in front of the house.

Pulling himself along the wall, Bond slowly made his way to the window but kept to one side, not daring to let himself be seen. As he had thought, the small dormer window was set into the roof of the house, and from below came the sound of voices raised in argument. He heard Cuthbert say, quite loudly, "But we can't just leave them here."

Another voice, which he recognized plainly as Max Tarn's, said, "Well, that's what we're going to do. I want no more blood on anyone's hands. Not yet, anyway. We have a lot to do."

"They'll turn us in, Chief!" from Archibald.

"Get in the car, you perverted little monster, and do as the Chief says." This time the voice was that of Maurice Goodwin.

"I'm not perverted. You've no right to speak to me like that Cuthbert, help me. We can't leave that pair upstairs."

"We have to if the Chief says so."

There was the sound of a short scuffle and a yelp of pain from Archibald: "That's my bloody wrist, Goodwin. Leave me alone."

"Get in the car, then. We haven't got that much time."

Bond pulled himself right up to the window and saw that both the Rovers were outside, motors running, the first one about to pull away. Then, as he strained his eyes, he clearly saw the figure of Max Tarn in the headlights, as he stomped around the front of the second car and bent to get into the rear seats. Moments later the cars moved off, their taillights growing dim as they headed down the drive.

He waited for a good three to four minutes, crouched by the window, listening for the sound of anyone left below them. Nothing. Not a movement nor a word.

"Flicka," he called gently. "Flicka. I'm free and -"

"And they've gone. I heard. What the hell's happening?"

"Well, we're alive, so I'm going to see if they've left anyone behind." He went over to the door, tried the handle, felt slight movement against the flimsy lock, then stepped back and kicked. Once. Twice. On the third kick the woodwork around the lock splintered and the door swung back.

A slight glimmer from the dawn was starting to filter into windows below. The candles had been extinguished, so he waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness before making his way along the passage to the stairs, then down to the second-floor landing, with its long balustrade leading to the main staircase and the hall.

In the hallway the front door had been left open, blowing a chilling wind into the shell of the house. Some debris, papers or leaves, flicked through the door, making a scratchy sound on the quarry-tiled entrance.

In the hall, by the foot of the stairs, he saw something small, hunched, and black, which at first he thought was a cat or, worse still, a large rat. He kicked out in a reflex, and to his surprise the object skittered along the floor, hitting the skirting board with a dull thud and the sound of a bell. It was an old telephone, still attached to the wall.

He lifted the receiver, expecting nothing, and almost jumped with fright as he heard the dial tone. Automatically he dialed the contact number. It was a female back at the distant end.

"Brother James," he said, hearing the rasp of his dry throat and realizing that he was out of breath.

"Give me the answer to question three, Brother James."

Obviously nobody back in London was taking any chances. Before leaving for Cambridge they had been through the usual list of word codes and what they liked to call telephone security. Bond viewed all this with a certain amount of cynicism, but he dragged the correct word out of his memory.

"Just hold one moment, sir."

"James?" It was the voice of Bill Tanner, M's former Chief of Staff who was now officially the Secretary of MicroGlobe One. "James, where the hell are you?"

"I haven't got a clue. You'll have to do a trace. It's somewhere the other side of Stanstead Airport. Not certain of the exact location. Old Victorian property falling to pieces. I think it probably belongs to the Tarns, because they've just left here."

"They can't have." Tanner sounded almost shocked.

"Well, put a trace on this damned telephone."

"Yes, we're doing that."

"And why can't the Tarns have just left here?"

"Because," Bill Tanner said slowly, "they were killed in a car accident just outside Cambridge last night. I've seen the bodies myself. Sir Max, Lady Trish, and their driver."

"You've seen the bodies?"

"What's left of them. Burned out of recognition, but it couldn't have been anyone else."

Behind him, Bond could hear Flicka calling out from upstairs. In the creaking darkness of the old building her voice echoed shrill, leaving behind it the wail of a banshee.