Icebreaker

9

SPEEDLINE

Bond felt the gut-twist of impotent horror as he watched, peering through the goggles into the rising haze of snow. The crimson figure, twirling like a rag doll, disappeared into the fine white spray, while the few people near Tirpitz and Bond flattened themselves on the ground, as though under mortar fire. Brad Tirpitz, like Bond, remained upright. His only action was to grab back the binoculars and lift them to his eyes.

‘She’s there. Unconscious, I think.’ Tirpitz spoke like a spotter on the battlefield calling in an air strike, or ranging artillery. ‘Yes, face up, half buried in snow. About one hundred yards down from where it happened.’

Bond took back the glasses to look for himself. The snow was settling, and he could make out the figure quite clearly, spread-eagled in a drift.

Another voice came from behind them. ‘The hotel’s called the police and an ambulance. It’s not far, but no rescue team’s going to get up there quickly. The snow’s too soft. They’ll have to bring in a helicopter.’

Bond turned. Kolya Mosolov stood near them, also with raised binoculars.

In the few seconds following the explosion, Bond’s mind had gone into overdrive. Paula’s telephone call – if it was Paula – bore out most of what Rivke had said, hardening his earlier conclusions. Paula Vacker was certainly not what she had seemed. She had set up Bond at the apartment during the first visit to Helsinki. Somehow she knew about the night games with Rivke and had set her up as well. Even more, Paula had arranged this present ski slope incident with incredible timing. She knew where Bond had been; she knew where Rivke was; she knew what had been arranged. It could add up to one thing only: Paula had some kind of access to the four members of Icebreaker.

Bond pulled himself from his thoughts. ‘What do you reckon?’ He turned to Kolya for a second, before looking back up the slope.

‘I said. A helicopter. The centre of the run out is hard, but Rivke’s bogged-down in the soft snow. If we want action fast, it has to be a helicopter.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Bond snapped. What do youreckon happened?’

Kolya shrugged, under the layers of winter clothing. ‘Land mine, I guess. They still get them around here. From the Russo-Finnish Winter War, or World War Two. Even after all this time. They move, too – in early winter with the first blizzards. Yes, I’d guess a land mine.’

‘What if I told you I was warned?’

‘That’s right,’ Brad said, his binoculars still glued to the flash of red that was Rivke. ‘Bond had some kind of message. A phone call.’

Kolya seemed uninterested. ‘Ah, we’ll have to talk about it. But where the hell are the police and the helicopter?’

As if on cue, a police Saab Finlandia came skidding into the main hotel car park, pulling up a few paces short of where Kolya, Tirpitz, and Bond stood. Two officers got out. Kolya was immediately beside them, speaking Finnish like a native born. There was some uncharacteristic gesticulating, then Kolya turned back to Bond, muttering an obscene Russian oath. ‘They can’t get a chopper here for another half hour.’ He looked very angry. ‘And the rescue team’ll take as long.’

‘Then we have . . .’

Bond was cut short by Brad Tirpitz. ‘She’s moving. Conscious. Trying to get up. No, she’s down again. Legs, I think.’

Bond quickly asked Kolya if the police car carried such a thing as a loud-hailer. There was another fast exchange. Then Kolya shouted back to Bond, ‘Yes, they’ve got one.’

Bond was off, running as best he could over the frozen ground, his gloved hand unclipping a jacket pocket to reach for his car keys. ‘Get it ready,’ he shouted back. ‘I’ll bring her down myself. Get the loud-hailer ready.’

The locks on the Saab were well-oiled and treated with antifreeze, so Bond had no difficulty in opening up. He switched offthe alarm sensors, then went to the rear, pulling up the big hatchback, and removing a pair of toggle ropes and the large drum that was the Pains-Wessex Speedline. He locked up again, resetting the alarms, and hurried back to the foot of the ski run where one of the policemen – looking a little self-conscious – held a Graviner loud-hailer.

‘She’s sitting up. Waved once, and indicated she couldn’t move any more.’ Tirpitz passed on the information as Bond approached.

‘Right.’ Bond held out his hand and took the loud-hailer from the policeman, flicking the switch and raising it in Rivke’s direction. He was careful not to let the metal touch his lips.

‘If you can hear me, Rivke, raise one arm. This is James.’ The voice, magnified by the amplifier to a volume ten times that of his normal speech, echoed around them.

He saw the movement, and Tirpitz, with the binoculars up, reported it: ‘She’s lifted an arm.’

Bond checked that the loud-hailer was aimed directly towards Rivke. ‘I’m going to fire a line to you, Rivke. Don’t be scared. It’s propelled by a rocket that should pass quite close to you. Signify if you understand.’

Again the arm was raised.

‘When the line reaches you, do you think you can secure it around your body, under the arms?’

Another affirmative.

‘Do you think we could then slowly pull you down?’

Affirmative.

‘If this proves to be impossible, if you are in any pain as we drag you down, signify by raising both hands. Do you read me?’

Once more the affirmative sign.

‘All right.’ Bond turned back to the others, giving them directions.

The Pains-Wessex Speedline is a complete, self-contained, line-throwing unit which looks like a heavy cylinder with a carrying handle and trigger mechanism at the top. It is arguably the best line-throwing unit in the world. Bond removed the protective plastic covering at the front of the cylinder, exposing the rocket, well-shielded, in the centre, and the 275 metres of packed, ready-flaked line which took up the bulk of the space. He removed the free end of the line, instructing the others to make it fast around the Finlandia’s rear bumper, and placed himself almost directly below the crimson figure in the snow.

When the line was secure, Bond removed the safety pin at the rear of the carrying handle, then shifted his hand to the moulded grip behind the trigger guard. He dug the heels of his Mukluk boots into the snow and advanced four paces up the slope. The snow was soft and very deep to the right of the broad ski slope fall line – where it was packed rock hard and only negotiable with the aid of ice climbing equipment.

Four steps and Bond was sinking almost to his waist, but the position was reasonable for a good shot with the line – the far end of which trailed out behind him to the bumper of the Finlandia. Bracing himself, Bond held the cylinder away from his body, allowing it to find the correct point of balance. When he was certain the rocket would clear Rivke, he pressed the trigger.

There was a dull thud as the firing pin struck the igniter. Then, with spectacular speed and a plume of smoke, the rocket leaped into the clear air, its line threading out after it, seeming to gain speed as it went, a single-strand bow of rope curling high above the snow.

The rocket passed well clear of Rivke’s body, but right on course, taking the line directly above her, to land with a dull plop. For a second, the line appeared to hang in its arc, quivering in the still air. Then, with an almost controlled neatness, it began to fall – a long brown snake running from a point high above where Rivke lay.

Bond fought his way through the thick snow, back to the others, taking the loud-hailer from one of the policemen. ‘Raise your arm if you can pull the rope above you down to your body.’ Bond’s voice once more echoed off the slopes.

In spite of the freezing weather, several people had come out to watch. Others could be seen peering through the hotel windows. The sound of an ambulance’s klaxon was increasing as it approached.

‘Binoculars, please.’ Bond was commanding, not asking. Tirpitz handed over the glasses, and Bond adjusted the knurled wheel, bringing Rivke into sharp focus.

She appeared to be lying at an odd angle, waist deep in snow, though there were traces of cracked, hard snow and ice around the area in which she lay. From what little he could see of the girl’s face, Bond had the impression that she was in pain. Laboriously she hauled back on the line, pulling the far end towards her from above. The process seemed to take a very long time. Rivke – obviously in distress, and suffering from cold as well as pain – kept stopping to rest. The simple job of hauling the linedown had turned into a major battle. From his view through the binoculars, it seemed to Bond as though she were pulling a heavy dead weight on the line.

From time to time, when he could see she was flagging, he urged her on, his loud voice throwing great bouncing echoes around them. Finally she pulled the whole line in and began the struggle of getting it around her body.

‘Under the arms, Rivke,’ Bond instructed. ‘Knot it and slide the knot to your back. Then raise your hands when you’re ready.’

After an age, the hands lifted.

All right. Now we’re going to bring you down as gently as we can. We will be dragging you through the soft snow, but don’t forget, if it becomes too painful, raise both arms. Stand by, Rivke.’

Bond turned to the others, who had already unknotted the line from the Finlandia’s bumper, and slowly pulled in the slack from Rivke to the bottom of the slope.

Bond had been aware of the ambulance arriving but now registered its presence for the first time. There was a full medical team on board, complete with a young, bearded doctor. Bond asked where they would take her, and the doctor – whose name turned out to be Simonen – said they were from the small hospital at Salla. ‘After that,’ he raised his hands in an uncertain gesture, ‘it depends on her injuries.’

It took the best part of three-quarters of an hour to pull Rivke to within reaching distance. She was only half conscious when Bond, pushing through the snow, came near her. He guided those who pulled on the line to bring her gently right down to the edge of the run out.

She moaned, opening her eyes as the doctor got to her, immediately recognising Bond. ‘James, what happened?’ The voice was small and weak.

‘Don’t know, love. You had a fall.’ Under the goggles and scarf muffling his face, Bond felt the anxiety etched into his own features, just as the telltale white blotches of frostbite were visible on the exposed parts of Rivke’s face.

After a few moments the doctor touched Bond’s shoulder, pulling him away. Tirpitz and Kolya Mosolov knelt by the girlas the doctor muttered, ‘Both legs fractured, by the look of it.’ He spoke excellent English, as Bond had discovered during their earlier exchange. ‘Frostbite, as you can see, and advanced hypothermia. We have to get her in fast.’

‘As quick as you can.’ Bond caught hold of the doctor’s sleeve. ‘Can I come to the hospital later?’

‘By all means.’

She was unconscious again, and Bond could do nothing but stand back and watch, his mind in confusion, as they gently strapped Rivke on to a stretcher and slid her into the ambulance. Pictures seemed to overlap in his head: the present cold, the ice and snow, and the ambulance, crunching off towards the main hotel car park exit, flashed between visions which came, unwanted, from his memory bank: another ambulance; a different road; heat; blood all over the car; and an Austrian policeman asking endless questions about Tracy’s death. That nightmare – the death of his only wife – always lurked in the far reaches of Bond’s mind.

As though the two pictures had suddenly merged, he heard Kolya saying, ‘We have to talk, James Bond. I have to ask questions. We must also be ready for tonight. It’s all fixed, but now we’re one short. Arrangements will have to be made.’

Bond nodded, slowly trudging back towards the hotel. In the foyer, they agreed to meet in Kolya’s room at three.

In his own room, Bond unlocked his briefcase, and operated the internal security devices which released the false bottom and sides – all covered by Q’ute’s ingenious screening device. From one of the side compartments he took out an oblong unit, red in colour, and no larger than a packet of cigarettes – the VL34, so-called ‘Privacy Protector’, possibly one of the smallest and most advanced electronic ‘bug’ detecting devices. On his arrival the previous night, Bond had already swept the room and found it clean, but he was not going to take chances now.

Drawing out the retractable antennae, he switched on the small machine and began to sweep the room. In a matter of seconds, a series of lights began to glow along the front panel. Then, as the antennae pointed towards the telephone, a yellow light came on, verifying that a transmitter and microphone were somewhere in the telephone area.

Having located one listening bug, Bond carefully went over the entire room. There were a couple of small alarms, near the radio and television sets, but the failsafe yellow signal light did not lock on. Within a short time, he had established that the only bug in the room was the first one signalled – in the telephone. Examining the instrument, he soon discovered it contained an updated version of the old and familiar ‘infinity bug’, which turns a telephone into a transmitter, giving a twenty-four hour service. Even at the other end of the world, an operator can pick up not only telephone calls, but also anything said within the room in which the telephone is located.

Bond removed the bug, carried it to the bathroom and ground it under the heel of his Mukluk before flushing it down the lavatory. ‘So perish all enemies of the state,’ he muttered with a wry smile.

The others would almost certainly be covered by this – or similar – bugs. The questions remained: how, and when, had the bug been planted, and how had they so neatly timed the attempt on Rivke’s life? Paula would have had to move with great speed to act against Rivke – or any of them. Unless, Bond thought, the Hotel Revontuli was so well-penetrated that things had been fixed up well in advance of their arrival.

But to do that, Paula, or whoever was organising these counter-moves, would have had to be in on the Madeira briefing. Since Rivke had become a victim, she was already in the clear.But what of Brad Tirpitz and Kolya? He would soon discover the truth about those two. If the operation connected with the Russian Ordnance Depot, Blue Hare, was really ‘on’ tonight, perhaps the whole deck of cards would be laid out.

He stripped, showered and changed into comfortable clothes, then stretched out on the bed, lighting one of his Simmons cigarettes. After two or three puffs Bond crushed the butt into the ashtray and closed his eyes, drifting into a doze.

Waking with a start, Bond glanced at his watch. It was almost three o’clock. He crossed to the window and looked out. The snowscape appeared to change as he stood there, the sudden sharp white altering as the sun went down. Then came the magic of what in the Arctic Circle they call ‘the blue moment’, when the glaring white of snow and ice on ground, rocks, buildings, and trees, turns a greenish-blue shade for a minute or two before the dusk sets in.

He would be late for the meeting with Kolya and Tirpitz, but that could not be helped. Bond quickly went to his now bug-free telephone, and asked the operator for the hospital number at Salla. She came back quite quickly. Bond got the dialling tone and picked out the number. His first thought on waking had been Rivke.

The hospital receptionist spoke an easy English. He enquired about Rivke and was asked to wait.

Finally the woman came back on the line. ‘We have no patient of that name, I’m afraid.’

‘She was admitted a short time ago,’ Bond said. ‘After an accident at the Hotel Revontuli. On the ski slopes. Hypothermia, frostbite, and both legs fractured. You sent an ambulance and doctor . . .’ he paused, trying to remember the name, ‘. . . Doctor Simonen.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. This is a small hospital and I know all the doctors. There are only five, and none is called Simonen . . .’

‘Bearded. Young. He told me I could call.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but there must be some mistake. There have been no ambulance calls from the Revontuli today, I’ve just checked. No female admissions either; and we have no Doctor Simonen. In fact we have no young bearded doctors at all. I onlywish we had.’

Bond asked if there were any other hospitals near by. No. The nearest hospital was at Kemijärvi, and they would not operate anemergency service in this area any more than the hospital at Pelkosenniemi. Bond asked for the numbers of both those hospitals, and the local police, then thanked the girl and beganto dial again.

Within five minutes he knew the bad news. Neither of the hospitals had attended an accident at the hotel. What was more, the local police did not have a Saab Finlandia operating on the roads that day. In fact, no police patrol had been sent to the hotel. It was not a mistake; the police knew the hotel very well. So well that they did their ski training there.

They were very sorry.

So was Bond. Sorry, and decidedly shaken.