Nobody Lives for Ever

10

THE MOZART MAN

Sukie looked hard at Bond, and then down at the gun. ‘It’s a pretty little thing, isn’t it?’ She smiled, and he thought he could detect relief in her eyes.

‘Just stop pointing it at me. Put on the safety catch and stow it, Sukie.’

She broadened the smile. ‘Same goes for you, James.’

Suddenly Bond became aware of his nakedness, and grabbed at the hotel towelling robe as Sukie fitted the small pistol into a holster attached to her white suspender belt.

‘Nannie fixed me up with this. Just like hers.’ She looked up at him, primly pulling down her skirt. ‘I brought your stamps, James. What was going on in the bathroom? For a horrible moment I thought you were having real trouble.’

‘I was having trouble, Sukie. Very unpleasant trouble, in the shape of a large hybrid vampire bat, which is not a creature you usually come across in Europe, and especially not in Salzburg. Somebody prepared this one for me.’

‘A vampire bat?’ Her voice rose in astonishment. ‘James! It could have . . .’

‘. . . probably killed me. It was almost certainly carrying something even more lethal than rabies or bubonic plague. How did you get in, by the way?’

‘I knocked but there was no reply.’ She laid the little strip of stamps on the table. ‘Then I realised the door was open. It wasn’t until I heard the noises coming from the bathroom that I switched on the light. Someone had jammed the shower door with a chair. Actually, I thought it was a practical joke – it’s the kind of thing Nannie gets up to – until I heard you shout. I kicked the chair out of the way and moved like lightning.’

‘And then waited in here with a loaded gun.’

‘Nannie’s teaching me to use it. She seems to think it’s necessary.’

‘And I think it’s really necessary for you both to get out of this but thinking won’t make it happen. Would you like to do me another favour?’

‘Whatever you wish, James.’

Her attitude was suspiciously soft, even yielding. Bond wondered if a girl like Sukie Tempesta would have the guts to handle a dangerous hybrid vampire bat. On balance, he thought, the Principessa Tempesta was perfectly capable of such an act.

‘I want you to get me some rubber gloves and a large bottle of antiseptic.’

‘Any particular brand?’ She stood up.

‘Something very strong.’

After Sukie had left on her errand, Bond retrieved the small bottle from the first aid kit and rubbed antiseptic over every inch of his skin. To counteract the strong antiseptic smell he applied cologne. Then he started to dress.

He was concerned about disposing of the bat’s corpse. Really it should be incinerated, and the bathroom ought to be fumigated. Bond could hardly go to the hotel manager and explain the circumstances. Plenty of antiseptic, a couple of the hotel plastic carriers and a quick visit to the waste-disposal unit, then hope for the best, he thought.

He put on his grey Cardin suit, a light blue shirt from Hilditch and Key of Jermyn Street, and a white-spotted navy blue tie. The telephone rang and as Bond picked it up he glanced at the tape machine. He saw the tiny cassette begin to turn as he answered curtly.

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Bond? Is that you, Mr Bond?’ It was Kirchtum, breathing heavily and obviously very frightened.

‘Yes, Herr Direktor. Are you all right?’

‘Physically, yes. They say I am to speak the truth and tell you what a fool I’ve been.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, I tried to refuse to pass any further instructions to you. I told them they should do this job themselves.’

‘And they did not take too kindly to that.’ Bond paused, then added for the sake of the tape, ‘Particularly as you had already told me I must come with the two ladies to the Goldener Hirsch, here in Salzburg.’

‘I must now give you instructions quickly, they say, otherwise they will use the electricity again.’ The man sounded on the verge of tears.

‘Go ahead. Fast as you like, Herr Doktor.’

Bond knew what Kirchtum was talking about – the brutal, old, but effective method of attaching electrodes to the genitals. Outdated methods of persuasion were often quicker than the drugs used by more sophisticated interrogators nowadays. Kirchtum spoke more rapidly, his voice high-pitched with fear, and Bond could almost see them standing over him, a hand poised on the switch.

‘You are to go to Paris tomorrow. It should take you only one day. You must drive on the direct route, and there are rooms booked for you at the George Cinq.’

‘Do the ladies have to accompany me?’

‘This is essential . . . You understand? Please say you understand, Mr Bond . . .’

‘I . . .’ He was interrupted by an hysterical scream. Had the switch been pulled for encouragement? ‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ It was not the doctor speaking now, but a hollow, distorted voice. ‘Good. Then you will save the two ladies we are holding from a most unpleasant, slow end. We shall speak again in Paris, Bond.’

The line went dead, and Bond picked up the miniature tape machine. He ran the tape back and replayed it through its tiny speaker. At least he could get this information to Vienna or London. The final echoing voice on the line might also be of some small help to them. Even if the men terrorising Kirchtum at the Klinik Mozart had used an electronic ‘voice handkerchief’, there was still the chance that Q Branch might take an accurate voice print from it. At least if they could make some identification, M would know which particular organisation Bond was dealing with.

He went over to the desk and removed the tiny cassette from the tape machine, nipping off the little plastic safety lug to prevent the tape from being accidentally recorded over. He addressed a stout envelope in M’s cover name as Chairman of Transworld, at one of the safe Post Office box numbers, folded the cassette into a sheet of hotel writing paper, on which he had written a few words, and sealed the envelope. Guessing the weight of the package, he added stamps.

He had just finished this important chore when a knock at the door heralded Sukie’s return. She carried a brown paper sack containing her purchases, and appeared inclined to stay in the room until Bond firmly suggested that she join Nannie and wait in the snug bar for him.

The job of cleaning up the bathroom, wearing the rubber gloves and using almost the entire bottle of antiseptic which Sukie had brought him took fifteen minutes. Before completing the job he added the gloves to the neat, sinister parcel containing the remains of the vampire bat. He was as sure as he could be that no germs had entered his system.

While he worked, Bond thought of the possibilities regarding the perpetrator of this last attempt on his life. He was almost certain that it was his old enemy, SMERSH – now Directorate S’s Department Eight of the KGB – who were holding Kirchtum, and using him as their personal messenger. But was it really their style to use such a thing as a hybrid vampire bat against him?

Who, he wondered, would have the resources to work on the breeding and development of a weapon so horrible? It struck him that the creature must have taken a number of years to be brought to its present state, and that indicated a large organisation, with funds and the specialist expertise required. The work would have been carried out in a simulated warm forest-like environment, for, if his memory was correct, the species’ natural habitats were the jungles and forests of Mexico, Chile, Argentina and Uruguay.

Money, special facilities, time and zoologists without scruples: SPECTRE was the obvious bet, though any well-funded outfit with an interest in terrorism and killings would be on the list, for the creature would not have been developed simply as a one-off to inject some terrible terminal disease into Bond’s bloodstream. The Bulgarians and Czechs favoured that kind of thing, and he would not even put it past Cuba to send some agent of their well-trained internal G-2 out into the wider field of international intrigue. The Honoured Society, that polite term for the Mafia, was also a possibility – for they were not beyond selling the goods to terrorist organisations, as long as they were not used within the borders of the United States, Sicily or Italy.

But, when the chips were down, Bond plumped for SPECTRE itself – only, once more during this strange dance with death, someone had saved him, at the last moment, from another attempted execution, and this time it was Sukie, a young woman met seemingly by accident. Could she be the truly dangerous one?

He sought out the kitchens and with a great deal of charm explained that some food had been left accidentally in his car. He asked if there was an incinerator and a porter man was summoned to lead him to it. The man even offered to dispose of the bundle himself, but Bond tipped him heavily and said he would like to see it burned.

It was already six-twenty. Before going to the bar he made a last visit to his room and doused himself in cologne to disguise any remaining traces of the antiseptic.

Sukie and Nannie were anxious to hear what he had been doing, but Bond merely said they would be told all in good time. For the moment they should enjoy the pleasanter things of life. After a drink in the snug bar, they moved to the table which Nannie had been sensible enough to reserve and dined on the famous Viennese boiled beef dish called Tafelspitz. It was like no other boiled beef on earth, a gastronomic delight, with a piquant vegetable sauce, and served with melting sautéed potatoes. They had resisted a first course for it is sacrilege to decline dessert in an Austrian restaurant. They chose the light, fragile Salzburger soufflé, said to have been created nearly three hundred years ago by a chef in the Hohensalzburg. It arrived topped by a mountain of Schlag, rich whipped cream.

Afterwards they went outside among the strolling window-shoppers in the warm air of the Getreidegasse. Bond wanted to be safe from bugging equipment.

‘I’m too full,’ said Nannie, hobbling with one hand on her stomach.

‘You’re going to need the food with what the night has in store for us,’ Bond said quietly.

‘Promises, promises,’ Sukie muttered, breathing heavily. ‘I feel like a dirigible. So what’s in store, James?’

He told them they would be driving to Paris.

‘You’ve made it plain that you’re coming with me, whatever. The people who are giving me the run-around have also insisted that you’re to accompany me, and I have to be sure that you do. The lives of a very dear friend, and an equally dear colleague are genuinely at risk. I can say no more.’

‘Of course we’re coming,’ Sukie snapped.

‘Try and stop us,’ added Nannie.

‘I’m going to do one thing out of line,’ he explained. ‘The orders are that we start tomorrow – which means they expect us to do it in daylight. I’m starting shortly after midnight. That way I can plead that we did start the drive tomorrow, but we might get a jump ahead of them. It’s not much, but it may just throw them off balance.’

It was agreed that they would meet by the car on the stroke of midnight. As they started to retrace their steps towards the Goldener Hirsch, Bond paused briefly by a letter box set into the wall and slid his package from his breast pocket to the box. It was neatly done, in seconds, and he was fairly certain that even Sukie and Nannie did not notice.

It was just after ten when he got back to his room. By ten-thirty the briefcases and his bag were packed, and he had changed into casual jeans and jacket. He was carrying the ASP and the baton as usual. With an hour and a half to go, Bond sat down and concentrated on how he might gain the initiative in this wild and dangerous death hunt.

So far, the attempts on his life had been cunning. Only in their early encounters had someone else stepped in to save his life, presumably in order to set him up for the final act in the drama. He knew that he could trust nobody – especially Sukie since she had revealed herself as his saviour, however unwitting, in the vampire bat incident. But how could he now take some command over the situation? Suddenly he thought of Kirchtum, held prisoner in his own clinic. The last thing they would expect would be an assault on this power base. It was a fifteen minute drive out of Salzburg to the Klinik Mozart and time was short. If he could find the right car, perhaps it was just possible.

Bond left the room and hurried downstairs to the reception desk to ask what self-drive hire cars were immediately available. For once, he seemed to be making his own luck. There was a Saab 900 Turbo, a car he knew well, which had only just been returned. A couple of short telephone calls secured it for him. It was waiting only four minutes’ walk from the hotel.

As he waited for the cashier to take his credit card details, he walked over to the internal telephones and rang Nannie’s number. She answered immediately.

‘Say nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘Wait in your room. I may have to delay departure for an hour. Tell Sukie.’

She agreed, but sounded surprised. By the time he returned to the desk, the formalities had been completed.

Five minutes later, having collected the car from a smiling representative, Bond was driving skilfully out of Salzburg on the mountain road to the south, passing in the suburbs the strange Anif water-tower which rises like an English manor house from the middle of a pond. He continued almost as far as the town of Hallein, which had begun as an island bastion in the middle of the Salzach and which has been made famous as the birthplace of Franz-Xavier Gruber, the composer of Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht.

The Klinik Mozart stands back from the road, about two kilometres on the Salzburg side of Hallein, the seventeenth-century house screened from passing view by woods.

Bond pulled the Saab into a lay-by. He switched off the headlights and the engine, put on the reverse lock and climbed out. A few moments later he had ducked under the wooden fencing and was moving carefully through the trees, peering in the darkness for his first sight of the clinic. He had no idea how the security of the clinic was arranged; neither did he know how many people he was up against.

He reached the edge of the trees just as the moon came out. There was light streaming from many of the large windows at the front of the building, but the grounds were in darkness. As his eyes adjusted, Bond tried to pick up movement across the hundred metres of open space that separated him from the house. There were four cars parked on the wide gravel drive but no sign of life. Gently he eased out the ASP, gripping it in his right hand. He took the baton in his left and flicked it open, ready for use. Then he broke cover, moving fast and silently, remaining on the grass and avoiding the long drive up to the house.

Nothing moved and there was not a sound. He reached the gravel forecourt and tried to remember where the Direktor’s office was situated in relation to the front door. Somewhere to the right, he thought, remembering how he had stood at the tall windows when he had come to arrange May’s admission, looking out at the lawns and the drive. Now he had a fix, for he recalled that they were French windows. There were French windows immediately to his right showing chinks of light through the closed curtains.

He eased himself towards the windows, realising with thudding heart that they were open and muffled voices could be heard from inside. He was close enough actually to hear, if he concentrated, what was being said.

‘You cannot keep me here for ever – not with only three of you.’ It was the Direktor’s voice that he recognised first. The bluffness had disappeared, and was replaced by a pleading tone. ‘Surely you’ve done enough.’

‘We’ve managed well enough so far,’ another voice said. ‘You have been co-operative – to a point – Herr Direktor, but we cannot take chances. We shall leave only when Bond is secure and our people are far away. The situation is ideal for the shortwave transmitter; and your patients have not suffered. Another twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours will make little difference to you. Eventually we shall leave you in peace.’

‘Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,’ a third voice chanted with a chuckle. Bond’s blood ran cold. He moved closer to the windows, the tips of his fingers resting against the open crack.

‘You wouldn’t . . .’ There was trembling terror in Kirchturn’s voice, not hysterical fear, but the genuine terror that strikes a man facing death by torture.

‘You’ve seen our faces, Herr Direktor. You know who we are.’

‘I would never . . .’

‘Don’t even think about it. You have one more message to pass for us when Bond gets to Paris. After that . . . Well, we shall see.’

Bond shivered. He had recognised a voice he would never have thought, in a thousand years, he would hear in this situation. He took a deep breath and slowly pulled, widening the crack between the windows. Then he moved the curtains a fraction to peer into the room.

Kirchtum was strapped into an old-fashioned desk chair with a circular seat, made of wood and leather, and with three legs on castors. The bookcase behind him had been swept clean and books replaced by a powerful radio transmitter. A broad-shouldered man sat in front of the radio, another stood behind Kirchtum’s chair, and the third, legs apart, faced the Direktor. Bond recognised him at once, just as he had known the voice.

He breathed in through his nose, lifted the ASP and lunged through the windows. There was no time for hesitation. What he had heard told him that the three men constituted the entire enemy force at the Klinik Mozart.

The ASP thumped four times, two bullets shattering the chest of the man behind Kirchtum’s chair, the other two plunging into the back of the radio operator. The third man whirled around, mouth open, hand moving to his hip.

‘Hold it there, Quinn! One move and your legs go – right?’

Steve Quinn, the Service’s man in Rome, stood rock still, his mouth curving into a snarl as Bond removed the pistol from inside his jacket.

‘Mr Bond? How . . . ?’ Kirchtum spoke in a hoarse whisper.

‘You’re finished, James. No matter what you do to me, you’re finished.’ Quinn had not quite regained his composure, but he made a good attempt.

‘Not quite,’ said Bond smiling, but without triumph. ‘Not quite yet, though I admit I was surprised to find you here. Who are you really working for, Quinn? SPECTRE?’

‘No.’ Quinn gave him the shadow of a smile. ‘Pure KGB First Chief Directorate, naturally – for years, and not even Tabby knows. Now on temporary detachment to Department Eight, your old sparring partner, SMERSH. Unlike you, James, I’ve always been a Mozart man. I prefer to dance to good music.’

‘Oh, you’ll dance.’ Bond’s expression betrayed the cold, cruel streak that was the darkest side of his nature.