by John Gardner
She went to him, and began to study the spines of the books, and the lower section of the cabinet, which contained various items marked with small cards. The books – beautifully leather bound, with the symbol DD at the bottom of each spine – were all works on the same subject – political assassination. Here, there were volumes dealing with practically every famous public murder, from Caesar to JFK.
The objects in the cabinet mirrored the same subject. Flicka caught her breath when she saw items neatly labelled, ‘Jacket belonging to Graf Claus von Stauffenberg, and worn on the day of his attempted assassination of Adolph Hitler July 20, 1944’. Another claimed to be, ‘The pistol used to kill Mrs Ghandi’.
‘He’s into the assassination business with a vengeance,’ she said quietly. ‘Come and look at what I’ve found over here.’
They returned to the table where, from under the other papers, Flicka had retrieved several maps, street plans, and sheets of paper upon which were scribbled notes. The street plans were of Milan, Athens and Paris. There was also a plan of the interior of Milan’s famous La Scala Opera House; one of the Acropolis and the Parthenon, in Athens, and several jottings which appeared to depict a certain route leading from the centre of Paris to an unknown point near the city.
Among the scrawled notes, the words Milan, Athens and Paris were neatly underlined with initials next to each city. Milan equalled KTK; Athens showed the initials YA; while Paris had no less than three separate series of letters – PD; H; W.
‘Targets?’ Bond looked at her, raising his eyebrows.
‘Could be. Most certainly could be. I think we should get out and . . .’ She stopped abruptly, and they both turned towards the door, sensing another presence near by.
It was only a slight scraping. The sound of leather against the stone outside, but it was enough to send Bond, pistol in hand, to the door.
‘No!’ he yelled. Then again, ‘Don’t do i?’ Bond asked that f b dt or I’ll kill you where you stand.’
William moved, very fast, twirling backwards out of sight. Bond squeezed the trigger twice, hearing the bullets ricochet off the walls. The outer steel door clanged and the locks clicked shut.
‘Damn!’ Bond cursed, running forward. The outer door was secure and it would take more than a simple lockpick to get them out.
‘I rather think we should see if there’s another way out of here.’ Flicka calmly began to examine the wall of metal filing cabinets. ‘We’ve outstayed our welcome and I don’t particularly want to be here when they come back for us.’
‘The windows?’ He went over to the high arches and took a closer look at the glass. ‘We’d need an armour-piercing weapon to break this stuff, otherwise we could have abseiled down . . .’
‘If we had rope, James. Come on, let’s be practical, there’s some kind of space here around the filing cabinets.’
She was right. The entire wall of metal files appeared very solid, but, as Flicka banged on them with her hand, there appeared to be some give, as though they made up a false wall protecting space on the far side.
Bond stood back, his eyes searching for any possible concealed opening.
For ten minutes Flicka moved up and down the wall, while Bond sought a clue from the way the large cabinets were arranged. ‘It’s no good, I can’t see any weaknesses,’ he said at last.
‘Change places,’ Flicka commanded. ‘Sometimes new eyes . . .’ She stepped back and saw the answer immediately. ‘Yes. Look. This centre area here.’
As she pointed he saw what she meant. In the middle of the wall one section of the cabinets appeared to be surrounded by a darker line, the size and oblong shape of a door.
‘The ladder.’ He went across and drew the sliding ladder over until it was level with the right-hand section of the darker outline.
‘No. No, that’s not it.’ Flicka stepped to the files on the left of the now obvious door, and began to move the sliding metal drawers in and out. ‘I’m sure there’s a simple way.’ As she spoke they both heard a click from the file she was pulling out. ‘That’s it . . .’ She pushed and pulled and the drawer seemed to click into some hidden position, but nothing else happened. She tried the drawers above and below. They also clicked and stuck in place. ‘I’m sure . . .’ she began, then Bond leaned against the oblong of cabinets and they moved, swinging inwards.
‘Open Sesame,’ he whispered, as they walked through into a cold and clinically white chamber, one side of which was given over to a long console with an array of inlaid computer monitors, controls, a switchboard and two large TV monitors. The wall facing this large control panel contained row upon row of large mainframe computer tape machines, while in the wall in front of them was a door marked ‘Gantry. Danger High Voltage’.
Conversation was superfluous. It was obvious that they stood in the main control room for Dragonpol’s theatre museum. In the centre of the long console a glass panel covered a detailed electronic map of the exhibits, with winking lights to show exactly where the various sections lay in relation to the entire display. It was now clear that each of the many spectacles was activated by heat and movement sensors, so that the approach of visitors immediately turned on the various projections, holograms, sounds, smells and the lifelike automata. At the moment the master switch was in the ‘off’ positioning up there and the two large TV monitors gave a panoramic view of what seemed like a jumble of small theatres, cycloramas and lighting battens, all joined together by the walkway over which the unhappy Charles had been pushed.
‘Look.’ A flicker of movement caught Bond’s eye. His hand hesitated over the controls until he found a small joystick that operated one of the many closed-circuit TV cameras. He gently moved the stick, focusing and then zooming in on the movement. There on the walkway, William was climbing down to help Charles to his feet. The latter looked shaky and a little stunned, while the pair of them were obviously talking and trying to decide what should be done.
The walkway itself broadened and sloped on to firm ground at each exhibit, so that visitors were able to move directly from this main path around the museum into each presentation which would come to life at their approach and, cunningly, direct them back on to the higher metal path when the show was over. Groups of people would be automatically led from one exhibit to the next, probably in a state of disorientation which would lead to a greater sense of wonder.
Bond’s hand worked the joystick again, tilting the hidden camera up to view the walls of the museum. High above the exhibits was a second catwalk – obviously the gantry – which would be used for maintenance and possibly security. At intervals, metal ladders led straight down from the gantry giving access to the main walkway and the complex set pieces.
‘The man’s got a goldmine here once it’s completed.’ Flicka moved behind him, her voice almost a whisper of awe, adding, ‘If it’s ever completed.’
‘I vote we use the master switch, turn on all the fun of the fair and go down to hunt that pair of heavies on their own ground.’ Bond bent over the controls memorizing the layout and making sure he could lead them through the maze of exhibits.
‘It says, “Danger, high voltage”.’ Flicka inclined her head towards the door to the gantry.
‘So have you got some other magic way out of here?’
‘No, but I’m not really partial to getting a few thousand volts of electricity run through me.’
‘Then don’t touch anything. Keep away from the wall. Look . . .’
He began to carefully outline his plan, moving the closed-circuit TV camera around with the joystick to show her exactly which way they should go.
‘I always wanted to be in a big Broadway musical,’ she said, for the plan was to surface from the rear of the display which took visitors on to the stage of a musical – one of the exhibits they had not seen on their short tour which had been interrupted by Charles.
Once more Bond moved the camera to focus on to the area in which he had last seen the two supposed male nurses. They were
still there, with Charles rubbing a bruised shoulder and testing the strength of an injured leg.
‘William’s on the ball.’ Flicka nodded at the screen as William handed a spare automatic pistol to his colleague. ‘Thinks of everything. I imagine you want to get this show on the road before they both come dashing up here and do unspeakable things to us?’
‘I think it would be the wisest move. Ready?’
She nodded, and Bond’s hand once more hovered over the console, finally stopping just above the lever that bore the legend ‘master switch’. He hesitated again. ‘Just for the hell of it, Flick, could you make sure that door to the gantry is open?’
She opened the door and found herself looking downt believe a word of it.Couthing into an elevator shaft.
‘There’s a call button,’ she nodded back towards Bond. ‘How very thoughtful. If we had rushed in, we would’ve been clawing air.’ She pressed the button and they heard the whine of machinery.
Bond kept one eye on the TV monitor to check on Charles and William who seemed undecided about the next course of action and appeared to be arguing. William, he considered, was probably all in favour of doing away with them, while Charles probably wanted to at least wait until Maeve was back before taking any drastic action.
The cage rose and Flicka pulled back its sliding door.
‘Okay, let’s go.’
He pulled the master switch, saw the museum plunged into darkness on the monitor and walked quickly into the cage, which smoothly descended at a touch of the ‘down’ button. The elevator stopped and they found that they were in a narrow sloping passage which would clearly lead down into the main part of the castle, and the gantry high above the museum.
They went forward at a jog trot. ‘Remember we have no spare ammunition. If they start shooting, make every round count.’ Bond checked the Colt, and saw Flicka glance down at the handgun she had taken from Charles.
On reaching the door leading on to the gantry they paused, Bond telling her to move as quietly as possible. Then they crossed through into darkness, standing for a few seconds to allow their eyes to adjust.
Below them, far off to the left there was noise and action from the Globe Theatre exhibit near which they had been stopped by Charles. Slowly they traversed the catwalk, very much aware that they were suspended, dangerously high, above the vast cavern that was the museum.
Bond’s eyes were quickly conditioned to the darkness, and he led the way, feeling the safety bar to his left, trying to judge the distance to the metal ladder that would take them down, close by the Broadway musical exhibit. He counted four chained-off ladder sections, stopping when he came to the fifth, turning and whispering to Flicka, making downward motions with his hands.
He saw her nod, then he swung out on to the ladder, slipping the Colt into his waistband, momentarily wondering how she would cope with her weapon. The narrow rungs were cool and firm to the touch and he gradually increased his speed, descending rapidly into the blackness below, waiting at the bottom for Flicka to join him, gesturing with his arm towards where he considered the exhibit to be.
They were behind a high curving stone wall, the cyclorama at the back of the display. Silently they moved, crabbing their way to the end of the wall. Bond nodded to her, took a deep breath and they plunged forward.
Neither of them was prepared for the effects which suddenly assaulted all their senses. As they stepped into the dark area, so it became alive. For a few seconds they were almost blinded by the light and deafened by the noise: it was as though they had walked through some magic looking-glass on to a stage full of prancing, dancing figures, lit by floods and full battens of theatrical lighting, and singing their hearts out: ‘There’s no business like show business.’
The figures moved with precision following a set pattern of dance steps, the men in white tie and tails, the girls in silver tail coats, top hats and abbreviated spangled briefs. The noise was deafening, and Bond could just see an orchestra conductor through the glaring light.
Close up, the dancing automata had a bizarre appearance with sparkling staring eyes, rouged cheeks, set smiling faces, their mouths opening and closing like ventriloquists’ dummies, the dance steps prescribedt believe a word of it.Charles f b d by the patterns set in their computerized, robotic brains.
The impact of the whole slowed both Bond and Flicka who lost precious moments as they stood, almost confused by the spectacle.
Then the shooting began.
A male automaton was lifted off its feet, almost at Bond’s side as two bullets ripped in from somewhere beyond in the darkness. He had been aware of the muzzle flashes from the darkness, and fired twice in the general direction from which the shots had come as he blundered forward, nudging one of the female dancers so that the robot was pushed out of alignment and continued to go through her dance steps moving away from the other females.
He saw and heard Flicka fire into the black hole behind the lights and thought he heard a screech of pain above the din of music and singing. Another bullet cracked past his head, and the face of a second male robot disintegrated into wires and microchips as Bond leaped forward through the lights and into the cavern of darkness beyond.
The music and singing did their two cas
13
A RIDE IN THE COUNTRY
‘Don’t you think we should wait for Maeve? Sweat her?’ Flicka stood in the great hall. They had seen this part of the castle on their arrival, therefore only getting an impression of a heavily decorated Victorian-like entrance. Now, for the first time, they noticed the long minstrels’ gallery, high above.
‘That’s how we heard the Dragonfly talking to his sister.’ Bond pointed to the balustraded U shape above them.
‘Yes, but don’t you think we should wait?’
‘No, for one thing I don’t particularly want to do any explaining concerning two dead bodies. Also, if we’re to catch up with Dragonpol, we should head for Milan. That’s his first stop, isn’t it?’
‘According to the notes, yes. But, James, how do we set about finding him?’
‘We might have to get a little help, Flick. What I do know is that the longer we hang around here, the more time it gives Dragonpol.’
He went up to the place where they had left their luggage, carrying it down to the hall and then out to the BMW, which he checked meticulously before letting Flicka near it. He had read the full report of how Archie and Angela Shaw had died in London, and one thing was certain: Dragonpol knew about explosives just as he knew about other kinds of weapons and more exotic ways to death.
The car was clean so they just drove away, leaving Schloss Drache lit up as though for some festival.
They went as fast as the law would allow, heading for Bonn, and stopping only for Flicka to make one international call to Switzerland from a public telephone.
‘I won’t be long, my dear, but I have an idea and it might just make all the difference when we get into Italy,’ she told him, refusing to say more.
Bond sat, irritably, in the car, wondering silently on the amount of time it took women to make quick telephone calls, or dress for dinner – yet seemed to be able to get out of their clothes in the wink of an eye when occasion demanded.
In all, Flicka spent over half an hour in the phone booth.
‘Getting back into your service’s good books?’ Bond asked, when they were on the road again.
‘Not likely, my dear. I called our old chum Bodo.’
‘Lempke? The Swiss cop with the turnip head?’
‘The same. He’s a damned good policeman, and he also owes me a favour.’
‘Will he pay up?’
‘We’ll see when we get to Bonn.’
So, when they reached the airport and turned in the BMW, she made another call, while Bond got them on to a flight to Milan.
‘All set,’ Flicka told him. ‘We have a booking at the Palace.’
‘Oh, you couldn’t get us in at the Principe e Savoia?’ The Palace in Milan is
sister hotel to the Principe, and regarded mainly as a good, but no frills, hotel used by businessmen and provincials in town for one or two nights. The Palace was not noted for being an hotel of the grand school, but a resting place without luxury and with rooms designed in the utilitarian manner.
‘I didn’t even try the Principe,’ she snapped. ‘If you want kitsch, over-decorated five-star places, you can go and stay there on your own. Anyway, Bodo will know where to find us.’
‘He’s repaying your favour?’
‘More, he’s coming to see us. With information, I hope.’
He did not press for explanations. Already he had learned that Fredericka von Grüsse liked to do things her way, and she would tell him only when she was good and ready. Bond respected that, for he knew it mirrored his own attitude in arcane matters.
They arrived in Milan at a little after six in the evening, and by seven were settled into the Palace, amidst chrome and furnishings which were serviceable, though far from the luxury Bond would have preferred. However, the mini-bar was well stocked, and it was Flicka who suggested that they break out the champagne.
‘We have something to celebrate?’
‘Getting away from Schloss Drache in one piece is enough for me. But this might be a case of “we who are about to die”.’
‘What a charming idea. Why are we about to die, Flick?’
‘Work it out for yourself, James. It’s quite simple really. We’re both marked men – well, you are. I, on the other hand, am a marked woman.’
‘But shouldn’t we begin to try and find the Dragonfly?’
‘You like looking for needles in haystacks?’
He thought for a minute. She was right, of course. Without some official assistance, they would be unlikely to track down Dragonpol. He had even suggested that they make contact with some kind of authority. Yet something else was nagging away in the back of his mind, there just out of reach. Something they had overheard during that last conversation between Dragonpol and his sister.
‘I suspect he might well come looking for us. The Dragonfly, I mean.’
