‘Mr Stromberg? How do you do. My name is Sterling. Robert Sterling. It’s most awfully kind of you to receive me like this. I do hope I’m not disturbing your routine too much? Couldn’t resist making contact when I knew I was going to be in the area.’ Bond grasped the hand of corpse-like coldness that slowly advanced to meet his own and tried to read messages in the extraordinary oval face. Perhaps it was the light but the features seemed so indistinct that they might have been painted in watercolours on an eggshell. Was this whey- faced, insubstantial creature the ruthless founder of the Stromberg empire?
‘Quite agree with the point you were making about oceanic exploration,’ Bond babbled on in his guise of hearty academic. ‘Still, if the rest of your operation is anything on this scale you seem well prepared to rectify the oversight. Tell me. What prompted you to build your laboratory here?’
Stromberg’s eyes bored into him. ‘You will probably have noticed that the natural harbour in which we are situated is formed by the caldera of a volcano that exploded three thousand years ago - we are in fact on the most northerly sector of the Ligurian Tyrrhenian volcanic arc passing through Vesuvius and Etna. I hope that I will eventually be able to build harbour gates so that the whole area of the caldera can be turned into a site for the development of maritime resources.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Bond. ‘I wondered why you chose to cut yourself off from the more obvious pleasures of the Costa Smeralda.’
‘I invent the obvious, Mr Sterling.’ Stromberg’s eyes glittered dully. ‘Only when I invent it, it is unique. That is why I enjoy a generous measure of commercial success.* He suddenly walked to the wall of an aquarium and tapped on the glass. ‘Tell me. What is the name of this variety?’
Bond felt his stomach turn to ice. The sudden change of subject and the aggressive edge to the voice were contemptuously chilling. It was like being interviewed for a job and hearing the interviewer’s chair Scrape back. He advanced towards the glass feeling as if someone had applied a coating of talcum powder to the roof of his mouth. Stromberg was watching him intently. What the devil could he say? That he had left his spectacles at the hotel and was blind without them? How ridiculously lame it sounded. He peered into the tank - my God! Could it be true? He looked again. What a fantastic coincidence. The chap he had shared a study with at school had kept two of those. He remembered the outlandish Latin name.
‘Well?’
‘You mean the Pachypanchax Playfairi?’ Bond's voice was casual to the point of ennui. ‘The Thick Panchax.’ He tapped the glass as if it was the window of a petshop with a particularly beguiling puppy behind it. ‘Happy little chap, isn’t he?’ Bond turned away and walked as swiftly as he dared towards a glass case lit from inside. ‘What’s this?’
‘Something that I think you’ll find very interesting, Mr Sterling.’ There was no warmth in the voice but the edge of distrustful menace had been blunted. ‘A plan that I am developing. It’s a project very close to my heart.’
Stromberg’s small, sphincter mouth had devoured its lips and his face glowed with a strange luminous sheen. Bond was glad to look down into the case. It clearly represented the bed of the ocean and showed inter-connected glass-domed buildings. Like living in a goldfish bowl, he thought to himself. Most imposing of all, the laboratory standing in the middle of the whole structure. The axle from which the spokes radiated. It must all be feasible. Bond wondered what kind of comment would be appropriate.
‘How long do you envisage people staying down there?'
A chilling intensity froze the liquid eyes. ‘Indefinitely, Mr Sterling.’
There was a challenge in the voice but before Bond could consider means of answering it, he was saved by the soft, muted warbling of a concealed telephone.
‘Excuse me, Mr Sterling.’ Stromberg crossed to the wall by the lift and opened a concealed cupboard. The incongruous warbling stopped. Bond turned towards the far aquarium as a huge grey shadow passed across the glass and then swung abruptly away. A shark. And a big one. It must have been fourteen foot at least. Bond moved forward and his jaw tightened as the sinister flat head planed in towards him. The half-moon mouth seemed to be set in a contemptuous sneer, as if daring him to cross the glass barrier that divided them, and the flick of the turning tail was dismissive. Bond watched the shark disappear into the cobalt gloom and wondered how far back the aquarium went. There seemed to be some gap in the rocks like the entrance to a tunnel. He was about to turn away when something emerged from the tunnel. A large spider-crab clutching an object in one of its pincers. Bond peered forward. The crab was dragging a human hand, severed at the wrist. The flesh was hideous, glaucous green but the long female nails, with one exception, were intact. Bond controlled a desire to retch.
‘I am sorry, Mr Sterling- Stromberg had materialized behind him like a ghost. Had he too seen the hand? Bond turned away and tried to appear composed before the searching eyes that fed on secrets. ‘Something has arisen that requires my urgent attention. I hope you will forgive me if I bring our meeting to a close. At least you will have enjoyed a small maritime excursion/
‘Oh, much more.’ Bond could feel his legs carrying him towards the lift as if operating under their own volition. ‘Just to catch a glimpse of your operation was a privilege.’
Stromberg pressed a button and the lift door slid open. ‘Goodbye, Mr Sterling. We never had an opportunity to discuss your activities but I wish you success with them.’
Bond inclined his head deferentially. ‘What I’ve seen today encourages me to redouble my efforts. Goodbye, Mr Stromberg.’
The lift door closed, and for several seconds Stromberg continued to stare at it reflectively. He then crossed to the aquarium where Bond had last been standing and looked downwards. His was not a face on which it was easy to read expressions, but a faint cloud of preoccupation wrinkled the serene brow. Obediently, the swivelling lenses of the closed- circuit television followed his every move and awaited the inevitable summons. Stromberg was still looking at the floor of the tank when he eventually spoke.
‘Send Jaws in. There is more work to be done.’
Motorcycles are Dangerous
‘Comfortable?’ asked Bond.
‘Physically, yes. Mentally, less so.’ Anya looked at him challengingly. ‘It does not seem to be the moment to go riding in fast sports-cars.’
Bond coaxed the Esprit’s stubby gear-stick into first. ‘Fasten your seat belt. You’ll enjoy it more.’
‘But where are we going?’
‘I want to take a closer look at Stromberg’s laboratory.’
‘We could take a boat from the hotel.’
‘Too risky. I think Stromberg has a number of friends at the hotel They’d soon be on the wireless to him. Has your baggage been searched?’
Anya looked at him sharply. ‘I thought it was you.’
Bond smiled. ‘Not guilty. I’ve had everything searched - and by experts. They even checked the heels of my shoes. I found the marks where they'd been prising out the nails.’ Bond paused whilst a small, nut-brown child retrieved her beach ball from beneath the wheels, and slowly took the car down the drive.
Anya settled hack against the head-rest and stretched out her legs. ‘So we’re going to approach the place from a different direction?' Bond raised approving eyes from legs to road. ‘Exactly.’ He paused at the entrance to the drive and swung the wheel to the left. The Lotus came round like a whippet with its nose down on a rabbit and the race-proved two-litre 907 engine began to bubble happily as the revs built up. Anya watched the expression of tight-lipped anticipation on Bond s face and smiled to herself. He was like a child with a new toy.
‘Do you think they could operate the tracking system from the laboratory?’
Bond frowned. ‘It’s feasible, I suppose. What I don’t understand is how they could have sunk the submarines - if that’s what happened.’ He did a racing change and blessed the telescopic shock-absorbers as the Esprit ironed out a pot-hole and swung round a
corner as if hooked to a rail.
Anya shrank back into the bucket seat. ‘Do you always drive like this?’
Bond darted a glance at her. ‘No. Sometimes I speed a little.’ A piece of straight road loomed up and the needle flickered against the hundred mark. ‘How did your conducted tour go?’
‘Very slowly. Nobody understood my questions, or at least, pretended not to. But some of those men were Bulgars, I would swear it. They understood Russian.’
‘So you saw nothing? No laboratories? No unusual equipment?’
‘They showed me a kind of sitting-room. That was most untechnical. Very old-fashioned in fact - except for the model of a tanker. The latest addition to the Stromberg line. It is called the Lepadus. It weighs over six hundred thousand tons.’ Bond whistled through his teeth. ‘It must be the biggest in the world.’
Anya’s chin lifted proudly. ‘After the Karl Marx.''
Bond sighed and slipped past a lorry while the driver wondered why he had never seen him coming up in the rear-view mirror. ‘I might have guessed. Maybe it would be a good idea to check out this Lepadus. I’ll get on to M about it.’
Anya leant across and tapped Bond lightly on the knee. ‘That will not be necessary, James’ - she pronounced it ‘Shems’ which Bond found rather charming - ‘I have already contacted our information service.*
Bond nodded and pursed his lips. It would be foolish to underestimate Major Amasova. She was the ultimate proof that beauty and brains could go together. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and frowned. That was funny. The motorcycle and side-car that had suddenly appeared behind them. The sea was on one side, a hundred feet below a low stone wall, and there was sheer cliff on the other. The motorcycle must have been in a lay-by. It was almost as if it had been waiting for them. Bond put his foot down and the Lotus surged forward. Anya caught up with her stomach and followed Bond’s checking eyes.
‘Do you think we’re being followed?’
‘Possibly. But they won’t be able to live with us in that thing. I’d be more worried if there was anyone in the sidecar.’ Bond put his foot down and flicked into fourth as the needle hovered round the ninety mark. The mounting excitement of the Grand Prix engine settled into a contented bay. Ahead was a long stretch of straight road with the sea twinkling far below.
‘He’s dropping back - James.’
Bond’s eyes shot to the mirror. At first glance it seemed as if Anya was right. Bond suppressed a smile. Serve the fellow right. It was an impertinence to try and keep up with the Lotus in that thing. Then Bond looked again. The combination was actually breaking up! There was a ferocious wobble and the motorcycle veered off to the left. Bond watched in amazement. The sidecar was still coming on!
‘James! It’s coming for us!’
Anya was right. Like a land torpedo, the sidecar was gaining on them fast. Bond drove the accelerator pedal down until his foot was flattening the carpet pile. The engine roared enthusiastically and the rev counter climbed towards the six thousand mark. A hundred and twenty, a hundred and twenty- five - racing change into fifth - a hundred and thirty, a hundred and thirty-five. The needle was still climbing, but -
‘It’s gaining on us!'
What the devil was it? Some kind of guided missile programmed to destroy them? Was there no way of shaking it off? Bond searched the road ahead. They were coming up fast behind a furniture van. Bond read the Italian on the back: The Mandami Mattress Company. Well, it was soon going to be sweet dreams, unless ... Bond shot towards the van as if intent on ramming it and felt Anya tensing beside him. The wedge nose of the Esprit trembled under the tail board and he glanced at the mirror. Death dressed in yellow and orange was streaking towards them. Bond threw the wheel over and heard Anya scream. An articulated lorry filled the road. Its headlights swore but Bond's pressure on the accelerator pedal did not slacken. As the wall of metal bore down on them the Lotus rippled and then hurled itself forward. There was an eldritch wail like an express train passing in the night and the world disintegrated into a kaleidoscope of smeared vision and ruptured sound.
Bond jerked the wheel to the right and the car skipped into line behind him. Suddenly, the road in front was empty. Thank God! The tension released itself as if through an opened valve. He glanced at the mirror. Behind, it was snowing. The road was obscured by a blizzard of white flakes. Not snowflakes, feathers! The side-car had detonated on impact with the van and blown God knows how many feather mattresses to kingdom come. In hot pursuit, the motorcyclist, half blinded by feathers, lost control of his machine. The bike twisted like a rubber band and went through the low wall as if it was pie crust. For an instant it seemed to hang in space, and then traced a graceful parabola to the ocean. Driver and machine were not separated when they hit the water. Bond’s cruel face looked down at the widening, froth-flecked ripples without expression. He shook his head.
‘All those feathers and be still couldn't fly.'
The cloud of feathers began to disperse and drift towards the sea, revealing the charred superstructure of the van. Flames licked through the roof and the driver stood beside the still- intact cab of his blazing vehicle and semaphored his feelings to heaven.
Bond watched as a battered Fiat saloon picked its way through the wreckage and waited for the occupants to come stumbling out and join the van driver in a pantomime of Latin gesticulation. But the Fiat did not stop. Clear of the obstruction, it picked up speed and came towards them. Fast. Bond jerked his head round and the 14-inch 7Js blitzed gravel against the perimeter wall. In five seconds the needle had passed fifty and the Lotus was filling its lungs with power. The Fiat hurtled after them and the chase was on. Bond glanced in the mirror and his jaw tightened. The Fiat was holding on well. Something must have been souped up under that rusty bonnet. As he looked, a figure leaned out of one of the windows and something glinted. Crack! Crack! Two single shots and then a burst of automatic fire. Bond sawed at the wheel and swung the Lotus from side to side as a bend loomed up. For a fraction of a second, an oncoming car hung before them and Bond saw a close-up of the driver’s terrified face. Then they were in a tunnel. So fast that Bond had no time to flick up the headlights. A semi-circle of light became huge before them and bullets hurled chunks of rock against the side of the car. Out of the corner of his eye, Bond could see that Anya had her Beretta in her hand. She turned towards the window.
‘Don’t bother.’
‘But-’
‘I know you’re a crack shot.’ Bond smiled grimly and drifted into a bend. The tail of the Lotus swung out and then snapped back with a seductive wriggle. ‘I’ve done some research as well.’ He glanced at the dashboard. ‘How far behind are they?5
‘Thirty metres.’
‘It’s what my old Scottish nanny used to call “byebyes time”.’ He pressed a switch. Nothing happened. Cursing, he pressed it again.
Anya said nothing. She merely leaned out of her window and squeezed off two shots. The cracks were barely audible over the roar of the wind and the engine. The Fiat held its course for a few moments and then slewed violently across the road. Its wheels seemed to fold under it and it snapped off a hollow bollard like a rotten tooth and plunged down a steep incline. The petrol tank exploded on the first bounce and like a fireball aimed at hell the Fiat plummeted on to the rocks three hundred feet below. There was a second, more violent explosion and a column of black smoke to mark the spot for the fast disappearing Lotus.
Bond avoided Anya’s eyes. ‘Back to the drawing-board,’ he said ruefully. He eased his foot off the accelerator as the road began to snake down towards the sea. He looked down towards the welcoming blue ocean and thought of the human mincemeat frying as its edge. How much luck did he have left?
‘Somebody must have called the Polizia." Anya was looking along the coast to where a helicopter was approaching at speed. Bond frowned. It was too early to be certain but it looked like a Bell YUH-IB. The model under the glass dome at Stromberg’s laboratory. He began to gun the motor.
‘It is coming so fast!’
Bond's eyes were worried slits. ‘It’s probably been fitted with auxiliary turbojets. Should be capable of over three hundred miles an hour.’ Twice as fast as the Lotus. And it was following the line of the road. The next seconds were crucial If it was the police it would stop at the burnt-out van. Bond swung into a hairpin and the helicopter was blotted from view. Right hand, left hand, foot down. He looked back. Nothing. A feeling of relief swept over him. He must guard against getting jumpy.
Then it was on them, like an angry dragonfly swooping over die lee of the hill. The sudden roar of the props made his nerves scream and there was the deadly hammer of cannon fire. A swathe of shells blasted the road in front of him and stitched a seam of dust explosions up the banking. Bond started to drive like a madman. He had to get down to sea level! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! The chopper was coming in again. Opening up at the road behind them and letting its superior speed do the rest. Anya could see the line of shells racing towards them like a shark’s fin towards its victim. Then suddenly there was darkness and a receding circle of light. They were in another tunnel. She turned to Bond. ‘Why don’t we stay here?’
The callous eyes stared unflinchingly ahead. ‘Because we'd be trapped. They'd drop somebody at either end and shoot us to pieces.’
Now they were out of the tunnel and sweeping down towards the sea, protected by high banking. Anya could see the water twinkling twenty feet below her. The sky above was empty. Had the helicopter called off the chase? It was probably still climbing over the rock they had just sped through.
Then it was on them again like an avenging blade. The manoeuvrability of the Bell was extraordinary. It might have been pinned to their tail. The road opened up and Anya's heart fell. It ran beside the sea, straight and level as a landing strip. There was no escape route. They would have to stop and fight at any cover that presented itself. But Bond did not stop.
James Bond, The Spy Who Loved Me Page 12
