Bond looked sideways at her. The pale skin was velvet. The blonde hair was silk—to the roots. He said: “Where are you from and what’s it all about?”
She said, concentrating on the traffic: “From the Station. Grade two assistant. Number 765 on duty, Mary Ann Russell off. I’ve no idea what it’s all about. I just saw the signal from H.Q.—personal from M. to Head of Station. Most Immediate and all that. He was to find you at once and if necessary use the Deuxième to help. Head of F said you always went to the same places when you were in Paris, and I and another girl were given a list.” She smiled. “I’d only tried Harry’s Bar, and after Fouquet’s I was going to start on the restaurants. It was marvellous picking you up like that.” She gave him a quick glance. “I hope I wasn’t very clumsy.”
Bond said: “You were fine. How were you going to handle it if I’d had a girl with me?”
She laughed. “I was going to do much the same except call you ‘sir.’ I was only worried about how you’d dispose of the girl. If she started a scene I was going to offer to take her home in my car and for you to take a taxi.”
“You sound pretty resourceful. How long have you been in the Service?”
“Five years. This is my first time with a Station.”
“How do you like it?”
“I like the work all right. The evenings and days off drag a bit. It’s not easy to make friends in Paris without”—her mouth turned down with irony—“without all the rest. I mean,” she hastened to add, “I’m not a prude and all that, but somehow the French make the whole business such a bore. I mean I’ve had to give up taking the Metro or buses. Whatever time of day it is, you end up with your behind black and blue.” She laughed. “Apart from the boredom of it and not knowing what to say to the man, some of the pinches really hurt. It’s the limit. So to get around I bought this car cheap, and other cars seem to keep out of my way. As long as you don’t catch the other driver’s eye, you can take on even the meanest of them. They’re afraid you haven’t seen them. And they’re worried by the bashed-about look of the car. They give you a wide berth.”
They had come to the Rond Point. As if to demonstrate her theory, she tore round it and went straight at the line of traffic coming up from the Place de la Concorde. Miraculously it divided and let her through into the Avenue Matignon.
Bond said: “Pretty good. But don’t make it a habit. There may be some French Mary Anns about.”
She laughed. She turned into the Avenue Gabrielle and pulled up outside the Paris headquarters of the Secret Service: “I only try that sort of manoeuvre in the line of duty.”
Bond got out and came round to her side of the car. He said: “Well, thanks for picking me up. When this whirl is over, can I pick you up in exchange? I don’t get the pinches, but I’m just as bored in Paris as you are.”
Her eyes were blue and wide apart. They searched his. She said seriously: “I’d like that. The switchboard here can always find me.”
Bond reached in through the window and pressed the hand on the wheel. He said “Good,” and turned and walked quickly in through the archway.
Wing Commander Rattray, Head of Station F, was a fattish man with pink cheeks and fair hair brushed straight back. He dressed in a mannered fashion with turned-back cuffs and double slits to his coat, bow-ties and fancy waistcoats. He made a good-living, wine-and-food-society impression in which only the slow, rather cunning blue eyes struck a false note. He chain-smoked Gauloises and his office stank of them. He greeted Bond with relief. “Who found you?”
“Russell. At Fouquet’s. Is she new?”
“Six months. She’s a good one. But take a pew. There’s the hell of a flap on and I’ve got to brief you and get you going.” He bent to his intercom and pressed down a switch. “Signal to M., please. Personal from Head of Station. ‘Located 007 briefing now.’ Okay?” He let go the switch.
Bond pulled a chair over by the open window to keep away from the fog of Gauloises. The traffic on the Champs-Elysées was a soft roar in the background. Half an hour before he had been fed up with Paris, glad to be going. Now he hoped he would be staying.
Head of F said: “Somebody got our dawn dispatch-rider from SHAPE to the St. Germain Station yesterday morning. The weekly run from the SHAPE Intelligence Division with the Summaries, Joint Intelligence papers, Iron Curtain Order of Battle—all the top gen. One shot in the back. Took his dispatch-case and his wallet and watch.”
Bond said: “That’s bad. No chance that it was an ordinary hold-up? Or do they think the wallet and watch were cover?”
“SHAPE Security can’t make up their minds. On the whole they guess it was cover. Seven o’clock in the morning’s a rum time for a hold-up. But you can argue it out with them when you get down there. M.’s sending you as his personal representative. He’s worried as hell. Apart from the loss of the Intelligence dope, their I. people have never liked having one of our Stations outside the Reservation so to speak. For years they’ve been trying to get the St. Germain unit incorporated in the SHAPE Intelligence set-up. But you know what M. is, independent old devil. He’s never been happy about N.A.T.O. Security. Why, right in the SHAPE Intelligence Division there are not only a couple of Frenchmen and an Italian, but the head of their Counter Intelligence and Security section is a German!”
Bond whistled.
“The trouble is that this damnable business is all SHAPE needs to bring M. to heel. Anyway, he says you’re to get down there right away. I’ve fixed up clearance for you. Got the passes. You’re to report to Colonel Schreiber, Headquarters Command Security Branch. American. Efficient chap. He’s been handling the thing from the beginning. As far as I can gather, he’s already done just about all there was to be done.”
“What’s he done? What actually happened?”
Head of F picked up a map from his desk and walked over with it. It was the big-scale Michelin Environs de Paris. He pointed with a pencil. “Here’s Versailles, and here, just north of the park, is the big junction of the Paris-Mantes and the Versailles autoroutes. A couple of hundred yards north of that, on N.184, is SHAPE. Every Wednesday, at seven in the morning, a Special Services dispatch-rider leaves SHAPE with the weekly Intelligence stuff I told you about. He has to get to this little village called Fourqueux, just outside St. Germain, deliver his stuff to the duty officer at our H.Q., and report back to SHAPE by seven-thirty. Rather than go through all this built-up area, for security reasons his orders are to take this N.307 to St. Nom, turn right-handed on to D.98 and go under the autoroute and through the forest of St. Germain. The distance is about twelve kilometres, and taking it easy he’ll do the trip in under a quarter of an hour. Well, yesterday it was a corporal from the Corps of Signals, good solid man called Bates, and when he hadn’t reported back to SHAPE by seven-forty-five they sent another rider to look for him. Not a trace, and he hadn’t reported at our H.Q. By eight-fifteen the Security Branch was on the job, and by nine the roadblocks were up. The police and the Deuxième were told and search parties got under way. The dogs found him, but not till the evening around six, and by that time if there had been any clues on the road they’d have been wiped out by the traffic.” Head of F handed the map to Bond and walked back to his desk. “And that’s about the lot, except that all the usual steps have been taken—frontiers, ports, aerodromes, and so forth. But that sort of thing won’t help. If it was a professional job, whoever did it could have had the stuff out of the country by midday or into an embassy in Paris inside an hour.”
Bond said impatiently: “Exactly! And so what the hell does M. expect me to do? Tell SHAPE Security to do it all over again, but better? This sort of thing isn’t my line at all. Bloody waste of time.”
Head of F smiled sympathetically. “Matter of fact I put much the same point of view to M. over the scrambler. Tactfully. The old man was quite reasonable. Said he wanted to show SHAPE he was taking the business just a
s seriously as they were. You happened to be available and more or less on the spot, and he said you had the sort of mind that might pick up the invisible factor. I asked him what he meant, and he said that at all closely guarded headquarters there’s bound to be an invisible man—a man everyone takes so much for granted that he just isn’t noticed—gardener, window cleaner, postman. I said that SHAPE had thought of that, and that all those sort of jobs were done by enlisted men. M. told me not to be so literal-minded and hung up.”
Bond laughed. He could see M.’s frown and hear the crusty voice. He said: “All right, then. I’ll see what I can do. Who do I report back to?”
“Here. M. doesn’t want the St. Germain unit to get involved. Anything you have to say I’ll put straight on the printer to London. But I may not be available when you call up. I’ll make someone your duty officer and you’ll be able to get them any time in the twenty-four hours. Russell can do it. She picked you up. She might as well carry you. Suit you?”
“Yes,” said Bond. “That’ll be all right.”
The battered Peugeot, commandeered by Rattray, smelled of her. There were bits of her in the glove compartment—half a packet of Suchard milk chocolate, a twist of paper containing bobby pins, a paperback John O’Hara, a single black suede glove. Bond thought about her as far as the Etoile and then closed his mind to her and pushed the car along fast through the Bois. Rattray had said it would take about fifteen minutes at fifty. Bond said to halve the speed and double the time and to tell Colonel Schreiber that he would be with him by nine-thirty. After the Porte de St. Cloud there was little traffic, and Bond held seventy on the autoroute until the second exit road came up on his right and there was the red arrow for SHAPE. Bond turned up the slope and on to N.184. Two hundred yards farther, in the centre of the road, was the traffic policeman Bond had been told to look out for. The policeman waved him in through the big gates on the left and he pulled up at the first checkpoint. A grey-uniformed American policeman hung out of his cabin and glanced at his pass. He was told to pull inside and hold it. Now a French policeman took his pass, noted the details on a printed form clipped to a board, gave him a large plastic windscreen number and waved him on. As Bond pulled in to the car park, with theatrical suddenness a hundred arc-lights blazed and lit up the acre of low-lying hutments in front of him as if it was day. Feeling naked, Bond walked across the open gravel beneath the flags of the N.A.T.O. countries and ran up the four shallow steps to the wide glass doors that gave entrance to the Supreme Headquarters Allied Forces Europe. Now there was the main Security desk. American and French military police checked his pass and noted the details. He was handed over to a red-capped British M.P. and led off down the main corridor past endless office doors. They bore no names but the usual alphabetical abracadabra of all headquarters. One said COMSTRIKFLTLANT AND SACLANT LIAISON TO SACEUR. Bond asked what it meant. The military policeman, either ignorant or, more probably, security-minded, said stolidly: “Couldn’t rightly say, sir.”
Behind a door that said Colonel G. A. Schreiber, Chief of Security, Headquarters Command was a ramrod-straight, middle-aged American with greying hair and the politely negative manner of a bank manager. There were several family photographs in silver frames on his desk and a vase containing one white rose. There was no smell of tobacco smoke in the room. After cautiously amiable preliminaries, Bond congratulated the Colonel on his security. He said: “All these checks and double checks don’t make it easy for the opposition. Have you ever lost anything before, or have you ever found signs of a serious attempt at a coup?”
“No to both questions, Commander. I’m quite satisfied about Headquarters. It’s only the outlying units that worry me. Apart from this section of your Secret Service, we have various detached signal units. Then, of course, there are the Home Ministries of fourteen different nations. I can’t answer for what may leak from those quarters.”
“It can’t be an easy job,” agreed Bond. “Now, about this mess. Has anything else come up since Wing Commander Rattray spoke to you last?”
“Got the bullet. Luger. Severed the spinal cord. Probably fired at around thirty yards, give or take ten yards. Assuming our man was riding a straight course, the bullet must have been fired from dead astern on a level trajectory. Since it can’t have been a man standing in the road, the killer must have been moving in or on some vehicle.”
“So your man would have seen him in the driving-mirror?”
“Probably.”
“If your riders find themselves being followed, do they have any instructions about taking evasive action?”
The Colonel smiled slightly. “Sure. They’re told to go like hell.”
“And at what speed did your man crash?”
“Not fast, they think. Between twenty and forty. What are you getting at, Commander?”
“I was wondering if you’d decided whether it was a pro or an amateur job. If your man wasn’t trying to get away, and assuming he saw the killer in his mirror, which I agree is only a probability, that suggests that he accepted the man on his tail as friend rather than foe. That could mean some sort of disguise that would fit in with the set-up here—something your man would accept even at that hour of the morning.”
A small frown had been gathering across Colonel Schreiber’s smooth forehead. “Commander,” there was an edge of tension in the voice, “we have, of course, been considering every angle of this case, including the one you mention. At midday yesterday the Commanding General declared emergency in this matter, standing security and security ops committees were set up, and from that moment on every angle, every hint of a clue, has been systematically run to earth. And I can tell you, Commander,” the Colonel raised one well-manicured hand and let it descend in soft emphasis on his blotting-pad, “any man who can come up with an even remotely original idea on this case will have to be closely related to Einstein. There is nothing, repeat nothing, to go on in this case whatsoever.”
Bond smiled sympathetically. He got to his feet. “In that case, Colonel, I won’t waste any more of your time this evening. If I could just have the minutes of the various meetings to bring myself up to date, and if one of your men could show me the way to the canteen and my quarters…”
“Sure, sure.” The Colonel pressed a bell. A young crew-cutted aide came in. “Proctor, show the Commander to his room in the V.I.P. wing, would you, and then take him along to the bar and the canteen.” He turned to Bond. “I’ll have those papers ready for you after you’ve had a meal and a drink. They’ll be in my office. They can’t be taken out, of course, but you’ll find everything to hand next door, and Proctor will be able to fill you in on anything that’s missing.” He held out his hand. “Okay? Then we’ll meet again in the morning.”
Bond said goodnight and followed the aide out. As he walked along the neutral-painted, neutral-smelling corridors, he reflected that this was probably the most hopeless assignment he had ever been on. If the top security brains of fourteen countries were stumped, what hope had he got? By the time he was in bed that night, in the Spartan luxury of the visitors’ overnight quarters, Bond had decided he would give it a couple more days—largely for the sake of keeping in touch with Mary Ann Russell for as long as possible—and then chuck it. On this decision he fell immediately into a deep and untroubled sleep.
* * *
—
Not two, but four days later, as the dawn came up over the Forest of St. Germain, James Bond was lying along the thick branch of an oak tree keeping watch over a small empty glade that lay deep among the trees bordering D.98, the road of the murder.
He was dressed from head to foot in parachutists’ camouflage—green, brown and black. Even his hands were covered with the stuff, and there was a hood over his head with slits cut for the eyes and mouth. It was good camouflage which would be still better when the sun was higher and the shadows blacker, and from anywhere on the ground, even directly below the
high branch, he could not be seen.
It had come about like this. The first two days at SHAPE had been the expected waste of time. Bond had achieved nothing except to make himself mildly unpopular with the persistence of his double-checking questions. On the morning of the third day he was about to go and say his goodbyes when he had a telephone call from the Colonel. “Oh, Commander, thought I’d let you know that the last team of police dogs got in late last night—your idea that it might be worth while covering the whole forest. Sorry”—the voice sounded un-sorry—“but negative, absolutely negative.”
“Oh. My fault for the wasted time.” As much to annoy the Colonel as anything, Bond said: “Mind if I have a talk with the handler?”
“Sure, sure. Anything you want. By the way, Commander, how long are you planning to be around? Glad to have you with us for as long as you like. But it’s a question of your room. Seems there’s a big party coming in from Holland in a few days’ time. Top level staff course or something of the kind, and Admin says they’re a bit pushed for space.”
Bond had not expected to get on well with Colonel Schreiber and he had not done so. He said amiably: “I’ll see what my Chief has to say and call you back, Colonel.”
“Do that, would you.” The Colonel’s voice was equally polite, but the manners of both men were running out and the two receivers broke the line simultaneously.
The chief handler was a Frenchman from the Landes. He had the quick sly eyes of a poacher. Bond met him at the kennels, but the handler’s proximity was too much for the Alsatians and, to get away from the noise, he took Bond into the duty-room, a tiny office with binoculars hanging from pegs, and waterproofs, gum-boots, dog-harness and other gear stacked round the walls. There were a couple of deal chairs and a table covered with a large-scale map of the Forest of St. Germain. This had been marked off into pencilled squares. The handler made a gesture over the map. “Our dogs covered it all, Monsieur. There is nothing there.”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 83
