by John Gardner
The gunman’s mouth dropped open and Bond sprang from the chair.
4
DEATH THROUGH THE MOUTH
As his fingers finally curled around the butt of the ASP automatic, so Bond pushed off with his feet, swivelling slightly so that Vomberg would have to make an awkward turn in order to retain his grip on Easy and bring his pistol to bear on Bond.
He had pulled both his feet in, almost under the chair, giving him maximum purchase to thrust himself forward. His body was still in the air as he drew the pistol, but the weapon would only be a last resort. He wanted Vomberg alive and talking, for the last thing they needed was a pistol shot which might lead to the management calling the police. German cops would not take kindly to gunplay at the Kempi, while the German Intelligence Service would blow all its fuses if they found elements of British and American Intelligence operating on their turf. The BND are notoriously touchy about such matters, particularly since reunification.
As he moved to the right, so his left leg curled at the knee, then shot out with all his weight behind it: a high kick of great force which brought the heel of his shoe smashing onto the hand which held the Desert Eagle pistol.
He heard the bone crack, then a whimper of pain, a muted scream from Easy, and the thump as the weapon hit the floor. He landed firmly on both feet, facing the pathetic myopic Vomberg who had released Easy and was clutching his damaged hand, whining in agony.
Bond kicked the Desert Eagle across the room with his left foot and grabbed Vomberg with both hands, wringing the man’s tie and shirt collar tightly against his neck so that his eyes popped and his face began to turn blue.
‘Get the gun, Easy! Lock the door and then sit over there!’ He cocked his head in the direction of a stand chair near the door. It was as though he was snapping orders to a dog. Vomberg smelled of stale sweat and garlic as Bond lifted him off the ground, turning him around and pushing him heavily into the chair – the fake Venetian.
Vomberg still whimpered, clasping his hand and struggling for breath; finally he managed to get a lungful of air. He gulped, his face creasing with pain, then raised his head and gulped again, looking like a beached fish. He stared into Bond’s furious eyes. ‘Get on with it then.’ The voice rose, near hysteria, croaking from the bruised larynx. ‘Get on with it. Kill me. That’s what you’re here for.’
Bond’s voice came calm and quiet. ‘Why do you think I would do that, Oscar?’
‘Why? Don’t treat me like an idiot . . . er . . . I call you Vanya, yes? Until someone gives me a better name.’
Bond nodded. ‘Vanya will do, but you can call me James if you have problems with Vanya. You probably do have problems with that name in particular, after all you’re responsible for his death.’
‘What the . . . ?’
Bond dragged another chair over, so that he could sit opposite Vomberg. This time the chair was a repro Hepplewhite. The Kempi might be luxurious, but their interior designer certainly mixed the periods. ‘Look, Oscar,’ he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, right hand still clutching his pistol, face grim and his voice dropping almost to a whisper. ‘Oscar, you’re not really cut out for the violence, are you? You’re more of a cerebral spy. I’m even surprised to see you with a weapon.’
Vomberg shook his head. ‘Desperate times,’ he said, as though that explained it all.
‘I promise you, Oscar, nobody wants you dead. In fact, we want you very much alive. We want all of Cabal alive. Your original controllers, Vanya and Eagle are dead. You know that?’
The elderly, short-sighted, now hunched man gave a quick nod.
‘Okay. We’ve come from London and Washington to replace them. To replace the original Vanya and Eagle. And we need you. All of you.’
‘Then why have your people been killing us off?’ Vomberg appeared to have regained some of his composure. ‘One at a time, ever since Sulphur was told to stand everyone down and scatter. One at a time you’ve sought us out and killed us. Well, I’m not afraid to die. It’s all over, so do it.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
There was a long pause, then Vomberg croaked, ‘Okay, you claim to be on the side of Cabal. Then prove it.’ He leaned back, his face grey from the pain in his hand which had started to swell.
Bond gave a quick series of nods. Before leaving London they had been given bona fide codes. ‘These go very deep,’ M had said. ‘None of the members of Cabal know each other’s personal word sequence. Even if someone has penetrated Cabal, it’s unlikely they’ve ever broken down the IFF sequences. They’re buried far too deep. Individuals wouldn’t even share them with each other.’ IFF stands for Identification Friend or Foe.
Bond riffled through the words he had memorised back in London, and remembered that, when going through these IFF codes, he had thought it odd that Oscar Vomberg had been given three lines from a revered Irish poet. The answering three lines had been taken from the same poet, using a different poem. Goethe, he thought, would have been better for a German, then he realised that the Cabal agents were foreign to the English language, and had all been given British, American or, as in this case, Irish poets.
‘Give me your IFF,’ he said softly, and Vomberg, stumbling over the words, quoted:
‘Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed.’
Bond answered, and heard Vomberg’s sudden intake of breath, watched his eyes widen, as he said:
‘And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon
The golden apples of the sun.
‘There, Oscar. That good enough for you? Or do we have to go through some more mumbo jumbo?’
Vomberg swore an old German oath, his eyes still wide. ‘To know that, you must . . .’
‘Yes, I must,’ Bond smiled. ‘Didn’t anyone in this prime little coven of spies think of using their IFF exchanges before? Or did you take everything on trust, and then become angry when you discovered you were all being screwed?’
Vomberg seemed lost for a moment. Then—
‘Look, I kept the faith. I did what had to be done, and we were told Sulphur would always pass the word if it was an emergency. If Sulphur was not available, it would be Hemlock, then Barnaby. After that it was to be alphabetic. Hemlock and Barnaby are both dead now, but Sulphur lives, and . . .’
‘And how many more are gone?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Only some. Those who went naturally. In London and Washington we counted another ten of you were still around.’
‘Which ten?’
‘Crystal, Ariel, Caliban, Cobweb, Orphan, Tester, Sulphur, Puck, Mab and Dodger,’ Bond rattled off, and Vomberg nodded.
‘Until a week ago that was about right. We don’t know any more. Caliban’s certainly gone. They shot him. In Rome. Broad daylight, in St Peter’s Square. It made less than half an inch in Oggi, but I’m surprised nobody picked it up in London or Washington. Two days ago I know Orphan was dragged out of the Grand Canal in Venice. That didn’t even make the papers, but Sulphur told me.’ He stopped suddenly, as though second thoughts had invaded his conscience. ‘Tell me the true name of Sulphur?’
‘Praxi Simeon.’
He gave another quick nod, like an interrogator receiving the right answer and pleased with it.
‘And Praxi was the one who gave the orders to scatter?’
‘Ja, yes. Praxi telephoned each of us with the same signal.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Nacht und Nebel. That was the signal to fold up and scatter. Night and Fog, like in Wagner. Like in Hitler also. You scratch Wagner and you find Nazis.’
In World War II, 1941, Hitler had issued the infamous Nacht und Nebel Erlass, a directive which provided for methods to be used in occupied countries for suppressing resistance movements. People arrested under this order were to disappear in the ‘fog of the night’. Even their deaths in camps or prisons we
re never to be divulged, and Hitler separated himself from the order, putting it out under the name of Wilhelm Keitel, his Army Chief of Staff.
‘We thought it a little sick joke.’ Vomberg made a grimace which could have been a smile.
‘So, you broke and scattered? You disappeared into Nacht und Nebel?’
‘Of course. We all had places to go, but we did not share our individual locations with those who directed us: with the original Vanya and Eagle. It was thought to be unsafe. If it came to Nacht und Nebel, we felt all ties should be cut: even though the main threat seemed to have disappeared with the reunification of Germany.’
‘And Praxi claimed to have received the order?’
‘She did receive it. I was there. It came via a telephone contact. All the safety codes were correct. She checked and double-checked. I was there and heard it all.’
‘Yet you did keep in touch. The surviving members of Cabal keep in touch?’
‘With each other, yes. More or less.’
‘Come on, Oscar, more than that. You, and you alone, telephoned the original Vanya in Frankfurt. You arranged a meeting place with him. He left his hotel, and died in the street, on his way to see you.’
‘He wasn’t coming to see me.’
‘We have the tapes, Oscar.’
‘I called him, yes. Sulphur instructed me to call him and set up a meeting. She was going to see him.’
‘Praxi Simeon instructed you?’
‘She telephoned me. My hideaway was in Frankfurt. I saw Vanya in the street and passed it on . . .’
‘To Praxi?’
‘In a way, yes.’
‘What d’you mean, in a way?’
‘There was a number. You call it, what? An 800 number? Free call.’
‘An 800 number, yes.’
‘This was set up long ago. 1985, ’86. It was one of the safeguards. Security. If we had to cut and run we could always call in an emergency to the number. It was, what you call it, a tape?’
‘An Ansafone, yes.’
‘So, yes, an Ansafone. We simply gave our crypto and a number where we could be contacted. Whoever was holding things together – Praxi, as it happened – could get messages from the number. I think there was some device used, so that the messages were played back over another telephone . . .’
‘That’s common enough. The phones have special access numbers known only to the owner, or a beeper is used to reach the playback tape. You can get a message on a tape in London and access it from Washington or Timbuktu. So Praxi got the message?’
‘She called me back, and she’d been doing some checking. Told me where Vanya was staying in Frankfurt. Told me to set up a meeting. It was a club . . .’
‘Die Nonne,’ Bond tried.
‘No. Not quite. You try to trick me, eh?’ He gave a little humourless laugh, and some of his greying hair fell forward across his brow.
‘Of course.’
‘It was Der Mönch. Not The Nun, but The Monk.’
‘That’s right. She told you to call him and set up the meeting? Then what?’
‘To get out of town. To find another hiding place and call her later. On the 800 number.’
‘And you did?’
‘It was agreed we should trust Praxi. All of us.’
‘So you knew nothing of Vanya’s murder?’
‘Yes. Three days later. I left my new number – here in Berlin – on the answering phone. Praxi called me and said what had happened.’
‘Did she tell you what happened to Eagle?’
‘Yes. She was contacting anyone who gave their number to the answering phone. This time – when was it? another three or four days later? – she called. Praxi sounded . . . how would you say it? In a state?’
‘Concerned?’
‘Not strong enough. She sounded agitated, dismayed, upset. She was weeping. Praxi was sobbing. She said nothing was safe any more. She had set up a meeting personally, and she went for the meeting to find Eagle dead. It looked natural, she told me, but she thought it was something else.’
‘It was something else, Oscar. Did she get in touch again?’
‘Oh, yes. The signals were posted first the day after Eagle died.’
‘Which signals?’
‘That a new Vanya, and a new Eagle were coming.’
‘The day after?’
‘The day after Eagle was dead, we had the first signals. The alerts. They were in newspapers. In the classified advertisement pages. All major cities where old Cabal people might be. That was the arrangement. Vanya, can I see a doctor? My hand. You hurt my hand bad.’
‘In a minute, Oscar. I’m sorry about the hand, but you came on a little strong waving that gun around.’
‘I’m sorry. I was full of suspicion. It was right I should be.’ He was half doubled forward in obviously severe discomfort. ‘How else does a spy survive?’
‘I know. Just a few more questions, Oscar, then we’ll get you to a doctor.’
‘I get to my own doctor. You have to prove your trust, Vanya.’
‘All right. We’ll do it your way.’
‘Good, so I’ll bring someone back with me. Another Cabal. I bring back Tester. You know who is Tester?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I bring him back when they fix my hand. Please, the questions. I can’t last much longer.’
‘Right.’ Bond wanted to know about the so-called alerts. If Vomberg was telling the truth, M and the people at headquarters had jumped the gun, or been very sure of their ground, for it meant the alerts had been posted before the word had been passed on to Easy or himself. He asked what the safeguards were: how the alerts were phrased?
‘All start with special words. But why don’t you know this?’ Suspicion had flooded into Vomberg’s mind again.
‘Because we were only just briefed. We’d never heard of Cabal, or its individual members, until yesterday.’
The German thought for a minute then decided he had nothing to lose. The alerts would appear in the classified advertisement section of newspapers in Berlin, Munich, Frankfurt, Stuttgart, Rome, Venice, Madrid, Lisbon and Paris. The notice would be a wanted ad, and the first sentence had to contain three words: Singer, High and Quality.
‘Wanted: Male rock singer for high quality group,’ would be okay. ‘Wanted: Female singer for amateur choir. Soprano of good quality essential,’ would not do. The bulk of the message would be a two-liner which divided exactly into groups of five letters. These could only be deciphered by the designated member of Cabal who was supposed to be looking after the scattered members. The groups were a simple book code. Secure because nobody else could unbutton them unless they had the book. Not just the book, but a certain edition. The final signal was contained in the last line which would read, ‘Replies to PO Box 213112’ or the same numbers in a different order, followed by the central post office of the newspaper’s city.
It was as foolproof as you could get, Bond believed. ‘And how, Oscar, did you deduce that Eagle and myself had arrived here, at the Kempi?’
‘We were told this morning.’
‘This morning?’
‘Yes, Praxi called again. This morning’s papers contained further messages. A man arriving on BA792 and a woman on BA782. Both coming straight to the Kempi. Tester and myself checked you out. It was quite easy . . .’
‘You followed me in a maroon VW Golf?’
‘No. Tester watched arrivals. Described you to me by telephone. I spotted you checking in here. We had decided to wait for the pair of you. Then I was to move in and telephone Tester when I had you both. After that we were to use the 800 number and inform Praxi. She told me to isolate you, so I became like a cowboy, and look at me now.’ He painfully raised the hand, which had become a very swollen claw.
‘You’ll have to wait a few minutes before you leave to get that hand seen to, Oscar. I also have suspicions, so must check you out.’
He instructed Easy to watch over Vomberg while he went down to make a cal
l to London. ‘I don’t want to use the telephone here, in this room,’ he said, realising that, should the rooms have been given ears already, whoever was dealing out death sentences to Cabal would know everything. It all concentrated his mind intensely, for he thought again of the VW Golf that had followed him from the airport. That Cabal had been totally penetrated he had no doubt.
‘Only open the door to me, Easy. Only me. Anything funny, call the number we were given.’ He spoke of the Berlin Station number. The British SIS station in Berlin was still operating. They knew nothing of the current operation but would render aid on M’s say-so, if required.
Down in the main foyer, among the leather and tropical fish, Bond sought out a public telephone where he dialled the direct, no-change international secure line that would put him in touch with either Bill Tanner or M personally.
It was M who had stayed in his office in the hope of some contact that night. The conversation was brief, but Bond learned quickly that Vomberg appeared to be telling the truth about the alerts. ‘We had no doubt that we could get you in pretty quickly,’ M sounded weary at the other end. ‘It was just that we wanted to give as much warning as possible. Yes, all Mab says is true, and, yes, we gave them your flight numbers and hotel this morning. The Chief of Staff telephoned the newspapers last night while we were still working.’
Upstairs again, he asked Oscar Vomberg exactly what he would do. ‘You think you can get to a doctor on your own?’
‘Sure. Sure I make it on my own. I call Tester first. He’ll meet me. Expect us two hours. Three at most. We’ll call this room from the foyer. Give you a set of clear signals so you know I’m not playing games with you.’
Bond admitted that he was unhappy about the man leaving on his own, but at least, providing he was playing it straight, another member of Cabal would be returning with him. Two would be better than one every time.
