by John Gardner
As soon as Vomberg left, Bond turned to Easy who now looked much more unsure of herself. Her face, which had been so hard and full of confidence in London, was noticeably softer, and she began to speak before Bond could get in the first shot.
‘I know, James. Don’t even say it. I screwed up just about as badly as I could.’
‘You can say that again.’ He crossed the room to the minibar, found what he was looking for and made himself a vodka Martini. They did not have all the ingredients he would have liked, but that could not be helped. He did not even ask if Easy wanted a drink.
‘What in hell’s name did you think you were playing at?’ he snapped. ‘I know he had a gun on you, but that’s never stopped a trained field officer from slipping in some kind of warning.’
‘I froze. Please, James, don’t get mad at me. I just froze. He had that damned great gun in my ear. I’ve had no field experience. I’m a desk jockey: analyst, control hand-holder. Not really up to it. Vomberg said he would know if I tried to warn you . . .’
‘Did they teach you nothing at the Farm? Or did you go there a thousand years ago? The way you behaved was not simply unprofessional, it was criminal. And how did you let him in? You didn’t use even the first lessons in security. Easy, I really don’t know if I can work with you. In the field we have to count on each other, and you’ve already proved you cannot be relied on. I, for one, want to come out of this alive, and, if you’ve learned anything from the past hour, you’ll know this is all damned dangerous stuff. People are getting killed.’
‘James, I . . .’ The heavens opened and she began to weep. Real tears, nothing phoney. You can tell the synthetic variety because a woman’s nose does not go red when she turns on crocodile tears. Easy’s nose went several shades of red. It also poured superfluous liquid so that Bond had to pass over his handkerchief.
Between the sobs and the rivers, Easy pleaded. This was her first time in the field. She wanted to make a good impression. With things as they were in the American Service, what with the recession and all – ‘They’re firing people by the office load’ – she stood to lose her job. If Bond sent her back in disgrace, that would be it. ‘My whole career down the tubes . . .’ she shuddered. ‘And I know nothing else . . . Please, James. Please give me another . . .’ And so, and so, and even more so.
James Bond liked weeping women as much as he liked having his teeth drilled. His nerves were as strong as the next man’s, but a weeping woman made him cringe. He could never abide by the old proverb which says ‘It is no more pity to see a woman weep than to see a goose go barefoot’. He went over to her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders, muttering soothing words and sounds – stroking her hair, which, he realised, had the texture of heavy silk.
‘You’re going to have to learn how to operate, Easy. You have to remember everything they taught you. I’m certainly not going to sacrifice myself because of some idiocy on your part.’
‘Yes, James,’ she said meekly. It was a complete turn around from the tough, power businesswoman who had sat in M’s office.
‘You understand that, should you jeopardise things, I can’t help you?’
‘Yes, James. You’ll let me stay on?’
‘For the time being. If matters get really rough, or if you completely louse things up again, I’ll have to turn you in and go it alone, okay?’
She lifted her face and kissed him gently on the corner of the mouth.
Bond could taste the salt, and, oddly, Ms Easy St John became much more attractive than she had at first appeared.
Two hours dragged by. Easy went off into the bathroom and put on a new face. She also changed into a striking green dress, all sheer and with floating panels. You could see her small, but perfect, body move under the material as it swirled. The colour contrast with her hair was startling and, for the first time, James Bond realised that for a shortish woman she had exceptionally good legs – particularly in high heels.
‘Looks as though friend Mab’s taking his time. You hungry?’ he asked.
‘Ravenous, but we daren’t go down to the restaurant.’
‘I’ll get sandwiches sent up.’
He called down to room service and ordered three rounds of cold chicken and smoked salmon plus a bottle of Riesling Spätlese – a Kreuznacher ’73. ‘Clean, fresh and racy. Particularly well balanced,’ Bond declared. ‘That should keep the pangs at bay, until Mab returns with Tester. What do we know of Tester, Easy? Come on, let’s test you on Tester.’ His smile gave the impression that all was forgiven and that he was providing her with the opportunity to shine.
‘Okay. Tester. Old Cabal hand. Name, Heini – “Harry” – Spraker. Recruited when he was twenty-two – some ten years ago. Born Leipzig. In the first year of service with the Army they marked him for intelligence. Did the codes and ciphers courses and ended up with the Stasi, then transferred to Karlshorst where he worked on clandestine communications of the HVA. Recruited directly by Praxi. Puxley and Cearns put him through the mill while he was supposed to be on his annual leave in 1979. Found him exceptional, strong anti-Communist views, a whizz at electronics. Provided steady flow of Grade One communications intelligence.’
‘IFF?’
‘Auden. Three lines from Part One, verse three, of Letter to Lord Byron. Answerback, first three lines of May.’
‘Good. Now, physical description.’
‘Exactly six feet; well-built; muscular, full dark hair, complexion dark; eyes black; very piercing look. Small scar, in the shape of a bracket, just to the right of his mouth.’
‘How’d he get that?’
‘In childhood. His cousin threw a glass at him in fun.’
‘And what else?’
‘He is supposed to be very attractive to the ladies. Became Monika Haardt’s lover in ’84 when she ran the Karlshorst Seven.’
‘Who were?’
‘Moscow joy-boys. Did much damage with Emily operations in Bonn.’
Bond nodded, pleased. Monika Haardt was still on the run, like Wolfgang Weisen; and, like Weisen, Fräulein Haardt had the killer instinct. ‘Now, if you get as good as that in the field, things’ll go well,’ he said to Easy, who smiled a stunning smile. Again, for the first time, Bond noticed how the grey eyes would sparkle when she was happy. In M’s office they looked as inviting as the North Sea in midwinter. Now they were all summer evening, the glow suffusing a pearl-grey sky.
The Emilys she had spoken of were unmarried women, sometimes unattractive, who worked for the FRD government in Bonn: the former West German Government. During the latter part of the Cold War, many had been seduced and compromised by agents working directly from Karlshorst, much to the disarray of the FRD. The most successful of these had been Monika Haardt’s so-called Karlshorst Seven.
A quiet knock at the door heralded the arrival of a slim, smart young waiter, wheeling a trolley heavy with a large oval platter, its contents hidden by the usual silver domed cover. The wine was chilling nicely in a bucket, and there was a good supply of the normal accessories.
The waiter lifted the dome for a few seconds, speaking immaculate English, showing the sandwiches arranged on a bed of lettuce, ‘The smoked salmon are on the left, the chicken on the right.’ He returned the cover, uncorked the wine and asked if he should pour it. Bond declined. ‘Let it breathe for a moment.’ He signed the bill and added a tip.
The waiter left, pleased, with much bowing and the knowing smile of all waiters who think they have caught a man in the wrong room with the right woman.
‘Doesn’t need to stand long.’ Bond poured for Easy, then for himself. As he passed her a plate, he looked again at his watch, wondering aloud how long Vomberg would be.
Easy took four of the small smoked salmon sandwiches, and Bond helped himself to an equal number. ‘The chicken had better be our main course. Heaven knows when we’ll eat again. Cheers.’ He raised his glass and Easy leaned over with a smile, touching her glass to his. There was something decidedly sensual
about the way she did it, Bond thought. Then he reached for the first sandwich.
He was lifting the little brown triangle to his mouth when his eye caught something odd. For a second he imagined he was suffering from some kind of illusion. He held the sandwich a couple of feet away from his mouth and looked at it again. It was no illusion. The bread moved slightly, and, as he peered closer, he saw two tiny feelers reach out from the middle of the smoked salmon. A second later, the whole small body appeared.
He turned to see that Easy was about to bite into her sandwich. ‘No! Easy, don’t!’ His hand came up chopping lightly at her wrist. The triangle of food barely touched her teeth as it fell from her hand.
‘James! What the . . . ?’
‘I don’t know.’ He was on his feet, slamming the cover back onto the dish, and, taking a fork, slowly prising the two halves of his sandwich apart. Layered within the smoked salmon were what looked like tiny white pellets. Among the pellets, small eight-legged creatures had already begun to emerge. Though they were only newly hatched, Bond recognised them immediately. The poisonous Fiddleback spider is instantly identified by its unique shape. Even baby spiders have that violin outline which marks them for life, and these did not live long. Bond dropped the sandwich onto the carpet, slipped out of his right shoe and beat the bread, butter and salmon into the carpet. Then he did the same with the sandwich Easy had dropped.
She stood, cringing back, her face grim with horror, asking, ‘James! What? What are . . . ? Oh, my God!’
This last as Bond lifted the cover from the dish again, to reveal the swarm of tiny Fiddleback spiders which had begun to hatch emerging from the food, and in their midst two bloated creeping adult females, forcing their way upward through the bread, meat and fish, pushing the crumbs to one side as though hungry for some other delicacy. He slapped the cover back on and began to collect the two splatted messes from the floor.
‘Someone mistimed,’ he said, revulsion sounding in his voice as Easy choked and gagged on her handkerchief. ‘Some bright and enterprising fellow filled our food with the eggs of a Fiddleback spider. God knows what would have happened if we’d eaten them. Chances are some would have hatched in our . . .’ He stopped, the thought of the insects, with their nasty poisonous bite, was too much even for him. People rarely die from the bite of one Fiddleback, but the small bites of several, internally, or semi-internally . . . ‘Don’t think about it, Easy. The point is that we’re blown like a couple of grenades. Whoever wants Cabal wiped out clearly requires us to be wiped out as well, and they’re not above laying exotic traps. That’s really death through the mouth, with a vengeance.’
The telephone began to ring.
5
DEATH OF A QUEEN
Easy St John was retching in the bathroom, and Bond had to admit that the bizarre and terrible method of death, which they had just escaped, had turned his stomach.
He picked up the telephone and gave a gruff ‘Ja?’ into the handset.
‘Have I reached the room for Mr Joseph Cranbourne, visiting from England?’ inquired a male voice at the distant end. The accent was undeniably German, though not as thick as Vomberg’s. The words were also Tester’s telephone sequence code.
‘Mr Cranbourne’s here. Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Heini Wachtel of Inferscope BV. We met a couple of years ago. I’m very much hoping he has time to see me now.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In the hotel. In Kempinski. Downstairs.’
‘I’ll see if Mr Cranbourne’s available.’ He covered the mouthpiece and told Easy to start packing.
‘But we’ve only just . . .’
‘Arrived, I know. But I think we might have to leave. This place could be infested.’
‘Oh, Christ.’
‘Precisely.’ He turned back to the telephone. ‘Herr Wachtel, I’m sorry but Mr Cranbourne isn’t available to come to the phone. He can meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes, if you can spare the time.’
‘Sure. I’ll wait. It’s pretty urgent we talk. Big business opportunities.’
‘Will Mr Cranbourne recognise you?’
‘I’ll be sitting at one of the tables in the main lounge. I’ll stub my cigarette out when I spot Mr Cranbourne. I will also stop reading my copy of today’s Die Welt. But, really I think Mr Cranbourne will have no difficulty in recognising me.’
Bond had no difficulty at all. The man who stubbed out his cigarette and folded up a copy of Die Welt, had a leather coat slung over the back of the chair. He was the man who had been slapping his thigh with a newspaper while looking irritated, pacing outside the arrivals terminal at Tegel. He rose as Bond approached.
‘So, Herr Wachtel, we meet again.’ He thrust out a hand, pulling the young German close enough for him to whisper, ‘Give me your IFF.’
Harry Spraker smiled, sat down again and quietly quoted:
‘Of modern methods of communication;
New roads, new rails, new contacts, as we know
From documentaries by the GPO.
‘Is out of date that last bit, eh? Now you have British Telecom and the Post Office. Not GPO any more.’
Bond nodded. Certainly the description of the man was right – the small crescent scar showed livid to the right of a generous smiling mouth; while the eyes were a startling black: unusual, like dark, still pools. Bond thought he had never seen eyes quite that sinister, though he could imagine how they might soften and do a great deal of damage to the composure of ladies.
He gave the answerback, unsmiling and flat:
‘May, with its light behaving
Stirs vessel, eye and limb
The singular and sad.’
‘Painless,’ Harry Spraker, aka Herr Wachtel, and Tester, smiled. ‘Singular and sad. That’s how you have come across Cabal, sir. We are all singular and sad. It’s good to meet you, and even better to know there is someone on our side.’
‘I was expecting you to come with a friend.’ Bond could not see Vomberg anywhere in sight. ‘How’s his hand? Was he detained at the hospital?’
Spraker shrugged, looking away. ‘Bad news. Yes, he has been detained at the hospital – permanently. There was an accident. On the U-Bahn an accident. I’m sorry. I could do nothing for him, and these people who seem to surround us like ghosts are very fond of accidents.’
‘You want to explain that?’
Spraker gave a sad smile. ‘Our friend showed amazing courage trying to tackle you, Mr . . . ?’
‘Just call me James for the moment.’
‘Okay, James. It’s not Vomberg’s style – was not his style at all, I should say. He’s more of a thinker. His work was scientific, as you know, and he was not a natural spy. He must have screwed up great bravery to even approach you. His sexual preferences did not help him. Me, I couldn’t care less what people do in privacy, or in public: as they say, as long as they don’t frighten the horses. But Oscar was a rare sport. Mab. He used to laugh when we called him Queen Mab.’
‘So what happened?’
‘So he made contact with me before going to the hospital. I met him there. You certainly know how to hurt people, James. The hand was broken in four places. They gave him painkiller shots, set the bones, put it in a cast. Then we left to come here. We were on the street only three minutes when we knew they had us boxed in. Old Oscar was expert at spotting surveillance. He was a natural at that, and we were both afraid of leading them here . . .’
‘I think they’re already here.’
‘I had noticed. Don’t look too quick, but there’s a tall, middle-aged man, sitting alone drinking coffee, near the doors. He’s one of them, I’ve seen him before. Definitely one of them.’
‘Whoever them might be.’ Bond had one of those strange twitches of intuition which come to experienced field men. It could be nothing, but he found Harry Spraker difficult to trust. Maybe, he thought, he had contracted a deep paranoia. It would not be the first time.
‘I have a shrewd gue
ss as to who they are, but Praxi knows for sure.’ Harry gave him a quick little look, the eyes lifting and then sliding to one side. ‘Anyway, we split up – Oscar and I – led them a little dance. By accident we both ended up on the same platform of the Charlottenburg U-Bahn station. It was crowded, we were well separated, and the thing was done with great precision. They are very precise, these people. Oscar went under a train.’ He gave a little shudder. ‘I heard him scream, James. It was most unpleasant. The line is closed for the next hour or so.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Bond felt a tiny worm of accountability stir in his mind. ‘My fault, I think . . .’
‘No, sir. Not your fault. It is the fault of those who told us to close down and scatter . . .’
‘Nacht und Nebel?’
Spraker gave a little nod. ‘It was a disaster. They’ve been picking us off, one at a time ever since. I believe Praxi, the one called Ariel, and myself are the only three left. We’re like a decimated army. If you gave that order, yes, I hold you responsible, for that was the beginning of Cabal’s end.’
‘Would it surprise you to hear that the order was never given?’
‘Nothing would surprise me now. Nothing.’
‘You say you suspect who the mysterious they are?’
‘Praxi knows for sure.’
‘Give me a hint.’
‘I imagine the Poison Dwarf and his lady friend are in it somehow. Mischa Wolf has come back, but not . . .’ He allowed it to trail off, the eyes giving Bond a look suggesting that he should fill in the details.
‘You’re talking about Wolfgang Weisen and Monika Haardt, I presume?’
‘I would say so, but only Praxi knows for sure. She has information. She would also like to see you.’
Bond leaned forward, eyes glittering with anger. There was no way he would trust Harry Spraker, or, for that matter, Praxi Simeon. ‘Don’t mess me about, Harry.’ He sounded cold and very serious. ‘You saw what I did to poor old Oscar. If you play games with me, I’ll personally bite off your nose and make you eat it. Got me?’
