by John Gardner
‘I wouldn’t play games with you, James. To be honest, I’m bloody frightened. Look, I’m running to you for help. None of us is safe on the street any more. Believe me.’
‘We’ll see. But I mean what I say; and should I disappear into the Nacht und Nebel myself, I guarantee that six more, much worse than me, will come looking for you. I say this because, anxious as I am to meet Praxi Simeon, I have worries that she isn’t as white and pure as she pretends to be.’
‘Are any of us clean, James?’ Harry Spraker leaned back in his chair. A waiter was hovering as if to say they should order something or get out of the lounge. A pianist had started up. He played all the new standards with a lot of flourishes and runs: his medley from Cats sounded as though the creatures were having a night on the tiles, while his variations on Phantom of the Opera would have made Puccini and Verdi spin in their graves. His embellishments made it quite clear where he thought the melodies had originated.
Bond ordered a Martini, giving precise instructions regarding its composition. The waiter bowed and said it sounded like a symphony, but that was water off a duck’s back as far as 007 was concerned. Harry Spraker asked for a beer, and the same waiter looked down his nose and left as silently as he had appeared.
‘Why, James, do you think I would play games?’
‘Because you have a line to Praxi.’
‘So? She is most trusted.’
‘That’s right. She received the Nacht und Nebel order. I don’t know about the other deaths, but she gave instructions to my predecessor, Vanya, via Oscar. Vanya obeyed her and died. Also she fixed up a sit-down with the original Eagle, who also came to a sticky end pretty soon after. You, Harry, knew them well, because they ran Cabal for a long time – Vanya and Eagle. I am Vanya Mark II. Upstairs, Eagle Mark II is waiting to meet us. Our originals are, as we speak, probably going through a debriefing with that great Director of Intelligence in the sky. I am anxious that we – my partner and myself – are not sitting in on the same meeting in a matter of days or hours.’
The waiter came with the drinks. He spilled some of Harry’s, but placed the Martini in front of Bond as though it contained a booby trap.
Harry looked both worried and shocked. ‘But Praxi is . . .’ he began.
‘She’d better be.’ He sipped the Martini, found it wanting and put it down, pushing the glass away as though proximity to it was an affront to his senses. ‘She really had better be, Harry, because if she isn’t, and we all end up in a German meat wagon, the others, of whom I spoke, will come after her, and they won’t just stop at doing things with her nose. How far away is she, Harry?’
‘She’s in Paris.’
‘A French meat wagon, then. How does she plan to meet us?’
‘I’ve taken the liberty of booking two sleeping compartments on the Ost-West Express. One for, what do I call her, Eagle . . . ?’
‘It’ll suffice.’
‘Okay, one for Eagle, and a double for us. It leaves the Zoo Station at twenty-three minutes past midnight. I thought it better to book us from there rather than from the starting point – the Hauptbahnhof. More secure, particularly if we have to throw off company. You can be ready, yes?’
‘We are ready, Harry. All I have to do is pay the bill.’ Bond had already repacked his small case, and the briefcase, before coming down. ‘You sit here where I can see you. If you move a leg, even to go to what the French so coyly call the cabinet, I’ll stop you in your tracks. Forget about Oscar’s hand; forget about the tail sitting near the door. Just think of more sensitive portions of your anatomy. London tells me you like the ladies. You’ll be no good to them if you don’t behave.’
‘James, why so aggressive? I’ve done nothing . . .’
‘I know, it’s simply to discourage you, Harry. There’s an old military saying which goes, “Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than yourself”. Harry, you just made that mistake. Now, stay. Right?’
‘Right, James.’
Bond went over to the house phone and called suite 202, telling Easy to come down and bring her coat. ‘I’ll send them up for the luggage.’
‘Right, James.’
‘I have friend Tester down here, and he’s longing to meet you. So, come down.’
‘Yes, James.’
The undermanager, on duty at reception, could have made a living in World War II movies. He was tall, blond, immaculate and without a smile. There was even a scar of some kind on his right cheek, though it looked more like a motor accident than a duel. Bond asked for the accounts for 207 and 202.
‘Mr Boldman, is there something wrong? We have you booked in for a week. You reserved these rooms? You do not like these rooms?’
‘It’s not the rooms. You have a problem in your kitchen, I think.’
‘Sir, I . . . No, a problem in our kitchen is unthinkable.’
‘There were insects in the lady’s sandwiches.’
‘Mr Boldman, if there’s anything . . .’
‘Fire the waiter, or the chef.’
The tall undermanager leaned forward confidentially. ‘It is against hotel policy for us to have a problem in the kitchen, Mr Boldman.’
‘One of the room service waiters, then.’
Still without a smile the undermanager inclined his head. ‘It is sometimes difficult these days to get correct employees. Very difficult.’ Then, again very confidentially. ‘There has been trouble with one of the floor waiters, but I did not tell you this.’
‘Dead or just dead drunk?’
‘A little of both.’
‘I see, like being slightly pregnant. Let me have the accounts and send someone sober up for the luggage. Both suites. We would also like a car at eleven forty-five.’
‘Certainly, Mr Boldman. Where do you wish to go?’
‘I’ll tell the driver when the car arrives.’
The undermanager bowed his stiff bow and proceeded to present a print-out of the two accounts, which Bond paid with a credit card. The undermanager did not click his heels; he did, however, report the whole incident to the night General Manager who nodded sagely: after all, night General Managers are only one step down from God.
It was, of course, unthinkable that anything could be amiss at an hotel as punctilious as the Kempi. Only later, looking at police records for that night, did Berlin Station note two seemingly unassociated incidents. First, a unit with an ambulance had been called, very discreetly, to the hotel. A floor waiter had been discovered, badly beaten, tied up and without his uniform, in a closet on the second floor.
Earlier there had been a report of a break-in at a shop specialising in macabre pets – insects, snakes, lizards and the like. They supplied mainly schools and universities, and the place was down in the Friedrichstrasse area, close to what used to be Checkpoint Charlie. When the police arrived, the owner, a migrant Turk, showed them what was missing: a special glass box, complete with temperature control, housing several Fiddleback spiders and a multitude of eggs. ‘It was a nursery,’ the owner explained. Everyone was at a loss as to who would lift a case of Fiddlebacks. Hospitals were warned, though the shop owner was convinced that the eggs would never hatch, and that the creatures would die quickly in a Berlin autumn. He appeared to be quite upset about it. Nothing more was heard of the Fiddlebacks, except in a report coming from the British Secret Intelligence Service’s files, and that was classified until the year 2500. Such is the enforced secrecy of the British island nation.
Easy St John came down from her suite, dressed right out of a ’60s spy movie. She had discarded the voluminous coat, and instead wore a belted trench coat with a fur collar which made her look undeniably desirable. Under the skirt of the coat a pair of highly polished calf-length black boots were visible, causing looks of sheer lechery as she walked over to the table where Bond was sitting with Harry Spraker.
‘Ah, the eagle has landed,’ Bond muttered. ‘Meet Harry. Harry, this is your other case officer.’
‘And I couldn’t be more del
ighted that she’s on my case.’ He stood, took her hand, bowed and kissed it. Predictably his eyes moved up from the hand, holding a long, and undisguised look of lasciviousness.
Watching, Bond could not help thinking that, so far, Harry Spraker was a cipher. He looked impressive, and had a gleam in those black eyes which were, by turns, amusing and sinister. He stood, walked and talked, but gave away nothing of his real persona. He could have been a well-programmed android for all Bond could tell. He had known agents like this before, and handling them became almost hallucinatory.
‘James?’ For the first time, Harry looked uncomfortable. ‘I need to use the men’s room. I can go, yes?’
‘Not without me. Excuse us, Easy.’
She gave him a small, uncertain smile. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re off to see the Wizard.’ Bond smiled. ‘Off to see Sulphur, who just happens to be in Paris.’
‘We’re flying to Paris?’
‘James?’ Harry said with urgency.
‘No. We’re going by train, won’t that be fun? Night train to Paris. Sounds like a 1930s movie title.’
‘James?’ Harry again.
‘See you in a moment.’ Bond gave Easy a dazzling smile, took Harry’s elbow and guided him rapidly to the nearest facilities, as the Americans would have called them.
‘Why can’t I even go to the bathroom alone, James?’
‘Because, my dear Harry, I trust nobody until we’re safely in Paris, and sitting, alive and well, with the lovely Praxi.’
‘She’s certainly that.’
‘Lovely?’
‘Indescribably.’
‘Good, perhaps she’ll take your mind off Eagle.’
‘I do that with all the girls, James. It’s my curse in life.’
‘Well, perhaps you’d better hold yourself in check until we get to France. French women are more receptive, Harry. You’ve got to be damned careful with the American ladies these days. Some of them’ll clap you in irons just for saying they look lovely.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re emancipated. They have equal status, so some of them think you’re being sexist if you say they look nice.’
‘Is all very difficult.’ It was the first time Harry had shown that he was human.
When they returned to the table, Easy had ordered a vodka and tonic. She had also put a small piece of folded paper next to Bond’s lonely Martini.
He opened it and read—
‘James,’ she had written. ‘On no account are you to leave me alone with that man. I don’t like his eyes.’
‘Too close together, are they?’ Bond turned to her, smiling.
‘They belong to the “All-the-better-to-see-you-with-my-dear” variety.’ She did not even twinkle.
‘Harry, we have a small problem,’ Bond beamed at the German.
‘So what’s new?’
‘The accommodation you’ve so helpfully booked on the Ost-West Express. I fear you’ll be in the compartment for one. My colleague and I need to confer.’
‘For the whole night?’
‘These conferences do sometimes go on. Perhaps we’ll have dinner with you, how about that?’
‘Whatever you say.’
Bond gave Easy a sideways look. ‘Friend Harry says the middle-aged gent by the door is a surveillance spook,’ he said without moving his lips.
‘You learn that in prison,’ Harry said brightly. ‘I know lot of guys learn it in prison, speaking without moving lips.’
‘No, Harry. I learned it from people who’ve been in prison. Experts.’ His lips still did not move. ‘If you’re right, I don’t want our eyeballing friend to read my lips. Now, Harry my lad, are you one hundred per cent, gold-plated certain that this chap’s spooking us?’
‘Two hundred per cent. He was once with Stasi. Name of Korngold. Klaus Korngold. They must be short of people, because he should know that I can finger him . . .’
‘Which might just be why he has hidden himself behind a copy of Stern ever since you marked him for me.’
‘You know, there was a time when I thought Stern was an SM magazine,’ Easy said brightly, and Bond did not know whether to take her seriously. ‘Did our bags come down?’ he asked.
‘There’s a nice uniformed bellboy standing over them. He’s watching them as though they’re going to grow legs and run away.’
‘Good. Your baggage, Harry?’
Spraker tapped the large briefcase by his chair. ‘He travels fastest who goes light, or whatever the saying is, James. I got the briefcase, one handy large-size cosh – is that right, cosh?’
‘If you mean as in rendering someone unconscious, yes. No other things, Harry? No artillery?’
‘Just one little pistol. Only 0.22. Wouldn’t hurt fly.’
‘Right.’ Turning to Easy, whose name he did not want to say aloud in front of Harry, ‘I suggest that you deal with the bags. Have them brought around to the front entrance. Harry and I will do our best to make Klaus see the error of his ways. I should imagine they have a team outside – or at least one bright lad in a car.’ He leaned forward and in a whisper told Harry what he intended to do.
‘Herr Korngold?’ Bond and Harry stood at the spook’s table. Easy had gone to deal with the luggage and check to see if their car had arrived.
‘You speaking to me?’ Korngold looked like a thug who had gone to seed. His suit had once been fashionable and, some years ago, had carried a sizeable price tag. The face was marked by stress, with those deep crow’s feet shooting out of the corner of his eyes, like the gold decoration on a sunburst clock. The shoes, Bond noted, were down at heel, something he was always twitting the MI5 Watcher Service about. Watchers are the same the whole world over: they all wear the most comfortable shoes, which often means the oldest they possess. It is no fun to do an eight-hour shift on city streets in uncomfortable footwear. Korngold’s eyes were rheumy and contained a tired, almost sleepy alertness, the paradox look of a man whose life had been spent surveying other people’s problems and movements. Deep in the eyes, Bond also saw the signal that he was right. The man might well have an alias, but his name was certainly Korngold.
‘Yes, Herr Korngold,’ Bond said in German. ‘I asked if you were Herr Klaus Korngold.’
‘Go away,’ Korngold snapped, though, in his own language, he did not use those precise words. Harry moved around to the back of his chair.
‘I suggest you stand up, don’t make a fuss, and just come along with us, Herr Korngold,’ Bond smiled as he said it, and shifted his balance, just like any good policeman trying to make a point.
‘Himmel, you mean it.’ Korngold looked surprised.
‘In trumps, Herr Korngold.’ Bond continued to smile. ‘Just a short ride and a few questions. You recall how that’s done, I think – and don’t try to deny it. We have your photograph on file.’
‘You’re not cops. Go away!’ Korngold said again (once more he used a less polite version of ‘go away’).
‘Try us!’ Harry put some pressure on the man’s neck. Korngold’s mouth opened in a silent scream of pain and he rose, as though being levitated by a magician.
‘Surprising what a little pain will do.’ Bond nodded thanks to Harry. ‘Now, mein Herr, I think we should just walk gently to the front of the hotel.’
The commissionaire opened the door for them, telling Bond that his car was ready. Easy stood by a gleaming black Mercedes, and was supervising the loading of the luggage into the boot.
‘I think you should call an ambulance,’ Bond said, looking serious. ‘Herr Korngold, here, is not at all well.’
‘Of course.’ The commissionaire hurried into the hotel, leaving half a dozen people waiting for taxis.
‘What’re you talking about?’ Korngold began to speak loudly. ‘What d’you mean. I feel perfectly . . .’
‘You don’t, you know.’ Even Bond did not see Harry’s arm move, it was so nicely executed, the cosh catching the former Stasi man on exactly the right
point: the base of his skull.
They both caught him, looking anxious and trying to support the man’s sagging body.
‘Hope you haven’t killed him,’ Bond remarked while looking around for the commissionaire.
‘No way, James. I been doing it for years. He’ll be okay as long as he hasn’t got an eggshell skull, and I know he hasn’t. This one’s been given a rubber anaesthetic before. I know. I saw it happen.’
The commissionaire had reappeared, accompanied by two of the porters.
‘I’m afraid he’s had a heart attack.’ Bond helped to stretch Korngold onto the cold pavement and began calling loudly in German for a doctor. In the distance the wail of an ambulance siren began to slice through the Berlin night, getting louder each second.
‘Can we leave him in your good hands?’ He crammed a wad of Deutschmarks into the commissionaire’s hand. ‘We have a plane to catch.’
In the Mercedes, he gave the driver exact instructions, which would take them around some of the nearby backstreets before heading in the direction of the Zoo Station.
‘You guys spies?’ the driver asked, with a big laugh. ‘You’re telling me to do things like spies do it on the TV.’
They all had a big laugh, and then Bond made his day by saying they were, in fact, running away from Easy’s husband. ‘He’s a big fellow with a lot of push. She wants a divorce. We’re private eyes. Helping the lady out.’
‘This I always wanted to do,’ the driver said in a voice which suggested he was Bond’s man for life. ‘Always like those private dicks.’
Easy made a remark which brought her a withering look from Bond.
‘Well,’ she pouted. ‘I’ve never seen a private one. Hard-boiled, yes. But not private.’
They did the scenic route with nobody on to them, and got to the Zoo Station with a good seven minutes to spare. Bond overtipped the driver with much winking and stroking of fingers along the side of noses.
‘They can pull out my fingernails and I won’t tell them,’ the driver maintained. ‘Trust me, I can get real lockjaw when I put my mind to it.’
‘Good, become deaf also.’
