by John Gardner
Minutes later they were aboard the Ost-West Express, and Bond’s spirits rose. He was still not altogether certain of Harry Spraker, but he had not travelled on a continental railway train for years, and the noises, sights and smells came back like a once-loved song, reminding him of earlier, probably more dangerous, days when he had criss-crossed Europe on the great network of express trains while on operations at the height of the Cold War. It also reminded him of childhood. Peaceful times when the railroads of the Continent were more exciting than sitting cooped up in a metal shell, thirty-five thousand feet above the earth.
The double sleeper was comfortable and had everything they needed. Harry had gone straight to the single, without a protest, and they had made arrangements to meet for dinner.
Bond rubbed his hands as the train began to pick up speed. He thought of the route they would take through the night. Through the old checkpoint at Magdeburg and on through Hanover and Hagen. They would breakfast just outside Cologne, and would be at the Gare du Nord, Paris, by twenty past one the following afternoon.
‘Which do you want?’ he asked Easy, indicating the bunks. ‘You want to be on top, or below?’
‘Oh, I think we should just let nature take its course.’ She smiled, and he saw her eyes light up and start to burn.
‘This could be an interesting journey.’
‘I was just thinking the same thing.’ She moved towards him, swaying with the train. Then came the knocking at the door.
‘Harry will never let it rest,’ she said, and before Bond could stop her, she had slid the bolt and opened up.
The driver of the Mercedes stood in the corridor. Behind, and towering above him, were two very large men. Neither of the men smiled as they pushed their way into the compartment.
The driver shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I lied.’
6
DEATH AND A PAIR OF ACES
The compartment suddenly became very crowded, and Bond saw that one of the two men was, in reality, slightly taller than the other – by around half an inch. Mentally he immediately christened them Big Hans and Very Big Hans.
Very Big Hans opened the batting. ‘Polizei!’ he said, in the same way a man might snap out, ‘Rubbish!’
‘I think he’s saying they are from the police.’ Bond turned to Easy, using a suitably bewildered shrug.
Big Hans, not to be outdone, also said, ‘Polizei!’ pulling out a wallet and flashing it open and shut to reveal, for a second, a badge and laminated card. The whole thing was done with the dexterity of a conjurer adept at close-up magic.
‘Yes, they’re definitely police,’ Bond said.
‘That one had a badge,’ Easy joined in. ‘How can we help you?’
‘Sprechen Sie deutsch?’ Big Hans asked.
‘I know what that means. Er . . . Nein . . . No . . . No, we don’t Sprechen deutsch.’ Bond waved his hands indicating he was at a loss for words. ‘You,’ he pressed Very Big Hans in the chest with the index finger of his right hand, ‘You Sprechen English?’ Poking policemen with an index finger is not a recommended form of strategy.
‘Just a little, I think.’ Very Big Hans wrapped a large paw around Bond’s hand and removed it from his chest. ‘We must questions ask. Also we will alight from the train at Potsdamer Station, which is in a very few minutes we get there.’
‘No, you do only speak a little English,’ Bond said loudly. ‘We’re going to Paris.’
‘Yes,’ Easy spoke clearly and very distinctly. ‘Paris. We – go – to – Paris.’
‘Ja, Paris. I see. But we must ask questions.’
‘Ask away. Anything we can do to help.’ Bond smiled and opened his hands in body language which said he had nothing to hide.
‘We might ask you to also alight from the train at Potsdamer Station . . .’
‘No, we’re going to Paris,’ Easy said firmly. ‘What is it you want?’
Very Big Hans jerked his thumb in the direction of the Mercedes driver who lingered in the corridor. ‘Helmut, here is what in English I think you call a snatch.’
‘No,’ Bond shook his head. ‘Snatch means something else entirely. You mean a snitch, but that would only be in America. In England we call it a grass – an informer.’
‘Please?’
‘Never mind. What did Helmut – an in-for-mer, yes? – tell you?’
‘Helmut says you acted very strangely in his car. He is of the opinion the lady here is being abducted. Is right, abducted?’
‘The word is right, sir. But the answer is no.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ Easy pushed herself between Bond and Very Big Hans. ‘No, your in-for-mer, Helmut, has it wrong. We were being stupid. Behaving badly. Cuckoo, you understand?’
‘So, I think we should all go to headquarters until this is made plain. The cuckoo.’
‘You mean you want to take us off the train?’ Bond’s tone changed. ‘Officer, there is nothing wrong. We were just acting silly. Playing the fool. In the car we were being stupid. Making jokes. Nobody – you understand? Nobody – has been abducted . . .’
‘I think, perhaps . . .’
‘And if you even attempt to take us off this train, I shall insist on calling the British Ambassador immediately. He is a close friend, and there will be much trouble. If you do not allow me my rights to telephone from the Potsdamer Station, I shall make a lot of noise. Many people will see.’
‘And I shall scream that it is police brutality.’ Easy smiled pleasantly. ‘If you think I am being abducted, I will prove, loudly, that I am not. Except, possibly, by you.’
‘There was another man. Perhaps he . . .’
‘He’s in compartment C7, just along the corridor.’
‘Then we talk with him.’ Very Big Hans looked perplexed.
‘Do that.’ Bond stepped towards him again. ‘But we shall make a great deal of noise, and we shall follow you if you attempt to take our friend from the train. We’ve not broken any laws. Your informer is an idiot.’
‘Possibly,’ Very Big Hans said the word clearly, almost as though he spoke English well.
‘No, definitely. An idiot. A cretin.’
Very Big Hans nodded slowly, then gave Bond a beatific smile. ‘If he has given us the wild duck chase, I shall chastise him. Ja?’
‘Good.’
The large cops gave stiff little bows and left the compartment, closing the door behind them.
‘What was that all about?’ Easy looked nervous.
Bond held a finger to his lips and opened the door again, peering into the corridor. ‘Get ready to make good any threats. If they try to take Harry off, we’ve got to stop them.’
‘They gave up a tad easily.’
‘Of course. They’re not cops.’
‘No?’
‘When did you last see cops wearing thousand dollar suits and Gucci shoes?’
‘I would never have thought of that. They could be corrupt cops.’
‘I don’t think so. As you said, they gave up very easily. There’ll be real cops on the Potsdamer Station – any station, in fact. We could attract a lot of attention.’
‘Yes, and I can scream very loudly when roused.’ Easy’s compact little frame seemed to radiate anger.
‘I shall have to remember that.’
‘Oh, I won’t scream at you, James. Maybe I will, but in the nicest kind of way, if you follow me?’
‘Really?’ Bond raised his eyebrows, pushing open the compartment door so that they could step out. ‘You go right, and I’ll head for the door at the other end.’ The train was rocking its way into Potsdamer Station. ‘Watch out for the bogus cops, and take your cue from me if they try to remove Harry.’
The Ost-West Express is divided into two portions: Paris and Ostend from whence travellers can go on to London. It originates in Moscow and is, therefore, one of the most romantic trains still running in Europe – the overpriced Orient Express apart.
Both sections of the train can just get into the Berlin Potsdamer
Station, so when it came to a standstill, Bond was able to hang from the carriage door and view almost the entire length of the train. He signalled to Easy, who hung out of the door at the other end of the carriage, indicating that she should watch her right.
There was the usual bustle and smell of a continental railway station. He thought it odd that, although the trains now run on either electricity or diesel, he still seemed to detect coal smoke among the little galaxy of odours which assaulted his sense of smell. Perhaps the smoke was a ghost from the past: from childhood.
All the other smells were very real – humanity, continental tobacco, bread, wine, and that strange, indefinable smell which changes from city to city. On Swiss stations it is cleanliness; on French a mixture of wine, coffee and newsprint; in England there are still traces of smoke, but the overlying whiff is envy. Here, in Berlin, it was dust and, when it rained, woodsmoke. Odd that the scent from the continual bombing of over fifty years before still crept up from under the new buildings on rainy days.
Mostly people were getting on to the train. Very few left it, and – for the entire seven minutes in the station – Bond saw nothing of the two German ersatz cops, or Harry. As the various officials blew their whistles and waved flags, Bond stepped back into the carriage and closed the door, though he still leaned from the window, in spite of the stern warning telling him it was Verboten.
It always amazed him that it seemed to take half a dozen officials to set a train in motion from a German station. They trooped along the platform doing their particular pieces of mime: waving flags, slamming doors and letting out shrill blasts on their whistles, answered by the engine drivers at the front and rear of the great snake of carriages.
They were a mile out of the station before Bond gave up and returned to the compartment where Easy was already waiting. ‘Nothing?’
She shook her head.
‘Okay, let’s check on Harry.’ They made their way along the swaying corridor to C7, where Harry, quite unconcerned, was stretched full length on his bunk reading a book by an overpraised English thriller writer.
‘You ever notice how this guy never describes people?’ He looked up at them.
Bond peered forward to see the author’s name. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever read him.’
‘Well, what he does is he tells you that this or that character looks like a movie star. Gets away with it every time. He’s got one here who “could’ve been Rex Harrison’s double”, and another has the “rugged good looks of Sean Connery”. This is a cop-out, yes?’
Bond sat on the edge of the bunk. ‘Someone once said I looked like Hoagy Carmichael with a cruel mouth.’
‘Who’s Hoagy Carmichael?’ Easy asked.
‘He was . . .’ Bond began. ‘Oh, Easy, if you don’t know, I’m not going to explain.’
‘I think you have got a cruel mouth,’ she said, ‘though I wouldn’t put it in a book.’
‘How did you get on with the pair of synthetic sleuths?’ Bond asked of Harry.
‘What is synthetic sleuths?’
‘Charlatan cops. Impersonators.’
‘Never heard of them.’
Bond looked up sharply at Easy. ‘You didn’t see them leave the train?’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘I watched the station exit, it was only twenty yards up the platform. They didn’t get off.’
‘Then we still have the pleasure of their company.’
‘Would you tell me what you’re talking about?’ Harry asked, putting down the paperback.
Bond gave a fast precis of the visit by the two expensively dressed men who had claimed to be police.
‘Still on board, then. We’ll hear more from them.’
‘Shouldn’t be at all surprised.’ Bond stood up. ‘It’s almost time for dinner. You going to change, Easy?’
‘I thought I’d slip into something a shade more formal.’
‘I’ll escort you back. I didn’t bring much but a change of shirts myself.’
‘Like I said,’ Harry was reaching for his book again, ‘he who travels lightest, and all that.’
‘I’ll come back and talk while Easy’s changing.’
‘There’s no need for you to go and sit with Harry.’ Easy gave him an arch little smile as they reached the door of the compartment. ‘I’m not shy or anything.’
‘It’s the “or anything” that interests me.’ Bond put a hand on her shoulder and she came closer to him. ‘When I met you, I thought you were just another of those power ladies with starch right up their rear ends,’ he smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have even told you that you had nice hair in case you screamed sexual harassment.’
‘Oh, I can do that, James. Have done it. But we power ladies can make our own choices now, which is one of the great charms of living in the last decade of the century. You want to stay?’
‘I think I’ll go and have another word with Harry. After all, we do have a whole night on this train.’
She stood on tiptoe and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. ‘Rock and Roll,’ she whispered.
‘Just keep this door closed and don’t open it to anyone except me. Got it?’
‘Wouldn’t want it any other way.’
Back in Harry Spraker’s compartment, Bond described the two men who had tried to lure them from the train. ‘Sound like anyone you know?’
Harry frowned. ‘Sounds like too many people I know. If this business is all down to Wolfgang and Monika, they’ll have almost an army to call on. They both had followers, people who did not want to see the regime change. The kind of men and women who became embroiled in the Moscow coup. You know what it was like when the Stasi fell apart, James. It seemed complete. They even sold off the filing cabinets, shredders and office furniture in the old Normannenstrasse headquarters. Now the place offers Sauna for Everyone. As for the inmates, some ran like chickens without heads; others just called it a day and went home; but the majority simply faded into the woodwork.
‘It was the same with the HVA. Mischa Wolf was already retired, but he vanished into the night. Now Wolfie Weisen and Monika Haardt were two people who wouldn’t just sit down and weep. They had too large an investment – like others. People who’ve enfolded themselves in an ideology do not wish to walk naked.’
‘That’s a sharp observation, Harry. I’ll remember it.’
Spraker threw back his head and gave a little laugh. ‘Wait till you meet Praxi. She has all the truly sharp observations.’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m looking forward to the tryst with Praxi.’ Bond’s face clouded over. ‘Providing we all get to Paris safely. Harry, for God’s sake, watch yourself. If those two overpriced thugs are really out to get us, I suspect they’ll fight hard. Take care.’
Harry Spraker gave him a solemn look. ‘I intend to. But, just in case anything goes very wrong, I give you a telephone number. You should call as soon as you get to Paris. Ask for Peggy Jean – in English, just like that. You’ll get Praxi.’ He rattled off the number which Bond added to the great store of telephone numbers he kept in a locked compartment of his memory. Like many in his line of business, he used a simple system of colour coding, an aide-mémoire which he had learned many years ago in training.
They both went back to the double compartment to pick up Easy, who had changed into a neat little white dress that showed off her figure, revealing a hidden territory not even suggested before this. ‘You really have changed,’ Bond said, abnormally elated. When they had set out on this venture, he really had not imagined Easy would match up to her name.
They ate in the dining car, where the food was passable, if not great in choice. The smoked salmon was exceptional, but James Bond had never really cared for escalopes Holstein. ‘Why ruin a perfectly good piece of veal by putting capers and a fried egg on top,’ he observed. The wine was only just drinkable, and a couple of hours later Bond and Easy said goodnight to Harry and went back to their compartment.
Almost as soon as they were inside, Easy slid the bolt, then closed in on
Bond, wrapping her small body around him, kissing him as though she would explode. Bond thought that a man could effortlessly drown in those large pearl-grey eyes. The kissing did not stop.
‘The bottom bunk, I think,’ she whispered.
‘Whatever you say.’
‘And, James, it must be safe.’
‘Always,’ he whispered. ‘Nowadays nobody takes chances.’
Presently she said, ‘No, James, there’s a little hook and eye here. Let me put your hand on it . . . No, not there. There. Now the zipper.’
In less than a minute they fumbled their way to the bunk. ‘Oh, yes, James,’ she panted, ‘I’ve always had a fantasy about playing trains on a train. Wow. Hello there.’
‘Hallo, yourself.’
‘I think you can really just lie there and let the train do the work, darling . . .’
So, in the swaying, bumping train, they rattled through the night, dozing occasionally then waking to the comfort of each other’s arms. ‘This is definitely the way to pass the time on a long journey,’ Easy whispered as the train sped through the dark German countryside.
When they woke in the morning, it was to see they had arrived at Wuppertal Elberfeld, in the heart of the Ruhr Valley. The views were less than romantic: factories and power plants flanked the track, for they were now in the heartland of industrial Germany, on the outskirts of Düsseldorf. Within the hour they would be in Cologne.
They dressed quickly. ‘You’re the first woman I’ve met in a long time who can actually wash, dress and put on a new face in minutes as opposed to hours,’ Bond said as Easy finished putting on her make-up. He was wiping traces of shaving cream from his face and she came over and kissed him, some of the cream transferring itself to her nose. Her eyes flashed with humour and happiness.
‘Perky,’ Bond said.
‘Perky?’
‘Yes. I’ve been trying to find one word that sums you up. Perky would be about right.’ He was dressed now, and checking the ASP automatic which he slid into his waistband, hard behind his right hip. Bond led Easy along the corridor.
Harry was not in his compartment, neither was he in the dining car, where they had to wait for fifteen minutes before getting a table for breakfast.
