HANG YOURSELF
Luther threw himself forward, his hands reaching out for Sin, but the other three men had been waiting for this moment. As one they were onto him, pinning him down as Sin stood up and moved away from the table. ‘We will need a rope,’ he said.
Two men held their former colleague while the third left the room, going downstairs and out to the jetty. He returned a few minutes later carrying a thick coil of rope that had been used to tie the boats. Sin glanced up at the ceiling. A single beam ran the full width of the room, made from wood felled from a tree two hundred years before. He took hold of the chair on which he had been sitting and carried it round, placing it beneath the beam.
‘I will not do this!’ Luther hissed. His face was white. He was swaying slightly on his feet. ‘It is madness!’ He turned to the other men and spoke to them rapidly in German. The men looked away. It was as if they had not heard him. He turned back to Sin and now there were tears in his eyes. ‘Herr Sin. This is not my fault – what happened tonight. It was the responsibility of all of us. Please, sir. I have a wife and two sons. I beg of you!’
‘Do I look as if I’m about to change my mind?’ Sin interrupted. ‘It’s late and I want to go to bed. I’d get on with it, if I were you. There are many worse cards you could have chosen and if you won’t play by the rules, you will regret it. Come on, now. You’ve seen all this before. You need to make a noose.’
‘No.’
‘If you refuse me, I will bring your wife and children here. You will see them die first.’
Luther was shaking. ‘I don’t know how . . .’
‘It is not difficult. Any knot will do. It just has to go around your neck.’
There is a moment when every fighter knows his time has come, when he is trapped in a situation from which there is no way out or when he has been wounded and knows that the blood will not be staunched. Luther had arrived at that moment and something went out of his face, as if a switch had been thrown. Sensing it, the two men eased their grip. At the same time, the third produced a gun, stepping aside to have a clear line of fire. Luther took the rope. It lay in his hand like something dead. He stared at it, then, with a series of short, jerky movements tied a knot, leaving a loop large enough to pass over his head. Finally he climbed onto the chair and attached the other end of the rope to the beam. The noose hung in front of him.
‘Herr Sin, will you say to my wife and to my sons . . .’ Luther addressed the Korean, his face framed by the rope that was about to kill him.
‘I will tell them that you died in an accident, nothing more nothing less. How old are your children?’
‘Nine and fourteen.’
‘Very young to lose a father. But there you are . . .’
Luther put the rope around his neck. He searched for some last words to say but couldn’t find them. Feebly, he rotated his legs, trying to topple the chair. It didn’t move. He tried again. It toppled to one side. His body came crashing down.
Sin went back to the table and gathered up the card. He tapped the ends to straighten the pack and returned them to their box. Finally, he glanced at the German who had been holding the gun. He was the youngest of the three. His face was filled with horror. ‘Your name?’ Sin asked.
‘Artmann, mein Herr.’
‘All right, Artmann. I’m promoting you. You’ll take over Herr Luther’s responsibilities. Start by getting rid of the body in the lake. Make sure it’s properly weighted down.’
‘Jawohl, mein Herr.’
‘Good night.’ Sin slipped the cards back into his pocket and left the room.
ELEVEN
Jeopardy
Jeopardy Lane came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, which she had wound under her arms. She had regained some of her colour but there was a wariness in her eyes.
‘Do you have a cigarette?’ she asked.
‘Help yourself.’
There were cigarettes on the table. Also a bottle of Asbach Uralt brandy that Bond had persuaded the night porter to release from the bar. Weinbrand. At the end of the First World War, with more than ten million people dead and the world trying to sort itself out, the French had seized the moment to demand exclusive use of the word ‘cognac’. These things obviously mattered. Bond had poured two large glasses and had drunk them both while Jeopardy was in the shower. He poured her another as she reached for the packet.
The room was in the eaves of the hotel, all slanting roofs and shuttered windows looking out to the sloping countryside and the Eifel Mountains. It had the snug, old-fashioned feel of a Tyrolean ski lodge and Bond couldn’t wait to get out. He had already showered and changed. He intended to leave first thing after breakfast. His wet clothes were drying in the bathroom and his case was packed by the door. It was now two o’clock in the morning. A particularly nasty clock with a cow painted onto the face sat on the mantelpiece, showing the time. Bond and Jeopardy were going to have to spend what remained of the night together here. He had made that clear to her in the car, driving back. They were probably safe. It was unlikely that Sin would attempt to follow them to the village of Nürburg and even if he did it would be hard for him to find them. (Bond had given the night porter five hundred Deutschmarks and instructions to tell anyone who called that Bond was not at the hotel. And if anyone enquired, he would tell Bond at once.) It was still sensible for the two of them to stay close. Jeopardy had nowhere else to stay in Nürburg. She had no money, no clothes, nothing. There were, however, several questions Bond wanted to ask her and until he had the answers, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.
He didn’t get a chance to start his interrogation. She lit her cigarette and snapped the lighter shut, then turned to him angrily. ‘If you think I’m going to sleep with you, you can forget it.’
‘The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind,’ Bond lied.
‘I can’t believe I let you talk me into that. I wasn’t thinking straight. What the hell was going on in your head? Chasing off like that. And the tower! You nearly got me killed.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know what I’m talking about, goddam you.’ She emptied half the glass in one gulp. ‘I don’t know who you are, Mr Bond. You’re obviously not a racing driver.’
‘And you’re obviously not a journalist.’
She ignored this. ‘Maybe you’re some kind of crook. That’s what you look like, despite your fancy car. And I don’t know what business you had with Jason Sin. But we could have easily talked our way out of that study. There were plenty of reasons we could have been there. We could have got lost. We could just have been snooping. So what? Even if he’d decided he didn’t like it, what was the worst that could have happened? He would have called the police and I don’t know about you but for me that would have been perfectly fine. Instead of which, we go haring off down those passageways. We make it up to the roof. And we risk breaking our goddam necks taking a night dive into the lake. If I’d had five seconds to think I’d have turned round and taken my chances, instead of which I’ve lost my purse and my cash. I’ve missed my cab. And now I’m stuck here with you.’
‘You’re not stuck with me, Jeopardy,’ Bond returned. ‘If you say one more word, I’ll throw you out and you can see if you can find a room somewhere else.’ He looked at her coldly. ‘First of all, Sin wouldn’t have asked questions. Nor would he have called the police. He’s a seriously dangerous man. Did you notice the portraits with the burned-out eyes? That might have told you something. He was holed up in a castle in the middle of a lake and he was surrounded by armed security men. And you really wanted to trust yourself to him?’
‘Sin’s just a rich guy—’
‘Don’t give me that. You’ve got nothing to do with racing. I saw you trying to talk your way up the stairs. I suppose you must have followed me after I cleared the way. So maybe you should start by telling me why you were there and what you were looking for.’
‘I’m not telling you anything.’ She was
still scowling. Bond thought it was the prettiest scowl he had ever seen. ‘I need to make a phone call. To New York.’
‘You’re not going to get a line tonight.’
‘Tomorrow morning then.’ There was a long silence. She took another sip of the brandy. ‘Are you?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘A crook?’
‘No. I’m a sort of investigator. I’m working for people who might be interested in Sin.’
Bond’s jacket, still sodden, was hanging in the bathroom. He had taken the photographs out of the pocket and laid them carefully on the radiator. Inevitably, the water had done some damage but as each one dried, he could still make out most of the image. He picked one up and looked once again at the strip of coastline, the white buildings, the rocket in its gantry. ‘I don’t suppose this means anything to you?’ he asked.
‘It’s a rocket launch site.’
‘I might have worked that out for myself. Do you know where it is?’
‘No.’
This time, she was the one lying. Bond was sure of it. But how much was he going to tell her? How could he get her to trust him? Suddenly he was tired. He’d had enough of the evening and knew that the next day he would have an early start and a long drive. ‘I need to get some sleep,’ he said. ‘You can have the bed. I’ll take the sofa. And you don’t have to have any worries. I won’t pounce on you in the night.’
‘I’m sure you won’t. I can see you’re not that sort.’ They were the first words she had spoken that sounded conciliatory.
Bond drew a spare blanket out of the cupboard and made up the sofa. At the same time, Jeopardy slid discreetly out of the towel and into the bed. When he next looked at her, only her head and arms were showing. The covers, stretched tight across her chest, came all the way to her neck. She was pressing them down as if to close off the entrance. With her cropped hair, the slightly upturned nose and her skin so pale in the moonlight, she reminded Bond of a novice nun having her first night in a convent, terrified of the wandering hands of the mother superior.
Part of him recoiled. He had never slept like this before, certainly not with a girl as attractive as Jeopardy Lane a few feet away. A naked, attractive girl, he reminded himself. And he could feel the brandy warming his stomach, reanimating him. He threw himself on the sofa and pulled the blanket up. It was fortunate he was so tired. Sleep came at once.
In the morning, things were different.
Bond was woken by the sun streaming in through the window. Jeopardy was still asleep, her head on her arm and the sheet draped so perfectly across her that it could have been painted by a Renaissance artist. He slipped into the bathroom, showered and dressed. When he came out, she was awake.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘I was a little hard on you last night,’ she said. ‘But I was tired and I was confused. Also, I don’t like sharing a room with a man I’ve never met. Where I come from, there could only have been one consequence. But you’ve behaved like a gentleman, I’ll say that for you. Maybe you’re right about Sin. He’s certainly a creep. And whether he’s a gangster or whatever, I’m glad we didn’t hang around to have a chat.’
‘Are you going to tell me why you’re interested in him?’
She hesitated. ‘It’s personal . . .’
‘You know him?’ Bond took a guess. ‘Did you work for him?’
‘Something like that.’ She sighed. ‘Look. I’ll tell you everything, I swear. But not until I’m dressed and that means you’re going to have to go out and buy me some clothes. I also need breakfast. I want eggs and coffee and juice. I don’t want to eat here. I want to go some place neutral . . . there’s a Danny’s coffee shop just outside town. That’ll do. And I’m not telling you anything about me until I’ve heard about you. James Bond. Is that your real name?’
‘Yes.’
‘It sounds fake. You say you’re an investigator and you’re British. Are you from Scotland Yard?’ She said it as if it was some sort of joke. ‘You can tell me all that later. All I need is a jersey and jeans. And you should be able to find some court shoes or something. Nothing with high heels. I’ll pay you back sometime although it’s your fault I’ve got nothing to wear.’
‘You don’t need to worry about the money and I’ll see what I can find. I’ve got quite a good eye for sizes but I can’t promise I’ll get much in the way of the latest fashion in a place like Nürburg.’
‘I’m not interested in fashion.’ She glanced at the clock with its cow face. ‘It’s half past eight. The shops probably won’t open for a while. But don’t worry about me. I’m going to take a long bath and then I might go back to sleep. Just make sure the door’s locked on the way out and slip the key underneath.’
Bond did as she had asked. The night porter had been replaced by a new man who greeted him as he left the building, stepping out into a warm, pleasant day. He had parked the Bentley out of sight and down the road. If Sin had sent his men after him, he wouldn’t have wanted the car to act as a signpost to the hotel. There was nobody around. Without the excitement of a race, the little town had gone back to sleep and Bond’s instincts told him that the night’s adventures were well behind him. He drove out to the main road and after a while he found a general store with a few items of women’s clothing in the window, although he had to wait ten minutes until it opened. He picked out a short-sleeved double-knit (100% Dacron – the fibre that knows all there is to know about winning form) and a pair of pedal pushers. The store had sandals but no shoes. He wasn’t sure that Jeopardy would thank him, but the outfit would have to do until she got to Cologne.
He drove back to the hotel, parked the car and went back to the room. The door was open. Suddenly Bond felt uneasy. Jeopardy had told him to lock it. It was the last thing she had said. Bond slipped the Walther PPK out of his pocket. He had taken it from the secret compartment at the back of the glovebox in his Bentley. Holding it in front of him, he softly pushed the door ajar and looked into the room. The bed was empty. The bathroom door was open. Jeopardy had gone.
It didn’t take him long to piece it all together. There was a laundry room just down the corridor. One of the uniforms worn by the hotel maids – a blouse and pencil skirt – had been stolen. The receptionist had actually seen her leave. Bond didn’t make any further enquiries. He assumed she had hitchhiked out of town. Back to Cologne? There was no certainty that that part of her story had been any truer than anything else she had said. In a way he quite admired the way she had so coolly sent him off in pursuit of an outfit that she had known she wouldn’t need.
But a few minutes later, when he had returned to the room, that admiration had turned to anger . . . not with her but with himself. Jeopardy hadn’t left empty-handed. The photographs had gone.
TWELVE
Rocket Science
‘Unlike you, James, to let a girl get the better of you. And after a night on the sofa, too! You must be losing your touch.’ Charles Henry Duggan let out a bellow of laughter and threw back the last of the Selbach-Oster Riesling which he had ordered with lunch and most of which he had consumed himself. Bond was not fond of German wine, particularly the Auslesen which were too sweet, too heavy – too German at the end of the day. Duggan had picked out the most expensive bottle on the menu. ‘The food here’s bloody awful so we might as well make up for it. Bloody Jerries! If I’d known I was going to be packed off here until I popped my clogs, I might have thought twice about joining the service.’
‘Nonsense, Charlie. You love it here.’
‘Bad Salzuflen? Even the name sounds like something you might catch in a brothel. All they’ve got are spas and salt springs. Most of the people are here for their health but the one thing they haven’t got is a cure for terminal boredom.’
Bond had driven north-east to the famous health resort close to the Teutoburg Forest mountains. His first thought had been to return to London but he had a feeling he had no time to lose. There had to be a reason why
Sin was examining photographs of an American rocket in his private office, just as there had to be a reason for Jeopardy to steal them. Back in 1946, the SIS had set up a sub-section of the Intelligence Division whose primary role was to keep an eye on the buoyant economic and political scene in Germany with particular reference to any resurgence of Naziism on the one hand and to the ongoing activities of the communists on the other. Things had quietened down since then but the section – now known as Station G – was still a vital part of intelligence gathering, particularly with reference to Eastern Europe. It was housed in a nondescript office building close to the railway station. For the past ten years, it had been headed by Duggan and he had turned it into his own fiefdom with a staff that turned a blind eye to his idiosyncrasies. Bond was right. The post suited him well. And at the weekends there was always Berlin with darker backstreets and racier clubs than he would ever find at home.
Duggan had already given Bond a full debriefing. Together, they had sent a signal to London giving a detailed (if not comprehensive) account of what had occurred at the Schloss Bronsart. Bond had requested further information about Sin Jai-Seong, about a woman calling herself Jeopardy Lane and about all the imminent rocket launches in the USA. There was nothing more to do until a reply came in so the two men had gone to a local restaurant for lunch.
Duggan was a great many things that are unusual in the world of the secret service. He was fat – really fat – loud, bearded, frequently indiscreet and often, at least in appearance, drunk. He dressed badly in clothes that would have more suited a country squire – jackets and waistcoats in heavy checks and brightly coloured ties. He was also homosexual and didn’t care if people knew it. He and Bond had almost come to blows late one night in a Montmartre bar on the only occasion when the topic had come up, Duggan damning him for his Protestant upbringing and his blinkered world view. ‘The trouble with you, James, is you’re basically a prude. I bet half the boys at that bloody public school of yours were buggering each other blind and you didn’t even notice or looked the other way. Anyway, the service is crawling with sisters. You know it and I know it. Look at that dreadful man Burgess. It’s a gift to the Soviets, letting them set up their honeytraps, snaring civil servants who are too young and too scared to know better. God knows how many secrets we’ve lost that way. Change the law and let people be what they want to be – that’s what I say. And as for you, maybe you should try to be a bit less of a dinosaur. This is 1957, not the Middle Ages! The second half of the twentieth century!’
Trigger Mortis Page 12
