by John Gardner
And nobody could account for the reason Mark Fish had rolled down his rear window, thereby making the assassin’s job a thousand times easier.
Only a couple of international newspapers picked up on the fact that three high-profile figures, and one very senior intelligence officer, had been murdered in as many days, and in as many countries, but no link was officially made by any of the law-enforcement organizations involved. Yet the truth was that, in less than one week, four prominent victims had died in various ruthless, brutal acts of violence. Though nobody linked the deaths, one thing was certain: each of them had been a target; each had been stalked, sought out and killed with some care and preparation; and, while the specialists in terrorism had named possible groups as the perpetrators of these killings, no organization had come forward to claim responsibility – an oddity that was the one constant in the four deaths, for terrorist groups are rarely slow in claiming success after a carefully planned operation.
On the Friday of the same week, another killing tesheet" type="
2
GAZING DOWN AT THE JUNGFRAU
She left her hotel in Interlaken at around ten-thirty in the morning. Switzerland’s Bernese Oberland always had a calming effect on her, and Laura March needed peace and quiet more than ever before.
As a child, her parents had often brought her to this part of Switzerland and she remembered her father telling her, years ago, how therapeutic it was simply to sit and look at the mountains. She desperately needed to think, allow the pain to subside, and reassess her life.
It had rained on and off all the previous day, but this morning the sky was cloudless, the deep and perfect blue seen only at high altitudes. The mountains, with their constant caps of snow, were clear and sharp against the skyline and, in the distance, she could just see the great curve of rock which looked like the breast of a young woman – the reason they called that particular mountain the Jungfrau.
At the Interlaken West station, Laura boarded the train to Grindelwald. She was always amazed that so little had changed here since her childhood. Even her travelling companions seemed familiar to her: a group of chattering young people on a day trip, led by a solemn, plump woman, bossy and arrogant; there was an unsmiling young man, wearing stout walking boots, his rucksack on the luggage rack, face buried in some guide book, out for a day or two of serious walking; a middle-aged couple, healthy and red faced, dressed in jeans and sweaters, and a dozen other people, all remembered from the long-ago days when she had gazed in wonder from the rattling train window, clutching her father’s hand.
Everything was familiar, from the long slanted roofs of the chalets, to the splash of colour in window boxes, and the smell. All countries, she thought, had a particular scent to them, retained in the memory of visitors, and immediately recognizable on return. Her father had often said that he remembered the smell of Switzerland, rather than the views, and she had known what he meant. Her mother used to say it was the smell of money, but that was a family joke. The scent of Switzerland was a kind of cleanliness found in so few places these days.
At Grindelwald, she walked slowly up through the village, dodging other tourists, strolling along the crowded high pavements, pausing to look into the shop windows: picture postcards, seeds of mountain flowers, patches to sew on to jeans, little metal tags to attach to walking sticks, and mountains of food, the stores presided over by serious-looking men and women. For the Swiss, all business is serious, and Grindelwald is, rightly, a prosperous place, sitting as it does on the edge of the Glacier Gorge. For decades it has been a playground, in winter and summer, for climbers, sightseers, and long-distance skiers alike.
It was after eleven-thirty when she reached the chair lift, paying her few francs and swinging into the chair to be levitated almost noiselessly upwards, above the bright lush green grass of the foothills, the flash of a trickling stream below as the cable swung her, rising up the long slope.
She disembarked at the look-out point they called First, that boasted only a large log cabin in which delicious food was served – crowded at this time of day, but the perfect place to sit and eat an omelette, fried potatoes and crisp bread, washed down with a glass of Apfelsaft.
When she had eaten, Laura walked a little way up the slope and sat on the soft grass, looking out towards the Mittaghorn range, the dark brooding slopes of the Schwarz Mönch, the toy houses of Grindelwald far below, the contrast in colour, greens, yellows, the seasoned blackish green of the pine trees, and the wonderful skyline of the Jungfrau, just visible off to her far right; the awesome Gletscherschlucht, the glacier itself, and the crowning glory in the distance – the summit of the Eiger.
The mountains, she thought, were like scale models made from cleverly folded grey paper, brushed at their peaks with white powder. David loved it here, but that was ov on the Monday nightIUer and done with. This was a time of healing for her battered emotions. No more David, for that was finished and she had to resurrect herself from the small death which had come only a short time ago.
As she feasted on the view, it was as if, by some trick of time and light, she were being mentally enfolded by crags, peaks, fissures. Her father had been right, the grandeur and beauty of the view helped to put her own small concerns and pain as a human into perspective. It seemed as though this spot could magically sweep her small anguish into its proper place. The awesome wonder of the vast range of mountains was already doing its work.
When she felt the unexpected stab of pain in her neck, she thought, almost lazily, that she had been stung by a bee. She tried to put her hand up to trap the insect, and was puzzled when she could not get her arm above shoulder height.
She did not panic. It was as if she viewed her strange situation from very far away. The numbness seemed to spread from where she had been stung on the neck. First, her arms became immobile, then she experienced a not unpleasant sense of her entire body being invaded so that she could not move at all.
This is a dream. I shall wake in a moment, she thought, trying unsuccessfully to smile, for there was her dead father waving, running up the flower-dotted slope towards her. Then the darkness smothered everything.
The people who ran the small restaurant found her body just before dusk.
The next morning, James Bond was finishing his last cup of breakfast coffee, and contemplating a lazy weekend – which included dinner that night with a young woman called Charlotte Helpful – when the telephone rang, banishing all plans for the next few weeks, let alone fun and games with the pleasantly named Ms Helpful.
‘Before we begin, Captain Bond, I’d like you to take a look at this photograph.’ M slid a matt eight by ten, black and white print across his desk. His mood had been sombre from the moment Bond had entered the room.
It had been Moneypenny, the Chief’s secretary, who summoned Bond to the suite of offices occupied by M and his personal staff, on the ninth floor of the anonymous building overlooking Regent’s Park.
‘You’re to go straight in, take no notice of that.’ She had nodded towards the door above which the familiar red ‘Do Not Enter’ light flashed. As Bond took a pace forward, Moneypenny dropped her voice. ‘He’s got a pair of our sisters in there.’ She gave him a quick little smile, before looking away, a fierce blush scalding her cheeks. The torch she carried for James Bond was no secret to anyone in the building.
The ‘sisters’ were a man and woman from the Security Service, MI5, introduced to Bond as Mr Grant and Ms Chantry – a portly man, dressed in the dark-suited Whitehall uniform, and a rather frumpish young woman, sitting to attention, inflexible, with her backside perched on the edge of her chair. Both of these officers looked uncomfortable, for members of the Security Service are seldom at ease when circumstances force them to ask favours of the Secret Intelligence Service. There was little doubt in Bond’s mind that they were here to crave a boon from M.
He glanced at the photograph of a young woman, possibly in her early thirties, with light blonde hair, and a pixyish, p
leasant face.
‘Should I recognize her, sir?’ Bond raised his eyebrows in query.
‘Only you can answer that, Captain Bond.’ M remained unsmiling. ‘I am aware that there are occasional cross-fertilizations between our service and our sister on the Monday nightIUs.’
‘She’s one of yours?’ Bond addressed Ms Chantry.
‘Was one of ours.’ Impatient, but somehow full of suspicion.
He thought he could also detect a tiny fleeting stab of pain in her voice, and saw it pass across her face, there one minute, gone the next. He turned back to his Chief. ‘No, sir. No, I don’t recognize the young lady.’
M nodded, then looked across at Grant. ‘Tell him what you’ve just told me.’ His tone was not unfriendly, but nobody could doubt that the Old Man was in one of his tough, all business moods.
Grant, in his mid-forties, had a prissy mouth and a tendency to be fussy, his hands constantly straightening his tie, or brushing imaginary lint from his trousers. Bond put him down as a desk man – personnel, or accounts.
After clearing his throat a couple of times, and fiddling with his cufflinks, Grant began tentatively. ‘Her name is Laura March. Age thirty-five, been with our service for ten years. Worked five years with the Watcher Division, then moved on to Anti-terrorist Intelligence. Mainly analysis of raw information. Very good record. Knew her stuff.’ For a second he paused, as if treading on uncertain ground.
‘And?’ Bond gave him an encouraging smile. ‘She’s disappeared with the family jewels?’
‘She’s dead.’ It came out flat and uneasy.
‘Murdered, it would seem.’ M filled the gap.
‘In Switzerland,’ Ms Chantry supplied. ‘She was on leave.’
‘Ah.’ The truth was out, Bond thought. MI5’s jurisdiction was effective only in the United Kingdom and its dependencies, a situation which often led to ill-feeling between the two organizations.
Grant sounded a shade petulant now. ‘That’s why we need your help. She was staying in Interlaken – Switzerland . . .’
‘I know where Interlaken is.’ This time, Bond was neither encouraging nor smiling. ‘Switzerland. Little place with lots of lakes and mountains. Lots of banks and chocolates as well.’
Grant frowned. ‘You’re familiar with Interlaken?’
‘I know it’s a tourist centre for the Bernese Oberland.’ Bond wanted to demagnetize the highly charged atmosphere, maybe even force a smile from this somewhat pompous man. So he half sang, ‘ “Gazing down on the Jungfrau, from our secret chalet for two.” Kiss Me Kate and all that.’
‘The only way you can gaze down at the Jungfrau is from a helicopter or an aeroplane.’ Grant looked puzzled.
‘That’s the whole point,’ Bond snorted. ‘Cole Porter wrote that song as a satire on the stupidity of some operettas . . .’
‘Captain Bond,’ M snapped. ‘We do not require a lesson in musical comedies. This is a serious business. Let Mr Grant give you the facts.’
Bond, still a little irritated at having been called away from what was to have been a delightful weekend, and possibly two reckless nights with the nubile Ms Helpful, knew how far he could go with M, and his Chief’s voice had now hit what he liked to think of as the Mutiny on the Bounty level. He closed his mouth and nodded politely to Grant.
‘It’s a beautiful part of the world,’ Grant continued lamely. ‘And it appears that she was particularly fond of it. She had been there for two days, and yesterday morning she took the chair lift up to First, a very good Dragonpol and his sister f ble viewing point above Grindelwald. Last night, she was found dead, about half a mile from the chair lift staging-point.’
‘Dead as in natural causes, or the other kind?’
‘It would seem the other kind.’
‘How?’ Bond looked towards Ms Chantry who had gone pale, her eyes reflecting the anguish he had noted earlier.
‘As you know, the Swiss authorities have a tendency to work by the book, Captain Bond. The police were called, treated the matter as a possible murder or suicide, did the usual things and then moved the body to Interlaken. They did an autopsy in the early hours of this morning, and the results are both puzzling and unpleasant.’
‘I’m used to unpleasant matters.’ Bond had slipped into his own sombre mode. If you cannot beat them, join them, he considered. ‘I’ve spent the past week looking at photographs, and reading autopsy reports on four terrorist assassinations, which might just impinge on matters of intelligence, so a fifth post mortem isn’t going to make me queasy.’
Grant nodded. ‘The only unusual mark they found on the body was an angry bruise on her neck, just below the right ear. The skin was broken and they recovered a tiny fragment of gelatin. Part of a capsule which had penetrated the skin.’
‘How?’
‘We don’t know. The Swiss won’t commit themselves.’
‘So what was the cause of death?’
Grant frowned. ‘They’re still doing tests. Nothing confirmed as yet, except that whatever killed her almost certainly got into her via the capsule. I understand that they’ve now brought some specialist forensic doctor up from Berne.’
‘And this, having happened in Switzerland, brings you to the point of your visit to us?’
‘We’ve been refused permission by both the Foreign Office and Swiss security to operate on their turf. They know of Ms March’s link with us, and they’re fairly paranoid.’
‘Point is,’ M cut in, as though annoyed at Grant for taking too long to explain the full situation. ‘Point is that they will accept Scotland Yard, or one representative from us.’
‘And we’re not happy about Mr Plod treading all over one of our own,’ Grant added.
‘So I’m the lucky winner?’ Bond’s spirits rose slightly. An all-expenses-paid weekend in Switzerland – even on grim business – was relatively appealing.
‘You fly out this afternoon.’ M did not even look at him. ‘They’ll be holding the inquest on Monday, so you’ll have plenty of time to go over the ground.’
‘Haven’t we got anybody in Switzerland any more, sir?’
‘You know how it is, Bond. Cutbacks, reorganization. Yes, we have somebody in Geneva, at the embassy . . .’
‘Well, can’t . . . ?’
‘No, he can’t. He’s on leave. In the old days we would have had him covered, but those luxuries are gone. You go out, flying the flag, to Berne this afternoon. They’ll meet you at the airport and ferry you to Interlaken.’
‘Who’s they? The cops?’
‘No. Swiss Intelligence. What used to be the old Defence Department Twenty-seven – disbanded last January. They’ve reorganized like everybody else, and one of their people will meet your flight, take you around, show you the crime scene, fill you in and hold your hand at the in">‘Yes, but outhing quest. Your job is simply to gather details and make sure the Swiss police have done a thorough job . . .’
‘They always do a thorough job,’ Grant muttered. ‘They’re Swiss, and the Swiss bring a new meaning to the word brusque.’
‘You make sure they’ve done a thorough job.’ M was not to be put off. ‘And you make certain that their coroner releases the body to you . . .’
‘And I bring the unfortunate lady home?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘And if I pick up any clues as to the circumstances of her death?’
‘You report your findings to me.’ M made a small dismissive gesture, indicating that, as far as he was concerned, the meeting was over.
‘Sir, might I ask some questions of our friends here?’ If he were going to be used as a detective, he had to conduct himself as such.
‘If you must.’
Bond nodded, turning to face Grant and Chantry. ‘Ms March worked in Terrorist Intelligence. Was she involved in any particular operation? Dealing with one particular group?’
Grant shifted in his chair, pausing just a fraction too long for Bond’s comfort. ‘She worked the whole spec
trum,’ he said eventually. ‘And she knew her business. Familiar with all the most visible groups from the IRA to the Middle East . . .’
‘She had an incredible memory.’ Ms Chantry had a slightly husky voice, very attractive and, Bond decided, very sexy. He took a closer look at the young woman as she spoke. ‘Laura always knew who, among known terrorists, was in the United Kingdom at any given time.’
‘She knew those who had been spotted coming in,’ Grant interrupted quickly. ‘Yes, she did retain the information from the daily reports – the sightings by our people at airports and other entry points.’
Bond grunted, he was still appraising Ms Chantry. At first sight she had appeared to look somewhat school-marmish, dark hair pulled straight back from a high forehead and fastened in a bun at the nape of her neck; granny glasses, and a severe lightweight suit that did nothing for her figure. Now that Bond looked closely, he saw clearly that Ms Chantry seemed to be hiding her light under a bushel of little make-up, and a lot of austerity. Her large brown eyes looked steadily into his, and the curve of her thighs and breasts under the forbidding suit gave the impression of an exceptional body. Under an astringent exterior, Ms Chantry was probably all woman and then some.
‘Ms March? Was she concerned about anyone in particular? I mean any one known terrorist in the country at this time?’ he asked.
The two MI5 officers both shook their heads.
‘So, I presume,’ Bond continued, ‘that you both worked quite closely with her?’
‘I am head of the Terrorist Intelligence Section.’ Grant sounded paradoxically superior and unhappy about revealing his exalted place in the scheme of the Security Service. ‘She reported to me. Ms Chantry is my number two, so, as such, was in contact with her on a daily basis.’
Bond’s instinct still told him there was a great deal missing from the simple answers. ‘And what about the other side of the coin? To your knowledge, did any of the terrorist groups know of her existence?’
‘Who can tell?’ Grant shrugged. ‘We like to think that we’re invisible, but your own service has had problems with penetration in the past, Captain Bond. None of us can b">
