James Bond - 028 - Never Send Flowers

by John Gardner

  Flicka kicked the pistol back into the room, leaned over and delivered a fierce chop to Lester’s neck. The screaming stopped, he fell sideways and was still.

  ‘You killed him, Flick?’ Bond, very impressed, tried to sound calm as he scooped up the Colt.

  ‘I hope not.’ She prodded the body lightly with her toe, and Lester moved, groaning.

  ‘Better truss him up.’ Bond was down on one knee, fumbling for the butler’s braces. They pulled the tail coat from his shoulders and the pain made him stir and begin to regain consciousness. Flicka chopped him again on the neck, anaesthetizing him once more as they fastened his hands tightly with a handkerchief, then tied his ankles with the braces, stretching the elastic back and securing it around his bound hands. Finally he was gagged with a scarf, which Flicka pulled from her own bag.

  ‘He’s going to try and make a lot of noise when he finally comes out of it.’ She even smiled a shade sadistically, he thought. ‘That arm’s going to give him gyp, as my mother used to say.’

  ‘You always as vicious as this, Flick?’

  ‘Only when I don’t like someone.’ She gave him an angelic smile. For the first time, he realized how very well trained she was. If, at that moment, he had been allowed to pick a permanent partner from any of the major intelligence services, he knew that she would be his first choice. She was decisive, tough and uncompromising – all the qualities someone in Bond’s job looked for in a partner.

  ‘I think we should go,’ she said, pulling her own bag into the lift cage.

  ‘Luggage and all?’

  ‘Well, I’m not leaving any of my personal belongings behind. Not in this place.’

  He dumped his bag beside hers, checked the Colt .45 and pressed the ‘down’ button. As the lift whined towards the ground floor, they were aware of more light than they had previously seen in the castle, and when the doors opened, the quiet, somewhat creepy calm they had become used to appeared to have gone for ever. There were shouts and noises coming from the main body of the building, echoing and fading – the thud of footsteps, and, from somewhere, music filtering in and out of the sounds which seemed to be all around them. These noises, and the reverberation of loud voices, had changed Schloss Drache into a Tower of Babel.

  ‘This way, I think.’ Instead of heading straight down the corridor, Flicka turned right, then right again to where the passage continued towards what they both knew could only be the castle’s east side.

  Finally, they reached a dead end, and a heavy door. She shrugged at Bond, who nodded and turned the doorknob. Light, even more brilliant than before, flooded out at them.

  They were in a massive stairwell. The light was unnaturally bright, while the cacophony of sounds became louder, enveloping every corner of the building.t believe a word of it.e , f

  ‘I always hate it in those movies when people trying to escape go upwards and get cornered on the roof,’ Flicka whispered.

  ‘There’s nowhere else to go but up, except right to the centre of things and I don’t want to come face to face with the Dragonfly and his rose-growing sister. This way we might at least get a look at the forbidden tower.’

  Eventually they reached a long wide landing which seemed to run across the width of the castle interior, and turned at right angles at each end. Facing them was a pair of oak double doors. The noise seemed to rise and fall: voices, chanting, conversation, mixed with music, as though the castle had suddenly become inhabited by an invading army of ghosts. If he had believed in the supernatural, Bond would have thought they were in the middle of some terrifying haunting.

  He was about to put his hand on the doors when they heard Dragonpol’s voice, clear and coming from the right and below them, rising above the rest of the clamour. Quietly Flicka put down her case, and Bond leaned his garment bag against it. Softly they moved, clinging to the wall. At the turn they stopped, inching their way out and along the passage.

  From this end they could see that, just as the corridor ran for the width of the castle, it also disappeared almost out of sight along what had to be the length of the building. Only in the centre did it angle back into the square U shape, with a balustrade. Dragonpol’s voice was coming from below a balcony which looked down on to a hallway, or room, at the castle front.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ he was saying loudly. ‘Where’s that fool Lester and the two meddlers?’ Then he began to shout. ‘Hort! Hort! Where the hell’s she got to? Surely it can’t be taking her all this time? Charles!’

  ‘She’s just coming in.’ It was Charles’ voice close and below. ‘Here!’ he shouted.

  ‘Hort? How many this time?’

  She was out of breath. ‘Three . . .’ she gasped. ‘Only three.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Absolutely, and you have the key map. There’s still three too many.’

  ‘I know it, and I’d better get going. The rest of you – Charles, William – get hold of Lester. Keep our guests safe. I want no stupidness. Just keep them here. Don’t hurt them unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

  They heard his footsteps thudding away into the distance.

  ‘I’m glad he doesn’t want to hurt us,’ Flicka whispered.

  ‘Unless it’s absolutely necessary. Come on, I’m going through those doors. I want to see what the hell’s in that tower.’

  It was only when they got back to where they had left their luggage that they realized most of the music and general hubbub was coming from directly behind the big double doors.

  Still with the automatic ready in his hand, Bond leaned against the doors, and they entered the strange disorienting world of Dragonpol’s embryo Museum of Theatre.

  The noise seemed to wrap itself around them in a jumble of sound. As they walked forward into the light, they were both staggered by the sudden change which focused only one sound and one view on to their senses. It was so real that Flicka gasped and clutched at Bond’s sleeve. They stood, it appeared, at the very top of a huge Greek amphitheatre. Below them the stone steps were filled with an appreciative audience, which laughed and applauded. He could feel the breeze on his face, and the sun hot?’ Bond asked that f b d above them. He could even smell the crowd, a mixture of spices, bodies and an amalgam of scents.

  Far below, in the stage area, actors proceeded with the play. Long ago lessons at school slid from his memory and he suddenly even recognized the play. It was Aristophanes’ The Frogs. He knew it because of the chorus which chanted, ‘Brekekekex Co-ax Co-ax.’ The Greek playwright’s version of the modern ‘ribbit-ribbit’.

  So, as if by magic, they had been brought to a Greek amphitheatre, and to a performance being given some four hundred years BC. The reality of the thing was extraordinary, and only his logic told him that they were really experiencing a clever use of modern hi-tech and old projection and optical effects, plus the use of advanced robotics. It was quite enthralling and amazing until he spotted something slightly off-key. One of the actors, far below, had lifted a mask to his face. The mask had nothing to do with Greek theatre of 400 BC, but was of the kind used in Japanese Kabuki performances, which did not really flourish until some time in the early eighteenth century.

  Just as he spotted this odd chronological error, so the whole picture in which they appeared to be standing, began to fade into darkness, and to their right a figure rose up from the darkness: a luminous, beckoning figure, so real that Bond turned, gun in hand, ready to shoot if necessary.

  The apparition was dressed as an old jester, and it capered and beckoned – another projection, or moving hologram, which bade them follow. Even with the glaring error in the Greek amphitheatre, Dragonpol’s Museum of Theatre was certainly quite something: a trip into the past, as though in some kind of time machine.

  He took Flicka’s elbow and guided her as they followed the strange dancing jester who suddenly disappeared, and, as he vanished, light came up around them and their ears were again assaulted by noise, their sense of smell detecting a mélange of sc
ents, some ripe and unpleasant, others sweet. This time the change of aspect was more realistic than before. They stood in an English market place, on the fringe of a crowd. Facing them was a rough platform, an outdoor stage, with beams at each corner, set upon which was a crude upper level on which men and women were working machinery behind cloth cloud shapes.

  The players on the stage were acting out some kind of religious story, which Bond realized must be one of the medieval mystery plays, for the actors spoke in an oddly accented English. A clap of thunder came from the people working the primitive special effects, and it was plain that the play was the story of Noah, for one of the actors was bidding his ‘Wife, come in,’ as God Himself leaned down from tattered clouds and declaimed that the rain would begin at any moment.

  Once more, the sense of reality was strong. They were there, present in an English town hundreds of years ago. People seemed to brush against them, and one actually spoke to Flicka, asking if she recognized Dickon dressed as a girl. The Dragonpol set was exceptional. Yet, once more, just as the scene around them was dissolving, Bond saw one of the actors consult a relatively modern pocket watch.

  Another figure came out of the darkness, this time a small man in Elizabethan dress. They could see right through his body, but, as he beckoned, he spoke clearly. ‘Come, there is plenty of room. Come tonight to the Globe where they perform Master Shakespeare’s comedy and delight, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ They followed as though mesmerized.

  A street rose up around them.t believe a word of it. him. careful There were cobblestones underfoot, and others pressing in towards the high curving wooden walls of the old Globe Theatre. Seconds later, they stood, surrounded by an audience, within what Shakespeare had called a Wooden O.

  Again, it was the sense of actually being there that amazed Bond, and he had to wrestle with his senses to move himself back out of the light, from the sixteenth-century audience enjoying the end of the Dream – Puck, acted by a young boy, was just finishing the play. Bond literally had to drag Flicka away, melting through ‘people’ and ‘walls’ into the darkness of what he knew had to be the huge, hangar-like second floor of Schloss Drache.

  ‘But James . . .’ She began to resist.

  ‘We’re losing time, Flick. Things are going on out there . . .’

  ‘But it’s like a magic carpet . . . time travel . . . a true Time Machine.’

  ‘I know. But we have to . . .’

  The lights came up suddenly, brilliantly, bringing them up against reality with a terrible jolt. The sounds and pictures had gone, and in their place was – as Bond had presumed – a massive warehouse, with catwalks leading through complicated pieces of equipment, huge cycloramas, automata and battens of floods, spots, odd-shaped mirrors and projectors.

  They stood on a metal catwalk – grilled, and with a chain guard hanging from metal rods set at intervals of around six feet. The catwalk was solid and did not swing or move under them, yet it stood about twenty feet from the ground. This time, there was no insubstantial figure, projected by laser or hologramatic means, facing them.

  ‘I told them you’d got into the display,’ Charles said in excellent English. ‘Mr Lester is really very angry with you. Mrs Horton is driving him to the nearest hospital. Did you know you’d broken his arm?’

  ‘That was my intention.’ Flicka’s voice gave no sign of surprise or fear. ‘I also did my best to damage his future romantic prospects.’

  ‘If it was up to me, I’d damage more than your romantic prospects.’ Charles held an automatic pistol very close to his hip. He also stood with legs slightly parted. All the signals were that this man was trained, and it is the training that separates the men from the boys. Lester had not struck Bond as being a trained bodyguard. Charles, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was about. ‘Just put Mr Lester’s gun down on the catwalk, Mr Bond. Do it slowly please. Very slowly.’

  Bond took a step forward, bent his knees and placed the Colt .45 carefully on the metal, just to his right and slightly behind him. ‘Your friend about, is he?’ he asked, straightening up.

  ‘William? Yes, sure, William’s around somewhere. I wish we could both spend the odd hour in a locked room with you two . . .’

  ‘But you’re not going to do that, Charles, because your boss, Mr Dragonpol, says we have to be kept safe.’ He took another step forward, speaking softly, trying to get close enough for a move. It was like trying to tempt a wild animal.

  ‘Unless it becomes necessary, Mr Bond. Far enough.’ The pistol moved very slightly in Charles’ hand. ‘We don’t want any accidents, do we?’ He gave a cheeky grin. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind. We can always make it necessary. I wouldn’t mind that, and you’d positively hate it.’

  Flicka brushed against Bond’s shoulder as she stepped in front of him. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she all but cooed. t believe a word of it.Charles f b d‘You don’t think we’d be so stupid as to play games with you. We’ll come quietly, won’t we, James?’ She turned her whole body back towards Bond, and, in doing so, her wide skirt flared up and snagged, for a moment, on one of the metal stanchions holding the guard chain in place.

  For a spectacular few seconds, her upper thighs and lace-decorated hips were revealed, in all their glory, to Charles whose eyes bugged out at the unexpected sight. It was a perfect piece of distraction. Flicka had moved to Bond’s right while doing her unveiling pirouette, and he was able to launch himself towards Charles, tackling him low, getting right under the gun hand, his right shoulder connecting with the bodyguard’s knees.

  Charles gave an uncharacteristic squeal as he pitched over Bond’s shoulder. Flicka moved in to grasp the pistol, twisting it and almost wrenching the wretched man’s wrist from his arm. There was another scream as Bond dumped him on to the guard chain.

  ‘Let him go, James,’ she called, and he instinctively did as she instructed, giving the body a little help with his shoulder.

  Charles twisted and turned, then fell from the catwalk, landing on the hard stone below with a thud that made Bond wince. The squeal stopped, and there was silence.

  Bond retrieved the Colt, and saw that Flicka already had Charles’ pistol in her hand. ‘Anyone ever tell you how good you are, Flick?’ He patted her shoulder, urging her forward.

  ‘Many times, James. My instructors were always generous in their praise – I was head of the school.’ She winked, then walked quickly, with Bond at her heels. Every sixty feet or so, the catwalk expanded into a viewing platform with machinery, automata, lights, mirrors and scenery reaching out on each side. Whatever else, Dragonpol obviously possessed a wonderful imagination.

  At the far end, they reached a single door. Thick metal with a large heavy lock: it stood half open, and they emerged into the far end of the long passage, which evidently ran right around the enclosed second floor. This time, however, they were facing another metal door that stood open to reveal a narrow stone spiral staircase.

  ‘The tower,’ Bond whispered, going straight towards the door and up the steps. He almost ran, using the balls of his feet to deaden the sound, and he was only aware of Flicka behind him because of her breathing, light but just audible.

  The stone steps twisted upwards, finally coming to a bare flagged landing and yet another metal door. This time it was in two sections, a plain steel, hinged slab which contained two very serviceable locks. In turn, this was hinged to an insert of solid bars which had its own lock, the whole forming a secure entrance into a very safe area, in which items, even a person, could be easily confined.

  On the far side of this door a small lobby led to yet another set of bars. These were also equipped with a locking device, and the entire section was designed to slide to one side. It was half open, and they went through into a large chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling. Great cathedral windows were set in two sides of the room, the glass very thick and clearly unbreakable, but it was the decor which stunned them. A large and comfortable bed occupied one corner. There were a couple of leather easy
chairs, and a very large rough working table, upon which papers were piled and scattered.

  The wall directly opposite the entrance was completely taken up by a tall metal filing cabinet, the uppermost part of which could be reached from a ladder, anchored to the top section, and fitted on to a slider. Small wheels at the base of the ladder would allow it to be pushed easily?’ Bond asked that f b d to the required place, and it stood in a central position with one of the higher drawers open, as though the previous occupant had only just retrieved some required file.

  Bond went straight to the table, bending and starting to look carefully through the papers. There were charts, drawings, photographs and even maps.

  ‘Looks like the master plan for the museum.’ He gestured to Flicka with his hand, calling her over. Indeed, the topmost showed a view of the area they had just traversed. A quick glance showed they had missed seeing a performance at the Moscow Arts Theatre; one at a London theatre in the 1920s; the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon in the late 1960s; part of a performance of Wagner’s Ring Cycle at Bayreuth; a modern musical in a Broadway theatre, together with about another six exhibits.

  ‘This man’s a genius.’ Bond began to thumb through another pile of papers which seemed to be the working drawings of the largescale electronics used in the museum.

  ‘A genius, but I think a genius at murder also.’ Flicka had lifted the larger plans from the table and was rummaging under them. ‘These look as though they’ve been thrown here to hide something else.’ She moved several more large plans until a series of maps, drawings and notes emerged. ‘Look here . . .’

  But Bond had already been distracted, walking over to the right of one of the high windows, where he stood looking in horror at a bookcase which was anchored to the wall above a deep glass-fronted cabinet.

  ‘No, you look here.’

  She went to him, and began to study the spines of the books, and the lower section of the cabinet, which contained various items marked with small cards. The books – beautifully leather bound, with the symbol DD at the bottom of each spine – were all works on the same subject – political assassination. Here, there were volumes dealing with practically every famous public murder, from Caesar to JFK.