James Bond - 028 - Never Send Flowers

by John Gardner

  Joining the line he soon found himself floating in one of the boats, through a tunnel and then down a sickening lurch of a waterfall and into the quiet of the lagoon he had been watching during his meal. As he looked towards the diners, Bond had an overpowering sense that he himself was being watched by a malignant pair of eyes.

  The smooth calm of the blue stretch of water changed as they appeared to round a headland to see a galleon under fire from cannon on the mainland. The explosions of the guns seemed very close and great spouts of water leaped into the air as shot struck the sea close to his drifting craft. Then they were sailing slowly into the city under siege, full of pirates singing, pillaging, burning, drinking, chasing the local girls and even selling off some of the more sturdy ones.

  Once more he marvelled at the incredibly lifelike figures, and the consummate artistry of the experts – and the Imagineers – who produced such unbelievable effects, and the audio-animatronical beings.

  Outside again, Bond stood, sniffing the air. Suddenly, just as he had felt eyes upon him, he knew, as if by some extra sense, that he was here: that Dragonpol had penetrated this wonderland of illusion, pleasure, fun, excitement and laughter. He had come to bring death among the magic.

  Slowly the sky turned red and then darkened. The buildings became alive with light, the trees twinkled and the park took on a new perspective. Soon, he was jammed in among the crowds, watching the second big event of the day, the Main Street Electrical Parade, winding its way with its music and twenty-two twinkling floats from Fantasyland down Main Street.

  Then the fireworks began to burst high above the castle and the wonder and sorcery of dreams and imagination were there to be carried away in the mind, a fairy tale held in the memories of all, from the smallest child to the oldest adult, for ever.

  As the crowds began to jostle happily towards the main gates, passing under the arches of the Main Street Station, so Bond walked into the City Hall, showed his pass to one of the attendants and went through a door that led down to the heartbeat of the park: the maze of tunnels, changing rooms, offices, computer stations, and banks of closed-circuit TV screens which monitored every area of the Disney kingdom.

  Smiling Ben waited for him in a small office near the large banks of monitors.

  ‘They’ll all be gone within the hour,’ he said. ‘Then the boys’ll be doing final tests on the rides, decorating the cars and boats to be used by the royals in the morning, and generally making certain all’s well. After that, things’ll quieten down for the night.’

  A line from a half-remembered poem came into Bond’s head – ‘And leave the world to darkness and to me.’ And to Dragonpol, he added almost aloud, too preoccupied to hear the rest of Ben’s sentence.

  ‘Sorry, Ben, what did you say?’

  ‘I’ve put four extra men out there in Frontierland, watching the Riverboat Landing and the water around Rivers of the Far West. They’ll be checking in every half-hour.’

  ‘Good. I hope they know their job.’

  ‘James, nobody’s going to get past us tonight. You can sit with me and watch the screens. There’s no way he’s going to meddle with the rides without being spotted.’

  They drank coffee and sat talking, Bond’s eyes never leaving the monitors. He saw the lead boat for Pirates of the Caribbean being decorated with velvet cushions and flowers, specially for the royal guests; and they were doing the same to one of the Doom Cars at Phantom Manor. As he watched, so he came to the realization that his nerves were stretched almost to a taut, breaking point.

  ‘You really think he’s going to organize something there?’ Ben nodded towards the monitor.

  Bond nodded, lips clamped shut.

  ‘Which do you think it’ll be, Pirates or the Riverboat?’

  ‘I’d go for Pirates. Some kind of device near the galleon, where there’s plenty of noise anyway. I’d put it right near the effect of the cannonball hitting the water. But what do I know?’

  Just before two in the morning, Bond retired to the small changing room where Ben had left the bulky sports bag containing the equipment Q’ute had provided. It was all standard stuff t believe a word of it.ed down f b d – a black wetsuit, without a mask or air bottle, a waterproof holster containing his favourite weapon, the 9 mm ASP automatic, with the guttersnipe sight, and two spare clips of Glaser slugs. While the weapon was technically out of production, Armaments Systems and Procedures still supplied his service with spare parts, and occasional new weapons: after all this was a sophisticated remodelling of the Browning 9mmand they were certainly still being manufactured.

  He also carried a Gerber fighting knife – a recent gift from the US Navy Seals – and a pack of four waterproof, hand-operated flares. There was nothing fancy here, and nothing that could really go wrong.

  ‘Going for a swim?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Not if I can help it. Anything happened?’ He picked up the spare radio that Ben had ready for him. ‘This all set?’

  ‘It’s tuned, and, yes, all quiet on the Western Front. Not a peep, and the boys out in Frontierland don’t seem to have seen anything out of the ordinary.’

  They sat for the next ninety minutes, still scanning the monitors, with Ben checking in with his people around the lake every thirty minutes. The check-in consisted of a series of clicks on the radio, denoting each separate man, while Ben responded with a similar number of clicks.

  When it happened, it came, as ever, suddenly and unexpectedly. Nothing showed on the monitors, and Ben kept glancing at his watch. The check-in clicks had not started on time. Number one should have begun at exactly three-thirty, and the others were due to follow in sequence.

  ‘They’re late.’ He did not yet sound alarmed, but Bond felt the hair bristle on the back of his neck.

  ‘He’s here,’ he said with absolute certainty. Then Ben’s radio clamoured – a series of rapid clicks which was the alarm signal.

  ‘Jesus, you’re right.’

  ‘I’m already there.’

  One of the little electric carts, used by the staff to get around the underground tunnels, had been placed in readiness just outside. Now Bond was held up for a moment as Ben argued, wanting to come with him.

  ‘Stay where you are. If I need help, I’ll call in.’ So he was off, whining away along the bare-walled tunnel lined with wiring and sanitation ducts. The underground passages were marked to show exactly where you were in relation to the world above, so navigation was a simple matter.

  He reached Central Place and took a hard left which brought him to the Riverboat Landing, leaping from the cart and climbing the metal ladder that would take him right on to the landing.

  For a moment he closed his eyes, to adjust to the darkness outside, and waited by the door which he softly pushed open.

  He stood in the open air with all senses straining, looking up at the moored riverboats and hearing no unusual sound in the night. Slowly he inched forward until he reached the edge of the landing stage, moving sideways to get a view of the water. Darkness. Silence. Nothing. Time, he considered, for some light on the scene so he unclipped the radio from his belt.

  He was just lifting it to his mouth, the thumb of his right hand pressing the transmit button, when he felt the metal digging into the back of his neck, and heard the throaty, soft whisper which sent a chill of ice down his spine.

  ‘Thank you for coming, James Bond. I’ve only incapacitated the other watchers. For you, I have a special treat.’ Dragonpol’s tone had altered to one of deep and desperate madness. This time he was not acting.

  Dropping the radio T clear, hoping that the touch of his thumb on the button would have already alerted Ben, Bond let his body go limp. It was an old trick, learned long ago. If the muscles seem to go inactive, the person threatening you will imagine he has complete dominance. ‘Okay, David,’ he spoke almost in a whisper so that Dragonpol would have to strain to hear him. ‘Where do you want me to go?’

  ‘Shut up . . .’ Dragonpol began, and Bond sagg
ed at the knees, turning into the pistol touching his neck and bringing his right fist round in a piledriver which went wide, catching Dragonpol on the shoulder.

  ‘Come in, the water’s lovely,’ he shouted, reaching for the man’s neck, his fingers connecting with a wetsuit not unlike the one he was wearing, heaving and pulling his adversary off balance.

  As they fell from the landing stage, their bodies locked together, Dragonpol’nterrupt at an

  20

  HINTS OF CHANGE

  It says much for the Disney organization that they had the fire out long before any other local fire brigades arrived. They also had the lake dragged, a charred body and many small items removed, and the water relatively clean before eight in the morning.

  The police were there as well, of course, though it was several weeks before their forensic conclusions were passed down to other authorities. It was perfectly clear that David Dragonpol had been determined to do away with the royal party at the expense of a large number of other innocent lives, though his mistake had been to incapacitate Ben’s night watchers before he had set the trap and tethered it in the correct position – just under the surface in the direct path of the Mark Twain.

  The trap, when all became clear, was an aluminium beer keg almost certainly filled with a deadly mixture of gasoline and Thermite – a black powder of iron oxide mingled with aluminium granules. There had also been a simple remote-control device which would have proved very effective: an electrical dentonator set into a small ball of plastique explosive.

  If this revolting device had been exploded as the Mark Twain passed over it, the resultant fireball would have undoubtedly engulfed the paddle steamer. Very few people would have got out alive. The gasoline would have ignited, and in turn this would have set off the Thermite.

  Thermite burns rapidly with a temperature in excess of 4,000º Fahrenheit and so fiercely that it was at one time used to cut and weld metal in shipyards.

  Bond’s one stray bullet had pierced the keg, so spilling the contents, while the flare had ignited the gasoline, incinerating Dragonpol in the water. Happily, the fire did not spread on to Big Thunder Mountain or back to ant believe a word of it. that, ffont-family: sans-serify of the other exhibits.

  Later, the French police learned that Dragonpol had bribed a lorry driver to – as the driver said – ‘Look the other way.’ Undoubtedly, the keg had been brought into the theme park with a normal delivery. Within forty-eight hours, the Disney security people had put new restrictions on all goods entering the facility.

  By eight that Sunday morning, nobody would have known that there had even been an incident, though one look at Bond would have suggested that he was the loser in a barroom brawl. The Disney emergency unit had patched him up, but there was no way short of make-up to hide the bruises.

  Now he waited near the main entrance, surprised at the lack of police and local protection, which he had expected to be there in force ready to greet the royal party. So he was bewildered when he saw Ben, still in jeans and a T-shirt, wandering back to his office in the warren of tunnels beneath Disneyland.

  ‘Nobody’s told you?’ Ben still wore his smile, but his eyebrows shot up in his own unique version of disbelief.

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘It’s off. She’s not coming.’

  ‘Last night’s little business did the trick, then?’

  ‘No, James. This morning’s little business did the trick.’

  ‘That’s a question of semantics.’

  ‘No, I mean less than an hour ago.’

  ‘An hour . . .’

  Ben explained that the royal party had been staying with friends on the outskirts of Paris, and the Press had got wind of the location. The story was that they were there, cameras and notebooks at the ready, when she had emerged with her two children, at seven a.m., for the drive to Euro Disney would take at least an hour.

  ‘It seems that one of your people was with the royal detectives. I haven’t got the details, but she spotted Dragonpol’s sister among the crowd. The lady in question had a very nasty hand grenade in her handbag. Your officer disarmed her. So, it’s all over. The Princess made an immediate decision and called off the visit.’

  ‘Pity she didn’t take notice earlier.’

  It was not until he arrived back in London, later in the day, that Bond learned the identity of the officer who had spotted Maeve Horton.

  The taxi from Heathrow had dropped him in the King’s Road and he walked, carrying his garment bag, to the Regency house. He was about to put his key in the lock when the door was opened by his elderly housekeeper, May, now returned from her jaunt up to Scotland.

  May looked at him accusingly. ‘Mr James, there’s a young woman here who says she’s a house guest. She’s a pleasant lass, and speaks English like a native, though she tells me she’s foreign.’ To be ‘foreign’ as far as May was concerned, was tantamount to being a carrier of what she called ‘that terrible Black Thing they had in the Middle Ages’.

  Flicka von Grüsse sat in the living-room wearing a very stylish pants suit in red, with a lot of military flair and gold buttons on the jacket.

  ‘You didn’t tell me about the Scotch dragon,’ she whispered after they got their breath back.

  ‘Flick, the word is Scottish. I thought you spoke English. Scotch is a drink – though I’m always reading American novels which refer to Scottish people as Scotch. It’s like calling citizens of Oporto winos.’

  ‘I know,’ she grinned. ‘I love you when you get allt believe a word of it. him a f b d correctional. I hear there was a bonfire party out at Euro Disney.’

  ‘You’ve heard about Maeve – old Hort – as well, have you?’

  ‘Heard about her? I nabbed her.’

  ‘You . . . ?’

  It all came out over a light supper, served by May who had begun to soften towards Flicka.

  Fredericka von Grüsse had worked some kind of witchcraft on M and had been sent as the service representative among the Scotland Yard royal detectives.

  When it came to leaving the house where the Princess and her children had spent the night, Flicka had gone to take a look at the journalists before they brought the royal party out.

  ‘Maeve was standing there, trying to look insignificant among the photographers,’ she told him. ‘So I took no notice, pretended I hadn’t see her. I walked around and chatted to some of the Press people, then worked my way behind her, did a kind of mental frisk and knew she was up to no good.’

  ‘So?’ He liked the part about doing a mental friis windpipe an

  sk.

  ‘So I jammed my gun in her ear and told her I’d blow her head off if she moved. The cops came down, searched her and carted her away. She had this damned great grenade in her handbag, and there’s no doubt she was going to use it.’

  Flicka had been allowed to sit in on the first interrogation and it was immediately obvious that Maeve’s love for brother David was of the unbalanced and unhealthy variety. ‘She said she’d have died fe had more talent in his little finger than . . . Oh, you know how these obsessive people go on. The whole damned family was crazy if you ask me.’

  It also became clear that sister Maeve was the true answer to one of the great Dragonpol conundrums. ‘She did the flowers,’ Flicka told him. ‘Admitted it almost as soon as I asked. If anyone had bothered to check her passport, they’d have found she followed on David’s heels, taking those bloody roses with her and making sure that they were delivered to the gravesides. Oh, by the way, M wants us both in the office by nine tomorrow morning.’

  ‘To congratulate us, no doubt.’ Bond cocked his head and raisor him, that h

  ed a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Or to ask for a full explanation of two dead bodies at Schloss Drache.’

  When it came to it, M asked no awkward questions. He spoke for a long time about the Dragonpol incident, and getting quite serious about it at one point. ‘Friend Dragonpol,’ he said, ‘is, I believe, a sympto
m of the sick and dangerous society in which we live.’

  From there he launched into the real reason he had summoned tice.

  ‘There are changes in the air.’ He seemed tense and serious. ‘Changes that will affect this service drastically. The job’s changing with the world, though I personally believe the world’s a more dangerous place than it was when we had a cut-and-dried cold war. A thousand times more dangerous, which is probably why the powers-that-be are demanding a complete reorganization. It’s going to affect me, and it’s particularly going to affect you two. You’ll get the full details of promotion and the new job within the week. I simply wanted to warn you before it happens.’

  ‘I hope it’s not playing detective again,’ Bond muttered. ‘That’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Ah.’ M gave them an enigmatic look.

  ‘Am I going to like the changes?’ Bond asked.

  ‘Probably. Almost certainly. You’ll be doing some very different things in the future, James; and so whem to his off

  John Gardner served with the Fleet Air Arm and Royal Marines before embarking on a long career as a thriller writer, including international bestsellers The Nostradamus Traitor, The Garden of Weapons, Confessor and Maestro. In 1981 he was invited by Glidrose Publications Ltd – now known as Ian Fleming Publications – to revive James Bond in a brand new series of novels. To find out more visit John Gardner’s website at www.john-gardner.com or the Ian FlemiI0">‘Jam