It was quite a performance, Bond gave him that. Friend Bismaquer was an actor of no mean talent. He could also afford to make little mistakes about invitations, afford to deny responsibility. Bond would have to brief Cedar to drop in the full facts concerning the attempt in the elevator.
A gong sounded discreetly, from somewhere in the house. ‘Lunch,’ Bismaquer announced, visibly shaken.
Before they went into the cool, pleasing dining room, with its shaded windows, silently moving servants and colonial American furnishings, Bond slipped out to the Saab, returning the prints to safety. The meal turned out to be animated, if wearing. Bismaquer, Bond discovered, liked holding the centre of the stage all the time, so that his éminence grise, Walter Luxor, and Nena Bismaquer became merely part of his court.
Their host was inordinately proud of the ranch, and they learned a great deal about Rancho Bismaquer before actually viewing it. He had purchased the large tract of land soon after making his first big killing – the sale of the ice cream business.
‘The first thing we did was build the airstrip,’ he told them. The airstrip had since been much enlarged. ‘Had to be. Most of the water, for domestic use anyway, is flown in every two days. We have one pipeline underground, right out of Amarillo, but there’ve been problems with that, and we use it mainly for irrigation.’
Once work began, Bismaquer had put his priorities in the right order. A third of the land was for grazing purposes – ‘Landscaped and everything. We’ve a fine herd out there. Unusual, but actually it pays for a lot of the fun.’ The fun, as he liked to call it, was contained in the remaining hundred square miles which had also been irrigated and landscaped, with massive loads of fertile soil and fully-grown trees, either flown in or brought overland by tractor. ‘You said, James, that you’d heard I had only two passions – collecting prints and ice cream. Well, there’s more to it than that. I guess I’m a collector of just about everything. We’ve got a fine stable of cars, from ancient to modern, and some good horses too. Yes, ice cream is something I still tinker with . . .’
‘There’s a laboratory and small factory, right here on the ranch.’ This was about the only time Luxor managed to get a word in.
‘Oh that.’ Bismaquer smiled. ‘Well, I suppose we make a little money from that too. I still act as consultant to several companies. I like creating new flavours, new tastes for the palate. I tinker. Make the odd bulk load, then ship it off. Sometimes the companies turn it down. Too good, I guess. Don’t you find people’s palates are getting blander?’ He did not wait for an answer, but went on to tell them about the special quarters built for the staff, which housed over two hundred men and women, and the luxury Conference Centre, which took up a couple of square miles. It was sheltered from the main tracts by a thick swathe of well-tended plants and trees: ‘A jungle really, but a jungle kept in check.’
The Conference Centre was yet another source of revenue. Large companies used it, but only as often as Bismaquer chose, which was four or five times a year. ‘In fact there’s some conference due in a couple of days, I think. Right, Walter?’
Luxor nodded agreement.
‘And there’s this, of course. Tara, my very proud possession. Quite something, eh, James?’
‘Fascinating.’ Bond wondered what was really going on in Bismaquer’s mind. How long it would take him to make an offer on the prints – if he really wanted them? After that, what plans had he for his guests? Though Bismaquer had acted in the most natural way possible, he must, by now, know who Bond was – the name itself would mean a great deal to Blofeld’s successor. And what was this conference in a couple of days’ time? A meeting of SPECTRE’S leading lights? The Rancho Bismaquer was just right for the new leader of SPECTRE – a flamboyant world, in which fantasy could mingle neatly with the harsh realities of extortion and terrorism.
When something particularly unpleasant happened, Bismaquer could, like all good paranoids, forget about it: tinkering with new ice cream flavours, driving around his private race track, or just basking in the true Hollywood fantasy of the great screen house, Tara. Gone with the wind.
‘Well, you folks’ll want to freshen up,’ Bismaquer said abruptly ending the meal. ‘I have something to discuss with Walter – you know what I mean, James. I’ll get a guide to take you over to the cabins, then we’ll pick you up for the grand tour around four – say four-thirty. Is that okay?’
Both Bond and Cedar said it would be fine, and Nena spoke for the first time: ‘Don’t forget, Markus, I’ve got a prior claim on James.’
The now-familiar guffaw. ‘Of course. You think I’d miss the chance of spending some time alone with our delightful Cedar? It’s the two cabins you’ve arranged, dear, isn’t it?’
Nena Bismaquer told him that was so and as they left the dining room, she brushed against Bond and said with a look which was more than a simple pleasantry, ‘I look forward to showing you around the place, James. And talking to you.’
There was no mistaking it: Nena was giving him some kind of message.
Outside, a pick-up truck waited in front of the Saab, a scarlet flag flying from a rear antenna. ‘The boys’ll lead you to the cabins,’ said Bismaquer with a beam. ‘Meanwhile, don’t worry, James. I’m going to get to the bottom of what you told me. Oh, and tonight I want to talk business with you. An offer for the prints. Don’t think I didn’t notice, by the way, how neatly you took them out again.’
‘My job, Markus.’ Bond thanked them for the delicious meal, and as they set off in the Saab, Cedar started to giggle. ‘Wow, what a set-up!’ she exclaimed.
‘Set-up is the word,’ Bond answered.
‘You mean the invitation to stay for a couple of days?’
‘That, among other things.’
‘Everything to make us feel at home and put us at ease.’
‘Just fine,’ said Bond. ‘Markus is quite the king. He was innocent as a new-born babe about the goons in New York.’
‘You tackled him about that?’ Cedar frowned as Bond ran through his conversation with their host.
They had gone about a mile from the house now, trailing the pick-up which moved steadily ahead of them.
‘Whatever the quarters are like,’ Bond warned her, ‘we have to presume they’re wired. The telephones too. If we want to talk, we should do it in the open.’ When they were given the tour, Bond said, they should single out places to reconnoitre. ‘The Conference Centre sounds like a natural. But there’ll be others. Time could be shorter than we think, Cedar, and we’d better begin straightaway.’
‘Like tonight?’
‘Just like tonight.’
Cedar laughed again, ‘I think you may find yourself otherwise occupied.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning Nena Bismaquer. She’s ready to drop her expensive shoes under your bed any time you feel like it, James.’
‘Really?’ Bond tried to sound innocent, but he vividly remembered Nena’s look and the way she spoke to him. Being married to Markus Bismaquer would obviously have its compensations; but maybe there were things that the fantasy of the ranch and Tara could not supply. ‘If you’re right,’ he mused aloud, ‘if there’s any truth in that, Cedar, I’ll see we’re not disturbed tonight. Heaven can wait.’
Cedar Leiter gave him a hard look. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But can Hell?’
The landscape had gone through a couple of changes already. ‘Think of everything that man had ferried into this place,’ said Cedar, shaking her head in amazement. They had covered about ten miles and were now climbing to a ridge crested by a thick copse of fir trees. The truck signalled a left turn, taking them along a path directly through a thicket of evergreens, then, with dramatic suddenness, into a broad clearing.
The two log cabins stood facing one another, about thirty feet apart. They were beautifully built, with small porches and neat, white paintwork.
‘They’re making sure,’ Bond muttered.
‘Sure of what?’
‘Th
at we’re neutralised here. Only one entrance through the trees. Surrounded and easy to watch. It’s going to be difficult, Cedar: difficult to get out of. I’d put my last dollar on TV monitors and electronic alarms; plus a few live bodies in the trees. I’ll take a look later. You armed, by the way?’
Cedar shook her head dismally, knowing Bond was right. The cabins were merely places where guests could be easily monitored.
‘I’ve got a Smith & Wesson in the briefcase,’ Bond continued. ‘I’ll let you have it later.’
The driver of the pick-up was leaning out of his cab.
‘Take your pick, folks,’ he called. ‘Have a nice stay.’
‘It makes a change from the motels,’ Bond said happily, ‘but I’d feel safer at Tara.’
Cedar grinned at him. ‘Frankly, dear James,’ she replied, ‘I don’t give a damn.’
Some twenty miles away, in a small study with lime-green walls and the bare necessities – desk, filing cabinets, and chairs – Blofeld dialled a New York number.
‘Mazzard Securities,’ a voice at the New York number answered.
‘I want Mike. Tell him it’s Leader.’
A few seconds later, Mike Mazzard was on the line.
‘You’d better get down here fast,’ Blofeld commanded. ‘We have problems.’
‘I’m already on my way,’ Mazzard chuckled, ‘but there’re other things to deal with for the conference. I’ll be there in a couple of days. Sooner if I get through.’
‘As quickly as possible.’ There was no doubt about the anger in Blofeld’s voice. ‘You’ve bungled enough already. And we’ve got Bond here like a sitting duck.’
‘As soon as I can. You want everything right, don’t you?’
‘Just remember, Mazzard, the house on the bayou has very hungry guardians.’
Blofeld cradled the telephone and sat back, thinking about the next moves in SPECTRE’S game. So much time and planning and then that cretin, Mazzard, had almost wrecked it. No orders had been given for Bond to die, and Mazzard was always far too trigger-happy. Eventually, Blofeld thought, something would have to be done about Mr Mike Mazzard.
HOUND. Blofeld smiled at the word. High above the earth, at this very moment, the Americans had their hounds out in force, with more in reserve. They claimed none of these weapons was in space, but this was merely a subterfuge. Within days now, SPECTRE would lay its hands on every piece of data concerning these Hounds of Heaven, the Space Wolves – and what a plan, what ingenuity, what profits! The Soviets alone would pay a fortune for the information.
From the conception of HOUND there had been the need for one major scapegoat, and, in the back of Blofeld’s mind, Bond had always fitted the part. Now James Bond was in Texas – trapped, lured, snared. Ripe for the allotted role, and the ignominious death Blofeld had planned for him.
The business in Washington – though unscheduled and contrary to instructions – must have shaken the Britisher; but Blofeld had other things in mind, other activities to keep Bond off balance. Only in the end would death come to Mr James Bond.
Blofeld began to laugh aloud.
12
GUIDED TOUR
The cabins were identical except for their names – Sand Creek and Fetterman. If Bond remembered correctly, these were the names of two bloody massacres during the Indian wars of the 1860s. Sand Creek, he seemed to recall, was the scene of an act of revolting treachery, leading to the butchery of old men, women, and children. Pleasantly chosen names for guest cabins.
It was in true Blofeld fashion, though, as was the whole ranch. Neither was Bond surprised to find the interiors of the cabins as spacious and well-appointed as everything else. Each had a large sitting room with television, stereo and VTR; a bedroom which would put even the most grandiose hotels to shame; and a large bathroom, furnished with shower and sunken jacuzzi. The only difference lay in the paintings. Sand Creek sported a large reproduction of Robert Lindneux’s canvas depicting the massacre, while the other cabin contained a blow-up reproduction of the Harper’s Weekly engraving of the Fetterman battle.
There were telephones which, they soon discovered, connected with the main house and nowhere else. It would be impossible to call each other, and Bond was also disturbed to find that neither of the cabins was provided with lock or key. No privacy for these guests.
They tossed a coin for cabins, Bond getting Fetterman. He helped Cedar move her luggage into Sand Creek.
‘They’re not picking us up until four-thirty,’ he told Cedar, ‘so I’ll give you ten minutes, then we can do a short reconnaissance.’
It was essential, Bond thought while unpacking, to discover the secrets of Rancho Bismaquer as soon as possible. At least there was the Saab. Their equipment could stay in the locked car and remain safe. A normal Saab was difficult enough for any would-be thief. Bond’s personalised model – with its heavy bullet-proofing and other extras – was fitted with sensors which activated alarms, should anyone even attempt to tamper with it. For the time being, though, he was more concerned for their personal safety, having no illusions about the manner in which they had been isolated on this high, wooded knoll.
Cedar, taking her cue from Bond, was ready – in fresh jeans, shirt, and a fringed Western jacket – within the allotted time. Bond had also changed, and emerged in a lightweight cream suit bought in Springfield. He was, like Cedar, wearing leather boots, and he had altered the holster position for the VP70 – attaching it to his belt, to the rear of his right hip.
Alone in his cabin, he had unlocked the briefcase. Now he gave the small revolver, with ammunition, to Cedar.
‘Ready for anything,’ Cedar said, batting her eyelids at him.
‘Let’s play at being emotionally entangled,’ Bond said quietly, taking her hand as they walked towards the dirt track between the trees.
‘I don’t have to play, James.’ She glanced at him, gripping his hand tightly and moving closer.
Bond once more sensed the unthinkable temptation. Cedar, with those great saucer brown eyes, could have seduced a saint.
‘Don’t, sweetheart,’ he murmured. ‘It’s hard enough already. Your father’s my oldest American friend, and you are the apple of his eye, I’ve no doubt. Please don’t make it more of a problem.’
She sighed. ‘Oh James, you can be a fussy devil. Nobody thinks twice about things like that any more.’ She stayed silent until they were well into the trees, then added, through gritted teeth, ‘And you watch it with the Bismaquer woman. She’d eat you alive, make no mistake.’
For the sake of any real, or electronic, watchers, they made it seem like a casual stroll, but both of them stayed alert, their eyes searching everywhere. Still, they spotted no surveillance gear:
‘Perhaps they keep a watch with radar – or some other system – straight from Tara,’ Bond said, thinking aloud as they broke cover from the trees.
The knoll gave them a superb view across the ranch. About eight miles below and ahead stood a veritable small town of brick and adobe buildings – the living quarters, Bond supposed, for Bismaquer’s retainers; while off to the right the stark blazing white of a T-shaped building glared in the sun. They could see that this large structure lay close to the protecting boundary wall and was encircled by a thick layer of greenery.
‘The controlled jungle,’ Bond said nodding towards the complex. ‘That must be the Conference Centre. We have to get a look at that.’
‘Through the jungle?’ Cedar raised her eyebrows. ‘I wonder what they’ve got hidden in all that stuff. See? There’s some kind of pit on the outer edge, and fencing near the buildings.’
Bond thought of the possibilities of wild animals, reptiles, even poisonous flowers. The previous head of SPECTRE had known all about poison gardens – there had been one at the Castle of Death in Japan. There were hundreds of ways people could be kept out of, or imprisoned within, the Conference Centre’s compound – not to mention the more mundane devices such as high voltage fences similar to those used t
o protect the mono-rail.
The view itself was certainly breathtaking, but Bond willed himself to keep things in perspective and his mind in high gear. Getting into the Conference Centre remained a most necessary objective.
There was also Bismaquer’s laboratory which, they suspected, was the long building set near the ranch’s main highway running below them. The laboratory looked like an easy target, though Cedar pointed out that there was a second building, like a warehouse, built behind the laboratory and partially camouflaged by trees. A wide exit road led from its rear, twisting and finally curving back to meet the main highway.
In the very far distance, covered by a bluish haze, lay grazing land; and, from their vantage point, they could make out the tiny dots of cattle. It was also apparent that the knoll was not the highest ground. To the left of the Conference Centre, Bismaquer’s land sloped gently upwards to a broad plateau upon which the airstrip had been built, a plateau large enough, they both judged, to accommodate very big aircraft.
Almost as though for their benefit, there was a sudden blast of engine noise, drifting across the thirty or forty miles, and, as they watched, a Boeing 747 hurtled into the air.
‘If they can take Jumbos, they’ll be able to fly almost anything in and out.’ Bond’s eyes narrowed against the harsh, hot light. ‘That’s another target. Let’s tick them off, Cedar: we need a good look at the Conference Building; Bismaquer’s laboratory; the airfield . . .’
‘And the mono-rail station at this end.’ Cedar’s grasp tightened on his hand. ‘Just in case we have to get out that way. At least we know what we’d be up against at the other end.’
‘The Dracula brothers, and a quick burn-up on the fence.’ Bond’s mouth tightened into a cruel smile. ‘All full of joy and money, Bismaquer may well be; but the whole place stinks like a dung hill. He’s got a small army on the spot, and a nice fun palace, plus the race track, wherever that may be, plus the cattle. Bismaquerland, Texas’s answer to Disneyland. But do you know, Cedar, behind all the fun and frolics I can almost smell SPECTRE. This place has all the outrageous splendour that would have appealed to its late and unlamented founder, Ernst Stavro Blofeld.’