Bond wished he had some field glasses with him, or materials with which to make a map. After a while, Cedar asked if he thought they could get out.
‘We only try that after we’ve made certain of two things, and you know it.’
She nodded, her face set hard. ‘What SPECTRE’S up to, if this is their base . . .’
‘It’s their base all right.’
‘. . . and who the real culprit is.’
‘Right.’ Bond’s face remained impassive. ‘Who do you reckon? Bismaquer or Walter Luxor . . . ?’
‘Or Lady Bismaquer, James.’
‘Okay, or Nena Bismaquer, why not? But my money’s on Markus himself. He has all the paranoid symptoms: a Chris Cringle cover, an obsession with wealth and possessions, always wanting more. I vote for him, with Walter Luxor as his chief eunuch.’
‘Don’t be so sure about the eunuch bit.’ Cedar swallowed. ‘I sat next to him at lunch. Those hands tend to wander.’ She shivered at the thought. ‘And I can’t lock my door.’
Bond moved her away from the edge of the knoll to inspect the woods once more. ‘They must have some kind of monitoring system,’ he said after half an hour’s further search had produced no clues. ‘I think we try and shake any watchdogs they give us tonight, then go on a little tour of our own. Hallo . . .’ He stopped still as the sound of a motor engine drifted up from the road below the knoll, and took Cedar’s arm. ‘That’ll be the grand tour party. Don’t forget, they’ll split us up now, but after dinner at Tara we stick together. Right?’
‘You’re on, Mr Bond.’ Cedar raised herself on her toes to give him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘And don’t forget what I said about the Dragon Lady.’
‘No promises.’ Bond’s serious mask broke for a moment. ‘My old nanny used to say that promises are like pie crust – made to be broken.’
‘Oh, James . . .’
They broke cover, walking into the clearing just as Bismaquer, huge behind the wheel of an open racy-looking red Mustang GT, drove in with a flourish of dust. The Mustang screeched to a halt behind the Saab. Circa 1966, Bond thought, recognising the car. Probably with the 289 V-8 engine.
Nena sat next to her husband, hair wind-blown and face radiant, flushed by what had probably been a fast drive. She vaulted out of the Mustang in a graceful, single movement, her long legs clearing the door with agile ease.
‘Nice little motor car,’ Bond grinned. ‘I wouldn’t mind taking it on, if you’ve still got the Grand Prix in mind.’
‘I can offer you competition livelier than this, James.’ Bismaquer announced. ‘Oh, it’s on, okay. Everything’s fixed. I’ll show you what you’ll be up against later. Are you folks all organised? Who’s in which cabin? Or are you sharing?’ He chuckled wickedly but without the trace of a leer.
‘Cedar’s in Fetterman, and I’ve got Sand Creek,’ Bond said quickly, reversing the cabins before Cedar could blurt out the truth. If Luxor was a lecher it might be better for him to come groping after Bond in the night.
‘You all set, James?’ Nena Bismaquer’s eyes, dancing a moment ago, suddenly turned serious as she looked into Bond’s face.
‘Do you want to risk the Saab?’ he replied.
‘She’ll risk anything,’ said Bismaquer, bubbling with laughter. ‘Come on, Cedar. I’ll show you some real driving – and quite a bit of prime Bismaquer land.’
Bond unlocked the Saab, handing Nena into the passenger seat. According to Bismaquer, the whole ‘Grand Tour’ took around three hours, but they would cut it short. Dinner was at seven-thirty. ‘I want half an hour with you and those prints first, James. Let’s meet at the track, about a quarter to seven. Nena will lead you there. Be good, and if you can’t be good . . .’
Bond lost Bismaquer’s last words in the deep roar of the Saab’s ignition. Then, with a wave, he shut the door, and the noise softened to a rumble.
Nena Bismaquer turned towards him in her seat. ‘Okay, James, I’ll show you the best of Markus’s pride and joy.’
‘I can see it from here,’ said Bond with a smile. Certainly she looked fantastic, the healthy, sun-browned complexion vying with her incredible black eyes.
She laughed, the same musical note, sliding down the scale. ‘Don’t you believe it. The Rancho Bismaquer’s his one and only pride and joy. Come on, let me give you the tour, via the scenic route.’
They drove out, taking the road towards the small town which housed the ranch staff. There were neat lawns, a small park where children played, and Bond could see men and women going about the usual chores of any town – shopping at the large store, working in their yards, hanging out washing. The air of normality was almost sinister. Like everything else around the ranch, the town looked like a movie set.
Nena waved to people as they drove through, and Bond noticed a patrol car, with the Bismaquer Security flashes on the side.
‘Highway police?’ he asked.
‘Certainly. Markus believes in law and order. He thinks it makes people forget they’re living in an enclosed area. These people very rarely leave here, you know, James.’
Bond made no comment, just drove on, following her directions. They went out to the edge of the grazing land, then turned back, taking the airport road. It was clear Cedar and he had been right: this was no simple landing strip in the converted desert, but a full scale operational airport.
‘It’s called Bismaquer International, would you believe that?’ Nena’s tone sounded like blatant mockery.
‘I’d believe it. Where next?’
She gave instructions, and soon they were coasting close to the jungle-like thicket surrounding the Conference Centre. Bond asked if this was intended to keep people out, knowing very well, from the observations made on the knoll, that it was just that.
‘Oh, keep-out, or keep-in. Keep-in really. We get the strangest people here for conferences, and they tend to get nosey. Markus enjoys his privacy. You’ll see. Once he’s done a deal with you, and shown off all his toys, he’ll have you out and away before you know it.’
Bond slowed the car, glancing constantly at the high, impenetrable greenery. ‘Looks nasty. You’ve got a pit around it as well. Are there dragons in there to discourage the inmates?’
‘Nothing as bad as that; but you can’t get through without a machete, and some skill. There’s half a mile of thicket – some of it quite dangerous. And a high fence. We can get in, though.’
‘Well, somebody has to. Presumably you provide the staff. Unless you lift them in and out by chopper?’
‘Conference delegates are in fact taken in by helicopter. But here, I’ll show you. You follow the green belt for about two miles more.’
‘What’s a lovely French girl doing in a dream world like this?’ Bond said, as though to himself.
There was a moment’s pause, during which 007 cursed himself, thinking he had moved too soon.
‘I wonder about that myself.’ Nena’s voice dropped, the sparkle gone. ‘All the time.’ There was another silence before she said, ‘Oh, it’s a long, involved, and not very edifying story, James. I come out of it something of a gold-digger. Did you know that gold-diggers always get their just deserts?’
‘I thought they got diamonds, mink coats, smart cars, luxury flats and – most evenings – zabaglione, crêpes suzettes, or profiteroles for their just desserts.’
‘Oh, they get that too. But they pay a price. Here, straight ahead. Start slowing down.’
The road had circled almost to the high fencing and walls, on the other side of which, Bond knew, there was nothing but arid land, dry grass and rock, stretching almost as far as Amarillo.
‘Pull up here,’ Nena ordered.
Bond brought the Saab to a halt, then following Nena’s lead, got out of the car.
She crossed to the side of the road and knelt down, as though afraid of being seen. ‘I shouldn’t really be giving away the family secrets.’ Her smile, as she lifted her head, seemed to go like a lance to Bond’s heart. This was madne
ss, he told himself, sheer and utter. Nena Bismaquer had been unknown to him until, literally, a few hours ago; yet already he felt envy for the bearlike Markus Bismaquer. He had a surge of desire to know everything about her: her past, childhood, parents, friends, likes and dislikes, thoughts and ideas.
Warning signals rang in his head, pulling his mind back to the reality of the moment. Nena Bismaquer knelt beside what appeared to be a small, circular metal cover about a foot in diameter that looked as though it had something to do with drainage. A metal ring was recessed flush with the centre of the cover, and Nena prised it open with ease, lifting out the thick round plate as though it were light as plastic.
‘See?’ She showed him a U-shaped handle, lying in the revealed recess. ‘Now watch.’ As she pulled at the handle, a block of stone at the edge of the roadway slowly sank, as though on a hydraulic lift. The block was about five feet square. When it had dropped to around a foot below the surface, the distant hiss of hydraulics became clearly audible. The slab slid to one side, revealing a wide, tiled chamber beneath. Metal hand and foot holds ran down the wall nearest the road.
‘I don’t think we should go down.’ A hint of nervousness came into her unusually calm voice. ‘But the chamber leads to steps and a tunnel which comes out in a janitor’s closet over in the main building. There’s an opening and closing device down there, and another one when you get to the far end. Just one of Markus’s little devices. Few people know about it. The staff we use in the Conference Centre, of course, always go in this way, about a day before a delegation arrives. Food’s ferried in by helicopter; and this is always here as an emergency escape route in case of trouble.’
Her choice of words seemed odd to Bond. ‘What kind of trouble?’ he asked.
‘I told you: we get some very strange characters among conference delegates. Markus has this thing about security. He’s quite right, of course. Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have shown it to you. Come on, let’s get out of here.’
She reached down and pulled the lever back. The slab of stone, on its hydraulic jacks, went through the reverse procedure. When it was settled in position, Nena put the small circular cover back in place and kicked dust over it with her foot.
Back in the car, she seemed edgy. ‘Where now?’ Bond asked, giving the impression that the show with the hidden entrance was an interesting, but unimportant event.
She looked at her watch. They had a good three-quarters of an hour before meeting Bismaquer. ‘Take the road towards the cabins.’ She spoke quickly. ‘I’ll show you where to turn off.’
Bond pointed the Saab in the direction of the wooded knoll. Instead of taking the track up through the trees, though, she told him to skirt the knoll to the left. Ahead, Bond saw there was another track leading up the other side of the rising ground, wide enough for cars or trucks.
Half way up the far side, Nena pointed to an exit among the trees, on the right, and in a few moments they were in a small clearing: dark and surrounded by trees, with just enough room to turn the car around.
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ she asked after he switched off the ignition.
Bond produced his gunmetal case, lighting cigarettes for both of them. He noticed that her fingers were trembling. Nena drew hard on the cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a long stream. ‘Look, James. I’ve been foolish. I’m sorry; I don’t know why I did it, but please don’t tell Markus I showed you that entrance to the Centre.’ She shook her head, repeating, ‘I don’t know why I did it. You see, he’s . . . well, he gets into a state about these things. I was carried away – a new face, someone nice, you know what I mean?’ Her hand seemed to drift towards his, fingers interlocking his fingers.
‘Yes, I think I know.’ The touch of her hand was like a tiny electric shock.
Quite suddenly she laughed. ‘Oh dear. I’m not really very bright, am I? I could always have blackmailed you, Mr James Bond.’
‘Blackmailed?’ Concern, razor-sharp, sliced through Bond’s nerves.
She raised her hand, lifting Bond’s arm with hers, fingers tightening. ‘Don’t worry. Please. You don’t tell Markus I gave away a state secret, and I won’t mention the fact that you’re a . . . Oh, what do they call it? A con merchant? A confidence artist? There’s another slang name over here . . .’
‘A flim-flam man?’ Bond offered.
‘That’s good.’ Again the glissando laugh. ‘A good description – flim-flam.’ She pronounced it deliciously as ‘fleem-flem’.
‘Nena, I don’t know . . .’
‘James.’ She shook a finger at him with her free hand. ‘You’re in my power, my dear, and heaven knows, I need a good man in my power.’
‘I still don’t know what you’re . . .’
She shushed him. ‘Look. Markus is always the big expert. He knows about cars and horses, he certainly knows about ice cream. In fact ice cream is really the one thing he does know about. But prints? He has books, he knows what he likes, but he’s no expert. I, on the other hand, am an expert. Until a few years ago, when I became Mrs Bismaquer, I studied art. In Paris, I studied since twelve years of age, and my speciality was prints. You have a set of unknown Hogarths. Unique, Markus keeps telling me. Worth a fortune.’
‘Yes. And authenticated. And I haven’t said they’re for sale yet, Nena.’
She gave her brilliant smile. ‘No, and don’t think I’m unaware of that being one of the oldest tricks in the book, James. Dangle them, yes? Be uncertain about a sale? Look.’ Still talking, she took his hand, locked with her own, and thrust it between her thighs. The gesture was so natural, as if she scarcely realised what she had done, but Bond felt a sudden difficulty in breathing naturally. ‘Look, James. You know there are no new, undiscovered sets of Hogarth prints. You know it. I know it. Just as I know the ones you have are a set of very, very good fakes. They are so good that I’ve no doubt future generations will believe they’re Hogarth originals. They’ll become real Hogarths. I know how the market works. A fake work of art, if handled properly, actually becomes the real thing. Somehow you’ve already managed to convince some people that they’re real; you have authentication, provided that’s not forged too . . .’
‘It’s not.’ Bond knew he should admit to nothing illegal. ‘But what makes you so certain those are forgeries? You only had a quick look at them.’
She moved closer so that their shoulders touched, her head leaning so near that he could smell her hair – not a distilled scent, made in some expensive factory, but the real thing, human hair, cared-for, and containing its own elusive fragrance.
‘I know they’re forgeries, because I know the man who did them. In fact I’ve seen them before. He’s an Englishman called – variously – Miller, or Millhouse, or maybe it’s Malting?’
Nena then proceeded to give Bond an accurate and detailed description of the little expert who had so diligently put Cedar, and himself, through their paces at the Kensington safe house.
Blast, Bond thought to himself. M had been uncharacteristically careless. On the other hand, his chief was a sly old fox, quite capable of preparing a trail for SPECTRE to follow, regardless of the danger to Bond.
‘Well, Nena, it’s all news to me,’ he bluffed, hoping that no sign of the shock showed in his face or eyes.
When she spoke next, Nena’s voice gave the impression that she too was short of breath.
James. I’m not going to say anything. Just, please, don’t tell him about the tunnel. I really should not have shown that to you; and . . . Oh, James, sometimes he terrifies me . . .’ Her hand untwined from his, her arms reaching up as she pulled his lips down on to her own.
There was a moment, just after their lips touched, when Bond thought he heard the distant voice of Cedar telling him, ‘She’d eat you alive, make no mistake.’
James Bond, however, had reached the stage when he would gladly have been eaten alive by the amazing Nena Bismaquer. In all his not inconsiderable experience, he could not remember ever having been kissed like this. It be
gan as a caressing touch, as their lips met, then a tingling sensation – her mouth in constant motion – as they opened their mouths as one, the tips of their tongues touching, then retreating, and touching again: like two animals exploring one another; until, at last, both capitulated willingly. Gradually, the kiss became almost everything the whole act of sex should be: the lips, mouths, and tongues ceased to have separate identities – becoming one, reaching out, exploring: extending into a passion of their own.
Bond unconsciously reached for her body, but Nena’s hand caught his wrist, holding him away until, breathless, they slowly surrendered each other’s mouths.
James,’ she spoke almost in a whisper. ‘I thought the art of kissing was dead.’
‘Well, it seems to be alive, well, and living in a Saab motor car in the middle of a ranch in Texas.’ It was not meant to be flippant; and the way Bond spoke it did not come out that way.
She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, dear James, we’ll have to go soon.’ Her eyes shifted from him briefly. ‘I have to ask one thing.’ She looked away from him, staring out through the windshield. ‘You and Mrs Penbrunner – Cedar . . . ?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you? . . . Well, is there . . . ?’
‘Are we lovers?’ Bond helped her.
‘Yes. I think, around here they would ask – are you a scene?’
‘No. Very definitely no. Cedar’s husband happens to be one of my best and closest friends. But, Nena, this is crazy. Markus . . .’
‘Would kill you.’ She sounded very calm about it. ‘Or have you killed. Maybe he’ll kill you anyway, James. I was going to warn you, whatever. Now I’m doing it against my will, because I’d like nothing better than for you to stay here forever. But I’d rather have you here alive. Darling James. Let me give you advice: go. Go as soon as you can. Take Markus for what you can get, but do it tonight, and then leave as quickly as possible. There’s evil here. More evil than you could dream of.’