For Special Services

  ‘Evil?’

  ‘I can’t tell you about it. To be honest, I don’t know that much myself, but what I do know terrifies me. Markus may seem a nice buffoon – a rich, boisterous, amusing and generous teddy bear. But the bear has claws, James, terrible claws, and powers that reach out far beyond this ranch. Far beyond America in fact.’

  ‘You mean he’s some kind of criminal?’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t explain. Can I, perhaps, come to you – tonight? No, I can’t tonight. There’s no way. If you’re still here tomorrow – though if you take my advice, you’ll be gone – but, if you’re here, can I come to you?’

  ‘Please.’ Bond could find no eloquent words. Nena seemed at the edge of some precipice, lying, hidden, within her.

  ‘We must go. He’ll be all smiles even if we’re late, but I’ll go through hell afterwards.’

  Silently Bond wiped his mouth, while Nena made use of the vanity mirror to brush off her lips and run a comb through her hair. As they drove off, Bond asked if she could explain her part in things. ‘Just the bare facts.’

  She spoke quickly, between giving him directions. Nena Clavert, as she had been, was an orphan living in Paris, with a passion for art. An uncle had helped with her education, but by the time she reached the age of twenty he was a sick man. She worked as a part-time waitress and continued her studies, living off a pittance. In the end, she began to think there was only one way: ‘I seriously considered becoming a whore. It’s melodramatic and laughable now. Yet then it seemed to be the only reasonable answer. Jobs were scarce and I needed money: enough to be comfortable, to learn, and to paint.’

  Then the rich American, Bismaquer, had turned up. ‘He courted me like you read about in books – generous presents, clothes, the best places to eat. And he didn’t touch me, didn’t lay a finger on me: the perfect gentleman.’

  Finally, Bismaquer had asked her to be his wife. She was worried because of the great difference in their ages; but he’d said it mattered not at all to him. If he got too old and useless, she could lead her own life.

  ‘It wasn’t until he brought me here that I found the real man behind that generous nature. Yes, there’s a criminal – a terrible – connection. But there are other things too: his violent temper, which only those close to him see. And his predilections, of course . . .’

  ‘Sexual?’

  ‘He’s amazing for a man of his age, I have to admit it. But, he’s sexually . . . what do you say, James? . . . ambivalent? Why do you think he has that terrible death’s head, Walter Luxor, here all the time? It’s not just the cleverness with money. He’s . . . well . . . he and Luxor . . .’

  Her voice trailed off, then regained its habitual calm.

  ‘Sometimes he doesn’t come near me for months. Then it all changes. Oh, he can plough a long furrow when he wishes . . . You turn right here,’ she ordered. ‘I must stop talking, or he’ll see I’m in a state. Don’t give him a hint, James. Not a hint.’

  They followed a minor road, taking them around the back of the smooth lawns surrounding Tara, then through a belt of trees, high and thick, which explained why Cedar and Bond could not see the racing circuit from their vantage point on the knoll.

  The trees screened everything – a device Bismaquer employed throughout the ranch’s entire layout. This time they hid a huge oval circuit, wide enough to take three or four cars. The bends at the end nearest to the house were gentle curves, but half way down the far side there was a nasty chicane, followed by a crucifying right-angle turn, while the next bend – at the distant end of the rough oval – was almost a Z in shape.

  The track must have been all of eight miles in full circuit, and Bond picked out its hazards, the very real danger points, with a practised eye.

  On the far side stood a banked wooden grandstand; below there were pits and garages. The red Mustang was just arriving under the grandstand, the skeleton figure of Luxor standing ready to greet Bismaquer and Cedar.

  Bond took the Saab right around the access road which ran parallel to the circuit. As he and Nena approached, Bismaquer and Cedar became plainly visible, standing next to a car that was silver in colour, like Bond’s Saab, with Walter Luxor now at the wheel.

  ‘Be terribly careful, James.’ Nena seemed to have regained her self-control. ‘Once behind the wheel, Walter’s a dangerous man to play around with. He’s an expert, he knows this track like his own hand, and he can clock up incredible speeds. What’s worse, since his own accident he’s felt no fear – neither for himself nor any opponent.’

  ‘I’m not bad myself.’ Bond said, hearing the anger he felt towards Bismaquer and Luxor etched deeply into his voice. ‘If they’re set on this race, I think I can teach Walter Luxor a thing or two, especially if they match me properly. I’ll only drive against my own class . . .’ He stopped as they came up to the group and identified the other silver car. ‘And it looks as though they’re giving me a reasonable chance, with room to spare.’ He braked the Saab to a halt, opened the door and went around to help Nena Bismaquer from her seat as Markus came over, slapping him on the back, emitting another of the now infuriating guffaws.

  ‘Did you enjoy it? Isn’t it great? You see why I’m so proud of Rancho Bismaquer?’

  ‘It’s quite a place. Makes any one of England’s home counties seem like a small farm.’ Bond smiled, looking across to Cedar: ‘Eh, Cedar? Isn’t it tremendous?’

  ‘Something else,’ she answered. Nobody but Bond could have understood the tinge of irony; and only Bond noticed the dagger looks aimed directly at Nena Bismaquer.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Bismaquer said loudly, with a flourish towards the parked silver car. ‘Do you think you’re well-matched, James? Walter’ll drive against you. Tomorrow morning, I think. How about it?’

  Bond looked towards Luxor, who sat at the wheel of the Mustang variant – the Shelby-American GT 350. This had been a most popular high-performance competition car in the late 1960s: with a lightened body, free-flow exhaust, and the 289 V-8 engine.

  ‘It’s souped up a little, of course,’ Bismaquer chuckled. ‘And it’s all of thirteen years old. But I guess it’ll give you a run on this track, even with that turbo of yours. You on, James?’

  Bond reached out a hand. ‘Of course I’m on. Should be fun.’

  Bismaquer turned his head, calling back to Luxor. ‘Tomorrow, Walter. About ten in the morning, before it gets too hot. Eight laps. Okay, James?’

  ‘Ten, if you like.’ If it was bravado they wanted, then he was game.

  ‘Good. We’ll invite some of the boys. Nothing they like better’n a good road race.’ Then, with a quick change of tone, Bismaquer turned to Nena. ‘Let’s get back then. I have one or two things to do tonight, and I’ve got to talk with young James, here, before dinner. I expect the ladies’ll want to freshen up a little as well.’

  Nena gave Bond an unperturbed smile. ‘Thank you for putting up with my lecture on the wonders of Rancho Bismaquer, James. I enjoyed showing you around.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Bond opened the door for Cedar, who called her thanks in turn to Bismaquer. Engines fired, and Bismaquer led the way back to Tara, his wife at his side.

  ‘Thank you very much for putting up with my lecture, James,’ Cedar mimicked. ‘Oh, my pleasure, Nena; my pleasure. You’re a creep, James Bond.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Bond spoke sharply. ‘But I’ve learned a great deal. For instance, Nena Bismaquer may be the only friend we have here. Also, we can take our time over the Conference Centre. There’s a way in, directly off the road. No problem. I think tonight’s activities have to be confined to that laboratory and the building behind it. Did you enjoy Bismaquer’s company?’

  Cedar, momentarily silenced by Bond’s news, appeared to be counting to herself. ‘One hundred . . .’ she finished. ‘To be honest with you, Bond, I wouldn’t trust any of them; and if it wasn’t for that predatory Nena woman, I’d put Bismaquer down as a faggot.’

  ??
?Right first time,’ Bond said.

  ‘Lawks-a-mercy.’ Cedar gave a satisfied smirk as they turned into Tara’s main drive. ‘I’se sick, Mizz Scarlet, I’se sick.’

  James Bond sat, a large vodka martini in his hand, facing Markus Bismaquer on the veranda. Walter Luxor hovered in the background.

  ‘Now come on, James.’ Bismaquer had – for the moment – put his hearty personality aside. ‘The prints are either for sale or they’re not. I want a straight yes or no. We’ve fenced around, and now I’m ready to make you an offer.’

  Bond took a sip of his drink, placed the glass on a side table, and lit another cigarette. ‘All right, Markus. As you say, the fencing’s over. I have very precise instructions. The prints are for sale . . .’

  Bismaquer let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘. . . They’re for sale by auction, in New York, in one week’s time.’

  ‘I’m not going in for any auction . . .’ Bismaquer began. He stopped as Bond held up a hand.

  ‘They’re for sale at public auction in New York, in one week’s time, unless I’m offered a certain price before that. Further, my instructions are that there is a very firm reserve on the whole set; and I am not to disclose that reserve to any prospective buyer.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Bismaquer began again. ‘I’ll offer you . . .’

  ‘Wait,’ Bond cut in. ‘I have to warn you further that the first bid for the prints, outside the auction, will be the only one taken. Which means, Markus, that if you come in below the secret reserve, you lose for all time. My principal will instruct the auctioneer to accept no bids from a person or persons connected with anyone who has already made a private bid. In other words, you have to be very careful.’

  For the first time that day, Bond thought he could detect a trace of malevolence in Bismaquer’s face.

  James,’ he began, finally, ‘can I ask two questions?’

  ‘You can ask. I shall answer at my discretion.’

  ‘Okay. Okay.’ Bismaquer appeared to be rattled. ‘The first one’s easy. Every man, in my experience, has a price. I presume you’re corruptible?’

  Bond shook his head. ‘No, in this matter, nobody can bribe me. Mrs Penbrunner’s on the premises. In any case, I’m under a legal obligation. What’s the second question?’

  ‘Is the reserve based on a true value?’

  ‘There is no true value. The prints are unique. But, to give you hope, the reserve is based on a price calculated to be the mean between a minimum and maximum that would be achieved at an open auction. I don’t understand computers myself, but that’s how they arrived at the figure.’

  The cicadas had opened up their chirping music all around. Dusk was starting to close in and, far away, the moon began to show, big and yellow, against a clear darkening sky. In the silence, Bond heard Bismaquer cough.

  ‘Okay, James, I’ll take a shot at it. One million dollars.’

  Bond had in fact been playing it by ear, with no figure in mind. Now he smiled inwardly as he spoke: ‘Right on target, Markus. They’re yours. What do you propose? Do I call the Professor? Do we shake on it, or what?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve sure given me a hard time, James, my friend, I think we have to take it a step further. Tell me, could you scrape together a million bucks? I mean now, this minute?’

  ‘Who, me personally?’

  ‘It’s you I’m asking.’

  ‘Not now this minute. But in a day or so, yes. Yes, I could.’

  ‘Are you a gambling man?’

  ‘It has been known to happen.’ Bond thought of the many chemmy tables, poker games, casinos, and private clubs in which he had played.

  ‘Okay. I’m going to give you the biggest chance you’ve ever had. Tomorrow you’re going out there to race against Walter. A late 1960s car against your fast turbo. I’ve offered one million dollars for those prints. If you beat Walter on the track, I’ll gladly pay the million and add another million for your pains.’

  ‘That’s very generous . . .’

  But Bond stopped as Bismaquer held up his hand.

  ‘Whoa there, boy. I haven’t finished. I’ve offered a million. If Walter beats you out there, you get nothing for your pains; I get the prints, and you do my paying for me.’

  It was a subtle scheme – a gamble based on the knowledge Markus Bismaquer had of Luxor, the Shelby-American GT, and the track, but a gamble none the less. Except, Bond knew, if Bismaquer was the new Blofeld – or even if Luxor were – nobody was going to get anything for the prints. Bismaquer was playing with him, counting on Bond going for the bait and, in all probability, killing himself out on the hot circuit with its dangerous bends.

  Whereas, if he refused . . . ?

  Giving Bismaquer his most charming smile, Bond reached out in the gathering darkness to grasp the big man’s hand.

  ‘Done,’ said James Bond, knowing the word might well be his own death warrant.

  13

  TOUR DE FORCE

  ‘What the hell can we do now?’ Cedar said, cheerfully waving farewell to the Bismaquers and Walter Luxor from the Saab.

  ‘Sit still, fasten your seat belt, and prepare for some turbulence.’ Bond hardly moved his lips. Loudly he shouted to Bismaquer, who stood at the portico, ‘See you in the morning. At the circuit. Ten o’clock sharp.’

  Bismaquer nodded and waved them on. The pick-up, in front, slowly started to guide them down the drive.

  After coffee and brandy, Bismaquer and Luxor had made their apologies. ‘When you own a spread like this,’ Markus Bismaquer had said, ‘there is paperwork which just has to get done, and tonight’s the night. Anyhow, you two must be ready for bed. Get a good night’s sleep, James. You’ve got the race tomorrow.’

  Bond had agreed, saying they could easily get back to the cabins without a guide. But the pick-up was there, ready and waiting, and nothing by way of persuasion would change Bismaquer’s mind.

  So guide they had, a fact which greatly reduced their chances of playing at being lost and carrying out a full-scale reconnaissance of the ranch.

  Bond brought the Saab close to the tail of the pick-up, crowding the driver, as they turned on to the main arterial highway which crossed the ranch. They could, of course, follow him, go back to the cabins and then take their chances on the open roads in the Saab, But there was little doubt in Bond’s mind that the guide with the pick-up would stay for stake-out duty.

  ‘He’ll probably drop us off and then get lost somewhere in the trees, where he can keep an eye on us. After what we saw, or didn’t see, this afternoon, my impression is that Bismaquer prefers human surveillance to electronics. He’s got a lot of people working for him, even his own highway patrol.’

  Cedar made a movement in the darkness. ‘So we’re boxed in?’

  ‘Up to a point. Time’s short, though. We need a look at that laboratory, and I wouldn’t mind showing you exactly how to get into the Conference Centre. Correction – how I get into the Centre. Is your seat belt fastened tightly?’

  She grunted a yes.

  ‘Okay. What I’ve heard today clears my conscience.’ Bond smiled to himself. ‘I don’t mind hurting a few people.’

  They turned off the highway, heading towards the knoll – about four miles to go. Get him in the trees, thought Bond, reaching down to press another of the buttons on the dashboard which released the Nitefinder glasses he always carried.

  The glasses consisted of an oblong control box, one end padded, and shaped to the head.

  The brightness and focus control were on the right side, while from the front there protruded two lenses, like a pair of small binoculars. Using one hand, he strapped the system to his head, switching on as he did so.

  Bond had done many hours’ training driving in pitch darkness, using only the Nitefinders, which he had also worn once operationally. They gave an almost clear picture in darkness, enough for the driver to see clearly up to a hundred yards.

  The adjustments made, Bond brought the Saab very close to the pick
-up’s tail. They were now about a mile from the knoll. Flatly he told Cedar what he was going to do.

  ‘It’s going to get very dark in a minute. Then there’ll be some action; then a lot of light. With luck, he’ll go off the road without doing too much damage to the truck. We need that for ourselves.’

  They had almost reached the trees now. ‘Okay. Hold on.’ Bond flicked the Saab’s lights off – with the switch peculiar to his car – and saw, through the Nitefinders, the pick-up wobble slightly on the road. For a second, the driver might well see the Saab’s shape, but he would be puzzled, and the darkness behind him might throw him off balance.

  Bond did not stay behind for long. Pulling out, he smoothly depressed the accelerator. The rev counter needle rose fast, crossing the 3,000 limit and bringing the turbo charger into play.

  The Saab shot forward, turbo building into the satisfying whine, as they overtook the pick-up. Bond crowded the driver so that, in the darkness, he was forced to pull over. He must have seen the shape pass him, then caught the Saab full in his headlights before it disappeared into the black zone, leaving no tail lights in its wake.

  ‘He’ll be putting on speed now, trying to catch us,’ Bond said. ‘Hold tight.’ Without slowing noticeably, he stood on the brakes, changing down and wrenching at the wheel. The Saab went into a neatly controlled skid, and Bond, changing down for a second time, turned the car right around so that it now faced back along the road.

  ‘Should be on us any minute.’ He sounded cool, like an experienced fighter pilot leading a section into attack. One hand dropped to the small button, set just behind the gear lever. The pick-up’s lights were coming now, closing fast. In a second the Saab would be clearly visible to the driver.

  Still in the zone of darkness, Bond pressed the button. Another of his personalised pieces of equipment came into play. The Saab’s front number plate flipped up, and, at the same time, an aircraft light, fitted behind the number plate and below the bumper, blazed out – a great cone of white, dazzling light.