The pick-up was caught full in the beam, and Bond could imagine the driver wrestling with the wheel, throwing up one hand to cover his eyes, feet fighting the brake and clutch.
The truck slewed to one side, bounced against a tree, then, out of control, turned sideways on. The driver was free of the light’s blinding glare, but too late. The pick-up slid across the road, swinging violently as the skidding wheels pushed the vehicle into a spin. The rear wheels hit the track side, and, with a sudden wrench, the small pick-up seemed to hurl itself against the trees before coming to a grinding stop.
‘Hell,’ Bond shouted, ripping the Nitefinder set from his head. ‘Stay where you are,’ he yelled at Cedar, as he grabbed his flashlight, slid the VP70 automatic from its holster, and jumping from the Saab, raced to the van.
The pick-up lay at an angle against the trees, one side severely dented. There was no sign of broken glass. The driver was another matter, lying back in the small cab, his head lolling in a manner Bond knew only too well. The force of impact had whiplashed the man’s head, breaking his neck.
Dragging the door open, Bond felt for the driver’s pulse. He must have died instantaneously, without knowing what had happened. For a brief moment, James Bond felt a twinge of regret. He had not wished to kill the man: a few cuts and bruises would have easily sufficed.
The dead driver was in Bismaquer Security livery, and as Bond heaved the body from the truck, his mental reservations were tempered by the fact that a large Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum – the Model 29, Bond thought – hung, holstered, on his hip. In all probability he had been right: the security man was a watchdog as well as a guide.
Bond pushed the body off the track, into the grass among the trees, tracing the area with his flashlight to make sure he could find it again. Once the corpse was well-hidden, he removed the Smith & Wesson, returned to the pick-up, and tried the engine. It started immediately and, with a little scraping as he backed away from the trees, seemed to be in reasonable running order. The tank was three-quarters full, and the other gauges showed normal. Bond drove the pick-up alongside the Saab, keeping his eyes averted from the explosion of bright light, which burned like a magnesium burst from the front of the silver Turbo.
‘Think you can manage the pick-up?’ he asked Cedar, who was out of the Saab almost before Bond switched off.
She did not even bother to reply, but simply climbed in, ready to take over. Bond said he would follow her up the hill and instructed her to stop at the cabins.
Once back in the Saab, he lowered the number plate, extinguishing the aircraft light, switched on the headlights, and started the engine. Cedar began to move the pick-up slowly up the track. With a swift, neatly executed three-point turn, the Saab followed in her wake, and, without further incident, they arrived back at the cabins.
There Bond explained exactly what he intended to do and what routes they would take. The Saab was to be left in its usual place, locked and with the alarm sensors set. The reconnaissance would be carried out in the pick-up.
‘People are less likely to stop us with Bismaquer’s livery blazed all over it.’ Bond patted the dented pick-up.
They planned to move quickly down towards the Conference Centre area so that Cedar could learn to operate the tunnel mechanism, then drive around the mono-rail station, and, lastly, back to the laboratory area.
‘We should leave the pick-up out of sight somewhere near by and go in on foot,’ Bond warned her. ‘Then, when we get back here, I think our poor friend down the road’ll have to be involved in another accident – going downhill.’
He set the sensors on the Saab alarm system, locked the car, and was just about to get behind the wheel of the pick-up – the guard’s Smith & Wesson in his hand – when another thought struck him.
‘Cedar, to make absolutely certain, it may be a good idea if we dummy up our beds a bit. Who knows what Bismaquer, or Luxor, have in mind for us? You know how to?’
Cedar acidly replied that she had been dummying up beds since she was a teenager, turned on her heel, and strode off to Sand Creek. Bond lit a cigarette, and sauntered, unhurried into Fetterman. It took very little time to stuff pillows into shape under the thin sheets. In the darkness, the lump in the bed could certainly be that of a sleeping figure.
Cedar was already standing by the pick-up, waiting, when Bond returned. He carried his Heckler & Koch VP70 on the back of his hip and placed the security man’s Smith & Wesson on the floor of the pick-up. Cedar still had the spare revolver, and Bond had not forgotten to equip himself with Q Branch’s ring of pick-locks and tools, as well as the flashlight from the Saab.
They coasted down the hill, sidelights on, and engine just turning over – an eerie sensation. They could hear only the faint sound of the wheels against the track, the rustle of the airstream around them, and the light breeze through the silent archway of fir trees.
Bond slowly let out the clutch as they reached the subsidiary road. By now the moon had fully risen. They could easily have driven by its light, but that would only have caused suspicion, so Bond put the headlights on, turning right on to the highway for the fifteen miles or so which took them to the edge of the main wall and the jungle surrounding the Conference Centre.
It required only a few minutes to locate, and demonstrate, the hydraulically-operated entrance to the tunnel, and they were soon back on the road, staying near to the outer perimeter of the ranch on what would, in the normal world, be secondary roads.
‘I’m intrigued by the conference,’ Bond said, driving with more than usual care. ‘When the delegates begin to arrive, I want to take a quick look-see for myself. If SPECTRE has any large-scale operation planned, this would be an ideal place for the briefing.’
‘They start arriving tomorrow night,’ Cedar told him, unable to disguise a certain amount of amusement.
‘Oh?’
‘Your friend Nena told me. In the powder room, as she so politely calls it, before dinner. The first batch arrive by air tomorrow evening – I mean this evening’ – it having already passed midnight.
‘Well, if we’re all still in one piece, I think I’ll sit in on one of their discussions.’
The mono-rail station was deserted, though the train, with the vehicle ramp in place, appeared to be permanently at the ready. No guards or Bismaquer patrol cars were in evidence. Bond turned the pick-up onto the road, and took them well past the fencing surrounding the lawns of Tara. Lights still blazed from the big house. Having covered the couple of miles to the trees which screened the long building behind the laboratory, Bond and Cedar could see that people were at work inside. The rear section appeared to be deserted, but the small building was lit up like a Christmas tree.
They left the pick-up among the trees, some forty feet from the larger building, which, on closer examination, seemed to be a warehouse. The gable end was made up of high sliding doors. Windows, securely barred, ran along the side of the warehouse, but even at close quarters it was impossible to see inside in the darkness.
They moved forward, keeping low. Bond strained his eyes in the moonlit night, alert to the possibility of security guards, while, reassured, he noted that Cedar was watching the rear, the snub-nosed revolver in her hand.
There was a gap between the smaller laboratory building and the warehouse. Glancing between them Bond saw the two were connected, probably by a narrow passage. Then they arrived at the first windows of the laboratory. The light, very bright, cast a block beam on to the grass, reaching almost as far as the trees.
Straightening up, one on either side of the window, Cedar and Bond peered in.
Several women tended machinery, each of them dressed in white overalls, their hair completely swathed in turbans, hands in tight rubber gloves. On their feet they wore the kind of short boots, usually seen in hospital operating theatres. The women worked with quiet, practised expertise, hardly exchanging a word.
‘An ice cream plant,’ Cedar whispered. ‘I got taken to one as a kid. See, the p
asteuriser at the far end? That’s where the mixings go: the milk, cream, sugar and flavouring.’
Using dumb show and essential words, Cedar pointed out the standard parts of factory-made ice cream. Bond frowned, a little surprised at her knowledge of how the mix was heated in the pasteuriser, to kill bacteria, before being filtered on to the homogenising vat. From there, he could clearly see the array of cold pipes for mushing and chilling the mix, and the vast stainless steel holding tank, which controlled the flow into the freezer. Then there were the units which blocked the ice cream, before an endless belt took the finished blocks into a metal-doored hardening room. From the window it looked exceptionally efficient.
Bond tipped his head, motioning Cedar forward. Crouching near the wall, he whispered, ‘You seem to know it all. How professional is that system?’
‘Very. They’re even using real cream and milk, by the look of it. No chemicals.’
‘All this from a school trip to a factory?’
Cedar grinned. ‘I like ice cream,’ she hissed. ‘It’s interesting. But that’s a professional set-up in there. Small, but professional.’
‘Could they turn out enough to market the stuff?’
She nodded, adding, ‘In a small way, yes. But it’s probably for local consumption.’
Bond caught hold of Cedar’s hand, tugging her in the direction of the next section. The windows were smaller, and this time they found themselves looking into a large laboratory. Glass tubing, vats and intricate electronics were laid out on almost a grand scale.
The laboratory was empty, except for a Bismaquer Security guard standing in front of a door on the far side.
‘Hell.’ Bond put his lips near to Cedar’s ear. ‘If anything’s happening, it’s through there. We’ll have to cut back and go around to the other side.’
‘Let’s have the pick-locks.’ Cedar touched his hand. ‘I’ll see if I can look into that warehouse, while you try the windows around the corner.’
They retraced their steps, back along the wall, Bond handing over the pick-lock kit as they reached the sliding doors at the gable end. He left Cedar to wrestle with them while he crept forward, trying to gauge the exact position of the windows to the room off the main laboratory. After two errors, he discovered the right one. Peering in, from the left-hand corner, he saw Bismaquer and Walter Luxor pacing a small, bare, cell-like chamber. On closer inspection, he could clearly see that the room was in fact a cell – a padded cell. There were two soft chairs anchored to the centre of the floor, both occupied by Bismaquer employees in uniforms. An animated conversation was taking place, between these two seated men, Bismaquer and Luxor.
Bond, still crouching low, put his ear hard against the window and could just make out what was being said. Bismaquer had ceased to punctuate his conversation with the jolly laughter. Now, he seemed very serious indeed, his large body less relaxed, his gestures economic.
‘So, Tommy,’ he was saying to one of the seated men, ‘so you’ll give me the keys to your house, let me drive over and take your wife by force, right?’
The man called Tommy chuckled. ‘Anything you say, chief. You just go right ahead.’ His speech was distinct, unslurred, and he appeared to be absolutely in command of himself.
The other man joined in: ‘Anything to make anybody happy. Take my keys too. No problem. Take the car. I just like seeing people enjoy themselves. Me? I do what I’m told.’ This one also gave a perfectly natural impression of someone meaning what he said, under no stress or influence.
‘Do you want to continue working here?’ It was Luxor asking.
‘Why not?’ came the reply from the second man.
‘I’d sure hate to leave. It’s great here,’ the one called Tommy added.
‘Listen to me, Tommy.’ Bismaquer had walked across the room and stood near the window. But for the protective screening and glass, Bond could have touched him. ‘Would you worry a lot if, after I’ve raped your wife, I killed her too?’
‘Be my guest, Mr Bismaquer. Anything you want. Here, I’ll give you the keys. I told you.’
Luxor had joined his chief. Even though he spoke quietly, Bond heard every word. ‘Ten hours, Markus. Ten hours, and they’re still both affected.’
‘Amazing. Better than we ever expected.’ Bismaquer raised his voice: ‘Tommy, you love your wife. I attended your wedding. You’re a nice couple. Why would you allow me to do such a terrible thing?’
‘Because you out-rank me, Mr Bismaquer. You give the orders, I obey. That’s the way it works.’
‘Would you question Mr Bismaquer’s orders?’ Luxor asked, the squeaky voice rising.
‘Why should I? Like I just said, that’s the way it works. Like in the army. You take orders from the senior man, and you obey them.’
‘Without question?’ Luxor pushed.
‘Sure.’
‘Sure.’ The other man nodded. ‘That’s how it works.’
By the window, Bismaquer muttered something Bond couldn’t make out and shook his head, as though in disbelief.
Luxor turned, and, for a second, Bond thought the walking death’s head would see him through the glass.
‘Uncanny maybe, Markus. But a real breakthrough. We’ve done it, my friend. Think of the results.’
Bismaquer frowned, and Bond caught his tone. The voice was cold, bleak as a blizzard. ‘I am thinking of the results . . .’ The rest was lost to Bond, who ducked down, having heard enough, and started to go back, padding softly along the wall. Then he stopped, stock still, and pressed hard against the wall. Someone was moving in his direction and, out of reflex habit, Bond found the large VP70 in his hand.
Seconds later he relaxed. The figure, coming with exceptional speed, was Cedar.
‘Let’s go. Fast.’ She was almost out of breath. ‘I nearly got spotted by a security guard. That warehouse – they’ve enough ice cream in freezing units to supply the whole state of Texas for a month.’
By the time they got back to the pick-up, Bond’s mind was working overtime. He started the engine, then waited for a few moments before he let out the clutch and pulled away slowly. The roads were empty. ‘So they’re stockpiling ice cream,’ he said as they reached the turn-off from the highway.
‘I’ll say.’ Cedar had recovered her breath. ‘The warehouse is divided up into huge refrigerators. I’d looked into three of them. Then this guard came in. Thank God I hadn’t gotten one of the doors open – they’re heavy as sin – and I’d mostly closed the main doors, leaving just enough space for a quick getaway.’
Bond asked if she was absolutely sure she had not been seen.
‘Absolutely. He’d have been after me like a bullet. I just stayed flat against one of these damned great cold stores. He came part way into the warehouse, then went back . . . back towards the laboratory section.’
‘Good. You want to hear the bad news now?’ As they reached the knoll, beginning to climb the sloping track to the cabins, Bond finished telling her what he had seen, and heard, at the window of the padded cell.
‘So, they’ve got a couple of very normal-seeming guys in there, willing to obey even the most unlikely orders – like getting their wives raped and murdered?’ Cedar shivered.
It was not strange, Bond thought, for her to sound incredulous. ‘That’s about it. Very normal guys. There was no way of telling, from what I could see, but Bismaquer and Luxor must’ve been feeding them something. They said the effect had lasted for ten hours, and, when you take the padded cell into account, there’s little doubt those two men are human guinea pigs.’
‘Hopped up to the eyeballs.’
‘Yes. The worrying thing is that they didn’t look, or sound it. They were taking orders, and complying, that’s all. But orders that went against all reason or conscience. Why, Cedar? Making people into unknowing hitmen, or something like that? Why?’
‘How?’ she volleyed back. ‘Why’re you stopping?’
Bond said she was to stay in the cab. ‘We have to take the dr
iver up the hill, I’m afraid. I’ll put him in the back. No need for you to do any of this.’
Cedar said it was most gallant of him, but corpses did not worry her. Nevertheless, she stayed in the pick-up while Bond dragged the dead driver to the truck and dumped the body in the back, then returned to cover up any marks among the trees.
‘If they’ve developed a drug that shows no outward effects . . .’ Cedar began when Bond returned.
‘Yes.’ He continued to drive up the hill. ‘Yes.’ It was already making a little sense. ‘No side effects. No staggering, or slurring. People functioning normally . . .’
‘Except in one sense.’ Cedar took up a mutual train of thought. ‘They’ll obey orders which, in usual circumstances, would either be questioned, or acted against . . .’
‘It’s a weapon in a thousand,’ Bond said. Then, as they reached the cabins, he asked, ‘The ice cream? You think that could be the delivery system?’
‘They’ve got enough of the lousy stuff.’
‘I thought you liked ice cream.’
‘I’m going off it very quickly.’
They climbed out, and this time Cedar helped with the grisly job of putting the dead driver in the cab behind the wheel. Bond checked that they had left nothing of their own in the pick-up, then returned the revolver to the driver’s holster. Cedar even insisted on squeezing in, next to Bond, as he started the engine and, leaning over the body, drove the pick-up slowly back down the hill.
When they reached the top of the steepest slope, he stopped, applied the handbrake, and helped Cedar out. The engine was running smoothly and the wheels turned slightly off-centre. With a nod to Cedar, indicating that she should get out of the way, Bond leaned through the driver’s side window and released the handbrake.
He was carried for a few yards before jumping clear. Then, picking himself up, Bond watched the truck gathering speed, slewing from one side of the road to the other.
Fascinated by the outcome, he hardly noticed Cedar alongside him, linking an arm through his.