‘And I’ll see you tomorrow as well, James.’ Nena looked him full in the face. This time it was no trick of light among the trees: the fire lay buried deep in the dark pools of her eyes, and the smile promised wonders for the following night.
When they had all left the clearing, Bond checked that the Saab was secure, then went back into the cabin. He blocked the door with a chair and scoured the window crevices for possible entrance points. A second dose of Harvester ants, while he slept, would be a little hard to bear.
It took a further ten minutes to repack the briefcase, after which he stretched out on the bed, fully clothed, with the Heckler & Koch automatic within easy reach.
Nena had spoken of evil. Bond could feel it now, as though Rancho Bismaquer was alive with malevolence. Earlier, he had caught a trace of SPECTRE in this place: now the scent was very strong. He had tangled with them before and his instincts were finely-tuned to them, and their first leader, Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Even now, alone in this cabin on a wooded knoll, set, paradoxically, in the middle of desert, the distinct smell of Blofeld came wafting back from the hell to which Bond had sent him, during that final encounter in Japan.
One of these men was somehow connected with his old enemy. Which one? Luxor or Bismaquer? He could not tell, but he knew he would discover the truth soon enough.
He thought of the delegation, arriving in just over twelve hours, of the sinister play he had watched being enacted in the padded cell off the laboratory, next to the ice cream plant. A kind of hypnotic drug, he presumed – a ‘happy pill’ that removed all moral scruples, leaving the victim outwardly normal but pliable beyond belief.
He looked at his watch. It was almost five in the morning and would soon be getting light. Within twenty-four hours he had to go to ground – literally: into the tunnel to the Conference Centre. In the darkness, Bond smiled, thinking of the irony if it turned out to be just another mundane and boring business conference, all above board. Yet his training and experience with SPECTRE told him this would not be so.
15
GRAND PRIX
The sun climbed into a diamond-clear sky, and you could already feel the dormant heat of the day. Within an hour or so it would become scorching: a day for staying in the cool and sipping iced drinks, for lazing and passing the time with a good conversationalist – preferably female, Bond thought.
He had not slept for long. An hour had been spent going over the Saab. These people had tricks up their sleeves, but so did 007’s Saab Turbo, though he could leave nothing to chance. The Saab had to be perfect. Then even allowing for a highly souped-up engine, Bond was confident that the Shelby-American, driven by Walter Luxor, would stand little real chance.
With the turbo-charger in full operation, a normal Saab 900 can reach a cruising speed of 125 mph with ease. Restrictions forbid commercial models to exceed this maximum, and the turbo-charger itself normally limits performance to within the 125 mph range. But increase the fuel-line pressure to wind up the boost, add in the special rally conversion kit, and you get really high performance.
Bond, in fact, knew of police forces in the world which used Saab Turbos with these very variations. ‘What’s the use of a turbo to us, if we can’t catch a commercial turbo?’ one senior police officer had said to him.
Bond had himself already clocked over 180 mph on an open track, after his car was fitted with the new water-injection system, and there was no reason why he should not do it today. He did not fear the possibility of a blow-out or even of a well-placed bullet in a tyre, for his personalized car ran on Michelin Autoporteur tyres, lookalikes of the TRX tyres, which are standard. The Autoporteurs are possessed of properties spoken about only in hushed tones within the motor industry.
No problems, Bond thought as, with air conditioning at full blast, he eased the Silver Beast along the side road which ran by the outside of the circuit. Markus Bismaquer was plainly visible, with Nena and Cedar, in front of the grandstand, which already seemed to be three-quarters full. Bismaquer’s staff had obviously turned out – or been dragooned into being spectators for this special occasion.
Bond pulled the Saab into the slip road leading to the pits, coming to a standstill beside Bismaquer’s group. There was no sign of Walter Luxor and the Shelby-American.
‘James, you look quite the part.’
Nena Bismaquer’s smile was so natural and all-embracing that Bond could not resist giving her a kiss on the cheek, something which he normally deplored. Then he realised that Cedar Leiter was giving him a hard look.
‘Morning, Cedar,’ he said cheerfully, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Twice for luck.’
For comfort, Bond wore a light blue and red track suit – bought with the other items in Springfield – and little else. Even with the air conditioning, he knew it would get hot out there behind the wheel, especially if Walter Luxor pressed him.
‘James, I hope you slept the sleep of the just,’ Bismaquer roared with his accustomed mirth, slapping Bond on the back just hard enough to make the skin tingle.
‘Oh yes. Like the proverbial log.’ Bond looked straight into Bismaquer’s face. Gone was any sign of the previous night’s strain.
‘Do you want a few practice runs, James, before we start? It looks easy from here, but I can promise you that the chicane and the zig-zag on the far side are real bitches. I know, I built it.’
‘Okay, I’ll take her around a couple of times to get the feel.’ Bond nodded towards the petrol pumps. ‘Then can I fill up, deal with my oil, and all that?’
‘We’ve got a whole crew for you, James.’ Bismaquer pointed to five of his men, dressed in overalls. ‘The real thing. You want to get your spare wheel out, in case you need a change? We’ve got everything at your disposal.’
‘I’ll manage. Ten laps, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. And don’t forget, the crew’s there if you need help. We have track marshals standing by, in case anything big goes wrong.’
Did Bond detect something in Bismaquer’s voice? A hint? Some sense of expecting something to go wrong? Well, they’d just have to wait and see. In the end it would be the best driver, and not the best car, that would be first across the finishing line.
Bond waved to the group, winked at Cedar and climbed back into the Saab. He pulled on his gloves and adjusted the Polaroid sun glasses.
Easing on to the grid, Bond took a final swift look at the instruments. Twice around for luck, he thought. A slowish first run – around seventy where possible – and a faster second, taking the Saab up to near a hundred, but not going higher. Keep the trumps up your sleeve. He smiled, slipping the gear lever into first, releasing the hand brake, and pulling away. He gathered speed, going through the gears, taking her to fourth as the speedometer hit fifty and giving the car a fraction more power to knock the revs over the 3,000 mark; then bringing in the turbo – a comforting whine – hitting seventy miles per hour right on the button.
On the first run, Bond did not go right through the gears into fifth. He kept the engine in check, getting the feel of the track at the relatively low speed.
From the grid to the chicane there was a good two and a half miles of straight track, but once you hit the chicane, both car and driver knew about it. From a distance the track looked as though it merely narrowed, then went through a graceful, though tight, elongated S shape. It was not until the Saab came out into the last curve of the S that Bond realised the chicane ended with a nasty, sudden, sharp lump, like a small humped-back bridge.
The bends proved to be no problem, even at sixty mph, calling for only a quick movement of the wheel – left, right, left, right. The Saab’s curved spoiler, and its weight, held the machine to the track like glue. It was only when he hit the hump that Bond realised the danger.
At sixty, the car lifted off the ground for a second, as it crested during the final easy curve. For a moment, all four wheels were in the air, and it needed considerable concentration not to go off-line as the spinning tyres touched down, scre
eching against the metalled surface.
Bond exhaled, releasing all the breath from his lungs, realising the dangers the hump might create at real speed. He held the car out of the turn and into another mile of straight track, before the more obvious, vicious, right-angle bend.
He held her at seventy, leaving the change down until almost the last moment, going into the right-hander in third but keeping the power on to make certain there was no tendency to slide outwards. Again, the Saab did her stuff. Bond always likened cornering at speed, in this machine, to being held to the road by some invisible hand. When the pressure was really on, you could feel the rear pushed down by the speed of airflow caught in the curved spoiler.
He came out of the bend with the clock still smack on seventy miles per hour. There was half a mile of straight in which, when flat out, he could again build up speed. Resisting temptation, Bond kept her to the seventy, going up to fourth and hitting the nasty Z-bend with a change down to second, at which the speed dropped drastically to fifty.
The Z was, indeed, nasty. By rights, it crossed Bond’s mind, he should have allowed himself more time to practise. You really had to haul the wheel around; and, even at this speed, it was not possible to get her up again into fourth, and a steady acceleration to the seventy mark, until the last sharp point in the Z was behind you. That would need watching.
The rest was easy: three miles or so of straight track, followed by a very gentle right-hander; another mile and a half, then the second right-hand bend, and so into the final mile, back to the grid.
The last bend, Bond quickly discovered, was a shade deceptive, the curve suddenly sharpening as you went in. But all in all, he could cope with that. On the first run, he changed down to third as the angle steepened, piling on the revs, going up again as soon as the track straightened to show a long ribbon in front of him, past the stands, and with the three flat miles to run before the chicane.
A mile from the stands, Bond slid into fifth gear and began to pile on some speed for the second run. He touched the hundred, as he saw the raked grandstand blur past: and held it until half a mile from the chicane.
He went into the gentle turns at ninety, slowing to seventy on the final curve and hitting the hump – for which he was now ready – with the needle still hovering just below the seventy mark. The Saab took off from the top of the hump, arrow straight, with Bond waiting for the thump as all four wheels hit the track. They landed as one, Bond easing the wheel to correct any slewing.
Gently, building up to the hundred, Bond moved to his right to give himself plenty of room on the turn. It would be make or break, he decided. Hit the nasty, hard right-angle at around eighty and stay there, leaning the car as far to the right as she would go, trusting the weight, tyres, and spoiler, to keep him under control.
The figures on his head-up display – and the needle – did not drop a fraction: dead on the eighty for the whole turn, though Bond found himself leaning his body to the right, as if to compensate, and the wheels started to drift fractionally to the left.
He could do it. The right-angle could be negotiated – if positioned correctly to the right – at eighty miles per hour and, possibly, even a hundred.
This was not so easy on the Z bend. Here you had to change down; accelerator; brake; accelerator; and again, then out the other side and pile on the horses.
The Saab took the first of the final two bends at ninety, with no trouble, dropping, with a change down, at the steepening curve on the second.
He came into the last straight still at ninety, allowing the speed to drop away steadily until the stand and pits seemed to drift towards him. Forty; thirty; twenty . . . slowing to a stop.
Through the windscreen he saw Bismaquer’s face, a small crease of concern between the eyes. Walter Luxor, who had now appeared, fully dressed in racing overalls, decorated with the Bismaquer insignia, took no notice. He busied himself with the silver Shelby-American, which was getting a final going over from his crew.
Bond stayed in his seat for a moment, watching the vehicle that had been matched against his own, trying to recall all he knew about the car.
The original competition Ford Mustang had been exceptionally successful in its day: first and second in the 1964 Tour de France touring car class, where its many variations showed fine performances. The GT 350, as Shelby-America’s derivation of the Mustang was designated, had sleek body lines of the old fastback variety, the most obvious outward alterations being a large air scoop on top of the bonnet, and rear-wheel air scoops. The earlier versions usually had fibreglass construction around the bonnet and there were a multitude of possible combinations of engine and transmission, together with the necessary special-handling package to stop the alarming roll experienced on cornering with the stock Mustang suspension.
From what he could recall, Bond thought the car lighter than its parent Mustangs but capable of speeds well in excess of the 130 mark. The one he looked at now, through the Saab’s windscreen, seemed at first sight to be an original. But, the closer he viewed the car, the more uncertain Bond became. The bodywork had a very solid look to it – an indefinable depth. Steel, he thought. Like a Shelby-American, but only in its lines. The tyres, he could see, were heavy-duty, and Bond would have bet now that he was much more than evenly matched. Certainly the design had to be a stress factor at very high speeds; but it would have been nice to look under that bonnet. Bismaquer, being the man he was, would be unlikely to match a standard, souped-up car like this against a Saab Turbo. Whatever engine they had hidden away, it would almost certainly be, like Bond’s, turbocharged.
Sliding from the driving seat, Bond walked quickly towards the car, calling out within a couple of paces of the machine to attract Luxors attention.
Bismaquer moved with unexpected agility in an attempt to cut Bond off from getting too close – a move which finally succeeded, but not before Bond managed to get a hand on the bonnet. It was stressed steel all right. The feel was there under his palm. From the one quick downward push Bond managed, the suspension also seemed very firm.
‘Good luck, Walter . . .’ Bond began, as Bismaquer cut him away from the Shelby-American. ‘I only wanted to wish Walter good luck,’ said Bond with a scowl, as though offended, feeling Bismaquer’s large hand around his arm literally pulling him away.
‘Walter doesn’t like to be distracted before a race, James,’ Bismaquer growled. ‘He’s an old professional, remember . . .’
‘And this is a friendly race, with an important side bet between us, Markus.’ Bond sounded cool, though concern had already begun to nag at the back of his mind.
Bismaquer probably had a car capable of a higher performance, but he could not know about the water injection, or the increased boost, on the Saab. Bond was in no doubt, though, about Luxor. He was up against a man who really knew racing, and – in addition – a man who knew the Bismaquer track backwards.
‘Okay, Markus. You tell your professional from me that I hope the best man wins. That’s all. Now, can I juice up the Saab?’
Bismaquer looked at him blankly. There was something dreadfully sinister about the gaze, for the eyes were blank and the mouth sullenly slack – no hint, or trace, of the expansive buffoon. Bond recognised the look with a certain coldness in the pit of his stomach.
It was the expression he had seen many times, the dead expression of a professional hit man. A contract killer, about to do his job.
As suddenly as the look came, it vanished, and Bismaquer smiled, his whole face lighting up.
‘My boys’ll do it all for you, James.’
‘No thank you.’ Bond preferred to see to everything himself – gas, oil, hydraulics, coolant.
The final check took around twenty minutes, after which Bond walked over to Bismaquer who chatted amiably with Nena and Cedar.
‘I’m ready,’ Bond announced, allowing his gaze to take in all three of them.
There was a pause, then Bismaquer nodded. ‘If you’d like to come and draw for po
sitions on the grid . . .’
‘Oh’ – Bond laughed – ‘let’s keep it friendly. Surely we can just toss for it here. I’m sure Walter won’t mind, you . . .’
‘James,’ Bismaquer said softly. Did Bond detect menace? Or was he merely edgy, jumping at verbal shadows? ‘James. You must understand about Walter. He takes this very seriously. I’ll see if he’s ready.’
Left alone with the women, Bond did not even attempt small talk. ‘I’ll say farewell now, ladies,’ he said allowing his lips to break into a winning smile. ‘See you after the race.’
‘For God’s sake, Bond, be careful.’ Cedar walked with him for a moment, speaking low. ‘The bastards are out to get you. Don’t take any risks. It’s not worth it. Please.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Bond waved cheerfully, turning to see Bismaquer approaching with Walter Luxor.
Luxor was most correct. They shook hands, said may the best man win, and tossed for the starting position on the grid. Bond lost. Luxor took the inside, right-hand, lane.
Bismaquer intoned solemnly, ‘This will be a race of a full ten laps of the circuit. Your lap numbers will be held up in the pits as you pass. Walter’s in red; James, yours in blue. I am acting as chief marshal, and you will obey my instructions. You will drive down to your positions on the grid, then shut down your engines. I shall place myself on the starter’s rostrum – over there – and raise the flag. You will both indicate that you have an unrestricted view of me by giving a thumbs-up sign. I shall then wave the flag in a circular motion, and you will start engines. After that I shall raise the flag, count down from ten to zero, and drop the flag. You may then drive. The flag will not come down again until the winning car passes the rostrum, at the end of the tenth lap. Is that clear?’
Bond slowly steered the Saab to his place on the grid. There had been little time to think of tactics, and his mind now raced ahead. He had no real idea of the standard he faced, so his first job would be to gauge the performance of both his rival driver and the car.