For Special Services

  From the start, Bond had been certain the spectacular, and lethal, hijacks were part of a resurrected SPECTRE’S plan: a money-raising operation for something much bigger. All he had felt, and seen, since arriving in the United States – and particularly at Rancho Bismaquer – pointed towards a SPECTRE-directed coup of very large proportions. The hub lay here, as did Ernst Stavro Blofeld’s successor.

  Now, after Bismaquer’s words, he knew that it would be necessary to drop out of sight at any moment, even if it meant leaving Cedar to face the music. Luxor or Bismaquer? he wondered. Which was the new Blofeld? Which of them held the key?

  Bond’s concern mounted as he worked on the Saab, then backed it towards the petrol pumps. He would at least have a full tank, with an oil and coolant top-up if warranted.

  Luxor had not even bothered to come over and shake hands or congratulate him on the win. Worse, Cedar had disappeared without exchanging a word with him, hustled away, with Nena, by the security staff.

  After the adrenalin-pumping danger of the race, James Bond now felt a reaction which came near to depression. Bismaquer could not be seen anywhere, and only a couple of chefs tended the deserted barbecue. Bond went over and helped himself to a massive steak, bread and coffee. At least he would not go hungry.

  He dealt with the Saab quickly, glancing up to the stands which were being cleared. The only thing possible was to watch his own back, return to the cabin, then leave quickly and hide and wait until the night. Then down to Tara for dinner, armed to the teeth, strong in the hope that Bismaquer would not give an order for him to be snatched – with Cedar – before he could go to ground and get some real answers.

  As the Saab drew away from the pits, a man with a neat military moustache and dressed in a white silk jacket watched from high in the grandstand. The car purred out of sight, heading for the rising, wooded ground.

  Mike Mazzard smiled and left the stand.

  16

  NENA

  Even at eleven-thirty, the night seemed to have lost little heat from the day.

  Bond, clad now in dark slacks, a black turtle-neck and short jacket – to hide the holstered VP70 – lay among the trees, covered by branches and odd ferns already gathered during the afternoon.

  Around him the noises of night animals, combined with the chirruping cicadas, had become a natural background. His hearing was acute enough to break through the series of calls and songs, and would pick up any human sound, should it come near.

  In some senses, the events of the day had been anti-climactic. Bond, on getting back to the cabin, had taken a quick shower, changed, and made certain all was ready for a fast getaway. He had laid out clothes for dinner that night and packed everything else, even the reassembled briefcase, which he locked away in the Saab.

  All he carried was the set of pick-locks and tools, together with the Heckler & Koch, plus spare magazines. He went through the routine quickly, leaving himself in the clothes he now wore, except for a black shirt, for the day, instead of the turtle-neck, which, he considered, would be more suitable later that night.

  His hiding place was constructed with equal haste, among the trees in a corner of the clearing, affording good sight-lines of the track, cabin and Saab. There Bond stayed until dusk, leaving soon after six, to change into the lightweight suit, decent shoes and tie, before driving down to Tara.

  Bismaquer was his usual jovial self, dispensing drinks on the veranda. Cedar looked cool in dark blue skirt and blouse, while Nena sparkled, her dark eyes twinkling, that glissando laugh like music to Bond’s ears.

  Almost as soon as he arrived, Nena asked what he was drinking, allowing their eyes to meet, and, in that meeting, signalling she had not forgotten their tryst.

  Cedar remained calm, but she too seemed to be flashing signals at Bond, as though they needed to talk.

  The only off-key note came from Walter Luxor, who sat sullen, hardly speaking to anyone. A bad loser, Bond thought, and a man with more important things on his mind than the small talk which seemed to roll naturally from Markus Bismaquer.

  After one drink, Bismaquer suggested that, if Bond had brought the prints, they conclude their business. ‘I’m a man of my word, James,’ he chuckled. ‘Even though, like any other man, I don’t like having to part with money.’

  Bond went down the steps to the Saab, retrieved the prints, and followed Bismaquer into the house. They went straight to the print room, where, with no fuss, Bond handed over the prints in exchange for a small briefcase which Bismaquer opened. ‘Count it if you want to,’ he growled pleasantly. ‘Only you’ll miss dinner if you do. The whole amount’s in there. One million for Professor Penbrunner, and another for yourself.’

  ‘I believe you.’ Bond closed the case. ‘Nice to do business, Markus. If I have anything else . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be of use to me again, James.’ Bismaquer gave him a quick, almost suspicious look. ‘In fact, I’m positive about it. Now, if you don’t mind returning to the others, I’ll put these away. I have a horror of anybody else knowing where I keep my really rare treasures.’

  Bond hefted the briefcase. ‘And this needs locking up, safe and sound. Thank you, Markus.’

  On reaching the portico again, Bond found it empty but for Cedar.

  ‘Nena Bismaquer’s talking to the cook, and the death’s head just wandered off,’ Cedar told him quickly.

  Bond was already half way down the steps. He called back quietly: ‘Come and help me put this away.’

  She joined him at the back of the car, and immediately Bond detected the vibrations of fear emanating from her, like an animal.

  ‘They’ve got something really heavy going on, James. Christ, you had me worried in that race.’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly happy myself, Cedar. But listen to me.’ He told her, in a few words, that – providing they were both left alone when dinner was over – he would be returning to the cabin. ‘I’m going to do exactly as we planned, only Bismaquer’s given us marching orders for tomorrow morning. I suspect they plan to let us get clear and then really nail us, but I could be quite wrong. There’s a chance they’ll snatch both of us here, tonight, on the ranch. Do you still have that weapon?’

  She gave a little nod, whispering that it was strapped to the inside of her thigh and that it was damned uncomfortable too.

  ‘Right.’ Bond, put the briefcase in the boot, slammed it shut and twisted the key. ‘As soon as you can, after dinner. I want you to get out. Don’t come anywhere near the knoll or the cabins, but around dawn try and make your way to the place I told you about, where I’m going to stash the Saab. Steal a car, walk, do it any way you can. But get out. Don’t get too near the Saab, just hide and watch. Meeting and pickup times as we arranged.’

  ‘Okay. There’re things to tell you, though, James.’

  ‘Quickly then.’

  ‘They know exactly who, and what we are,’ she began. ‘And Mike Mazzard arrived last night.’

  ‘And the other three hoods?’

  ‘I don’t know, but Mazzard got hell from Luxor, for not being able to control his men. Apparently they were acting without orders in Washington. No harm was to come to you, James. I’m not so sure about myself – they called me Cedar Leiter, by the way – but they want you alive.’

  ‘The car race . . . ?’

  ‘Was to keep you off-balance. And the Harvester ants as well. They knew you weren’t going to be in that cabin. The ants were definitely meant for me. Apparently you’re fireproof. You should have heard Luxor. He really let Mazzard have it. That’s all for sure, James. I heard everything. Orders are that you’re to be kept on tap but not killed.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘That’s not all. Something’s happened over at the warehouse.’

  Bond made questioning noises.

  ‘I saw by accident. A refrigerated truck came out of the trees, at the back of the warehouse, late this afternoon; and there are at least two more down there. The first truck was heading tow
ards the airfield. They’re moving that ice cream.’

  Bond’s brow was lined in thought. ‘I wish we knew more,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps I will by tomorrow night. Be very careful, though; if it’s some criminal – or terrorist – activity and we’ve vanished, they’ll be digging the place up to find us. I . . .’ He stopped, conscious that somebody had come on to the portico.

  A second later, Nena Bismaquer spoke: James? Cedar? Didn’t anyone call you? Dinner’s served.’

  They went back up the steps, and Cedar entered the house first, leaving Bond to shepherd Nena through the great high doors. She let Cedar get well ahead, then turned, saying softly to Bond, ‘James. I’ll be with you as soon as I can after dinner. Please be careful. It’s very dangerous. We have to talk.’

  Bond merely bowed his head to signal he understood. The black eyes gave him a pleading look, quite out of character with the sophisticated, very beautiful French woman who walked on with poise towards the dining room.

  So now Bond waited in his hiding place in the trees. For Nena? Almost certainly, he thought. Though it could well be something else. During dinner there had been some tension, and Bismaquer had undergone a sudden change of character on two occasions, once in the way he spoke to the servants, and once to Nena. Perhaps the strain was starting to tell. From what Bond and Cedar had observed, something was about to happen. If Bismaquer was, indeed, the new Blofeld, the mask could be about to crack.

  Was it significant, Bond wondered, lying in the dark, that Walter Luxor had not dined with them? According to Bismaquer, the skeleton of a man was busy preparing his speech for the next day.

  Luxor or Bismaquer? Bond still wondered, his eyes – now accustomed to the darkness – watching for the slightest movement.

  He glanced at his watch. The dial glowed clearly. Eleven thirty-five; and, at that moment, he heard the distant sound of a motor.

  Bond turned his head, trying to gauge direction. The sound was approaching from below. A small car, he judged, as he distinctly heard the gear change and the engine alter as it began its climb up the long track through the trees.

  About five minutes later the headlights shafted into the clearing, followed by the little car itself, a small black sports which Bond could not immediately identify.

  The car pulled up directly behind the Saab. Shutting it in, Bond thought to himself. If he wanted to get out quickly, he would have to clear the open space in a fast turn.

  The driver killed the engine and lights. Through the night air, Bond heard the rustle of silk. He could just make out Nena Bismaquer, standing beside the car, then her voice, calling quietly, ‘James? James, are you there?’

  Softly, Bond surfaced. He crossed the clearing, one hand ready near the holstered VP70. She did not hear him until he was almost behind her.

  ‘Oh my God. Oh James, don’t do things like that.’ Nena, quivering, clung to him.

  ‘You told me to take care,’ Bond said smiling down at her.

  Nena Bismaquer was still dressed as she had been at dinner in a pleated silk dress patterned in white and black, very simple but revealing her particular style and personality. Simple, maybe, Bond thought, his hand touching the smooth and provocative material, but he would bet a month’s salary on this little creation costing a fortune.

  ‘Can we go inside, James? Please.’ Her lips were close to his. Once more, Bond smelled her particular scent, the clean, fresh hair, though now it was mingled with something very expensive: the touch of a distillation, probably unique, and made especially for Markus Bismaquer’s wife. For a moment, Bond felt a tiny pang of jealousy. Then she urged him again. ‘Please, James. Inside, please.’

  Bond took a step forward, letting Nena enter the cabin first. Then he switched on the light. Almost as the cabin door closed behind them, she was in his arms, trembling, then pulling away. ‘I should not have come.’ Her voice took on the same breathless quality he had heard in the Saab when they first kissed.

  ‘Why then?’ Bond wrapped his arms around her, feeling her turn towards him, pressing her limbs close to his.

  ‘Why do you think?’ She lifted her face and kissed him on the lips, pulling back again quickly. ‘No. Not yet, anyway. I don’t know what’s going on, James. All I can tell you is that Markus and Walter are both out for blood. They’re doing something really dangerous, James. That’s all I know, all I can tell you. Both of them, they hide everything from me. Men came last night, men from the East, from New York. I heard some of the conversation. Walter said that, if he didn’t win on the race track today . . .’

  ‘You looked relaxed enough at the track . . .’

  ‘There was no way to warn you, James. You could see. I was surrounded by Markus’s men. You have to get away, James.’

  ‘Markus has asked us to go in the morning.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I know . . . but . . .’ She clung closer. ‘But they’ll be waiting, I know that. There are a lot of new people around, and I think they have the ranch surrounded – dogs, half-tracks? Is that right, half-tracks?’

  ‘They’d be useful in desert conditions, yes.’ Bond did not say that he thought as much. Bismaquer was acting as a sheep dog, moving them out and into the arms of waiting killers.

  ‘Listen, Nena.’ He held her away, by the shoulders roused by her presence, the smooth skin against his hands and the feel of the silk. ‘Listen hard. Cedar is going. I am going. We’re both vanishing. Not tomorrow, as Markus wants, but tonight – or in the early hours. I know something’s up, so we’re going to earth here, on the ranch, until one of us can get clear . . .’

  ‘If it’s you, James, don’t take chances. From what I’ve heard they really have got the place surrounded. Is it the money, perhaps? I don’t know.’

  In the short silence that followed, there came the roar of a heavy aircraft flying low over the ranch.

  Nena looked towards the cabin’s rafters. ‘That’ll be part of the delegation coming in. Two separate flights tonight. Either that, or one of Markus’s freighters . . .’

  ‘Freighters?’

  She gave a small, nervous laugh. ‘Oh, his damned ice cream. He’s in the middle of something criminal, horrible – I know that – but he can’t leave the ice cream alone. He’s got yet another new flavour, and he’s sold it to some distributor somewhere. Tons of it. They’re shipping it out tonight.’

  Ice cream going to some distributor, Bond thought. Would it be straight, or spiked with whatever dreadful drug Luxor and Bismaquer had concocted? The stuff he’d seen in action, turning men into pliable, pleasant monsters who would obey, even to the selling of their wives and loved ones.

  ‘Where are you going to hide?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ Bond was sharp. ‘Better you should not know anything, then they can’t get at you as well. We’ll just disappear. Hang on, Nena. Just hang on and wait. Someone will come, I’ll see to that. Then the whole thing’ll be over.’

  ‘Shall I see you again?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He felt her hand drop to his thigh. ‘I haven’t long.’ She moved very close now, whispering in his ear. ‘James, just in case something happens . . .’ She did not need to finish the sentence.

  Gently, Bond led her in the direction of the bedroom, crossing to the bed and turning on the night-table lamp.

  ‘No, my darling James. No lights. In the dark.’

  ‘That’s a little old-fashioned . . .’

  ‘For my sake. No lights.’

  He nodded, switched off the lamp, and climbed out of his clothes, hearing the noise of her dress sliding over her head.

  Naked and lying on the bed, Bond was about to place the automatic within reach when a sudden instinct took his hand up to the lamp again. ‘Sorry, Nena. I’ve got to have some light.’

  She gave a little cry as the lamp came on, revealing her slim and lithe sun-brown figure, with those magnificent long legs. She was dressed only in silk bra and panties. She was in the act of unclipping her bra.

  ‘James. I aske
d you . . .’ She stopped, realising that her voice had turned harsh, like a whip-lash.

  Bond apologised: ‘I’m sorry. Jittery, Nena, that’s all. I don’t think we should be in the dark. You look so lovely, so why the modesty?’

  Her face crumpled as she came slowly towards the bed. ‘You would have found out. Just as Markus found out. Everybody. It can’t be helped. James, I’m not a whole woman. I didn’t want you to see me. It’s always been like this. I . . . I . . . I feel deformed, and I don’t like people . . .’

  He pulled her down on to the bed, a hand searching for her. Nena’s mouth opened, locking against his, and they were off again into a whirlpool of emotions, their mouths acting out the desires of their bodies.

  Presently she pulled away. ‘The light, James. Can we have it . . . ?’

  ‘Show me.’ Bond was determined. ‘Whatever it is, there can’t be any harm in seeing . . .’

  She slid sideways on to him, her hands going to the clasp on her bra. Bond noticed that she could not look him in the eyes. ‘I was born like this, James. I’m sorry. Some people – like Markus – find it revolting.’

  Sliding her bra away she revealed the truth. The left side of her chest was smooth and flat as that of a young boy, perfectly formed but no female breast. On the right side, the firm, beautiful curve of one glorious breast – full and golden.

  Strangely, perhaps because her one breast was so wonderful, an exact half-globe with a proportioned brown and pink nipple erect, the oddity appeared especially erotic to Bond.

  He pulled her close, one hand cupping her. ‘Dear, lovely Nena. You are unique. You’re beautiful. There’s nothing revolting about you. Certainly you’re not half woman. Let me show you that.’

  Slowly, punctuating his actions with kisses, Bond completed undressing her, and she wrapped herself around him, so that, for an hour or so, the evil which surrounded them in this strange, man-made desert island melted away – taking them into other worlds and to higher peaks, shrinking, eventually, to two human beings, turned by the magic of the love act into one.

  Nena left around four in the morning, with constant kisses and worried admonitions for Bond to be on his guard. ‘I shall see you again, James? Tell me I shall see you again.’