The big man had taken the room key from Bond. Now he calmly opened their door and ushered the couple inside. A quick hard shove propelled Bond into a chair and hands which felt like twin monkey wrenches held his shoulders from behind. Cedar was treated in similar fashion.
It was a moment before Bond noticed the fourth man, standing by the window, occasionally glancing down into the street. He must have been in the room already as they entered. Bond recognised him at once as the slim athletic man with a neat military moustache, looking altogether overdressed in a maroon tuxedo, who had approached him earlier in the hotel lobby and pressed a gold-edged card into his hand. The man had introduced himself as Mike Mazzard, had said something about being at the press reception at the airport and wanted a private talk about the prints. Bond had been rather brusque and brushed aside the suggestion of a quiet drink at some casino or other, taking the man for a journalist after an exclusive interview – though he hadn’t mentioned a paper. Bond hadn’t even looked at the card properly but simply pushed it into his pocket saying that he wouldn’t be seeing anyone until they had had a night’s rest.
‘So, Professor,’ said the big man, who had taken a position in the centre of the room and was idly tossing the VP70 from hand to hand like a gorilla playing with a stone. ‘You’re carrying a piece, honh? D’ya know how to use it?’
Bond, still in character, let out a pompous splutter, meant to convey outrage. ‘Of course I know how to use it,’ he blustered. ‘Let me tell you that in the War . . .’
‘What war would that be, friend?’ croaked the man holding him. ‘The American Revolution?’
The three heavies brayed with laughter.
‘I was an officer in the Second World War,’ Bond said with dignity. ‘I’ve seen more action than . . .’
‘The Second World War was a long time ago, friend,’ the big man interrupted, weighing the VP70 in his hand directly in front of Bond. ‘This is a pretty lethal piece you got here. Why’re you carrying it anyway?’
‘Protection,’ snapped Bond in his best Penbrunner manner.
‘Yeah, I figured that. But protection from what?’
‘Muggers. Thieves. Ruffians like you. People intending to steal from us.’
‘When’re you going to learn some manners, Joe Bellini?’ said the cool, measured voice from the window. ‘We’re here with an invitation, not to put Professor Penbrunner through a third degree in his own room. Remember?’
‘Steal from you? We’re not here to steal from you,’ the heavy man called Bellini went on with feigned politeness, his face displaying affronted innocence. ‘You got some pictures, right?’
‘Pictures?’
‘Yeah, some kinda special pictures.’
‘Prints, Joe.’ The man by the window spoke in a more commanding manner.
‘Yeah, prints. Thanks, Mr Mazzard. You got some prints by a guy called Ho-something.’
‘Ho-garth, Joe,’ prompted Mazzard without taking his eyes off the street below.
‘I own some Hogarth prints,’ Bond said firmly. ‘Owning them and having them aren’t quite the same thing.’
‘You got them here, we happen to know,’ Joe Bellini said with mock patience. ‘In the hotel safe.’
Mike Mazzard, at the window, turned to face Bond, who now realised that he was by far the most dangerous of the four. He carried himself with a certain sleekness and authority.
‘Let’s get it straight,’ he said. ‘No one’s going to hurt either of you. We just want you to understand the situation. We’re here to represent Mr Bismaquer, who wants to see those Hogarth prints. Call it an invitation. But he doesn’t figure on waiting till tomorrow for an answer. You got his card – the one I gave you in the lobby. I guess he wants to make you an offer . . .’
Joe Bellini chuckled. ‘An offer he can’t refuse, honh.’
Mazzard was not amused. ‘Be quiet, Joe. It’s a straight offer. All you have to do is call the front desk and get them to send up the prints, and then we can get it moving.’
Bond shook his head. ‘Can’t be done,’ he said with a smile. ‘I have one key. They have the other. As in a bank. The prints are in a safety deposit box,’ he lied. ‘No one but the duty officer and myself can get at them. Not even my wife . . .’
With relief, Bond congratulated himself on his last-minute change of mind, when he had decided that the prints would be even safer in the Saab’s secret compartment, especially if they needed to leave in a hurry.
‘Like Mr Mazzard says,’ Joe Bellini went straight on, all politeness now gone, ‘we don’t want to hurt nobody. But if you don’t co-operate, then Louis and the Kid here’ – indicating the man holding Bond – ‘can get very unpleasant with your little lady.’
Mazzard left the window, walked around Joe, who still toyed with the VP70, and halted in front of Bond.
‘Professor Penbrunner. May I suggest you and Joe here take a walk downstairs, collect the prints, then we can all get to Kennedy. Mr Bismaquer has sent his own private jet to collect you, specially. He had hoped you’d join him for dinner. It’s a little late for that now. But we can make up for lost time, and you and Mrs Penbrunner can still get a good night’s rest at the ranch. You’d be more comfortable there than at this dump, I can assure you. Now, what d’you say?’
‘Look here, Mazzard,’ Bond spluttered. ‘This is an outrage! I already told you earlier, we are not making any engagements before tomorrow. If you really represent the man – Bismaquer, did you say his name was . . . ?’
‘Save it for posterity,’ interrupted Bellini, ‘and let’s split. And don’t try anything stupid.’ He moved across to Cedar, and, with a casual flick of his hand, tore her dress from neck to waist, revealing the fact that she wore no brassière.
‘Nice,’ breathed Louis, looking down over the shoulder he still held in a firm grip. ‘Very nice.’
‘Cut it out,’ commanded Mazzard. ‘There’s no call for that sort of thing. I am sorry, Professor, but you see, Mr Bismaquer isn’t used to having no for an answer. Now, I’ll collect your things together while you and Joe get the prints. We can be at Kennedy and away sharp if we get moving now.’
Bond nodded. ‘All right,’ he said quietly, disconcerted because, for a second or so, he too found it impossible to take his eyes from Cedar’s partially revealed breasts. ‘But my wife will need to change. We can collect the prints on the way out . . .’
‘We’ll get the prints now,’ Mazzard said flatly, brooking no further argument. ‘Stop waving the Professor’s gun about, Joe. Put it away in the closet, you’ve got your own.’
Joe Bellini produced a small revolver from his coat. Having shown Bond that he was armed, he pocketed his own gun again and placed the VP70 on the bedside table.
Mazzard nodded to the Kid and the twin wrenches relaxed on Bond’s shoulders. Bond moved his arms gingerly, trying to restore the circulation as quickly as possible. At the same time, he gave a small cough and flicked an imaginary thread from his lapel – the body language for Cedar to be ready. Aloud he said he would need his briefcase.
‘My key’s in it.’ He gestured to where the case stood beside the collapsible steel and canvas luggage rack.
Mazzard picked up the briefcase, weighed it, and gave it a couple of quick upward jerks of the hand. Satisfied, he handed the briefcase over to Bond. ‘Just the key, and go along with Joe.’
The case was a version of his original elaborate Swaine & Adeney bag, modified by Q’ute for 007’s use on this present operation. Its main features – a more effective device based on one of the hidden compartments in the Bond original – were two spring-loaded slim compartments sewn into the inner lining on the right-hand side. At a setting of treble three on the left tumblers, and treble two on the right, the springs would operate at five-second intervals, delivering the handles of Bond’s Sykes-Fairbairn knives through the bottom of the case.
As he took the briefcase on to his lap, Bond assessed the situation. They were certainly in a tight spot, fo
r it now dawned on Bond that not only was there no option to complying over the night safety deposit box, but neither could he allow these hoods to discover the secrets of the Saab. For a fleeting moment, he considered the possibility of getting rid of Joe before they reached the car. Dealing with one in the open would be much easier than trying to tackle four in the confined room. But what then would happen to Cedar? If he raised an alarm, who could tell what they would do to her? He couldn’t risk it. The alternative – turning the tables here and now on the four – seemed against all the odds. Could he rely on swift action from Cedar? A glance in her direction, a fractional meeting of the eyes, told him she was ready.
Mazzard was nearest to him and would have to go first, Bond decided, carefully turning the left-hand tumblers to treble three, then twisting the briefcase sideways so that two slim concealed knife apertures lay directly over his right thigh. Once Mazzard was taken out, he must tackle Joe Bellini and trust to luck and surprise for the other two. It all depended on three things: his own accuracy, Cedar’s readiness, and how quickly the Kid moved.
He shifted the case slightly, then turned the right-hand tumblers to treble two. There was no sound as Bond moved the case again, sliding his hand to the underside ready to receive the first knife after the initial five-second delay. He felt the handle slip down into his right hand, and, with the knowledge that he only had five seconds before the next knife would be ready, made his move.
Throwing knives are so finely balanced that even an expert has difficulty making the weapon behave as intended. An agile throw, correctly performed, should always bring the point of the blade into a forward, horizontal position as it reaches its target.
Bond wanted nobody injured unless it proved unavoidable. To do this, both his throws had to be exceptionally accurate and at least one beat off so that the heavy pommel, above the grip, would reach the point aimed at before the razored edge.
Hardly moving in his chair, Bond flexed his wrist, putting maximum force behind the first throw, then reached down just in time for the second knife to be delivered from the case.
The first knife was aimed faultlessly, the pommel catching Mazzard with a thud – slap between the eyes. He could have known nothing as his head jerked back soundlessly, the knife falling to the floor and the body following it. Cedar moved at the same moment as Bond, pushing down with her feet and, with all her weight, toppling her chair back against Louis, who was caught off-guard, diverted by Mazzard’s sudden fall. Bond was aware only of the grunt and crash as he went over, propelled by Cedar and the heavy furniture.
By this time, the other knife was in Bond’s hand, his body turning minutely to position himself for Joe, whose reactions were considerably faster than 007 had anticipated. Luckily the big man only managed to move a few inches to his left, so that the pommel of the second knife landed heavily beside his right ear.
As though frozen in time, Joe Bellini stopped in his tracks, one hand half way to the pocket containing the revolver. The knife fell away awkwardly, slicing at his ear and almost severing it. He let out a strangled cry, staggered forwards and toppled across Cedar and Louis as they struggled on the floor.
The Kid moved indecisively behind Bond, who dropped the case and, putting full weight on the balls of his feet, sprang from the chair and leaped for the VP70 lying waiting on the bedside table.
He went for the weapon with a wild karate shriek, expelling the air from his lungs, covering the three paces in less than two seconds. Even as his hand grasped the pistol butt, thumb flicking at the safety catch, Bond swivelled, arms outstretched, ready to fire at the first target to spell danger.
The Kid’s right hand was half way inside his jacket when Bond shouted, ‘Hold it. Stop!’ The Kid showed an intelligent sense of survival. He stopped, hand wavering for a second, then – eyes meeting Bond’s – obeyed.
Just then Cedar broke free, leaped to her feet with startling speed and brought both hands down, in a vicious double-chop, to the sides of Louis’s neck. The man grunted and slumped to the floor. Bond walked up to the Kid, smiling, reached into his jacket, removed the weapon he had been preparing to use and then administered a sharp tap behind the ear. Whereupon the Kid joined his friends in oblivion.
‘Change your dress, Cedar,’ Bond said quietly; then, on second thoughts, ‘No, give me a hand with this lot first.’
Together they stripped the four hoods of their weapons, Cedar apparently unaware that her breasts were on full display. Bond fished into the special compartment of his briefcase and brought out a small sealed plastic box which he forced open. He drew out the chloroform pad and administered it to the four men who lay spreadeagled about the floor.
‘Crude and not very effective, but it’s easier than trying to get tablets down them,’ Bond said. ‘It’s only meant for emergencies such as these. Old and tried methods are often best. At least we’ll be sure of half an hour.’
They secured the hands and feet of the four men with their own belts, ties and handkerchiefs. It was then that Cedar saw what Bond’s knife had done to Joe Bellini’s ear – the top half-inch sliced through, leaving a bloody flap dangling and joined by only a thin strip of tissue on the outer edge. Bond fetched some ointment from the all-providing case to help staunch the blood flow. Deftly Cedar fitted the flap back in place and bound it up as best she could with lint and sticking plaster from the bathroom cupboard.
At last she realised that she was half naked and, with no embarrassment, stripped to her tight white briefs and plunged her legs into a pair of jeans, pulling on a shirt as Bond threw their things roughly into their bags. Suddenly he remembered the gold-edged card that he had thrust into his pocket at that first meeting with Mike Mazzard in the hotel lobby. He pulled it out and examined it.
On one side was a sort of crest, incorporating an elaborate letter B, with the words ‘Markus Bismaquer’ underneath, embellished with curving flourishes. Below that in tiny block capitals were the words: ENTREPRENEUR – AMARILLO, TEXAS. Scrawled on the back of the card in a sloping hand was a brief message:
Prof & Mrs Penbrunner –
Honor me by being my guests for a few days. Bring the Hogarths.
It will be worth your while. My Security Manager, Mike Mazzard,
will see you to my private jet at Kennedy.
M.B.
Squashed in at the bottom, written as if an afterthought, was an insistence they make it for dinner that night and a telephone number to ring should there be any problems. Bond handed the card to Cedar.
‘To Amarillo, then. By car, I think,’ he said curtly. ‘They won’t expect that. Have you got all your things?’
Bond saw a furrow of worry cross Cedar’s face. ‘Your reputation will go before you, James.’ There was a small twinkling smile as she used his first name.
‘You mean an old man like Penbrunner doing a knife-throwing act and a few karate moves?’ Bond said, replacing the knives into their spring clips in the briefcase.
‘Quite.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Bismaquer’s after us. He will know shortly that we’re no pushovers. It’ll be interesting to see how he reacts. Now, let’s get a move on.’
‘What about them? Will you call the police?’
‘We don’t want to start a hue and cry now. I’ll leave some money and the key in an envelope in the laundry room. I noticed they leave it open. Lucky we have the sort of old-fashioned lock on this door you can’t undo from the inside without a key. They won’t be in a hurry to ring down to the desk, and it’ll take them quite a time to pick their way out.’
Bond bent down to see if he could find another key in Mazzard’s pocket and produced a skeleton that he must have got by bribing one of the chambermaids.
‘Time to go,’ he snapped. ‘We’ll take the back stairs.’
8
INTIMATIONS OF MORTALITY
They did not stop to look back across the river at that magnificent skyline twinkling with lights from the sharp outlines of skyscrapers, th
e vast twin towers of the World Trade Center dwarfing everything else. They needed to put distance between themselves and Bismaquer’s hoods. Bond also had to have time to think. If, as they suspected, Bismaquer was part of SPECTRE, and, possibly, the new Blofeld himself, their adversary could already be one step ahead of them.
Bond had learned never to underestimate SPECTRE. Now, his duty was to out-think the enemy and his first inclination was to head for Texas and face Bismaquer – playing it dangerously, by ear. On reflection, as he slid the Saab neatly through the traffic, Bond decided it would be best to hide somewhere for a couple of days.
‘If we watch each other’s backs,’ he told Cedar, ‘and keep very low profiles, we’ll soon find out if Bismaquer’s really out for blood. Anyone with SPECTRE connections would have an army of underworld informers searching for us by now.’
It was Cedar who suggested Washington. ‘Not the metropolitan area or Georgetown. Somewhere near by, though. There are plenty of big motels we could use, just off the main highway.’
The idea made sense. Once on the turnpike, Bond put his foot down, winding the turbo up to a safe and legal maximum, then flicking on the cruise control. They reached the District of Columbia around three in the morning, both watching for any possible tail. Bond took them around part of the Capital Beltway, then finally located the Anacostia Freeway, where they spotted an exit with a motel sign.
The place they had chosen was certainly large enough to get lost in for days – some thirty storeys high, with an underground car park where the Saab could be tucked away. They registered separately, as Ms Carol Lukas and Mr John Bergin, and were given adjoining rooms on the twentieth floor with balconies giving a view across the green belt of Anacostia Park and the river. Cedar pointed out, in the distance, the Anacostia and 11th Street bridges, with the Washington Navy Yard a smudge against the landscape.