Once more they stopped as little as possible, and, around nine in the evening, negotiated Amarillo, circling the city so as to enter from the west, on the assumption that any watchers would be looking out for the Saab along the eastern access roads.
Again, they chose a small, obscure motel, and as they climbed from the car, the heat hit them like a blast furnace. It was already dusk, lights were coming on, and the cicadas sang a constant aria among the trees and dry grass. Both men and women wore jeans, boots and large-brimmed stetsons. With a shock, Bond realised they had really hit the West.
The manager drawled them into an adjoining set of rooms, said there was a saloon and diner across the street – if they did not want to use the motel’s coffee shop – then left them to their own devices.
‘Well, Cedar,’ said Bond, smiling, ‘how about food?’
The food turned out to be the best bowl of chili either of them had tasted in a long time. But Cedar looked nervous as they said goodnight at her door, and Bond, sensing her anxiety, told her not to worry.
‘Just remember all they taught you,’ he said, ‘and all we’ve worked out together. It’ll only need one of us to get out if we strike gold. One alert – to your contacts, or mine, or both. We’re equal partners in this, Cedar. Our job is to pin them down; get proof, and, if they’ve got some nasty work on hand, stop them. Now, remember, six o’clock in the morning.’
She bit her lip.
‘Nothing wrong is there?’ Bond searched for clues in her eyes.
She gave a heavy sigh. ‘Of course there is, and you know it.’ She smiled, reaching up to kiss his cheek. ‘And you’re right. Dead right. So if it can’t be, then I wish my Dad was here. He’d love to be working with you again.’
‘Stop getting sentimental, Cedar. You’re as good as your father ever was; and I suspect you’ll prove it in the next day or so. Now let’s get some sleep.’
Bond stretched out on his bed fully clothed, with the automatic near at hand. He dozed, slept, and woke with an alert start, as the alarm call came through at five-thirty.
Showered, shaved, dressed, Bond was just in time to greet Cedar, who arrived at the door, bearing a flask of coffee and hot waffles with syrup on a tray. The coffee shop did a twenty-four hour service, she explained. At six o’clock promptly, perched on the bed, sipping coffee, Bond dialled the number on the card he’d been given by Mike Mazzard.
The telephone rang for almost thirty seconds. Then a male voice answered, although it took Bond a moment to realise a man was speaking, for the voice was thin, reedy, pitched very high and inclined to squeak in the upper register.
‘Rancho Bismaquer.’
‘Put me on to Markus Bismaquer.’ No please or any of the other courtesies.
‘I guess he’ll still be asleep. He doesn’t get up until six-thirty.’
‘Then get him up. This is very important.’
A long pause. Then, ‘Who wants him?’
‘Just say that I represent Professor Penbrunner. I have Mrs Penbrunner with me, and I’m anxious to speak with Bismaquer.’
Another silence.
‘The name was . . . ?’
‘I didn’t say. I’m only acting for the Professor, but if you want to tell Bismaquer, you can say my name’s Bond. James Bond.’
007 was not certain, but he thought he detected a slight intake of breath at the other end. Certainly the reply came back fast as a bullet. ‘I’ll wake him right away, Mr Bond. If you’re acting for Professor Penbrunner, I’m sure he’ll want to know.’
There was a long wait, then another voice came on the line: soft, gently drawling and friendly, with a deep, pleasing chuckle.
‘Markus Bismaquer.’
Bond nodded to Cedar. ‘My name’s Bond, Mr Bismaquer. Mrs Penbrunner’s here with me. I have power of attorney for Professor Penbrunner whom, I understand, you wished to meet.’
‘I did, that’s right. Mr – er – Bond did you say? Yes, yes, I invited the Professor and Mrs Penbrunner to fly out here in my private jet. I guess it wasn’t convenient for them. May I ask if you have the Hogarths with you?’
‘Mrs Penbrunner and the prints. Both.’
‘Ah. And power of attorney? Which means we could make a deal?’
‘If that’s what you really want, Mr Bismaquer.’
Bismaquer chuckled. ‘If the prints are all they’re cracked up to be, that’s the only thing I want. Where are you?’
‘Amarillo,’ Bond replied.
‘At a hotel? Let me send Walter Luxor – he’s my partner – out to pick you up . . .’
‘Just give me directions. I have a car, and good locational bump.’
‘I see. Okay, Mr Bond . . .’ The deep voice gave simple instructions for leaving Amarillo, and slightly more complicated ones from the point at which they had to leave the main highway and follow secondary roads to the mono-rail station.
‘If you can be there at ten, I’ll see the train is waiting for you. There’s a section for automobiles. You should bring yours with you to the ranch.’ Once more the chuckle. ‘You’ll need it to get around the place.’
‘We’ll be there at ten o’clock sharp.’ Bond hung up and turned to Cedar. ‘Well Mrs Penbrunner, he sounds very relaxed. We take the mono-rail at ten. So he’s putting the ball neatly back in his own court. Sounds a very smooth gentleman.’ He added that they were to be met by Bismaquer’s partner, one Walter Luxor. ‘Know anything about him?’
Cedar said there was a file. He appeared to be an innocent stooge, no more than a boy when Bismaquer took him into the old ice cream business. ‘Been with him ever since. We don’t know much more about him. Something of a glorified secretary really, though Bismaquer always calls him his partner.’
By nine-fifteen they were on the road once more. Cedar followed the instructions Bond had scribbled during the conversation with Bismaquer. Five miles out of town, they reached the turn-off. They had also collected a tail.
In the golden haze which had come with the sun, both Bond and Cedar could clearly make out the black BMW 528i riding at a comfortable distance behind them, two men unidentifiable in the front seat.
‘Guard of honour?’ Bond asked aloud. Silently he thought, guard of honour, or a hit team? Quietly he leaned across Cedar to press one of the square black buttons on the dashboard. A compartment slid open to reveal the large Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 Magnum he always carried in the car, part of the private, and most secret, ‘gee-whizz’ technology built into the vehicle without even the Armourer’s knowledge.
The .44 Magnum was not just a man-stopper. Bond liked to think of it as a car-stopper if necessary. One properly placed bullet from this magnificent, single-action revolver could wreck an engine.
‘Hey, that’s . . . big,’ breathed Cedar.
‘Yes it is. A little extra protection if we need it.’
As it turned out, however, they had no use for the Blackhawk. The mono-rail station became visible at a good ten miles’ distance – a low building, set behind wire fencing.
When they reached the fencing, they saw it was some twenty feet high – double-banked cyclone, with large red notices attached
DANGER. THIS FENCE AND THE FENCES AHEAD ARE DANGEROUS. TOUCHING OR TAMPERING WITH THEM WILL CAUSE INSTANT DEATH BY ELECTROCUTION.
Under this friendly warning there was a red skull, and the double lightning-flash international sign for electricity. The fence could be breached only through a pair of firmly bolted, heavy steel gates. On the far side of the gates was a small blockhouse and a large concrete area leading to what they now saw, was an oblong station building.
Two men, uniformed in fawn slacks and blue shirts bearing the insignia Bismaquer Security, appeared from the blockhouse. They carried hand guns holstered on their hips, and pump-action shotguns under their arms.
Bond let down one of the electric windows. ‘We’re expected. Mrs Penbrunner and Mr Bond.’
‘Ten o’clock the mono’s expected.’ The men looked like identical twins, spa
wned by a pair of Epstein’s larger human sculptures. Both were close to seven feet in height: big, tanned, and mean around the eyes.
Through his driving mirror, Bond could see the BMW still standing well back. Its lights winked twice, and one of the guards spat.
‘Guess it’s okay,’ he said in a Texas drawl. Then he looked at his companion. ‘Turn the juice off,’ nodding towards the blockhouse.
‘Is that for real?’ asked Bond, pointing at the sign.
‘Bet your ass.’
‘Ever kill anyone?’
‘Plenty. They got permission for it up on the ranch. Nothin’ any law can do if someone gits hiself kilt. Place’s lit up at night. Only take the power off when people’re comin’ in or out. If you want privacy here, buddy, you got it – if y’can pay fer it.’
The other man came out of the blockhouse, unlocked the heavy bolts on the gates, and the two guards swung them open.
‘Quick as y’can,’ shouted the one to whom Bond had been talking. ‘They don’t like us leavin’ the juice off longer’n need be.’
With care, Bond rolled the Saab into the yard, watching as the guards closed the gates. One of them went back to the blockhouse. Through his mirror, Bond saw that the BMW had disappeared. A watcher, he concluded. Once the Saab was within Bismaquer’s domain, the nursemaids could be quietly withdrawn. All part of the service. Typical – Bond thought – of SPECTRE’S thoroughness. He pressed the button on the dashboard again. There was a hiss and the Blackhawk compartment slid back into place, just as the first guard came up to the driver’s side.
‘You got the steerin’ on the wrong side, buddy, y’know that?’
Bond gave a polite nod. ‘English car,’ he explained. ‘Well, not the car, but the steering.’
‘Yep. I heared they drive on the wrong side over there.’ The giant Texan thought for a moment. ‘Jist point the nose at those doors and sit. Okay? Don’t git out, or you end up dead as a frozen ox. Right?’
‘Right,’ agreed Bond.
Large metal doors were built into the facing end wall of the oblong building. Bond shrugged and raised his eyebrows at Cedar.
‘Guess y’don’t argue none,’ he muttered, breaking the tension and causing Cedar to giggle.
Cedar’s briefing had reflected the tight security on Rancho Bismaquer, and Bond already had some idea of what to expect if SPECTRE was involved. But the scale of this operation could only bring a sneaking admiration. No roads led into Bismaquer’s large ranch, only the mono-rail protected by deadly electric fences, high as prison walls, together with automaton-like guards. Bond also wondered about the tail car, the BMW. Had they, in fact, been under discreet surveillance from the time they left Washington after the elevator incident?
Wrapped in these thoughts, Bond took out his gunmetal cigarette case, offered one to Cedar, who refused, and lit a Simmons for himself. He felt an itch of concern. It had not been there when he had begun the long trek from England; and, since then, life had been full of incident: the attempted kidnap in New York; the falling elevator; and then the long, fast drive to Texas. Now, poised on the brink of entering Bismaquer’s world, Bond knew he should not dwell on the more morbid possibilities. As M would say, ‘Worry at it, 007; don’t worry about it.’
They did not have long to wait. Just on ten o’clock, Bond felt the car vibrate slightly. He slid his window down and heard the heavy whine of a turbine. Bismaquer’s system would, of course, be a split-rail suspension: one huge rail with the train riding on it, so that it appeared the train was impaled, hanging on the rail. Yes, naturally, Bond repeated to himself: nothing but the best for Mr Markus Bismaquer.
The turbine whine grew louder. They could not see the vehicle arrive, but one of the guards walked slowly over to the doors facing them, unlocked a metal box in the wall, and pressed a button. Silently the doors slid back.
A long ramp sloped upwards. The guard waved them on, and Bond started the engine, taking the ramp in first.
They climbed a good twenty feet before the ramp flattened to become a gently-curving tunnel, like a very large version of the jetties used for boarding aircraft. In turn, this tunnel took them into the train itself.
Men in similar uniforms to the guards – but with the symbol Bismaquer Services in gold on their blue shirts – guided Bond into position. When the car was correctly parked, one of them approached and opened the door. He addressed them politely without accent: ‘Mrs Penbrunner. Mr Bond. Welcome aboard. Please leave your car here, with the handbrake on.’
Another of Bismaquer’s men opened the passenger door for Cedar. As it closed again, Bond – who had already put on the automatic device for securing the engine – clicked down the passenger door lock. Then he climbed out, briefcase in hand, and locked his own door.
‘The keys’ll be safe with me, sir.’ The man stood waiting.
Bond did not smile. ‘Safer with me, always,’ he said. ‘If you want it moved, come and get me.’
The man’s face remained impassive. ‘Mr Luxor’s waiting for you, sir.’
Standing at the end of the vehicle compartment was a man who was especially noticeable for the rake-thinness of his body, and a face which looked like a skull over which thin, almost transparent, skin had been tightly stretched. Even the eyes were sunk back deep into their sockets. In personal appearance, Walter Luxor looked like the walking dead.
‘Mrs Penbrunner. Mr Bond. Welcome.’
The voice was the same, high-pitched squeak Bond had heard on the telephone that morning. Now this mobile skeleton held out a bony hand. Bond saw Cedar wince as she shook it. A second later, Bond knew why: it was indeed like clasping the palm of a corpse – cold, limp and clammy. Press too hard, he thought, and you would end up with a handful of powdered bone.
Luxor ushered them into a beautifully-designed coach, with upholstered leather swivel chairs; tables anchored to the floor, and an attractive hostess ready to serve drinks.
No sooner were they seated than the turbine whined, dropping in volume as they slid from the station and smoothly gathered speed.
Even at this height, Bond could see the protective, electrified cyclone fences on either side of the track. Above and beyond them the desert and plain stretched to the horizon.
The hostess came over, asking what they would like to drink. Bond asked for a very large vodka martini – shaken, not stirred – giving her the precise instructions. Cedar took sherry, as did Luxor. ‘An excellent choice,’ Luxor said. ‘A very civilised drink, sherry.’ He smiled, but there could be no humour in a face like his, only the grim joke of death.
As though to put them at ease, Walter Luxor continued talking.
‘Markus only had the vehicle transporter and club coaches on the rail today. Perhaps, when you leave, he’ll let you make a choice.’
‘A choice of what?’ Bond asked.
‘Mono-rail cars.’ Luxor spread out the crab-bone hands. ‘Markus has had several famous replicas made to fit the system – one of his little idiosyncrasies. He even has a replica of your own Queen Victoria’s special railroad car, one of the Presidential car, a perfect one of the state railroad car used by Tsar Nicholas, and a copy of the coach in which the 1914–18 war armistice was signed. That one doesn’t exist at all now. Hitler made the French sign their separate peace in it; it was destroyed later.’
‘I know,’ Bond said abruptly. The face was bad enough, but the strangulated, high-pitched voice was almost unbearable. ‘Why replicas?’ he asked shortly.
‘Well, that’s a good question,’ said Walter Luxor. ‘Markus is a great collector, you know. He prefers the real thing. He tried to buy Queen Victoria’s railroad coach to have it converted, but they weren’t selling at the time. He did the same with the others. No sale. If a good one comes on the market, well, he’ll probably be the top bidder. He usually is. You wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want the Hogarth prints.’
‘We nearly weren’t here,’ Bond observed, but Luxor chose either not to hear or to ignore the rem
ark.
The hostess arrived with the drinks. Bond approved: it was one of the best martinis he’d had, excepting those he made for himself. Luxor talked on to Cedar, while Bond stared out of the huge window. The mono-rail must have reached a speed of well over a 150 miles per hour, yet they appeared to glide effortlessly over the plain. It was not unlike low flying, but without any buffeting or turbulence.
The journey took just over fifteen minutes. Then, gently, the speed was reduced. Bond saw three or four long sections of cyclone fence reaching away into the distance, then a high thick wall, wired at the top and reaching to at least twenty feet.
As they passed the wall, the mono-rail car slowed to a standstill. Most startling of all, the scenery changed dramatically – a fleeting glimpse of green, with trees, before they were enveloped by the curved white walls of a station.
‘Would there be room in your car for me?’ Luxor looked at Bond, who was repelled to find that, even when you stared hard into the sunken eyes, there was little hint of life there.
‘Plenty of room,’ Bond replied.
‘Good. I will direct you from the station. The Bismaquer ranch is quite large, though of course you can’t miss the big house. It’s right near the station.’
Once down the disembarking ramp they could have been outside any small American railroad stop. Doubtless this was another part of Bismaquer’s collection: a small turn-of-thecentury station, probably removed from a ghost-town.
Bond glanced around. Only minutes before he had been looking at dry rock and brown, sunbaked, desert grass. Now, with the great wall sweeping away to left and right, they could have been in a different country. There were grass and trees, tarred roads leading off from the station, tree-lined avenues, and even a small bridge crossing a creek.
‘Turn right,’ Luxor said, ‘and straight down the main drive.’
Bond heard Cedar give a startled intake of breath. Facing them, set amid lush lawns, was a huge white house. Wide steps led up to a portico where square columns rose to a flat roof. The main roof was pitched back over the rest of the house, its red tiles a splash of colour against the overall whiteness. There were dogwood trees in front of the house, flanking the drive, and Bond thought, vaguely, that he had seen it before.