‘Tara,’ whispered Cedar. ‘It’s Tara.’
‘Tara?’ Bond was lost.
‘Gone With the Wind. The movie – Margaret Mitchell’s book. It’s the house from the movie. You know, James, Vivien Leigh, Clark Gable . . .’
‘Ah,’ said Bond.
‘How very clever of you.’ The squeak rose excitedly from Walter Luxor. ‘It usually takes people longer. They think they’ve seen pictures of it. Markus fell in love with it when he saw the movie, so he bought the designs from MGM and built it here. Ah, here’s Markus now.’
Bond had pulled the Saab up in front of the broad steps, down which a great bear of a man came, his face wreathed in smiles. The voice, in direct contrast to Luxor’s was deep, gruff and embracing.
‘Mrs Penbrunner! Why couldn’t your husband come too? Ah, this must be Mr Bond. Come on, let’s go on to the veranda and have a drink. There’s plenty of time before luncheon.’
The face was pink and chubby: the face of a well-scrubbed baby, or an elderly cherub. Or, Bond speculated, a devil? Slowly he climbed out of the Saab. Bismaquer must have been in his late sixties, with wispy, soft, silver hair and clad in crumpled white suit, full of energy, laughing with childlike enthusiasm in a manner clearly designed to make people like him at first meeting. Could this be the new Blofeld? The head of the resurrected SPECTRE?
‘Come, Mrs Penbrunner,’ he heard Bismaquer say, ‘. . . come, – Mr Bond. I know we’re in Texas, but I make the best mint juleps in the world. How about that? Mint juleps, Texan style!’ Once more the infectious, growling laugh. ‘You just fill the glass up with crushed ice, load in the gin and add a sprig of mint on top.’ Bismaquer roared at his own recipe, then turned to watch Bond coming up the flat steps from the car.
Yes, Bond thought, seeing the happy gleaming eyes of this pink, white, and silver billionaire. Yes, the new Blofeld could easily be just this sort of man.
Then he saw the sliver of Walter Luxor, the skull face ghastly in the shadow pattern on the portico. Or Luxor? Living in the shade of all this wealth, with easy access to power?
Bond’s real work was only just starting – with a vengeance.
11
RANCHO BISMAQUER
James Bond politely declined Markus Bismaquer’s lethal mint julep, choosing instead another vodka martini.
‘Of course, of course!’ Bismaquer exclaimed. ‘Anything you like! I never force a man to eat or drink what he doesn’t want. As for women . . . Well, that’s different.’
‘Meaning?’ Bond cut in tersely.
A white-coated servant had appeared through the main doors and stood waiting behind a large trolley-bar. But Bismaquer was content to serve his guests himself. He looked up over the bottles, hands poised, his cherubic face a mask of surprise.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bond. Did I offend you?’
Bond gave a shrug. ‘You said one should never force a man to eat or drink something he does not want; then you implied it was different for women.’
Bismaquer relaxed. ‘A joke, Mr Bond. Just a joke, among men of the world. Or, maybe you’re not a man of the world?’
‘I’ve been accused of it.’ Bond did not let his mask slip. ‘I still don’t see why women should be treated differently.’
‘I only meant that they have to be coaxed sometimes.’ He turned to Cedar. ‘Don’t you sometimes like to be coaxed, Mrs Penbrunner?’
Cedar laughed. ‘That depends on the coaxing.’
The high-pitched voice of Walter Luxor joined in. ‘I think Markus was trying to make a joke based on the old saying that when a woman says “no” she means “maybe” . . .’
‘And when she says “maybe”, she means “yes”,’ Bismaquer chimed in.
‘I see.’ Bond took the proffered martini, flattening his voice to give the impression that he was a man without humour. When playing someone like Bismaquer, he calculated – all growl and laughs – it was better to take on an opposing role.
‘Well, here’s to us.’ Bismaquer raised his glass. ‘Then, perhaps, Mr Bond, we can look at the Hogarths. There’s time before luncheon.’
Bond nodded silently, then observed, ‘Time is money, Mr Bismaquer.’
‘Oh, the hell with time,’ said Bismaquer with a smile. ‘I’ve got the money, you’ve got the time. Or if you don’t, I’ll buy it. When guests come all this way, we like to entertain them.’ He paused, as though appealing to Cedar. ‘You’ll stay for a few days, won’t you? I’ve even arranged for the guest cabins to be opened up.’
‘A day or two won’t matter, will it, James?’ Cedar looked at him in a pleading manner, giving just the right emphasis.
Bond sighed, turning down the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, I suppose . . .’
‘Come on, James. I can always call Joseph if you want me to.’
‘It’s up to you,’ Bond said, feigning surliness.
‘Done.’ Bismaquer rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, could we . . . er . . . would it be possible to see the prints?’
Bond looked at Cedar. ‘If that’s all right with you, Mrs Penbrunner?’
Cedar smiled sweetly. ‘You have the last word on that, James. My husband put it into your hands.’
Bond hesitated. ‘Well, I see no harm. I think you should examine them inside the house, though, Mr Bismaquer.’
‘Please,’ Bismaquer appeared to hop, his large body moving from foot to foot, ‘please call me Markus. You’re in Texas now.’
Bond again nodded. He took out his car keys and went down the steps to the Saab.
The prints were in a special, heat-proof folder, neatly secured in a slim, false compartment under the movable shelf in the Saab’s large boot. Without giving the men on the portico a chance to see the hiding place, Bond removed the folder, then locked the boot.
‘Nice little car,’ Bismaquer said from the portico, giving the Saab a condescending look which seemed somehow out of character.
‘It’d show a clean pair of heels to most commercial cars in its class,’ Bond said flatly.
‘Ah.’ Bismaquer gave a broad smile. An almost tangible ripple of happiness passed through the large frame. ‘Well, we’ll have to see about that. I’ve got a few cars myself, and a track. Maybe we could organise something? A local Grand Prix.’
‘Why not?’ Bond motioned with the folder, looking towards the house.
‘Oh, yes. Yes!’ Bismaquer all but trembled with excitement. ‘Let’s leave Mrs Penbrunner in Walter’s safe hands. After luncheon, I’ll see you’re taken over to the guest cabins. Then we’ll arrange a guided tour of Rancho Bismaquer – of which, Jim, I’m pretty proud.’
He gestured towards the tall doors, allowing Bond to pass into the huge, cool, parquet-floored hallway, with its imposing gallery staircase. Whatever else, Markus Bismaquer had a certain style.
‘The print room, I think.’ Bismaquer led the way down a wide, airy corridor, opening a pair of double doors at the end.
Bond almost gasped with surprise. It was not a large room, but the walls were high and screens jutted from them at intervals. Almost all the wall space was covered, and, even from the limited education he’d had in the Kensington safe house, Bond could identify some of the prints which hung there.
There were at least four very rare Holbeins; some priceless, though rather crudely coloured, playing cards; a signed Baxter colour print (which Bond’s instructor had pointed out as almost unobtainable) and a set of what appeared to be original Bewicks, from the famous General History of Quadrupeds. Prints covered the jutting screens as well as the walls. Somewhere, from hidden speakers, baroque music filtered into the room, giving it a pleasant, peaceful atmosphere. The floor was of highly-polished wood, the only furniture high-backed chairs set at intervals and a large table in the bow of the room’s one tall window at the far end. These too, Bond supposed, must have been priceless antiques.
‘You’d have to call this a pretty handsome collection, wouldn’t you, Jim?’ Bismaquer waited patiently at the end of the room, visib
ly proud of his showpiece.
‘People call me James,’ Bond corrected him, remaining sombre. ‘But, yes, I’d say these are considered, and sensible, acquisitions. Joseph Penbrunner told me you had two passions in life . . .’
‘Only two?’ Bismaquer raised an eyebrow, the quizzical cherubic expression looking somehow incongruous on such a large body.
‘Prints and ice cream.’ Bond reached the table as Bismaquer gave a bellow of laughter.
‘Your Professor Penbrunner has had bad information. I have many more passions than prints and ice cream. But, I’m lucky enough to have made my pile while I was young. Walter Luxor is an experienced investment counsellor as well as a friend and colleague. The original fortune has doubled, trebled, quadrupled. In fact, the man’s a genius. The more I indulge my tastes, the more my holdings multiply!’
Bismaquer gestured in the air, as though imitating the accumulation of wealth. He held out a pudgy hand, reaching for the prints. For a second, Bond wondered if the man was knowledgeable enough to spot them immediately as forgeries. But it was too late to worry about that in any case. Then, quite suddenly, Bismaquer changed the subject.
‘You must, by the way, forgive Walter’s strange appearance. He looks like a dry stick, I know, like you could break him in two. But looks are deceiving. I don’t suggest you try it. Really, he’s strong as a horse.
‘A car accident,’ Bismaquer went on. ‘I spent a fortune getting him rebuilt from top to bottom. His body was severely damaged, and the burns were God-awful. We got the best surgeons money can buy. They had to regraft the face almost completely. One of Walter’s passions is speed. He is a very good driver. In fact, when we organise that little Grand Prix I spoke of, you’ll be up against Walter.’
Skin grafts and an entirely new body? Bond wondered. True, Blofeld had been choked to death, but he did not know what might have happened after that. Could it possibly be that . . . ? No, better to let things take their course and learn as much as he could along the way.
‘The Hogarths, please, James.’
With great care, Bond opened up the folder, taking each print with its covering tissue, and placing them in order on the table before removing the tissues.
‘The Lady’s Progress’ was a typical Hogarthian subject. The first two prints depicted the Lady living in idle luxury. The third was her downfall, when the husband – now dead – was revealed to have had a multitude of creditors, so that she was left penniless. The final three prints showed the various stages of the Lady’s disintegration, drink turning her into a common whore, so that she finally ended as a horrible image of her former self: raddled, craving, and foul, among the seventeenth-century sinks and sewers of London’s poor.
Bismaquer leaned over the prints in an attitude of reverence.
‘Remarkable,’ he breathed. ‘Quite remarkable. See that detail, James, those faces. And the urchins, there, peeping out from that window? Oh, you could spend a lifetime just looking at these! You’d find something new every day! Tell me, what’s your asking price?’
But Bond would not commit himself. Professor Penbrunner was still uncertain about selling. ‘You’ll be the first to admit, Markus’ – he did not care for the easy familiarity – ‘that it’s very tricky to value items such as this. They’re unique. No other set seems to have survived. But they’re genuine. I have the authentication documents in my car.’
‘I must have them,’ Bismaquer said, enthralled, ‘I simply must . . .’
‘What must you have, Markus?’ The voice – low, clear and with a tantalising trace of accent – came from the door, which neither Bismaquer nor Bond had heard open.
They both turned from the table, Bond almost doing a doubletake, as Bismaquer gave a delighted growl. ‘Ah! Come and meet James Bond, darling. He’s here representing Professor Penbrunner. James, this is my wife, Nena.’
Bond was already prepared for Nena Bismaquer to be younger than her husband, but not this much younger. The girl – for she could at most have been in her mid-twenties – paused in the doorway, the sunlight from the great window pouring towards her like a floodlight. It was the entrance of an actress.
Dressed in exceptionally well-cut jeans and a royal blue silkshirt with a bandanna knotted at her neck, Nena Bismaquer gaveBond a smile calculated to make even the most misogynisticmale buckle at the knees.
She was tall – almost matching Bond’s height – with long legs and a firm, striding walk. As she crossed the room, Bond saw in an instant that Nena Bismaquer would be at home and comfortable anywhere. She had that special poise which combined all the attributes he most admired in a woman: style, grace, and the obvious ability to take on the athletic pursuits of what is known as the great outdoors.
As she came closer, he felt a charge, an unmistakable chemistry, passing between them, the charge which said she would also be more than athletic in the great indoors.
If such a thing as black fire could exist, it was there in her eyes, an ebony matching the long hair which fell to her shoulders and was pushed casually back on the left side, as though by the brush of her hand. The dark fire blazed with knowledge reaching beyond her obvious youth. Her face appeared perfectly balanced with her body – a long, slender nose and rather solemn mouth, the lower lip a fraction thicker than the upper, giving a hint of sensuality which Bond found more than engaging. Her grip, as they shook hands, was firm – a hand which could caress, or hold hard to the reins of a horse at full gallop.
‘Yes, I know who Mr Bond is. I’ve just met Mrs Penbrunner, and it’s a pleasure to meet you . . . may I call you James too?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I’m Nena; and to what extravagance are you tempting my husband, James? The Hogarth prints?’
Bismaquer allowed a rumble of laughter to come from the back of his throat and break, like a waterfall. He gave his wife a bear hug, lifting her off the ground and swinging her around like a doll. ‘Oh, and who’s talking about extravagance?’ He shook with happy laughter – a summertime Santa Claus without the beard.
Bond could not help seeing the shadow cross Nena Bismaquer’s face as her husband set her down, arms still around her, pulling her towards the table. She almost seemed to flinch at his touch.
‘Just look at these, my darling! The real thing. No others like them in the world. Look at that detail – the face of that woman. Look at the men there, drunk as skunks . . .’
Bond watched as she examined the prints, one by one, the trace of a smile starting at the eyes and dropping to her lips, as a long, beautifully manicured finger pointed to the last picture. ‘That one could have been drawn from life, chéri.’ A glissando laugh, harp-like, and without malice. ‘He looks just like you.’
Bismaquer gave a playful bellow of simulated rage, lifting his hands high.
‘Bitch!’ he crowed.
‘So, how much are you asking?’ said Nena Bismaquer, turning to Bond.
‘There’s no price tag.’ He gave her a steady smile, staring unflinchingly into her eyes. For a second, he thought he detected mockery in them. ‘I cannot even promise they’re for sale.’
‘Then why . . . ?’ Her face remained calm.
‘Markus invited the Professor and his wife here. He wanted to be first to look at the prints.’
‘Come on, James. First to make an offer, you mean.’ Bismaquer did not seem to have changed, yet there was something between husband and wife: intangible, but there.
Nena hesitated, then said lunch would be ready shortly. ‘We’ll take you over to the guest cabins later . . .’
‘And a grand tour, how about that, my little darling?’
She paused at the door. ‘Marvellous, Markus. Why not? You can charm Mrs Penbrunner, and I’ll show James around. How about that?’
Bismaquer chuckled again. ‘I’ll have to watch you, James, if I leave you alone with my wife.’ He gave his cherub beam.
Nena, though, had disappeared. Get the knife in quickly, Bond thought, and, before giving Bismaq
uer a chance to continue talking, he asked bluntly: ‘Markus, what about your invitation to Professor Penbrunner?’
The pink and white face turned towards him, a mixture of puzzlement and innocence. ‘What about it?’
‘Penbrunner asked me to take it up with you. To be honest, he didn’t want Cedar – Mrs Penbrunner – to come at all. It was she who insisted.’
‘But, why? I don’t . . .’
‘The story, as I have it from both the Penbrunners, is that your invitation was delivered by force.’
‘Force?’
‘Threats. Guns.’
Bismaquer shook his head, puzzled. ‘Threats? Guns? All I did was send the jet to New York. And I asked Walter to organise it with a firm we sometimes use – a private investigation and bodyguard service. Just a plain, simple invitation; and a guard to see the prints and the Penbrunners got safely to the plane.’
‘And the name of the firm?’
‘The name? It’s Mazzard Security. Mike Mazzard’s . . .’
‘A hood, Markus.’
‘A hood? I wouldn’t say that. He’s taken care of lots of little things for us.’
‘You’ve got your own security people, Markus. Why use a New York agency?’
‘I don’t think . . .’ Bismaquer began. ‘But God! Guns, threats? My own people? But they’re local boys, I’d never use them except here. You mean, Mazzard’s men actually threatened the Penbrunners?’
‘According to Mrs Penbrunner and the Professor, Mazzard himself did the talking and three armed heavies backed him up.’
‘Oh God!’ His mouth dropped. ‘I’ll have to talk to Walter. He arranged everything. Is that really why the Professor wouldn’t come?’
‘That, and an attempt on his life. And on Mrs Penbrunner’s.’
‘Attempt? Jesus Christ, James! You’re damned right I’ll find out what happened! Maybe Mazzard misunderstood? Maybe Walter said something . . . ? God, I’m sorry. I had no idea! If we have to, we’ll get Mazzard down here. You bet your ass we’ll have him here before the day’s over!’