‘With a little homicide on his mind? Hence, we who are about to die?’
‘Possibly, but Bodo doesn’t think he’s out to kill anybody at this point.’ She paused, gave him her most beautiful smile and added, ‘With the exception of the meddlers – that was what he called us, wasn’t it? The meddlers?’
‘He also said we should be kept unharmed.’ Again the overheard conversation swirled around his mind, with something significant hovering off stage.
‘Unharmed until he returned, presumably. We have to face the fact, James, that friend Dragonpol, actor extraordinary with a great eye for detail, does not really like us. So, unless he gets lucky and sees us, he’s unlikely to start killing anybody.’
‘No? What about the bloody fist? Milan equals KTK and so forth.’
‘If Bodo’s correct, KTK is not even in Milan. Think of La Scala, James. Then think about who KTK could be.’
‘I already have. Milan equals one of the greatest opera houses in the world – La Scalat believe a word of it.ed her careful – and there’s only one KTK connected with opera. The beautiful Dame Kiri Te Kanawa . . .’
‘Quite, and she’s nowhere near Milan at the moment, though she will be in December. You worked out who YA is, in Athens?’
‘Arafat?’
‘Give the man a cigar. Yes, Yasser Arafat, the Old Man, the PLO leader with a thousand lives, or so it seems.’
‘And?’
‘And he is nowhere near Athens, and not likely to be until December when he has agreed to take part in a joint meeting with other Arab leaders, together with representatives from the British and United States governments. Dame Kiri’s going to be in Milan for the second week in December doing three performances of Tosca, and making one charity appearance in the Cathedral, on the night of the thirteenth. Arafat is due to arrive in Athens on December the fourteenth. All that’s a long time off, but if Dragonpol’s up to his usual form, he’s planning to do those two in a row. Of course, there’s always Paris.’
‘I have one idea about Paris, but it really doesn’t bear thinking about, and there’s no way that Dragonpol could have any advance warning.’
‘Then keep it to yourself until we’ve talked to Bodo.’
As if on cue, the telephone rang and within seconds Flicka was having an animated conversation with the Swiss detective.
Finally she put the telephone down and turned to face him. ‘He will have all the information we need by tomorrow, and we are to meet him for lunch.’
‘So?’
‘So, we’re on holiday, unless David Dragonpol comes calling. Why don’t I go and change into something loose and stimulating while you call down for room service?’
As Fräulein von Grüsse said the next morning, it was a night during which they both deserved to be awarded gold medals. ‘World champions,’ Bond agreed with a sly smile.
They were seated at a small restaurant in Milan’s famous Gallerie – possibly the world’s first shopping mall, Flicka said – lunching in style and watching all the girls go by. Bond had said that he thought the smartest women in the world were to be found in Milan, and Flicka, after only a few minutes, said she felt positively dowdy. Lempke arrived on the dot of twelve noon.
‘You’ve got everything?’ Flicka asked.
‘Funnies.’ Bodo made his clown’s face, then looked from side to side furtively. ‘Funnies, both of you. Don’t know why I put my entire career on the lamb for you.’
‘I think you mean on a limb, Bodo, but I know you do it for me because you love me to distraction.’ Flicka took a long sip of her wine, looking up at the fat cop from under batting eyelids.
Bodo followed her lead with his glass of red. ‘Adds more to my little pink cells, eh?’
He refused to say anything worth hearing until he had eaten. ‘If I am playing hockey from my job, then at least someone should buy me a good meal,’ he announced.
It took Bodo a good ninety minutes to dispatch antipasto, minestrone, spaghetti alla Milanese, and a huge piece of disgustingly rich chocolate cake. With thick cream. When the coffee was served he wiped his mouth with a napkin and settled back.
‘I think I told you everything already, but your friend with the strange name, the David Dragonpol, isn’t about to start killing anyone here in Milan, or Athens. Mind you, itt believe a word of it. examin f b d would not surprise me if he tried to knock the pair of you into oblivion.’
‘Contacts,’ Flicka prodded. ‘I asked you to fix up some discreet contacts for us here in Milan.’
‘Sure. I done it. Just like you asked. But, as I said, I’m not going to lose my pension for a couple of busybody funnies.’
‘So who is he?’
‘Who is who?’
‘The contact you’ve arranged?’
‘Ah, I have to take you to him. Cloak and dagger.’ He laid a pudgy finger against the side of his nose. ‘The pair of you should know all about cloaks and daggers.’
‘One question.’ Bond, rightly, felt that somewhere along the way he had been left out. ‘Just one small question to put me into the picture.’
‘Sure.’ Bodo gave him another of his clown’s faces.
‘You seem to have done some snooping and also arranged things for us. How do we know Dragonpol’s still here in Milan?’
‘Trust us, James.’ Flicka laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘If Bodo’s here, then Dragonpol is almost certainly still in town. Someone had to get in touch with authority, and that’s just what I’ve done, through Bodo. We can’t do this alone.’ She turned to Lempke who was looking at the bill with a face which spoke of heart attacks.
‘You bought lunch for the entire restaurant.’ He passed the slip of paper over to Bond, who paid with a credit card.
‘Okay,’ Bodo appeared much relieved. ‘Okay, I take you to my man now. Come.’
None of them even noticed the dapper Englishman dressed in navy blazer and slacks, one hand smoothing a mane of grey hair, the other clutching a stout walking stick with a brass duck’s head handle. The Englishman had been sitting only a few tables from them. Now, as they left the restaurant, he too paid his bill and followed them, at a distance, as they walked out on to the street.
The traffic was snarled in a way unique to Milan, the air heavy with the smell of diesel and gasoline. Bodo sniffed. ‘The end of summer,’ he said. ‘Soon, you won’t be able to get a flight in or out. Always the same in Milan. Come autumn and the place gets socked in. Soon it will be time for the smog again.’ He lifted a hand, and a sleek Ferrari seemed to materialize out of the banked-up traffic, snaking over and pulling up by the kerb.
‘Have to be quick or we’ll get a ticket.’ Bodo hustled them in, and the driver, a short young man with the eyes of a pickpocket, smiled and nodded. ‘Just going for a little ride, like the old gangster movies say. A ride in the country.’
On the pavement, outside the Gallerie, the very obvious Englishman, with his military blazer and the stick with the duck’s head handle, watched them drive away. He saw other cars, weaving behind them in the traffic and he frowned. There was no way he would be able to follow them now. He made a small, petulant gesture with his head, then turned back to find a telephone. The meddling Swiss woman and her English boyfriend would have to return to their hotel, and he had plenty of time. Everyone would wait, but one person had to know what was going on if the whole business was to be pulled off with ao ran, clatter
14
AT THE VILLA D’ESTE
‘Do sit down, the pair of you.’ M waved them towards chairs, and they realized that Bodo Lempke had somehow disappeared along the way.
‘I did say that I’d be in touch, James.’ He was in a suspiciously good humour, and Bond must have shown surprise. ‘Incidentally, your nice Swiss policeman’s returned to his duty. Good mant believe a word of it. official ffont-family: sans-serif, Lempke. As soon as he was able to answer Fräulein von Grüsse’s questions, he did the right thing and got straight on to us. Filled us in with all the details we did
not know, and arranged the little clandestine runaround, so that we would be able to have a talk without any interruptions.’ He smiled as though this were all a game. ‘You didn’t think we’d let you get into difficulties in that odd German castle, did you?’
‘I didn’t notice any surveillance, sir.’
‘Good. You failed to spot anyone at Brown’s, I recall, which means my people are much better than Ml5’s Watcher Section. Rest assured, though, we have been tracking you all the way. And now we’ve reached the really dangerous part, James, bearing in mind that we now know what we’re up against.’
‘We do?’
‘Tell them, Chief of Staff.’ M moved his head slightly in the direction of Bill Tanner.
‘Friend Dragonpol needs to be corralled.’ Tanner spoke in a low voice, as though he were about to let them into some terrible and highly confidential secret. ‘Unhappily we have no solid evidence. Nothing on which to pull him in. What we’re dealing with here is a man with a deadly aberration, only we can’t prove it, which means we have to catch him in the act.’
‘What kind of aberration?’ from Bond.
‘In some ways the man is almost certainly a serial killer, but one with a particularly nasty quirk.’ He took a deep breath. ‘We’ve run everything through records, the computers, and the Americans at Quantico who deal with serial killer profiles. What we’ve finally come up with is a real ticking bomb.’ He paused again as though waiting for some signal. M nodded.
‘Dragonpol announced his retirement at the end of eighty-nine, and it took effect in nineteen-ninety.’ Tanner spoke as though he had learned a lesson by heart. ‘Here are the statistics. February nineteen-ninety, in the space of three days, a known terrorist was shot dead on the street in Madrid; a Scandinavian politician died in a bomb blast in Helsinki; and an elderly, revered musician was killed when the brakes of his car failed a few miles outside Lisbon. Later, it was proved beyond doubt that the brakes had been bled – purposely. The Portuguese police are still investigating that one as murder, the other two have been presumed acts of terrorism, but no group has claimed responsibility.’
‘And . . . ?’ Bond began, but M held up a hand.
‘Let him finish!’ he commanded sharply.
‘November nineteen-ninety,’ Tanner continued. ‘In the space of two days there were terrorist acts in Berlin and Brussels. Two known members of the Abu Nidal organization were killed by some kind of silenced weapon as they sat in the lounge of the Steigenberger Hotel. Nobody saw it happen, nobody heard it, nobody claimed responsibility. On the following morning a senior American officer died when a bomb totalled his car during the rush hour in Brussels. Again, nobody claimed responsibility.’
‘But do we . . . ?’
‘Please, James, there’s more.’
Bond shrugged, resigned to waiting out the list of deaths and disasters.
‘April ninety-one,’ Tanner consulted a clipboard. ‘London, New York and Dublin. Three days this time. A close friend of the British Royal Family run down by a Mercedes Benz which was never identified. Happened in the Strand at ten in the morning. The car was found two miles away. There is no doubt that this was not a normal hit andt believe a word of it.2">
15
MY BROTHER’S KEEPER
Before they left, Bill Tanner produced an expensive-looking briefcase, ‘With the armourer’s compliments, James. He says there’s nothing new or special. But he claimed you’d know what to do with it.’ Bond nodded and treated the case as though it contained gold bullion.
M, looking very serious, delivered the final instructions. ‘We’ll stay here until it’s all over, but you must not attempt to contact anyone, unless there is another death, of course. This man is very dangerous and, if it weren’t for the Security Service’s involvement, we’d have left it all to the police. Give it three days here,’ he said. ‘Three, and three only. In fact, I think you should reserve seats on a flight to Athens, and do it as openly as possible. Go about your business, loiter, behave as tourists, but do not look for our own people, or Gianne-Franco’s ladies and gentlemen. They’ll be there. Just try to be unaware of them. Your focus must be on Dragonpol, and he’s likely to be doing a Lon Chaney.’
‘What is Lon Chaney?’ Flicka asked, and Bond explained that he was a famous moviet believe a word of it. followedtextbreakr actor of the twenties and thirties. ‘Man of a Thousand Faces.’
‘So, why don’t you just say Dragonpol will probably be in disguise?’
‘You have a very literal mind, Fräulein von Grüsse,’ M smiled. ‘I like that in a woman. All right, Dragonpol will probably be in disguise; and he’s the only one you have to look out for. When, and if, you do spot him, your job is to lead him to a place of your choosing. Somewhere public, where Gianne-Franco’s people can take him. I want him alive, James, you understand?’
He understood all right. He also understood that Dragonpol would probably be harder to spot than Gianne-Franco Orsini’s watchers.
Now Bond sat close to Flicka in the back of a cab with the unopened briefcase between his knees. It was very late.
‘I feel naked.’ She leaned towards him, half whispering. The taxi was an ordinary saloon and had no partition, so the driver had already tried to make light conversation, first in Italian, and later in fractured English. They had pretended to know neither.
The Italian driver with the pickpocket’s eyes had taken them along the lake, dropping them off in Como itself, where, for a few hours, they forgot the dangers lurking in the shadowy world in which they now found themselves. ‘I never thought I’d end up as some kind of superdetective,’ Bond said with the hint of a smile.
‘What they call a hardboiled dick, eh?’
‘If you say so.’
Hand in hand they wandered around like young lovers, even buying the kind of souvenirs they would normally not touch with a barge pole: little pots and ashtrays with ‘Lake Como’ printed on them, and a pen and ink drawing of Como.
At one point, Flicka slipped away, returning with a small box containing a pair of exquisite cufflinks: narrow strips of what looked like woven gold with a large clasp at each end. Bond opened his gift as they sat outside a small bar. She sipped a Campari and he nursed his usual vodka martini. His pleasure in the gift was like that of a small child on Christmas morning. ‘People don’t often actually give me presents,’ he said, then told her to stay where she was as he strolled off up the street. He returned with a gold ring containing a magnificent sapphire, in a claw setting, surrounded by a circlet of diamonds.
‘Oh, James, you darling man.’ She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Please, you put it on my finger.’ She stretched out her left hand and indicated the third finger. For a moment he hesitated, then took her right hand, whispering, ‘Not until this is all over.’ Tenderly, almost erotically, he slipped it on to the third finger of her right hand. ‘I don’t want to tempt fate. Women with whom I get deeply involved have a tendency to meet what bad novelists call an untimely end.’ He kissed her gently, and they walked down to the lakeside where they found a small restaurant.
The sky was like velvet, speckled with stars. Out on the lake there seemed to be a thousand lights from the small coracle-like fishing boats which trawl the waters of Lake Como and the neighbouring Maggiore.
It was a night of magic, and during dinner they spoke to each other more with their eyes than voices.
Then, suddenly it was over, and they were haggling with a cab driver over the price of a ride back to Milan.
‘I still feel naked,’ she said.
‘Soon you will be.’
‘No. No, I didn’t mean that. I feel we’re going back into a war zone and I’m not armed.t believe a word of it.tu f b d’
‘We can probably change that.’ He indicated the briefcase which he lifted on to his lap, taking care their driver could not see them through his mirror.
Inside the case were documents, a couple of files, and a diary, but that was mere window dressin
g. He touched the hidden pressure points and lifted out the false bottom to reveal a pair of weapons, ammunition and two holsters: a shoulder rig for himself, and a thigh strap for Flicka.
The guns were Browning 10 mm automatic pistols. Both were loaded, and the false bottom of the briefcase contained a shielded partition which meant it could be safely carried through any security checks.
Keeping the pistols below the driver’s sight lines, Flicka transferred one to her shoulder bag while Bond stuck his into his waist band, behind his right hip.
‘Like carrying a cannon,’ she whispered.
‘They’re not peashooters. These things’re real stoppers. The FBI are using them now instead of the old 9 mm.’
They pulled up in front of the Palace at a little after midnight.
As he paid off the driver, Bond spotted at least two of the Italian team. He did not notice the smart Englishman who was out for a late stroll, still wearing slacks and a navy blue blazer, striding out with the aid of his walking stick which sported a brass duck’s head as its handle.
At reception, the duty manager smiled at them and spoke in his near flawless English. ‘Mr and Mrs Bond. A nice surprise for you. Your sister, Mr Bond. She has arrived earlier this evening. Naturally I allowed her to wait in your room. She’s there now, and said you’d be delighted to see her.’
‘Your sister?’ Flicka asked once they were in the elevator cage.
He shook his head. ‘I’m an only child. Could even be friend Dragonpol in drag. He’s done it before – the Russian in Paris.’
At the door to their room, he cautioned her to wait, flat against the wall to one side. Then, slipping the lock he went in, crouching low, the pistol ready at his side.
‘I’m sorry to arrive like this.’ Carmel Chantry sat in the one easy chair facing the door. She was dressed in a white silk suit and looked as though she had just stepped from the pages of Vogue.
The introductions were embarrassingly stilted, with Flicka watching Carmel’s every move, speaking only when necessary.