The train pulled into Cologne Station as Bond was finishing his second cup of coffee. Spraker’s absence from both the compartment and the dining car had brought a small cloud of worry into his head. He leaned across the table to speak quietly to Easy.
‘Our German friends don’t seem to have shown themselves, unless they left the train overnight. I just hope they didn’t leave with Harry.’
She nodded, a shadow of concern crossing her face. ‘You think we should take a look? Go through the train and see . . .’
‘We’ll have to be quick about it.’ The train was now gliding out of the station. ‘We’ve got around an hour and a half before we’re due in Aachen which is the last stop before crossing into Belgium, and there the train splits up. We go on to Paris, the front portion heads for Ostend.’
‘Then what’re we waiting for?’
Bond paid the bill and they checked Harry Spraker’s compartment again on their way back to their own sleeping car. Easy wanted to get a sweater, for in spite of the heating she felt chilly. Outside the industrial and urban sprawl was giving away to flat countryside, and the signs of late autumn were well advanced: trees had shed almost all their leaves, the fields and roads looked wet, and most were tilled. The harvest was over and the world seemed poised, waiting for the onslaught of winter.
Bond put his key into the lock, and started to turn it when the door swung open and he almost staggered inside. A hand stretched out to pull him across the little room, throwing him against the big window which still had the shade down.
The same hand caught Easy by the arm, flinging her against Bond. She gave a little squeal of fear and pain as her back hit the glass, and Bond had to reach out to prevent her from falling.
‘Good morning, I trust you slept well,’ said Very Big Hans. He now had his back against the door, and his large hand clutched a Browning 9mm equipped with a long noise reduction unit. He held it near the hip, against his body, and his hand was steady as a proverbial rock.
Bond took a deep breath. ‘You’ve come alone. Your friend not joining us today?’
Very Big Hans treated them to a broad smile. ‘My friend is looking after your friend. We are all going to be very cosy here until we get to Aachen. I promise you if you try anything, I will kill you both. I don’t want to do this, because someone else is anxious to talk with you. But I am, as they say, licensed to kill. You understand?’
‘Perfectly.’ Bond had quickly regained his composure. Breathing deeply, summing up the chances. ‘Your English has improved during the night.’
‘Oh yes,’ a chuckle which rose from the belly. ‘These Berlitz courses are wonderful. I passed the time with earphones glued to my head.’
‘Thought you had to get off at Potsdamer Station.’
Very Big Hans shrugged. ‘That was the original plan, but I think you would really have caused us much discomfort. You see, all things are arranged in Aachen. In about half an hour my colleague, Felix, will join us. By then he will have given Herr Spraker a small injection to put him to sleep. Herr Spraker will be wreathed in bandages. His face obliterated with gauze dressings. You will also be in a similar state very soon. There will be ambulances, and people at Aachen, to take the three of you from the train.’
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess.’ Bond sounded exceptionally relaxed. ‘We’ve all been in an accident. How’s that happened?’
‘We haven’t been specific.’ The smile spread over Very Big Hans’s face. ‘We simply telephoned ahead to friends. Nobody’s going to ask questions. People have been paid a great deal of money not to make a fuss. Now, I think it is necessary to begin work. Mr Boldman, you will sit on the edge of the lower bunk while the lady comes quietly towards me.’
Nobody moved. ‘Come along, my dear. It’s okay, you’ll just have a nice sleep for a few hours – about three to be precise. Just come towards me, and when I tell you to stop, you must turn around and face your friend, Mr Boldman – or whatever his real name is. Come.’
Slowly, Bond sat, and Easy began to move towards Very Big Hans. ‘Not too fast,’ he counselled. ‘Just slowly. Any quick move and I promise there’ll be bits of you spread all over the place.’
She had reached a point about a foot in front of him when he told her to stop and turn around.
‘Now. Roll up your left sleeve and extend your arm. Good.’
Easy was trembling, but Very Big Hans still held the pistol in his right hand, the weapon unwavering. From where he sat, Bond knew the evil eye of the muzzle was trained right on his face. He did not stand a chance. Any move, even a feint to the right and a spring forward, meant suicide. The man was demonstrably good: well trained and quite prepared to kill. All he could do was watch as their captor’s left hand slid into the pocket of his jacket and emerged with a small hypo, in a plastic case.
For the first time, Bond noticed that he wore a gold Rolex Oyster on his left wrist. Cops did not wear those kind of timepieces, unless they were on the take.
‘Just hold out your arm. Straight out. I promise you’ll feel nothing.’ His eyes flicked for a second – no more – towards Easy’s arm. The rest he did by feel: deftly ridding the hypo of its little plastic container, moving it in his hand so that the needle protruded from between his index and second fingers, and his thumb pressed against the plunger. He shook the hypo and sent a small squirt of liquid from the needle to make certain there were no bubbles of air. Then—
‘Just relax, my dear. Relax.’
Easy gave a little jerk and expelled air from her mouth as he plunged the needle into her upper arm. Less than two seconds later he dropped the hypo and Easy began to weave, taking one difficult step forward.
‘Sit on the bunk,’ Very Big Hans commanded, and she sat, then dropped backwards, her eyeballs rolling up, the lids closing as her body surrendered to the drug.
He smiled at Bond. ‘You see. This is very good, very fast, stuff. Your turn next, Mr Boldman, then I shall be able to get Felix in to help me bandage you. He’s only a couple of compartments down, and I should imagine your friend, Harry? is that correct . . . ?’
Bond nodded and began to get to his feet.
‘I should imagine Harry is in dreamland by now, and will be trussed like a turkey by the time you’re ready. The coat, Mr Boldman. Just take it off and put it on the bunk. Gently, don’t be stupid.’
‘You can be certain I’m not a fool. And only a fool would be stupid enough to try anything in these circumstances.’
For the first time, Bond saw that the big man had been set a trifle off guard. His eyes flicked between Bond and the sleeping Easy, and, while he still had a firm grip on the pistol, the aim was not directly on Bond.
Slowly he took off his jacket, and, as he turned to fold it, he saw Very Big Hans already pre-empting matters by reaching for the second hypo in his left pocket.
He transferred the jacket to his left hand, holding it by the collar. When he threw it towards Hans’s right hand, it was almost a lazy movement, but it caught the big man off balance, just as he was removing the hypo from its plastic case. The barrel of his pistol drooped in his hand, and his eyes were off Bond for a crucial moment.
The train was picking up speed, and had started to roll slightly as it took the long wide bends. The jacket fell right across the gun hand, and, in the fraction of time it took Hans to react, Bond had the ASP out of his waistband.
The two shots made a lot of noise, but the train was also rattling and creaking. Bond stepped to his right. Big Hans dropped his pistol and the hypo, clutching towards his head in a reflex. Most of his face had ceased to exist, and there was a great deal of blood on the door and wall. The man’s body crashed backwards, then down. He was dead long before his pistol even hit the ground.
Bond replaced his weapon, snatched his jacket from the floor, and folded it neatly. There was cleaning up to do before he could deal with Felix.
He lifted Easy’s unconscious body from the lower berth and hefted her up out of the way onto the top bu
nk, covering her with a blanket, and placing a pillow under her head. Her colour was good, and she breathed to a deep rhythm. If Very Big Hans had been telling the truth, she would come to naturally enough in three hours. Around eleven o’clock, he thought. Plenty of time, for they were not due in at the Gare du Nord until twenty past one.
He took a sheet and wound it around the bleeding pulp that had been Very Big Hans’s head, hauling the body onto the bottom berth before starting to use another sheet to wipe down the door and walls. Then, using water from the little washbasin, he started on the floor. Traces would remain, but, with some luck he would have time to do a more thorough job after they had disposed of the body. He thought for a moment, and decided the most efficient way would be to take Very Big Hans’s colleague by surprise.
He picked up the Browning and checked the action, testing the noise reduction unit to be certain it was fully in place. A couple of compartments down, Very Big Hans had said. He would just have to risk getting to the right door.
The corridor was empty. Not even a guard or ticket collector. Bond went down two doors and rapped hard, softly calling, ‘Felix?’ his ear pressed against the door.
Felix himself opened up, and Bond, seeing the right hand slightly behind his thigh, hidden from view, knew there was only one thing to do. He had no conscience, no compunction about the work. He shot Felix twice, straight through the left side of the chest and then in the throat. The pistol made a little popping sound, less noise than a child’s cork-firing wooden gun.
As he fell backwards, Felix simply looked surprised. He made no sound. Only the weapon – a twin to the Browning that had killed him – clunked onto the floor. It had been in the hand hidden behind his thigh, as Bond had suspected.
This was how it happened, Bond thought. You can go from life to death in the twinkling of an eye, at the snap of fingers. He had seen it dozens of times, and was still not completely used to it, but his approach was that of a realist. The very large man, and this one, Felix, would have killed all three of them without even feeling compassion. This was the law of the jungle of secret Europe where they still fought for survival.
He caught Felix, by the lapels of his jacket, before his body hit the floor, kicking backwards with his right foot to slam the door closed.
Harry Spraker slept peacefully on the lower berth, and there was a large pile of gauze, dressings and bandages lying on the long seat which had been let down along the other wall of the little cabin.
Bond snatched a sheet from the upper berth and wrapped it around the dead Felix’s throat: the wound that produced the most blood. This done, he lowered the body to the floor and lifted Harry onto the top bunk, as he had done with Easy.
Only then did he start the really difficult job of bandaging the body. First he removed Felix’s clothes, staunching the blood from both wounds, using handfuls of gauze and bandages.
He saw, among the pile of medical supplies on the seat, there were three hospital gowns, so he heaved and hauled at the body, pushing and pulling until he managed to get the gown onto the man, tying it tightly at the neck, then bandaging the face, leaving only a slit for his mouth.
It took a considerable time, and he knew the other body would have to be dealt with at speed. He wrapped the dead Felix’s clothes in one of the pillowcases, opened the large window and dropped the bundle straight down onto the track. A chill blast of air cut into the compartment and, as he turned for a moment, Bond had the illusion that Felix was moving on the bunk. It was only the wind, whistling and snagging at the gown.
He grabbed an armful of bandages and gauze, together with another gown, and, locking the door behind him, all but ran back to his own compartment where he went through the same ritual with the man he had thought of as Very Big Hans.
When it was done, he went through the clothes, took out an ID wallet, and a billfold containing credit cards and Deutschmarks, sticking them in his hip pocket. Then he stuffed the clothes into a pillowcase and repeated what he had done with the effects of dead Felix.
Glancing at his watch he realised that he had less than fifteen minutes to do the most important business. He was on mental autopilot by now, going through the motions, making decisions quickly. This compartment was in the worst state of the two. Very Big Hans had lost much blood, and not a little brain matter. It would not be easy, but, if things were to go smoothly, it would be necessary to move the big fellow’s body down to join his friend. First, Harry would have to be brought back here, to join Easy.
The corridor remained empty, and he quickly went down to get Harry, hoisting him from the top bunk, and getting him in a fireman’s lift so that he could transport him down the rolling and shuddering train. Harry was heavy, but not as heavy as Very Big Hans. He gently laid Spraker down next to Easy.
Then, calling upon all his strength, he lifted the German’s body from the lower bunk. He was a dead weight and felt like a sack of pig iron. Taking the strain, Bond peered out into the corridor again, and began a slow, desperate walk to where Felix lay. His legs protested against the burden, and his back seemed to creak like old wood subjected to strain.
When he was finally able to lie the corpse on the top bunk, every muscle in his body screamed with pain, and he was breathing heavily. But the job was done – only just in time, for already they were slowing, running into the outskirts of Aachen.
He locked the door and returned to Easy and Harry, lifting the latter down from the top bunk. Once he had bluffed the two bodies from the train, there would be more for him to do. A thorough cleaning of the compartment.
He saw the ambulance men standing on the platform as the train came to a halt, and, from the carriage door, he signalled to them.
‘How many did they say?’ he asked the uniformed officer in charge, speaking in immaculate German, and praying that nobody knew the faces of the two supposed policemen.
‘Three.’
‘There’re only a pair.’ He smiled. ‘One of them decided to walk.’
The ambulance man gave a curt nod, grinned and waved his men in, carrying their stretchers. ‘I don’t think they’re going to last long,’ Bond said as they got to the door. ‘Just get them away as quickly as possible.’
‘Don’t worry,’ the head ambulance man replied. ‘We know what to do. If they don’t recover, it’s too bad.’
Two of the railway personnel had arrived by this time. One of them, in the uniform of a chef de train nodded. He spoke German with a French accent so, no doubt, was an SNCF employee. ‘Your friends had a bad accident, we heard. I am sorry. You will be going with them?’
Bond shook his head. ‘I must be in Paris today. For now I’d like to be left alone.’ He gave the number of his compartment. ‘Perhaps a large jug of coffee when we get going again.’
Both of the officials nodded with understanding.
‘Who informed you? The people here?’
‘Oh yes, the police. By radio. They said to leave you alone. That you and your friend were doctors. That you would contact us if you needed assistance.’
Certainly, whoever had given the orders had a great deal of pull with the police and the transport system, Bond thought as he stepped to one side to let the ambulance people carry the stretchers out of the carriage.
It all seemed, somehow, too simple, he considered, but it had been the two fake policemen who had arranged matters. It had been easy for them. How many palms had been well greased in the hope of removing himself, Easy and Harry from the train? How many people had been persuaded to become blind, deaf and dumb? He recalled Harry’s words, ‘If this business is all down to Wolfgang and Monika, they’ll have almost an army to call on . . . Wolfie Weisen and Monika Haardt were two people who wouldn’t just sit down and weep. They had too large an investment – like others. People who’ve enfolded themselves in an ideology do not wish to walk naked.’ So, the defunct HVA and the Stasi might have an underground army of hundreds. If that was so, they would be a criminal and terrorist force to reckon with in Eur
ope.
A waiter came with coffee, which Bond took from him at the door, overtipping the man outrageously. He drank two cups straight off, easing his muscles to take the ache out of the joints. He spent half an hour going through a series of mental and physical exercises which he had long discovered were a great help to him – relaxing and resettling his body; freeing his mind. Then he set to work, doing a more thorough clean-up of the compartment. Not, he considered, that it would matter much. Whoever they were, the people he had killed belonged to some larger group who knew how to roll unpleasantness out of sight.
Shortly before eleven o’clock Harry Spraker began to moan and grumble in his sleep. Then he stirred, starting to move his arms and head.
‘Harry. It’s me. James. You’re okay.’
Spraker came out of it slowly. He was a man surfacing from a deep and troubled dream. At first, when he opened his eyes, it was obvious he could not focus on Bond’s face, but, after a few minutes, his eyes cleared and he seemed to be searching his mind. How had he got wherever he was? Where was he?
‘You’re still on the train, Harry. We’re going to Paris. The two fake German cops tried to get you off.’
‘Oh, my God . . . Hell . . . Felix Utterman and Hexie Weiss . . .’
‘Who were they, Harry?’
‘Thirsty,’ was all he could say.
Bond went out into the corridor and along towards the dining car. Halfway there he saw the waiter who had brought the coffee earlier.
‘Certainly, sir. I bring a mega-size coffee and three cups. Right away.’ Which went to prove, Bond thought, that sometimes overtipping pays off.
As Harry started to sip scalding coffee, propped up on the bunk, so Easy began to groan.
‘Harry, you said two names . . .’
‘Sure . . .’ His voice was still thick and slurred with the drug. ‘Sure. Felix Utterman and Hexie Weiss.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Felix and Hexie? Originally Stasi, but later they worked for HVA under Wolfie Weisen. They are first-class thugs. Everything: extortion, persuasion, hard interrogation, killing even. Weisen called them his two Aces. It was his joke.’