James Bond - Seafire Part 12

He asked Bill Tanner to send Flicka out to him, and Tanner nodded, muttering a quick "Take care, James."

He saw the sadness in Flicka's eyes as she came in to join him. "I presume you've convinced him? You're really going on your own?"

"I told you, Flick. It's the only way to work this."

"I love you, James."

"And I you, dear Flicka. Come and help me get organized."

"You will come back?"

"I always come back, my dear. I'm like the RCMP, I always get my man."

"So do I."

"h.e.l.l of an engagement party." She almost smiled.

14 - Legal Nightmare

Back in the flat, Bond spent half an hour hunched over the telephone calling Lufthansa and booking a return flight to Munich leaving late that afternoon, then reserving a single room at Munich's Splendid, where he would be well out of the way, particularly hidden from the Tarn party staying at Vier Jahreszeiten. The Splendid had long been the Munich resting place for those who wished to keep a low profile.

Another call a.s.sured him of a rental car that he could pick up at the Munich airport, and lastly he dialed a final German number - the Hotel Paulanerstuben, in Wa.s.serburg am Inn. Its main draw was the address, Marienplatz 9 - the same square in which the Tarn lawyers, Saal, Saal u. Rollen, had their offices.

When all these arrangements had been made, he packed a light garment bag, then dragged his special briefcase from its hiding place in a disguised part of the wainscot. The automatic pistol, ammunition, together with the Applegate Fairbairn combat knife and scabbard, all went into the compartment at the bottom of the case, where they would not be detected by electronic security scanning devices. The latest in miniature cameras - which would take clear photographs of doc.u.ments under most conditions - gloves, a set of lock picks disguised as a Swiss Army Knife, and other items, including maps and doc.u.ments, went into the main open, top section of the case. He also retrieved everything he needed for his Boldman ident.i.ty, the one he used often when traveling abroad - pa.s.sport, wallet complete with credit cards, and several letters addressed to J. Boldman Esq. at a fictional business that was really a front for the Intelligence Service's overseas mail.

He then showered, changed into slacks, a light cotton rollneck, blazer, and a pair of his favorite soft, comfortable moccasins.

Throughout all these preparations, Flicka had remained seated quietly in the bedroom, and it was only when she saw he was ready that she spoke.

"James, we need to talk." She patted the edge of the bed.

"Of cabbages and kings?" he asked with a smile.

"Of what you're going to do; where you're going to be; your entire schedule."

He opened the briefcase and pulled out a detailed map of the Wa.s.serburg am Inn area, similar to a British Ordnance Survey map. "I'll be playing a lot of this by ear, Flick, but here's the general plan." He went through his intended movements, giving rough times and where he expected to be during the next couple of days, after which Flicka spoke again, her tone serious and commanding attention: "Believe me, James, I understand the reason you have to do this on your own. I understand it, but I don't like it, nor do I condone it. I've left a note with Bill Tanner to that effect. I'm not being difficult, but I think you should have backup close by you. Naturally, I believe that backup should be me. Now, please let's work out a telephone code so that you can at least keep in touch."

It took them only about twenty minutes to cobble together a simple system, for they had used techniques such as this before.

When it was time for him to leave, Flicka hugged him tightly but shed no tears. Nor did she use any feminine wiles to make him feel in the least bit guilty for leaving her out of this small and essential operation. Again, it was one of the pluses of their relationship: Flicka had been an intelligence agent for too long to make any silly fuss over such things.

"Take care of yourself," she said in a matter-of-fact voice, then, softly, "I love you, James."

In the cab on the way out to Heathrow, her very low-key farewell did more to make him feel guilty than all the tears and histrionics that she could have produced. By the time he had checked in at the Lufthansa desk, Bond had already started to wonder about the wisdom of leaving Flicka behind.

The flight to Munich was, as usual, boring, and the German efficiency at pa.s.sport control and the car-rental desk left nothing to be desired. He collected a cream-colored VW Corrado, driving straight to the Splendid, where the car was parked for him by the staff of the hotel, the facade of which managed to draw anyone's attention away from the place. It was one of the delights of the Splendid that it looked like nothing and yet, for comfort, security, and service, was everything that an incognito traveler would wish.

He ate a dinner so light and frugal that the headwaiter raised his eyebrows and frowned, and by eleven was back in his room. He called Flicka to let her know that he was in Munich with no signs of Tarn watchers on his back, and she was so loving on the telephone that he went to bed decidedly frustrated. It did not stop him from sleeping though, for during his many years as an agent in the field, Bond had perfected the art of putting the world, and professional or personal problems, out of his mind. His head had scarcely touched the pillow before he dropped into a deep sleep from which he woke, totally refreshed, when the telephone rang with his wake-up call at five in the morning.

He was on the road by just after six-thirty, and by seven had left the outskirts of Munich far behind, heading out on the B-304. Before eight o'clock he came into Wa.s.serburg, which seemed to rise from the light morning mists like a great, faded ancient galleon.

With its untouched, medieval atmosphere, the town appeared to be surrounded by water from the river Inn. Wa.s.serburg was built within a few yards of a tight lazy curve in the river, which nuzzles the southern limits of the town's center and enfolds its eastern boundary with great crags of rock, plunging straight down to the gentle flowing water below.

He drove the Corrado into the large parking lot on the northern bank of the river and set off on foot for the traffic-free town center, his garment bag over his shoulder. He walked quickly through the narrow lanes until they spilled out into the Marienplatz, the very center of the town, with its Gothic brick town hall and the fourteenth-century Frauenkirche.

He stopped on the edge of the square, listening to the soft flush of the river less than a hundred yards away, while taking in the extraordinary timelessness of the view. He even caught sight of what remains of the castle, to the south, from which Wa.s.serburg - Water Castle - takes its name.

The town was already bustling: a ca.s.socked priest walked from the Frauenkirche, with its old watchtower, while the few old shops were open and local people could be seen hurrying to them, or leaving with baskets of fresh bread and other produce.

At the Paulanerstuben they showed no surprise at this guest arriving at eight in the morning, but welcomed him in, showed him his pleasant room overlooking the square, and offered him a second breakfast, which he accepted, ruminating on the many four-star hotels throughout the world where he had been treated as a pariah when arriving this early in the day.

a.s.senting to a second breakfast was not a matter of greed but a way to engage the one elderly waiter in conversation, so the meal pa.s.sed with skirmishes of dialogue. Bond's German was excellent enough for him to pa.s.s as a native, and the exchanges yielded several useful pieces of information. The local people were slightly reserved when it came to foreigners, and he soon learned that this conservative trait had reached a high level during the week.

"It's the new owner of the Tarnenwerder estate," the waiter told him, shuffling around, constantly fiddling with slightly shaky hands. "It's said he's the last living relative of the old von Tarn family, and already he has over one hundred men and women restoring the house. There's no room for these people here in the town. How can there be? Anyway, the ancient boundaries of the estate stop a couple of kilometers from Wa.s.serburg. We can't compete with these workmen as we have none with their skills, so we won't prosper from anything just yet."

"Surely, when things settle down -" Bond began to say, but the elderly man cut him off.

"Something funny's going on." He shook his head in marked disapproval. "n.o.body knows how this claimant to the von Tarn name has survived. There's even a story that he's been living in places all over the world under the name Tarn, and this Tarn was supposed to have died, only recently, in a road accident in England. Can you believe any rumors these days?"

He went off to bring a plate of ham and eggs, which he set in front of his customer, carrying on his monologue as though uninterrupted. "Yet here he is. Large as life. Yesterday I saw him. He visited the lawyer Saal, over there," pointing to an old half-timbered building across the square, beside the door of which was a bra.s.s plate. "The Saals have managed the Tarn estate for six generations. Old Helmut Saal has blocked any purchase of the place since the end of Hitler's war. I'm not saying he's a liar or a cheat, but I think he would do anything to keep his hands on that estate. It's kept the Saal family in style for a very long time. This new von Tarn could be Saal's man, for all we know. Put there to keep the Saals in the style to which they have become accustomed over the years."

Bond told him that he wanted to see a lawyer with regard to purchasing property nearby, but was brushed aside with a "You should go to Fritz Saal, Helmut's brother. He deals with the purchase of property, but there are other things the town's not happy with."

"Such as?"

"Such as this new von Tarn allowing dubious young people to camp in the grounds of the estate. Some of them look to us like the skinheads who do terrible things in the cities - you know what I mean: attacking foreigners, burning buildings, parading in the streets. Let me tell you, I heard stories of people like that from my father. I can even remember some of them myself. Hitler's people, that's who these young ruffians behave like."

"How long has this been going on?"

"The skinheads? Only a couple of days, but some have come into the town to buy food, and they haven't always been too pleasant to the shopkeepers. We've turned them away from here. Anyway, they'll be gone tomorrow or the day after, I understand. They're here for some rally the master of Tarnenwerder's allowed them to have in his grounds. Don't hold with it myself." The old boy went off mumbling to himself about how it wasn't like this in his day.

No, Bond thought, you're of an age when it was, first, the survival of the fittest and utter obedience to the n.a.z.i Party; then an age when the German people were trying to live down the excesses of Hitler's regime, which had brought your country to its knees. The old man, he thought, had also seen the upsurge of West Germany as the thriving industrial center of Europe, and now the toil and turmoil of a country restored and not split in two. The restoration of a single Germany had brought with it problems and a desperate search for a new ident.i.ty - or, worse, a return to the old way of the n.a.z.is. He could not blame the waiter for being edgy about foreigners, and these German skinheads were, particularly, foreigners here in Wa.s.serburg am Inn, a town that had survived, almost unchanged, centuries of Sturm and Drang.

After breakfast he returned upstairs, surprised that such an old and beautiful building actually provided telephones in the few available rooms. The local directory was not large, and he found the number of Saal, Saal u. Rollen. Within seconds of dialing, he was speaking to Herr Fritz Saal, explaining that he was a British businessman looking for perhaps a large property in the area. An investment, you understand. For a consortium, you will follow. Naturally, Herr Boldman.

Saal was bright and friendly on the telephone, but gloomy about the prospects, though, eventually, he remembered that there were a couple of estates on his books. Perhaps Herr Boldman could call on him at the office, say in half an hour. Herr Boldman was pleased to accept the invitation.

Bond then rang Flicka in London, stressing that he was fine, had arrived and discovered some interesting facts already. He also said that he would call again after his meeting with what he called a property lawyer in the town.

The building from which the Saal brothers and Herr Rollen carried out their business, while obviously very old, had been constantly renovated over several centuries.

Initially, the building had probably been a small town-house for some local worthy. From the half-timbered exterior and the visible leaded windows, he reckoned that it probably had a largish entrance hall, with rooms to left and right, while upstairs it possibly maintained what had originally been three bedrooms.

On reaching the door he found that it was a solid oak panel with metal bindings and hinges, into which had been set a large Yale-type lock - much bigger than the kind of thing you saw on houses in the rest of the world, but still small enough to slip with a thick piece of celluloid or a credit card.

He took a good look at the doorjamb and all the windows, and sought out any telltale wiring or electronic boxes signaling a sophisticated alarm system. There were none, and the telephone wiring came in high, from an overhead pole on the right-hand corner at the front of the building. Bond knew by the size of the telephone input box that it was unlikely to contain any extra surprises.

He pressed the bell, and some seconds later the door was opened. He found himself staring into a pair of large gray eyes topped by amazingly long lashes. Below the eyes was a pert little nose and below that a wide mouth, obviously designed by the Almighty to set a completely new standard of temptation for men. The woman wore her think blonde hair in what at one time would have been called a French plait. Nowadays he had no idea what they called the style, but the hair was so perfect and thick that he had an immediate desire to plunge a hand into it and see if there were gold coins hidden under the smooth glossy surface.

The vision looked to be in her mid-twenties and was dressed modestly, in a manner at variance with her looks - and also the twinkle in her eyes. A second later he saw a black-haired young woman, identically dressed, in a kind of long black nylon coverall that certainly hid whatever street clothes either of the girls wore. This signified that the young women wore these rather ugly uniforms as a protection against damaging or marking their own clothes while laboring in Saal, Saal u. Rollen's vineyard.

By the time he could draw his eyes away from the blonde's charms she had asked if he was Herr Boldman. He somewhat haltingly said yes and he was here to see Herr Fritz Saal.

The smile remained warm, embracing even, as she asked him to follow her upstairs - something she said in a slightly arch fashion that made it into a more personal invitation.

He pulled himself out of his reverie and looked around, realizing that he would have to examine the lower interior of the building more thoroughly on the way out. His casual glance revealed nothing in the shape of electronic code pads for alarm activation. In fact, all the electronics appeared to be two computers and a large laser printer. The dark girl he had glimpsed briefly was now seated behind one of the computers, rattling away at the keyboard as though her life depended on it, which, he thought, bearing in mind the a.s.sociation of the Saals with Max Tarn, it probably did.

As he had thought, there were three doors that led from a small landing at the top of the stairs, plus a short corridor that slid off to the right and ended in another door, which, he concluded, was a bathroom.

The three doors were individually marked with the names of Herr H. Saal, Herr F. Saal, and Heir K. Rollen. The blonde vision tapped at Heir F. Saal's door, opening it immediately and announcing, "Herr Boldman."

Fritz Saal appeared to be sitting behind a huge desk angled into one corner of the room, but it was only when Bond gave him a smiling bow that he realized Herr Saal was standing, prior to coming around the desk.

It was impossible to put an age on the man, and his appearance immediately brought to mind the Tenniel drawings of either Tweedledum or Tweedledee from Through the Looking Gla.s.s. The head was slightly out of proportion to his stature, which was, to be politically correct, impaired. In plain language he was a dwarf of around four feet two inches, including the obvious lifts built into his shoes. Like others in his predicament, Saal made up for his lack of inches by a cheerful, even ebullient, manner. He greeted Bond with a firm handshake, and very quickly it became obvious that his height in no way affected his voice, charm, or business ac.u.men. Returning to his desk, Saal pushed two folders toward him. They were both of moderately sized estates - though one was a working farm - and for the next half hour or so they discussed the possibilities.

Eventually, Bond said that what his consortium was really looking for was a place the size of - he went through a show of looking up the name in a notebook - Tarnenwerder, which he was under the impression had been left to wrack and ruin.

Saal shook his head sagely. "Tarnenwerder," he said without the hint of a smile, "is something else altogether. To be truthful, Mr. Boldman, I'd rather not discuss it."

"I understood that you had dealings with that particular property."

"No. No, I personally have no dealings with it. My brother, and our father before us, deals with Tarnenwerder. In fact, the place has been on our books for many generations. If I had my way, we would have pa.s.sed it to another firm decades ago, but I fear that I rarely get my way in this company. You see, it's the only thing my brother Helmut deals with, and we have not spoken for twenty years on account of it." He gave a sad little laugh. "I would have left this firm years ago if it hadn't been for our strange legal position. No male of the Saal or Rollen family is allowed by our company articles to leave the firm, except, of course, in the event of death."

"That's a strange legal point."

"Very strange, and drawn up a number of centuries ago. The firm is tied to Tarnenwerder and the von Tarn family as if by an unbreakable umbilical cord. Unhappily, the very anomaly of the company articles makes it more binding. Originally, the Saals and Rollens were the stewards of the von Tarns. They moved up in the world to become lawyers, but the von Tarns saw to it that we remained, for all time, joined hip and thigh."

"And all this has caused a split in your family?"

"As I say, I have not spoken to my brother in twenty years - and he's seven years older than I. His wife does not speak to my wife. To the end of their days, my mother was on good terms with me, and my father did not even acknowledge me in the street. It's a strange world, and has nothing to do with my shortness of stature. Every fourth male Saal is born a dwarf." He made a small waving motion with his hand. "Yes, we're supposed to talk about ourselves in a different way these days, but I have never been politically correct - and the politics of my country are slowly descending into the pit of the 1930s again. Did you know that?"

"I have heard about it, and have seen some of it."

"If you want concrete proof, just go over to Tarnenwerder at nine o'clock tonight and you'll see what our ancestors saw in the 1930s. History, particularly when it is the history of politics, is a circular thing. As the Americans say, what goes around comes around. The scourge of the thirties and forties is coming around yet again."

They talked for another fifteen minutes, with Fritz Saal making notes regarding the mythical consortium and its requirements. Bond gave him the London address and he said he would be in touch.

Saal walked with him to the door and out onto the landing. They were just shaking hands once more in farewell when the door to K. Rollen's office opened. Bond stepped back a pace, for the man who looked out from this office was a giant. He stood around six foot four, had hands like bunches of steel bananas, a large shaven head, and a face that reminded him of a gargoyle.

"It's all right, Kurt," Saal said gently. "Nothing for you to worry about."

"Ah, so good." The voice was as slow and lumbering as that of a r.e.t.a.r.d. The grin did not reach his vacant eyes, and he withdrew into his office as though that simple action was a feat of great skill.

Saal looked up at Bond. "Every sixth male child of the Rollen family is born with a defect also. Yet he is a partner who does nothing. He's incapable of anything but the simplest task, and he can be a shade intimidating. Also, he has an uncanny memory. He remembers things and people from twenty years ago. I once heard him describe, completely, his own baptism. Unhappily, when roused, poor Kurt can be violent. Rather dangerously violent, unless you know how to deal with him." He gestured toward the bottom of the stairs. "Now, our lovely Heidi will see you out."

"Lovely Heidi" was the blonde eighth temptation of man.

"I think I once read a book about you, Heidi," Bond said with a smile as she held the street door open for him.

"Oh, no, Mr. Boldman. She was my Swiss cousin. Also, she was a good little girl."

Out in the Marienplatz again, he allowed Flicka to come flaring into his mind, and quickly she banished all thoughts of what could be done with Heidi, given the right time and place.

He then pondered on the near nightmare quality of the law firm of Saal, Saal u. Rollen, realizing that in all probability the throwbacks in both the Saal and Rollen families came from some incestuous relationships, when Wa.s.serburg had been truly a Bavarian backwater some hundreds of years ago.

He strolled slowly to the edge of the square and turned into an alley, which took him to the rear of the buildings. It needed only a casual glance at the back entrance of the lawyers' office to be certain that there was no overt security or alarms on the place. Also, he noted that the back door appeared to have only a normal lock. As long as they did not secure that lock with its retaining catch, the rear door would be his easiest way in.

Turning, he headed to the parking lot where he had left the car. Given what he intended to do that night, he thought it would be as well to look over the landscape - in particular the escape routes.

He opened the car and rummaged around in the front for a few minutes, glancing into the mirrors to make certain that he was not being observed. He could see n.o.body, and that sixth sense that had so often saved him before told him he was clear.

Outside again, he walked back to the parking lot exit, strolling along the road that would take him onto the B-304. A few steps along this side road he saw a lane turning off to the right. On the wall, beside the lane, there was a notice warning of danger. This narrow road led out onto a smooth plateau that ended abruptly in rocky outcrops and a line of white warning poles. He could hear the river from practically anywhere around the Marienplatz, but now the roar was very close and, on reaching the wooden poles, he saw that he stood at the edge of a huge craggy cliff face. Two hundred feet below him, the waters of the river Inn snarled over more rocks.

The local Lovers' Leap, he thought, retracing his steps and making his way back to the hotel, where the first person he saw was the elderly waiter who told him they had excellent Gansebraten mit Karoffelknodeln for dinner. "People come from a long way to sample our roast goose with potato dumplings," he added. "I should be quick into the dining room, or you will miss this delight."

Indeed, the goose was a delight, and the potato dumplings were probably the best he had ever tasted, but he left the table a little concerned, for Bavarian food, while tasty, could lie heavily on the stomach. His mind, however, dwelt on the strangers he had seen in the square on his way back to the hotel. Thugs, toughs, young men and women, many of the men with their heads shaved, all of them in various kinds of disreputable dress. The kind of louts, he thought, who over the past couple of years had made the German cities unsafe: attacking foreigners, firebombing synagogues, and marching in antigovernment protests.

Back in his room he called Flicka, who sounded brighter, particularly when he said that he hoped to be back either tomorrow or the day after. Then he used code words to let her know his intentions for that night.

"Should I tell the vicar?" she asked innocently. The vicar was their pa.s.sword for the Minister.

"I don't see why not if it makes him happy. He is like Dad, keeping Mum?"

"Like the grave, but I think he fancies his chances. He came into the office this afternoon and sat a little too close for comfort. Held my hand with a squeeze when he was leaving."

"Never marry into Whitehall, my dear. The Junior Minister of today is not always the Prime Minister of tomorrow. You can get your name in the papers as well, consorting with members of HM Government."

"I know it." There was laughter in her voice as she used a particularly ribald code word. One that she had thought up, signifying certain desires.

It was eight-thirty by the time he had changed into black jeans, rollneck and denim jacket. The holster for his automatic was firmly in place on his right hip and hidden by the jacket, while spare ammunition magazines were distributed about his body, and the knife was strapped on his left forearm. He also carried the disguised Swiss Army Knife and a small, powerful flashlight in his pocket. Earlier he had sat on the bed and memorized the route from the detailed map of Tarnenwerder provided by Bill Tanner.

It was almost a ten-mile drive, mainly on small country side roads, but it took him to a point on a boundary road of the Tarnenwerder estate where he could safely leave the car, backed in among a thick cave of shrubbery by the roadside.

Quietly he left the vehicle, standing, as usual, for several minutes to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He knew that the ground sloped upward from the road, and at the crest of the rise he would be able to look down onto the old house less than three hundred yards away.

He now saw that the way up was lighted by the reflection of what seemed to be flickering fire from the other side of the rise. He could also hear the voice, electronically amplified, of Max Tarn, and he shivered, for already it sounded like the rabble-rousing oratory of someone from the historic past.

15 - Tarnenwerder