James Bond - Seafire Part 8

"I have no real authority to send you, James. By rights I should hand this straight over to The Committee, but . . . Well, as it was a personal letter, I thought I should handle it personally. I've been in touch with our old friend Pete Natkowitz, from Mossad. Trish Nuzzi is booked into the King David. You might just care to drop in on her. It's possible, of course, that she is looking for somewhere safe. I can't see that lady taking to her husband's dealings too kindly. If she would like safety . . . Well, why don't you bring her back to London?"

"I'll do all I can, sir."

"Yes." M nodded gravely. "When there's talk of peace, that little country becomes a shade heated, but you've been there before."

"I'll slip off on Friday night."

"Tomorrow? You can't manage it tonight, or in the morning?"

"Don't think that would be wise, sir. Don't worry, though, I'll report back to you personally before I bring anyone else into the charmed circle."

"Good, and in return I'll make certain you're covered at this end. Get onto the usual number if you need backup. You know how to get hold of Natkowitz?"

"No problem, sir. Now, don't you think you should get some rest?"

"I'll have plenty of time to rest in the hereafter, James. Stay and talk with me for a while. That dratted nurse has a good old naval name, but she has no heart."

As if on cue, Nurse Frobisher appeared with a tray on which she had set tea, three cups, and a plate of biscuits. "It's time for the Admiral's medicine anyway." She gave them a bright smile. "I thought tea wouldn't come amiss."

It soon became obvious to Bond that he was also part of M's medicine, for Nurse Frobisher began dropping broad hints that he should stay and talk. At one point she said quietly that it would be a good idea to tire her patient so that he would be forced to rest. In the end it was after five before he left, heading back to London.

As soon as he opened the door to the flat, he knew that Flicka was not in the best of moods.

"You didn't even have time to let me know you were going to be out?" she asked, a tincture of acid in her tone.

"It was very secure, I'm afraid, but . . ."

"Yes, I got that impression from Lady Muck in your office. I suppose you do know that she treats everyone as if she's the boss when the boss is away?"

"No, I -"

"Oh, yes. Acts like a wife, and has that stupid name - Chast.i.ty - which certainly doesn't go with her figure. Her skirts have been getting shorter by the day since she took over, but I don't suppose you would notice anything like that?"

"Will you shut up!" Bond shouted at her. "This is important and it concerns you."

There was a long pause, during which they seemed to smolder at each other across the room. Then: "What concerns me?"

"Going to Jerusalem tomorrow. There's a lot to arrange."

Flicka remained silent during his explanation of the visit to M, except at the point when he mentioned Nurse Frobisher. Under her breath she muttered something about nurses' uniforms and she supposed this one was a hundred and eight.

"No, mid-twenties and very attractive, but I was there to talk with M." He cut her down.

"So we tell n.o.body?" she asked when he had finished relating the entire story.

"Not a soul, so you keep your pretty little mouth closed."

"Now?" she asked, sidling up to him and lifting her face to be kissed.

Whenever he arrived at Ben Gurion International, Bond felt the same paradoxical sensation. Around him couples greeted each other with kisses, hugs, and even tears. These were people returning to the homeland, and they emanated a huge sense of joy. Yet mixed with the joy there was always a feeling of danger. Every time he flew into this part of the world he felt it like a dark cloud around him, and saw it in the faces of the soldiers and police on duty at the airport. It epitomized the way this tiny country had clung like a lion to the small strip of land it called its own, the homeland, the hope, Israel.

"James." The familiar figure of Pete Natkowitz - that most un-Israeli-looking of men - came striding from the crowd waiting for pa.s.sengers on the El Al flight from London's Heathrow. "James, it's good to see you." He embraced Bond like a long-lost brother, then turned to Flicka.

"And you must be the famous 'Fearless Flicka.'" Natkowitz gave her a beaming, all-embracing, and infectious grin.

"Who in heaven calls me 'Fearless Flicka'?" She looked genuinely baffled.

"James's old boss. Called you that over the telephone to me. Mind you, it was a secure line."

He led them outside where a car waited to take them into Jerusalem.

"I hope the King David's okay for you, James." Natkowitz had an unfortunate habit of driving as though the traffic would take care of itself, for he constantly took his eyes off the road, even turned right around in his seat while traveling at speed.

"Still as noisy as ever, I presume?"

"Terrible, but if you build a hotel in the middle of Jerusalem, what can you expect? You've stayed at the King David, Flicka?"

"I haven't had that pleasure."

"Oh, then you're in for a treat. It's faded Victorian England at its best. Well, perhaps not at its best, because it's a sort of mixture - Victorian elegance with a blend of the Orient. The pool and Oriental gardens make me forget I'm in the middle of a city as old as Jerusalem. Nothing fazes them, either. I sometimes think the staff all imagine they're still living under the British Mandate." He launched into the old story, perfectly true, that while the war of independence was at its height a telephoned bomb threat to the King David was taken with typical British sangfroid - with disastrous results. They simply did not see it fitting to warn guests or take any precautions, but simply waited for the blast, which, when it came, did a great deal of damage and killed dozens of people.

Pete waited in the lobby as they were taken up to their room. Together they went into the famous Regency Grill, where they could have been eating in the heart of London - the menu was more British than most of the hotel restaurants in the capital of the U.K., but by the same token it also included the best of Jewish food.

They talked like any old friends meeting for the first time in a couple of years, and Pete Natkowitz made certain that Flicka was not left out. It was not until they were about to leave that Pete said quietly, "She's in suite 510. I can provide any help you might need, if she wants to go back to London with you. A very beautiful lady, and her companions are equally exciting."

"Companions?" Bond queried.

"Couple of girls she's traveling with. They seem to be very close, but they're a pair of stunners."

Natkowitz gave Flicka his charming smile, and a promise to call them in the morning.

"I think we should try her straightaway." Bond explained that, with the limited time they had available, it might be best to see what Lady Tarn could add to the information they already had in their possession. "If she feels under any threat from Max, she might like to know that she has our support."

Flicka simply grunted as they got into the lift, and Bond stood back to let two young women - a blonde and a brunette - into the cage. As the doors closed, he took a quick look in the direction of the two girls; there was something inexplicably familiar about them. They were dressed in a similar manner in stylishly designed pant suits, one in gray, the other scarlet, and both with white silk shirts. It was only when they all walked out of the lift on the fifth floor that he saw the bandaged hand on the blonde.

At the same moment, the brunette spoke in a low, husky voice. "How nice to see you, Mr. Bond. We thought we'd never meet again."

"But we have," the blonde added. "And with the lovely Flicka as well."

Flicka's mouth dropped open as the truth hit her.

"It's really us," said Cuthbert.

"In the flesh and in our true personas. You didn't even guess that we were girls, did you? I'm Anna - my proper name as well - and this is Cathy. We presume you've come to visit our boss, Trish Nuzzi. Well, just step this way. She's going to be so excited."

"Almost as excited as us," chimed Cathy. "We've all been absolutely dying to see you again, haven't we, Anna?"

"Going out of our minds." Anna gave a tinkling little giggle.

11 - Trish Nuzzi

"Just wait while I open the door." Cathy, in her new role, slid the oblong plastic security key into its slot, waited until the light changed from red to green, then opened the door to 510, walked in, and called, "Trish, we're back, and we've brought some nice old playmates to see you."

Anna came in behind them, closing the door, calling, "Trish, where are you? We've got a lovely surprise."

She came out of the bathroom, and even the usually sanguine Flicka gave an audible gasp. They had both seen many photographs of Trish Nuzzi's dazzling face and figure - indeed, who had not? - from the days when she was a top model before her marriage to Sir Max Tarn. To see this gorgeous creature in the flesh was a different matter altogether, as both Bond and Flicka could affirm from Cambridge.

She wore a silver evening minidress with a diamond choker, but at first sight all they took in were the famous legs, long and incredible, reaching up forever and a day, for she was around six feet tall, Though enviously slim, she was beautifully proportioned, with a nut-brown tan, and that other great attribute, the thick long black hair that had been a trademark in the old days.

Then they saw her face.

What had once been called both elfin and gamine by a hundred fashion journalists must still have been there under the livid bruises, and the obviously broken nose, for it was as though someone had used her features as a punching bag. When she spoke, there were traces of nasality, and a slight tremor.

"So?" She glanced from Anna to Cathy and back again, not even trying to meet Bond's or Flicka's eyes.

"This is the Mr. Bond, and Fredericka von Grusse. We told you about them. They're friends. In fact, I think Mr. Bond's probably a knight in shining armor."

Trish gave a kind of lopsided smile. "Mr. Bond I have already met and talked with. Fraulein von Grusse I've only seen from a distance. It's nice to see you again, Mr. Bond, and good to meet you . . ." She nodded in Flicka's direction. "Forgive my state of physical dishabille, and please call me Trish."

"You've talked to . . . ?" Anna began, then lapsed into silence.

"Just a minute." Bond had stepped over to Anna, his hand taking her undamaged wrist, gripping like a steel trap. "The last time I saw you - dressed as a very unpleasant thug - you were arguing with this lady's husband outside Hall's Manor. You wanted to come up to the room in which you'd left Fraulein von Grusse and myself. You were very clear about your intentions. You wanted to come up to finish us off. You made bizarre men, the pair of you, and I do prefer you as women - if that's what you are?"

"Of course we're women," Cathy almost spat at him. "We did the other thing for Trish here."

"Including trying to kill us?"

Under his tight hold, with her arm strained behind her back, Anna let out a little groan. "We were trying to let you go," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Cathy was coming back to tell you what was really going on. We had the handcuff keys. Tarn would only have let us come up to you if we said it was to kill you. You've no -"

"She's telling the truth." Trish Nuzzi nodded, and he saw that it even hurt her to speak. There was some wiring on her jaw on the inside of her mouth. "She's being honest with you. It was all done for me. They persuaded Max that it would be a good idea to get you both out of the way. He was reluctant, but finally allowed them to stay behind in Cambridge. Please, they're telling the truth."

Unwillingly, Bond let go of the wrist. "Why should I trust you? Any of you?"

"Sit down. Please." Trish Nuzzi gestured to the chairs and a long sofa. "Cath, get a bottle of champagne and we'll have a drink. I'm in need of it, the painkillers are wearing off, and I can't take any more for a couple of hours." The grimace on her face was evidence enough that she was not acting.

"Who did this to you?" he asked, one hand rising to indicate her face.

"Who do you think?" She gave a cynical little laugh and patted the place next to her on the sofa. Flicka gave a long sound, as though clearing her throat, and indicated one of the comfortable easy chairs. Bond raised one eyebrow at her as she cut in front of him and seated herself next to Trish.

As he sat down, his eyes caught Anna's; she had been glowering at him. Now she gave a little knowledgeable smile, then glowered again, touching her hair. "Wigs," she snapped. "Wigs for us both until our hair grows again."

"I prefer you with real eyebrows as well," Bond said, straight-faced.

"And you." Anna made an obscene gesture as Cathy came back into the room with an ice bucket in which rested a bottle of Dom Perignon, and gla.s.ses.

"Who?" He turned to Trish again.

"I asked who do you think?"

"Your husband?"

"Part of it. Max likes to inflict pain, but he leaves the real bone breaking to that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Connie Spicer."

"Then this isn't something new? Sir Max has a penchant for battering you?"

"It's one of the reasons I brought Cathy and Anna into the marriage."

"You brought . . . ?"

"I am right in saying you are with the British authorities, and that you want to put Max Tarn into a high-security prison for a thousand years, aren't I?"

"A thousand and one, actually."

"Make that two thousand," said Flicka.

"Good." Trish accepted a gla.s.s of the Dom Perignon from Cathy, who had waved away Bond's offer of help. She took a long sip. "I need this. If I have to talk for a while, I need help at the moment."

"Take your time." Flicka patted her arm.

"You said that you brought Cathy and Anna into the marriage?"

"Look, Mr. Bond. I know I've been an idiot. I had the pick of the field. I could have married anyone. Max could be amusing, and he had other things to offer - like money. I married him for his money, that's plain and simple. I knew he got some of his kicks through hurting women, but before we married, I thought it wasn't all that dangerous. Games. You know the kind of thing. Then, well, he suggested that once we were married, I should have a couple of bodyguards. He said he'd arrange it. I said that I would arrange it. That's where Cathy and Anna come in."

"We offered a service for lots of people in the business," Cathy joined in. "We're trained in the martial arts, and we know how to shoot." She pirouetted and a small automatic pistol appeared from under her jacket. As Bond moved, she gave a small laugh and returned the weapon to its hiding place. "We can be a right pair of dangerous b.i.t.c.hes when we want. Also, we got on well with Trish. She came to us with a proposition, and we ran with it."

"Max wouldn't have taken them seriously as women," Trish began.

"Max is still your average male chauvinist." Cathy shook her head, as though male chauvinists were an endangered species.

"It meant disguising them," Trish continued, "and they looked bizarre enough for Max to take them seriously as men. He has some odd tastes in bodyguards."

"You knew he could be violent. Did you also know anything about his business affairs?" Flicka again.

"Not until much later. The girls knew before I did, because Max gave them a couple of jobs to do. They weren't that happy about it, but they did try and shield me from the worst."

"Until it was too late." Anna sat in a good upright posture on one of the easy chairs.

"What is the worst?" Flicka asked. "The scope of his illegal arms dealing, or the contempt he shows by constantly abusing you physically?"

"Oh." She frowned and looked a little bewildered. "Then you don't really know Max at all. I can normally put up with his bouts of sadism, but about five years ago I discovered the end product of his deals and intrigues." She took another sip of her drink. "At first I couldn't understand when he became angry every time I visited Israel - I make a couple of trips here each year." She explained that some ten years before she had undergone treatment for a slight eye problem. "My doctor - Julius Hartman - did the procedure and follow-ups in Harley Street. Then, being a good Jew, he finally decided to leave London and live here, in Israel. So I had my six-monthly checkups with him. Here in Jerusalem. Anna and Cathy always came with me."