On His Majesty's Secret Service (6)
Bond flashed Georg’s identification papers in front of Weir, who looked at them with interest. Weir gave a small nod, then moved on to interview several other passengers. When some of the Soviets came down the aisle, 001 spoke to them in Russian, crossly telling them he’d already taken care of that particular car, and they should go on to the next one to see if anybody had fallen through the cracks. Weir was extremely convincing, and Bond could find no flaws in his accent.
Bond opened his newspaper and pretended to read it. Weir took up station next to him, leaning against a wall of the train.
“How did you know where I’d be?” Bond asked, not looking at Weir.
“I didn’t know where you’d be,” Weir answered, inspecting his nails. “I only knew where you’d have to be if I were to be any help. So I went there, and here we are.”
“But there are many train crossings,” said Bond, confused.
“But you didn’t hit upon the train idea right away, did you?” asked Weir. “You went from foot crossing to foot crossing, moving east to west, until you realized they wouldn’t work. And that’s when you thought of the trains, right? It was natural that you would choose the closest train crossing to where you were when you had the idea.”
“Shrewd reasoning,” said Bond, impressed despite himself.
The train reached the first stop. Bond stood up, folded his newspaper the same way a dozen other Germans were doing, and stepped off the train. Just behind him, Weir hopped down from the train and threw his Soviet army officer coat and hat under the carriage. He had his dove-grey suit on under it, and he looked like a dapper fop again.
“This is why M is wrong,” said Weir professorially. “I don’t care how bloody the game is becoming, Bond. Violence may be a part of our game, but it’s only a small part of it. The most important attribute for a top spy isn’t marksmanship or fisticuffs; it’s knowing things, and knowing how to learn more. The very hardest problems we solve, Bond, is done without us ever getting out of our chairs.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bond innocently. “I like how you took care of the problem on the plane, sir.”
Weir put an arm across Bond’s shoulder. “Of course, delegating is also important,” he said genially.
Weir had set up an advance base in a small hotel so old and charming that it didn’t have a name, apart from being located on Heidelbergstrasse. He knew the proprietors, an ancient and nearly toothless couple, and Bond got the impression Weir had stayed there many times before. Weir enjoyed a Schnapps while Bond changed.
“I’ve been busy the last several hours,” said Weir. “I believe I have a lead on getting our eyes back on the Cellini pieces that we’re supposed to find.”
“Oh, yes?” said Bond. Weir had had his bags brought up. His gun was on the bed in his room. Bond checked it and strapped on his holster; instantly he felt much better.
“I’ve reestablished contact with an old friend in town,” Weir continued. “Her name’s Erma Duessler; she’s a socialite. Runs in very rarified circles in town. Extremely useful knowing such a person; it’s amazing what kind of doors can be opened for you at ridiculous dinner parties. And Miss Duessler does nothing if she doesn’t throw an excellent ridiculous dinner party.”
“Miss?” asked Bond. Weir chuckled.
“Much too old for you, Bond,” he said. “A well-preserved lady, to be sure, but she and I were boating on the Spree before Hitler came to power. Also, kindly do not soil my friend and professional contact.”
“I asked an innocent question, for once,” said Bond. “No husband in the picture?”
“Not anymore,” said Weir. “Widowed twice, most recently due to the Holocaust. She managed to flee the country with most of her liquid wealth, but her husband got caught before he could get out. She’s back now, in her old estate. And here’s the important bit, Bond: she’s looking to reacquire the art that was stolen out of her home.”
“Ah,” said Bond. “So she’s acquainted with the art world, and perhaps knows a few operators who may not care too deeply about an object’s provenance?”
“Exactly,” said Weir. “She’s hosting a party tomorrow evening - a standard affair for her; a few hundred of Berlin’s notables over for dining, dancing and screwing each other’s spouses - but Erma’s confided in me that there will be a party-within-a-party. A dealer named Zoeller will be on hand, and he’ll be showing some pieces that may once have been Erma’s, so that she can buy them back.”
“But they were stolen from her originally!” protested Bond.
“Unfair things happen during wartime, Bond,” said Weir patiently. “Erma understands this. She’ll be happy if she can restore her collection to anything like its prewar eminence. But here’s something of interest: among the objects lost was a small statuette, a Cellini original. Erma asked this Zoeller if he might possibly have a Cellini in his collection. I believe he told her he had “lots”.”
“All right,” said Bond. “But that doesn’t mean he has the Cellinis we’re looking for.”
“Bond,” said Weir exasperatedly, “there just isn’t that much Cellini statuary in existence, and most of what there is has already been accounted for. If Zoeller really does have a significant collection of Cellini pieces, there is a strong possibility that they’re the same pieces as the ones we’re looking for.”
“Oh,” said Bond. “I suspect this might be something along the lines of what you were talking about earlier, regarding the knowing of things.”
“Possibly,” said Weir. He slid a heavy book a few inches across the table towards bond. The cover said ‘Art History’.
“I trust we have a thorough accounting and description of the exact works we’re supposed to find,” said Bond, hefting the book.
“Certainly,” said Weir. “The key pieces, however, are a trio of silver statues representing Jupiter, Vulcan and Mars. They went missing in Cellini’s lifetime, some 500 years ago, and they’ve been lost ever since. You’ll find descriptions of them in that book, from which you’ll need to have the relevant information memorized by tomorrow morning. You’re coming with me to that party at Erma’s.”
Bond perked up. “Posing as an art historian, then?” he asked hopefully. Weir frowned.
“No, posing as my driver,” he said.
Bond opened his newspaper and pretended to read it. Weir took up station next to him, leaning against a wall of the train.
“How did you know where I’d be?” Bond asked, not looking at Weir.
“I didn’t know where you’d be,” Weir answered, inspecting his nails. “I only knew where you’d have to be if I were to be any help. So I went there, and here we are.”
“But there are many train crossings,” said Bond, confused.
“But you didn’t hit upon the train idea right away, did you?” asked Weir. “You went from foot crossing to foot crossing, moving east to west, until you realized they wouldn’t work. And that’s when you thought of the trains, right? It was natural that you would choose the closest train crossing to where you were when you had the idea.”
“Shrewd reasoning,” said Bond, impressed despite himself.
The train reached the first stop. Bond stood up, folded his newspaper the same way a dozen other Germans were doing, and stepped off the train. Just behind him, Weir hopped down from the train and threw his Soviet army officer coat and hat under the carriage. He had his dove-grey suit on under it, and he looked like a dapper fop again.
“This is why M is wrong,” said Weir professorially. “I don’t care how bloody the game is becoming, Bond. Violence may be a part of our game, but it’s only a small part of it. The most important attribute for a top spy isn’t marksmanship or fisticuffs; it’s knowing things, and knowing how to learn more. The very hardest problems we solve, Bond, is done without us ever getting out of our chairs.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bond innocently. “I like how you took care of the problem on the plane, sir.”
Weir put an arm across Bond’s shoulder. “Of course, delegating is also important,” he said genially.
Weir had set up an advance base in a small hotel so old and charming that it didn’t have a name, apart from being located on Heidelbergstrasse. He knew the proprietors, an ancient and nearly toothless couple, and Bond got the impression Weir had stayed there many times before. Weir enjoyed a Schnapps while Bond changed.
“I’ve been busy the last several hours,” said Weir. “I believe I have a lead on getting our eyes back on the Cellini pieces that we’re supposed to find.”
“Oh, yes?” said Bond. Weir had had his bags brought up. His gun was on the bed in his room. Bond checked it and strapped on his holster; instantly he felt much better.
“I’ve reestablished contact with an old friend in town,” Weir continued. “Her name’s Erma Duessler; she’s a socialite. Runs in very rarified circles in town. Extremely useful knowing such a person; it’s amazing what kind of doors can be opened for you at ridiculous dinner parties. And Miss Duessler does nothing if she doesn’t throw an excellent ridiculous dinner party.”
“Miss?” asked Bond. Weir chuckled.
“Much too old for you, Bond,” he said. “A well-preserved lady, to be sure, but she and I were boating on the Spree before Hitler came to power. Also, kindly do not soil my friend and professional contact.”
“I asked an innocent question, for once,” said Bond. “No husband in the picture?”
“Not anymore,” said Weir. “Widowed twice, most recently due to the Holocaust. She managed to flee the country with most of her liquid wealth, but her husband got caught before he could get out. She’s back now, in her old estate. And here’s the important bit, Bond: she’s looking to reacquire the art that was stolen out of her home.”
“Ah,” said Bond. “So she’s acquainted with the art world, and perhaps knows a few operators who may not care too deeply about an object’s provenance?”
“Exactly,” said Weir. “She’s hosting a party tomorrow evening - a standard affair for her; a few hundred of Berlin’s notables over for dining, dancing and screwing each other’s spouses - but Erma’s confided in me that there will be a party-within-a-party. A dealer named Zoeller will be on hand, and he’ll be showing some pieces that may once have been Erma’s, so that she can buy them back.”
“But they were stolen from her originally!” protested Bond.
“Unfair things happen during wartime, Bond,” said Weir patiently. “Erma understands this. She’ll be happy if she can restore her collection to anything like its prewar eminence. But here’s something of interest: among the objects lost was a small statuette, a Cellini original. Erma asked this Zoeller if he might possibly have a Cellini in his collection. I believe he told her he had “lots”.”
“All right,” said Bond. “But that doesn’t mean he has the Cellinis we’re looking for.”
“Bond,” said Weir exasperatedly, “there just isn’t that much Cellini statuary in existence, and most of what there is has already been accounted for. If Zoeller really does have a significant collection of Cellini pieces, there is a strong possibility that they’re the same pieces as the ones we’re looking for.”
“Oh,” said Bond. “I suspect this might be something along the lines of what you were talking about earlier, regarding the knowing of things.”
“Possibly,” said Weir. He slid a heavy book a few inches across the table towards bond. The cover said ‘Art History’.
“I trust we have a thorough accounting and description of the exact works we’re supposed to find,” said Bond, hefting the book.
“Certainly,” said Weir. “The key pieces, however, are a trio of silver statues representing Jupiter, Vulcan and Mars. They went missing in Cellini’s lifetime, some 500 years ago, and they’ve been lost ever since. You’ll find descriptions of them in that book, from which you’ll need to have the relevant information memorized by tomorrow morning. You’re coming with me to that party at Erma’s.”
Bond perked up. “Posing as an art historian, then?” he asked hopefully. Weir frowned.
“No, posing as my driver,” he said.