On His Majesty's Secret Service (7)
“Good God,” said Bond, “what on Earth is that?”
“That,” said Weir, “is a Cadillac Series 60S Fleetwood Sedan. Came out this year.”
“I mean, is it a car?” asked Bond. He ran his fingers over the silky black finish. “It looks like one of those absurd American planes.”
“You’re referring to the fins,” said Weir. “Yes, I thought those were a bit much. Goodness knows what car designers are thinking, Bond. The point of it is, it’s a flash new car, and I can hardly masquerade as a ridiculously wealthy art collector without having a flash new car. Also, it’s been modified by Q Branch.”
“Now just a moment,” said Bond. “We’ve only been in town less than forty-eight hours.”
“Yes,” said Weir, smiling. “I had it sent on ahead. I thought we might need something like it. Also, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“Oh?” said Bond, leaning in.
“I really am a ridiculously wealthy art collector,” whispered Weir.
“I see,” said Bond. “Er, what sort of modifications have been made, then? I think I should know if I’ll be behind the wheel.” Bond looked very smart in his driver’s coat and cap.
“Machine guns forward, controlled by toggles here,” said Weir. “Concealed in the fins: directional lights to blind pursuit. Shaped charges in the front bumper behind a lead firewall; park the car up against a brick wall a foot thick and you can bring it down.”
“Really,” said Bond. “Must’ve cost M a fortune. I’m surprised he was willing to spend it on a single car.”
“Here’s another secret,” said Weir, winking. “If you want a really fancy toy, all you really need to do is tell Q that it’s a shame nobody has ever thought of making one before. Q will dismiss you out of hand, but then the wheels will start turning. A week later he’ll be showing you off the finished product, and the best part is, he’ll have convinced himself it was all his idea.”
“I shall have to try that,” said Bond. “Which fellow in Q Branch?”
Weir frowned. “They’re all named Q,” he said, “and they’re interchangeable.”
“Now see here, Bond,” said Weir sternly, “I’ll emphasize my instructions to you for tonight.” They were driving through the cool early evening towards Erma Duessler’s residence. Weir caught Bond’s eye in the rear-view mirror.
“I’ll have you know that despite my various grumblings, I have the highest regard for your value as a field agent,” said Weir. “That having been said: on this mission you are strictly backup. I find that usually things go quite right for me, but there are the rare occasions where they go wrong. When that happens, you are instructed to use your best judgment to take such steps as are necessary to extract the both of us from whatever situations may arise.”
“Very good, sir,” said Bond.
“Now then, Bond, how will you know that things have gone wrong?”
“I shall be listening to you through your hidden microphone on this,” Bond said, patting the micro-receiver on the front seat next to him. It was tiny, about the size of a lunchbox. It used transistors and was very modern.
“Yes, and…?” prompted Weir.
“Your cue to me that things have gone wrong,” said Bond, “is your use of the word ‘wretched’.”
“That’s right,” said Weir. “No matter what you hear over the radio, you are ordered not to take any action whatsoever unless you hear that word. I hope that’s perfectly clear, Bond.”
“Very much so,” said Bond. Weir had hammered on the point a number of times already.
“Good,” said Weir. “All right, we’re here. Ready to act a gentleman’s man? Splendid!”
Bond pulled up to the gates of the property. The estate was enormous and well-wooded; Bond couldn’t imagine the expense necessary to maintain it within the walls of Berlin proper. The house could only barely be seen through the trees; it was white and rose three stories above an immaculate lawn. There were already dozens of cars parked along the gravel drive - Mercedes-Benzes, mostly, but also quite a few Packards and more than one Ferrari.
Bond advised a footman at the gate that Mr. Weir had arrived. Prentiss Weir didn’t believe in false identities, particularly when his real identity suited him better than any cover he could generate. It was his belief that his status as Britain’s top spy was such a well-kept secret that he could use his real name with impunity. Of course, Bond would be referred to as ‘Bond’ as well; he was a complete unknown.
The footman waved the car through, and Bond rolled up the drive to the expansive circle in front of the house’s main entry. There was a thick crowd of socialites meeting and greeting on the steps leading up to the open door, and a host of footmen and butlers standing stiffly at the ready. Bond stopped the car and got out to open the door for Weir, who flounced out lightly. He was completely transformed; the normally straightforward Weir emerged from the car as the dizziest lightweight fop Bond could imagine.
“Hello, all you gorgeous people!” exclaimed Weir loudly, as if a spotlight had suddenly shone down upon him. “Who wants to give an old friend the two things he wants most of all - some love, and a drink?”
“Prentiss!” A woman in a pale green gown flew down the stairs and embraced 001. “How wonderful it is to see you again!”
“Careful, Erma darling,” exclaimed Weir, squeezing his hostess fondly. “I would hate to smear your makeup, and you’d hate to smear mine.” He winked at the suddenly interested crowd, and a ripple of laughter arose.
Bond found Weir’s description of Erma as ‘well-preserved’ to be unfortunately inadequate. The widow was blonde, voluptuous and gorgeous in every respect. Bond thought she looked like a more mature Veronica Lake. The notion that she might be the same age as Weir seemed ridiculous to Bond; she couldn’t possibly be a day over forty. Bond concentrated on closing the car door and getting back behind the wheel.
A servant pointed Bond to a spot midway down the drive where he could park the Cadillac against the hedge. Bond stopped the engine, rolled up the windows, and turned on the radio receiver. He hunched down low and put the headset on. The noise from the party came in loud and clear.
“…don’t know what your secret is, you hag,” Weir was hissing, “but whatever it is that has you looking so god-damned good, you had better start sharing.”
“Oh, Prentiss,” giggled Erma. “You are such a flatterer.” Her German accent gave her an exoticness that Bond found even more appealing.
“I’m quite serious,” Weir said. “I could swear I saw my driver drooling at you.”
“Oh dear,” said Bond, knowing Weir couldn’t hear him. “Sorry, sir.”
“Then you shall have to introduce us; he was ravishing!” returned Erma, amid peals of laughter. Bond arched a single eyebrow.
“No, but just between us,” continued Erma, her voice loud in Bond’s ear, “I have a new doctor. He’s Polish, I think, but practiced during the war out of Turkey. He has some Eastern techniques that have worked miracles. Doctor Stemmer’s somewhere around here; I’ll make an introduction.”
“I would be ever so grateful,” said Weir. “And now, let’s see about COCKTAILS!” The two old friends gabbed together over drinks for some time, reminiscing over past experiences. Suddenly a beam of light stabbed into the car from the driver’s side. Bond dashed the headphones off his head and shielded them and the receiver with his body. He squinted into the beam, which lowered to reveal a patrolling security man.
Bond reached into his coat lapel and pulled out a flask of whiskey. He held it up to show that what he had been doing, hunched over the passenger seat of his vehicle, was having a nip on the job. Bond smiled guiltily. The guard shook his head in disgusted and moved down the line of cars, electric torch in hand and rifle over his shoulder. Bond thought it interesting that Miss Duessler would have such well-armed security overtly patrolling such a high-end affair, but decided that with elevated tensions related to the Soviet blockade, some over-caution could be understood.
Bond snatched up the headphones and continued listening. “…is somebody I very much would like for you to meet,” Erma was saying. “Mister Prentiss Weir, it gives me pleasure to introduce to you Herr Jurt Zoeller. I am sure you will both be fast friends, as you both are to me as well.”
“Oh, most certainly,” said Weir. “Herr Zoeller, I would offer to shake your hand, but I am afraid that I have been rather clumsy with my martini…”
“Please, may I offer you my handkerchief,” said a new voice, a rumbly basso.
“Too kind, but I’ll just mop up a bit in the lad’s room and be back in a snap. Nobody move!” The sound of Erma’s and Zoeller’s voices retreated along with the background party noises.
“Now hear this, Bond,” said Weir, sotto voce. “Herr Jurt Zoeller may be an art dealer, shady or otherwise, today. But I know that voice, and although the face has been altered, I think I recognize the shape of it too. Three years ago Jurt Zoeller was Karl Holle, second in command of the Gestapo and part of Hitler’s inner circle.”
“That,” said Weir, “is a Cadillac Series 60S Fleetwood Sedan. Came out this year.”
“I mean, is it a car?” asked Bond. He ran his fingers over the silky black finish. “It looks like one of those absurd American planes.”
“You’re referring to the fins,” said Weir. “Yes, I thought those were a bit much. Goodness knows what car designers are thinking, Bond. The point of it is, it’s a flash new car, and I can hardly masquerade as a ridiculously wealthy art collector without having a flash new car. Also, it’s been modified by Q Branch.”
“Now just a moment,” said Bond. “We’ve only been in town less than forty-eight hours.”
“Yes,” said Weir, smiling. “I had it sent on ahead. I thought we might need something like it. Also, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“Oh?” said Bond, leaning in.
“I really am a ridiculously wealthy art collector,” whispered Weir.
“I see,” said Bond. “Er, what sort of modifications have been made, then? I think I should know if I’ll be behind the wheel.” Bond looked very smart in his driver’s coat and cap.
“Machine guns forward, controlled by toggles here,” said Weir. “Concealed in the fins: directional lights to blind pursuit. Shaped charges in the front bumper behind a lead firewall; park the car up against a brick wall a foot thick and you can bring it down.”
“Really,” said Bond. “Must’ve cost M a fortune. I’m surprised he was willing to spend it on a single car.”
“Here’s another secret,” said Weir, winking. “If you want a really fancy toy, all you really need to do is tell Q that it’s a shame nobody has ever thought of making one before. Q will dismiss you out of hand, but then the wheels will start turning. A week later he’ll be showing you off the finished product, and the best part is, he’ll have convinced himself it was all his idea.”
“I shall have to try that,” said Bond. “Which fellow in Q Branch?”
Weir frowned. “They’re all named Q,” he said, “and they’re interchangeable.”
“Now see here, Bond,” said Weir sternly, “I’ll emphasize my instructions to you for tonight.” They were driving through the cool early evening towards Erma Duessler’s residence. Weir caught Bond’s eye in the rear-view mirror.
“I’ll have you know that despite my various grumblings, I have the highest regard for your value as a field agent,” said Weir. “That having been said: on this mission you are strictly backup. I find that usually things go quite right for me, but there are the rare occasions where they go wrong. When that happens, you are instructed to use your best judgment to take such steps as are necessary to extract the both of us from whatever situations may arise.”
“Very good, sir,” said Bond.
“Now then, Bond, how will you know that things have gone wrong?”
“I shall be listening to you through your hidden microphone on this,” Bond said, patting the micro-receiver on the front seat next to him. It was tiny, about the size of a lunchbox. It used transistors and was very modern.
“Yes, and…?” prompted Weir.
“Your cue to me that things have gone wrong,” said Bond, “is your use of the word ‘wretched’.”
“That’s right,” said Weir. “No matter what you hear over the radio, you are ordered not to take any action whatsoever unless you hear that word. I hope that’s perfectly clear, Bond.”
“Very much so,” said Bond. Weir had hammered on the point a number of times already.
“Good,” said Weir. “All right, we’re here. Ready to act a gentleman’s man? Splendid!”
Bond pulled up to the gates of the property. The estate was enormous and well-wooded; Bond couldn’t imagine the expense necessary to maintain it within the walls of Berlin proper. The house could only barely be seen through the trees; it was white and rose three stories above an immaculate lawn. There were already dozens of cars parked along the gravel drive - Mercedes-Benzes, mostly, but also quite a few Packards and more than one Ferrari.
Bond advised a footman at the gate that Mr. Weir had arrived. Prentiss Weir didn’t believe in false identities, particularly when his real identity suited him better than any cover he could generate. It was his belief that his status as Britain’s top spy was such a well-kept secret that he could use his real name with impunity. Of course, Bond would be referred to as ‘Bond’ as well; he was a complete unknown.
The footman waved the car through, and Bond rolled up the drive to the expansive circle in front of the house’s main entry. There was a thick crowd of socialites meeting and greeting on the steps leading up to the open door, and a host of footmen and butlers standing stiffly at the ready. Bond stopped the car and got out to open the door for Weir, who flounced out lightly. He was completely transformed; the normally straightforward Weir emerged from the car as the dizziest lightweight fop Bond could imagine.
“Hello, all you gorgeous people!” exclaimed Weir loudly, as if a spotlight had suddenly shone down upon him. “Who wants to give an old friend the two things he wants most of all - some love, and a drink?”
“Prentiss!” A woman in a pale green gown flew down the stairs and embraced 001. “How wonderful it is to see you again!”
“Careful, Erma darling,” exclaimed Weir, squeezing his hostess fondly. “I would hate to smear your makeup, and you’d hate to smear mine.” He winked at the suddenly interested crowd, and a ripple of laughter arose.
Bond found Weir’s description of Erma as ‘well-preserved’ to be unfortunately inadequate. The widow was blonde, voluptuous and gorgeous in every respect. Bond thought she looked like a more mature Veronica Lake. The notion that she might be the same age as Weir seemed ridiculous to Bond; she couldn’t possibly be a day over forty. Bond concentrated on closing the car door and getting back behind the wheel.
A servant pointed Bond to a spot midway down the drive where he could park the Cadillac against the hedge. Bond stopped the engine, rolled up the windows, and turned on the radio receiver. He hunched down low and put the headset on. The noise from the party came in loud and clear.
“…don’t know what your secret is, you hag,” Weir was hissing, “but whatever it is that has you looking so god-damned good, you had better start sharing.”
“Oh, Prentiss,” giggled Erma. “You are such a flatterer.” Her German accent gave her an exoticness that Bond found even more appealing.
“I’m quite serious,” Weir said. “I could swear I saw my driver drooling at you.”
“Oh dear,” said Bond, knowing Weir couldn’t hear him. “Sorry, sir.”
“Then you shall have to introduce us; he was ravishing!” returned Erma, amid peals of laughter. Bond arched a single eyebrow.
“No, but just between us,” continued Erma, her voice loud in Bond’s ear, “I have a new doctor. He’s Polish, I think, but practiced during the war out of Turkey. He has some Eastern techniques that have worked miracles. Doctor Stemmer’s somewhere around here; I’ll make an introduction.”
“I would be ever so grateful,” said Weir. “And now, let’s see about COCKTAILS!” The two old friends gabbed together over drinks for some time, reminiscing over past experiences. Suddenly a beam of light stabbed into the car from the driver’s side. Bond dashed the headphones off his head and shielded them and the receiver with his body. He squinted into the beam, which lowered to reveal a patrolling security man.
Bond reached into his coat lapel and pulled out a flask of whiskey. He held it up to show that what he had been doing, hunched over the passenger seat of his vehicle, was having a nip on the job. Bond smiled guiltily. The guard shook his head in disgusted and moved down the line of cars, electric torch in hand and rifle over his shoulder. Bond thought it interesting that Miss Duessler would have such well-armed security overtly patrolling such a high-end affair, but decided that with elevated tensions related to the Soviet blockade, some over-caution could be understood.
Bond snatched up the headphones and continued listening. “…is somebody I very much would like for you to meet,” Erma was saying. “Mister Prentiss Weir, it gives me pleasure to introduce to you Herr Jurt Zoeller. I am sure you will both be fast friends, as you both are to me as well.”
“Oh, most certainly,” said Weir. “Herr Zoeller, I would offer to shake your hand, but I am afraid that I have been rather clumsy with my martini…”
“Please, may I offer you my handkerchief,” said a new voice, a rumbly basso.
“Too kind, but I’ll just mop up a bit in the lad’s room and be back in a snap. Nobody move!” The sound of Erma’s and Zoeller’s voices retreated along with the background party noises.
“Now hear this, Bond,” said Weir, sotto voce. “Herr Jurt Zoeller may be an art dealer, shady or otherwise, today. But I know that voice, and although the face has been altered, I think I recognize the shape of it too. Three years ago Jurt Zoeller was Karl Holle, second in command of the Gestapo and part of Hitler’s inner circle.”