On His Majesty's Secret Service (8)
“Tell me, Doctor Stemmer,” Weir was saying, “what drove you to return to Berlin after your many years overseas?”
Bond adjusted the gain to hear the doctor’s accent better. He couldn’t place it; it could be Eastern European, but the consonant sounds were too clipped. He might be an Englishman. “I am a citizen of the world, my dear Mister Weir,” said Stemmer. “I go where there are new challenges to stimulate me. And I think you will agree that Berlin at this particular time is most stimulating!” There was general laughter from the foursome of Weir, Zoeller, Duessler and the doctor.
“Well,” said Zoeller, “I am grateful for a most enjoyable party you are hosting, my dearest Erma. But now I should like to conduct a little business.”
“I should like that as well,” said Weir. “I trust Erma has told you that I am a most avid collector of certain hard-to-find pieces?”
“She has,” replied Zoeller. “Fraulein Duessler has been kind enough to allow me to set up a showing here on her property - a very private showing, you understand. Invitation only.”
“Enough with the suspense, you naughty man,” said Weir saucily. “Show us the goods!”
“Yes, please!” added Erma. “You know I’m especially curious about a few items that have been in my family…”
“Not here; not in public,” said Zoeller in hushed tones. “Come, I hope I’ll have something to interest both of you.”
The group stopped talking, but the party noises amplified and then died away, indicating they were on the move. A door opened.
“Now this is curious,” said Weir. “An art installation outside the house?”
“We are using the hothouses,” said Zoeller. “Berlin is very dry this time of year; we cannot risk cracking the oils.”
“But you’re using the one with bottle-green glass to keep the worst of the sun away,” said Weir admiringly. Bond, in turn, admired the tour-guide running commentary.
A metal door creaked open, and Weir’s sharply indrawn breath was marked. Bond leaned forward.
“Ah,” said Zoeller delicately. “Pray don’t mind Guk-Guk. He helps me move the larger items.”
“Guk-Guk,” somebody, or something, rasped. It was a wet sound, like a fish struggling to breathe.
“I’m afraid Guk-Guk was wounded on the Eastern front,” said Zoeller softly. “That’s the reason why he keeps the bottom half of his face masked; his entire lower jaw was shot off. Don’t worry, he only understands Russian.”
“I’ve never seen a man that size,” whispered Weir.
“Yes,” inserted Stemmer, “he’s quite a specimen.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Weir. “It can’t possibly be true!”
“I trust you see something you like,” said Zoeller.
“Over there, a statue of Mars,” said Weir. “Behind that fern must be Vulcan. Oh, turn on the lights! I need to find the Jupiter!”
“Mars, Vulcan, Jupiter,” said Zoeller amusedly. “What are we talking about?”
“You know quite well what we’re talking about,” said Weir. “The Cellini’s of legend! I must have them; name your price.”
“Guk-Guk,” something croaked.
“Quite a leap you made there,” Stemmer commented casually. “Three statues that appear only as footnotes in art texts, and suddenly an amateur collector speaks of all three in the same breath, as if it’s ordinary that lost art should reappear after 500 years.”
“I’ve heard rumors,” Weir said defensively. “There no need to act in such a wretched fashion.”
Bond stared at the receiver for a full second. Then he threw the car door open, picked up the receiver in one hand and drew his revolver with the other, and sprinted up the gravel drive.
“Guk-Guk,” said Guk-Guk. His voice was louder than before.
“You’ve heard rumors,” said Zoeller archly, “because we fed them to British intelligence. The agent who was watching the Cellinis was our agent. There never were any Cellinis. These are silvers by Grimini, a student of Cellini’s. Easy to mistake the two upon casual observation.”
“Please, don’t,” sobbed Erma. “Don’t hurt him.”
Bond flew up the drive and bowled over two footmen on the steps. He took the front steps four at a time and glowered at the butlers at the door, his hands full. Quaking, the servants threw open the front doors, and Bond ran down the marbled hall.
“Guk-Guk,” rasped Guk-Guk.
Two shots rang out - high-pitched and very close. It had to be Weir’s .22; nothing else could sound so tinny. A woman screamed. “Get her out of here,” grated Zoeller.
High-born guests of Duessler murmured in alarm and moved out of Bond’s way. A man in a tuxedo came out of a side hall and reached for something in his breast pocket. Bond didn’t wait to see what the man would produce; he brought the heavy revolver down on the man’s neck where it met the skull. Something crunched and the man collapsed. Bond kept moving.
“Goodbye, double-oh-one,” said Stemmer. “Guk-Guk: squeeze.”
“Guk-Guk,” came the reply. There came a series of gurgles and wet snaps.
Bond saw red. He entered the main ballroom. There was a buffet near the front of the room with many roasting stations and warming pans; towards the back, a large band in immaculate whites played swing music while guests danced. Two more men in tuxedos emerged, one from the grand stairway and the other from the kitchen. The one on the stair had a gun; Bond shot him at ten meters. The other one attempted to tackle Bond into a catering table; Bond got the hand holding the receiver under the man’s groin, lifted him bodily and dunked his head into the boiling oil of the fondue station. The band abruptly stopped playing.
“I trust you are satisfied now,” said Stemmer.
“So this was the legendary spy who caused all sorts of mischief on the mainland,” scoffed Zoeller. “Such a tiny, useless little thing.”
“Don’t judge books by their covers,” said Stemmer, his voice faintly contemptuous. “That’s the mistake the Soviets are making with Quickmatch, after all.”
Bond spotted the doors leading out onto the back verandah, just behind where the band was sitting. He threaded his way through the stunned crowd, and as he approached the door he wondered how it was going to open it without a convenient butler at hand. Just then another one of the security men loomed in front of him, and Bond found his problem solved. He circle-kicked the heavy-set man, who fell backwards through the door. Bond followed him out into the cool night air.
“Don’t you lecture me,” Zoeller said. “Just have your giant here collect all the artworks here and move them back to storage at the airport with the rest. I’ll need him at the marina bright and early tomorrow for the exchange.”
“You can’t be serious,” Stemmer protested. “The top British spy shows up on our doorstep on the eve of our organization’s most important operation, and you want to proceed anyway? We should abort! Who knows how deeply they’ve penetrated into our operation?”
The security man proved to be of sterner stuff than his fellows. He rolled to his feet and drew a gun; Bond kicked it out of his hand. Bond thought of shooting him, but the hothouses loomed black against the night sky in the distance; any gunfire would surely be heard by Weir’s killers. He holstered his gun. Grinning, the security man picked up a wrought-iron deck chair and swung it at Bond. Bond ducked under it once, then rolled to the side as the chair crashed down on the slate tilework of the deck. Grimacing at the noise, Bond used his free hand to grab a tiki torch out of the ground.
“We can’t abort!” shouted Zoeller. “You know how nervous the Soviets are. If we halt things, they’ll move all my old fellows in the High Command back to their prisons in Siberia, and no amount of gold will convince them to bring them back. No! Quickmatch is on, no matter what comes.”
“Easy for you to say,” groused Stemmer. “You’ll be all safe in your high castle while I’ll be left to clean up the messes. As usual.”
“Speaking of which,” said Zoeller, “have your idiot Cossack clean up this mess too.”
“Guk-Guk,” said Guk-Guk.
Bond waved the torch in the face of the security man, forcing him back. The man tried to fend it off with his chair, but it was too clumsy an instrument to keep the torch at bay. The security man’s thighs bumped into the edge of one of the deck tables, at which point Bond reached out with the end of the torch and tripped the latch on the table’s umbrella cover. It folded down over the security man’s upper body, and while he was temporarily pinned, Bond impaled him with the torch end. He left the dying man sitting on the table and sprinted down the garden path.
“What about the Duessler woman?” asked Stemmer. “How did you think she would react to all this? You’ll have a problem with her now, won’t you?”
“I’ll deal with her myself later on,” said Zoeller. “Who’s in charge of this operation, anyway? Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“It’s all my business,” said Stemmer pointedly, “when you keep introducing complications….”
“Hush,” said Zoeller. “Do you hear that? The band’s stopped playing.”
The lights in the hothouse went out.
Bond adjusted the gain to hear the doctor’s accent better. He couldn’t place it; it could be Eastern European, but the consonant sounds were too clipped. He might be an Englishman. “I am a citizen of the world, my dear Mister Weir,” said Stemmer. “I go where there are new challenges to stimulate me. And I think you will agree that Berlin at this particular time is most stimulating!” There was general laughter from the foursome of Weir, Zoeller, Duessler and the doctor.
“Well,” said Zoeller, “I am grateful for a most enjoyable party you are hosting, my dearest Erma. But now I should like to conduct a little business.”
“I should like that as well,” said Weir. “I trust Erma has told you that I am a most avid collector of certain hard-to-find pieces?”
“She has,” replied Zoeller. “Fraulein Duessler has been kind enough to allow me to set up a showing here on her property - a very private showing, you understand. Invitation only.”
“Enough with the suspense, you naughty man,” said Weir saucily. “Show us the goods!”
“Yes, please!” added Erma. “You know I’m especially curious about a few items that have been in my family…”
“Not here; not in public,” said Zoeller in hushed tones. “Come, I hope I’ll have something to interest both of you.”
The group stopped talking, but the party noises amplified and then died away, indicating they were on the move. A door opened.
“Now this is curious,” said Weir. “An art installation outside the house?”
“We are using the hothouses,” said Zoeller. “Berlin is very dry this time of year; we cannot risk cracking the oils.”
“But you’re using the one with bottle-green glass to keep the worst of the sun away,” said Weir admiringly. Bond, in turn, admired the tour-guide running commentary.
A metal door creaked open, and Weir’s sharply indrawn breath was marked. Bond leaned forward.
“Ah,” said Zoeller delicately. “Pray don’t mind Guk-Guk. He helps me move the larger items.”
“Guk-Guk,” somebody, or something, rasped. It was a wet sound, like a fish struggling to breathe.
“I’m afraid Guk-Guk was wounded on the Eastern front,” said Zoeller softly. “That’s the reason why he keeps the bottom half of his face masked; his entire lower jaw was shot off. Don’t worry, he only understands Russian.”
“I’ve never seen a man that size,” whispered Weir.
“Yes,” inserted Stemmer, “he’s quite a specimen.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Weir. “It can’t possibly be true!”
“I trust you see something you like,” said Zoeller.
“Over there, a statue of Mars,” said Weir. “Behind that fern must be Vulcan. Oh, turn on the lights! I need to find the Jupiter!”
“Mars, Vulcan, Jupiter,” said Zoeller amusedly. “What are we talking about?”
“You know quite well what we’re talking about,” said Weir. “The Cellini’s of legend! I must have them; name your price.”
“Guk-Guk,” something croaked.
“Quite a leap you made there,” Stemmer commented casually. “Three statues that appear only as footnotes in art texts, and suddenly an amateur collector speaks of all three in the same breath, as if it’s ordinary that lost art should reappear after 500 years.”
“I’ve heard rumors,” Weir said defensively. “There no need to act in such a wretched fashion.”
Bond stared at the receiver for a full second. Then he threw the car door open, picked up the receiver in one hand and drew his revolver with the other, and sprinted up the gravel drive.
“Guk-Guk,” said Guk-Guk. His voice was louder than before.
“You’ve heard rumors,” said Zoeller archly, “because we fed them to British intelligence. The agent who was watching the Cellinis was our agent. There never were any Cellinis. These are silvers by Grimini, a student of Cellini’s. Easy to mistake the two upon casual observation.”
“Please, don’t,” sobbed Erma. “Don’t hurt him.”
Bond flew up the drive and bowled over two footmen on the steps. He took the front steps four at a time and glowered at the butlers at the door, his hands full. Quaking, the servants threw open the front doors, and Bond ran down the marbled hall.
“Guk-Guk,” rasped Guk-Guk.
Two shots rang out - high-pitched and very close. It had to be Weir’s .22; nothing else could sound so tinny. A woman screamed. “Get her out of here,” grated Zoeller.
High-born guests of Duessler murmured in alarm and moved out of Bond’s way. A man in a tuxedo came out of a side hall and reached for something in his breast pocket. Bond didn’t wait to see what the man would produce; he brought the heavy revolver down on the man’s neck where it met the skull. Something crunched and the man collapsed. Bond kept moving.
“Goodbye, double-oh-one,” said Stemmer. “Guk-Guk: squeeze.”
“Guk-Guk,” came the reply. There came a series of gurgles and wet snaps.
Bond saw red. He entered the main ballroom. There was a buffet near the front of the room with many roasting stations and warming pans; towards the back, a large band in immaculate whites played swing music while guests danced. Two more men in tuxedos emerged, one from the grand stairway and the other from the kitchen. The one on the stair had a gun; Bond shot him at ten meters. The other one attempted to tackle Bond into a catering table; Bond got the hand holding the receiver under the man’s groin, lifted him bodily and dunked his head into the boiling oil of the fondue station. The band abruptly stopped playing.
“I trust you are satisfied now,” said Stemmer.
“So this was the legendary spy who caused all sorts of mischief on the mainland,” scoffed Zoeller. “Such a tiny, useless little thing.”
“Don’t judge books by their covers,” said Stemmer, his voice faintly contemptuous. “That’s the mistake the Soviets are making with Quickmatch, after all.”
Bond spotted the doors leading out onto the back verandah, just behind where the band was sitting. He threaded his way through the stunned crowd, and as he approached the door he wondered how it was going to open it without a convenient butler at hand. Just then another one of the security men loomed in front of him, and Bond found his problem solved. He circle-kicked the heavy-set man, who fell backwards through the door. Bond followed him out into the cool night air.
“Don’t you lecture me,” Zoeller said. “Just have your giant here collect all the artworks here and move them back to storage at the airport with the rest. I’ll need him at the marina bright and early tomorrow for the exchange.”
“You can’t be serious,” Stemmer protested. “The top British spy shows up on our doorstep on the eve of our organization’s most important operation, and you want to proceed anyway? We should abort! Who knows how deeply they’ve penetrated into our operation?”
The security man proved to be of sterner stuff than his fellows. He rolled to his feet and drew a gun; Bond kicked it out of his hand. Bond thought of shooting him, but the hothouses loomed black against the night sky in the distance; any gunfire would surely be heard by Weir’s killers. He holstered his gun. Grinning, the security man picked up a wrought-iron deck chair and swung it at Bond. Bond ducked under it once, then rolled to the side as the chair crashed down on the slate tilework of the deck. Grimacing at the noise, Bond used his free hand to grab a tiki torch out of the ground.
“We can’t abort!” shouted Zoeller. “You know how nervous the Soviets are. If we halt things, they’ll move all my old fellows in the High Command back to their prisons in Siberia, and no amount of gold will convince them to bring them back. No! Quickmatch is on, no matter what comes.”
“Easy for you to say,” groused Stemmer. “You’ll be all safe in your high castle while I’ll be left to clean up the messes. As usual.”
“Speaking of which,” said Zoeller, “have your idiot Cossack clean up this mess too.”
“Guk-Guk,” said Guk-Guk.
Bond waved the torch in the face of the security man, forcing him back. The man tried to fend it off with his chair, but it was too clumsy an instrument to keep the torch at bay. The security man’s thighs bumped into the edge of one of the deck tables, at which point Bond reached out with the end of the torch and tripped the latch on the table’s umbrella cover. It folded down over the security man’s upper body, and while he was temporarily pinned, Bond impaled him with the torch end. He left the dying man sitting on the table and sprinted down the garden path.
“What about the Duessler woman?” asked Stemmer. “How did you think she would react to all this? You’ll have a problem with her now, won’t you?”
“I’ll deal with her myself later on,” said Zoeller. “Who’s in charge of this operation, anyway? Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“It’s all my business,” said Stemmer pointedly, “when you keep introducing complications….”
“Hush,” said Zoeller. “Do you hear that? The band’s stopped playing.”
The lights in the hothouse went out.