On His Majesty's Secret Service (9)
Zoeller and Stemmer peered at each other through the almost complete darkness of the hothouse. The wet sounds of Guk-Guk breathing erased any hope of hearing movement. Both men drew guns at the same time. “Spread out,” whispered Zoeller hoarsely.
A sharp hiss made Stemmer jump, and he cursed as water misted in his face. Somebody had turned the sprinkler system on, and jets of water generated a fine fog in the room. Stemmer barked orders at Guk-Guk, who lurched towards the front of the building. He grunted several times as he collided with planter boxes and low-hanging light fixtures, and then he was gone in the darkness.
Zoeller backed himself into a narrow gap between two large ferns and waited, crouched low, his Luger held in front of him. Only the gentle hiss of the sprinklers could be heard. Water trickled down the back of his neck. He began to grow impatient. Where was that giant of Stemmer’s? Why couldn’t he get the lights on? Zoeller craned his neck around the fern fronds but could see nothing. “Stemmer!” he whispered.
There was a rustling and a scrape as somebody crawled to the far side of one of the ferns. “Here!” came the quiet reply.
“I’ll shoot out the glass and escape,” Zoeller said. “Ambush anybody who follows.”
“Yes,” came the hissed reply. “Where do we meet?”
“We don’t meet, you idiot,” said Zoeller disgustedly. “Not until Schwangau. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”
Eye glittered behind the fronds. “But the artwork?”
“We have no time for this discussion again,” said Zoeller, angry. He stood up from behind the fern just in time to see the butt of a revolver clout him between the eyes.
“We really don’t,” agreed Bond quietly.
By the light of his small electric torch, Bond found the body of Weir. He was crumpled on the ground, face-down, his back contorted in an odd way. Bond felt for a pulse. He found one - weak and arrhythmic, but detectable.
Bond looked up sharply as Zoeller moaned. Stemmer had fled out the back door almost as soon as the water came on - he was more of a flee-to-fight-another-day sort than Zoeller. Bond had disabled the light switch, but that would keep Guk-Guk occupied only for so long. Bond didn’t relish tangling with the huge Cossack; not only was he too tall to fit through the door without ducking, but he was broad too; Bond estimated he weighed in at 500 pounds. Given Guk-Guk’s size, Bond reasoned that Weir had probably hit him with both bullets at close range, but that didn’t seem to have slowed him down at all.
“We have to get out of here, sir,” whispered Bond. “I imagine moving you is probably bad in your condition, but staying would be worse. Up we go.” He slid an arm under Weir’s belly and, seizing a limp wrist for leverage, slung the super-spy over his shoulders. He was quite light; lifting him was like carrying a child.
Gripping the penlight in his teeth, Bond made for the back door that Stemmer had escaped through. He found himself in a cluster of gardening buildings. Bond looked through a gap between structures and could see the illuminated house; the beams of flashlights were spreading out across the lawn as figures emerged from the estate.
Bond ducked back behind cover and ran behind the greenhouses towards the right-hand side of the house. There was a wall that surrounded the garden; he remembered seeing it from the front drive. Scaling it seemed a better option than trying the house again.
It was a reasonably bright night, with a high moon and few clouds. Bond ducked low as he ran through rows of rosebushes, pruned for winter. A light flashed on him and there were shouts from the house; Bond chose not to stop running.
There was a trellis up against the wall. Climbing it solo would be easy; climbing it with an agent over his shoulder would be difficult. Bond saw few options, however. The trellis was out of sight from the house and an empty wheelbarrow stood next to it. Bond set down Weir, tipped over the wheelbarrow and ducked down behind it, revolver drawn.
Two men ran into view. The security force here responded quickly and was prepared; these men had submachine-guns. Bond shot both of them at twenty meters, hitting them both in the center of the chest. A third man came around the corner, shooting as he ran; a burst of bullets ricocheted off the bottom of the wheelbarrow. Bond shot him twice and the man fell backwards, his weapon continuing to fire into the air.
That would make the rest of them hesitate, if only for a moment. Bond holstered his gun, picked up Weir and began to climb, hand-foot-foot, hand-foot-foot, over the five-meter stone wall. Bond heard shouts as his free hand reached over the top of the wall, and chips of stone showered him as he threw his legs over the top and jumped down.
Landing sent both Bond and Weir sprawling. Hedges partially broke their fall, but precious seconds ticked away as Bond righted himself and had Weir over his shoulder again. The drive was just around the corner of the house. Bond turned to shoot a pursuer who had topped the wall behind them, then sprinted as quickly as he could to reach the gravel circular drive at the front.
Chaos reigned in front of the Duessler residence. Panicked guests were streaming from the front doors, and many of them were already in their vehicles. A huge Packard was pulling into the mouth of the circle, preparing to leave via the long drive to the street. Guards in tuxedos were emerging from the entry as well, but they seemed unwilling to shoot into the crowd. More guards were coming from the other side of the house, and some of them were piling into a pair of Fiats parked in front of the garage.
Bond threaded his way through the fleeing mob, which was swarming around the Packard and preventing it from leaving as quickly as the driver would prefer. The horn honked insistently. As Bond passed by the vehicle, he reached through the open driver’s window, grabbed the keys out of the ignition and kept going. The car died, blocking the exit from the circular drive, as Bond hustled to the Cadillac.
He dumped Weir into the passenger seat and ran around to the driver’s side. Guards were pushing the Packard out of the way, the Fiats’ headlights looming ominously behind it. Bond jumped into the car and started it. He looked over at Weir. Weir’s eyes were open and glazed.
The car pulled onto the drive and roared for the gate. There were two guards in front of it, securing it with a padlock. Bond thumbed the button that opened the compartment for the forward machine-gun toggles. He opened up on the guards, cutting them in half and then chewing away at the gate. The chain secured by the lock parted just as the car reached it, and the iron doors exploded outwards as the Cadillac fishtailed out into the street.
A neat bullethole materialized in the window just behind Bond’s ear. The Fiats were in hot pursuit. Bond revved the engine and shifted into high gear. The Cadillac roared like a lion as Bond flew down the curving, tree-lined boulevards of the fancy side of town.
Bond looked in his rear-view mirror. The Fiats were behind him. They didn’t have the kind of horsepower he had at his disposal, but the cars were lighter and nimbler. There were also two of them, and they had men hanging out the windows shooting machine-guns at him. To the best of his knowledge, Bond didn’t think the car had any rear-mounted weapons.
But it did have the blinding lights. Bond looked for a good opportunity to use them. The whistle of a train announced a possible chance. There was a crossing up ahead. At his current pace he would beat the train there.
Bond slowed down. He kept his head low, weaving the car as much as possible to make a difficult target. As the Fiats caught up, their shots began to tell; the glass of the rear and front windshields starred over multiple times.
Bond timed his approach of the tracks carefully, ensuring he arrived just ahead of the train. At the final bend before the crossing, he let the Fiats creep up on his back bumped and then triggered the rear lights. One million candlepower lit up the back fins, with parabolic mirrors directing the beams just behind the car. Just then Bond stepped on the gas, and the car leaped onto the tracks just ahead of the train.
One of the Fiats’ drivers swerved, running into a telephone pole rather than attempting the tracks. He was the lucky one. The other driver couldn’t react in time to change course; his car intersected the train and went under it, flattened in the wink of an eye by countless thousands of tons of rolling steel. Bond saw an explosion of sparks behind him but kept going.
The windows were now almost impossible to see through. Bond used his revolver butt to clear the glass out of the front windshield.
“Looks… looks better as a convertible anyway,” wheezed Weir. His breathing was forced and blood was running out of his nose, but his eyes had cleared.
“Hang in there, Weir,” said Bond. “Minutes from a hospital.”
“No hospital,” coughed Weir. “Too late. You heard them, Bond. Exchange tomorrow.”
“I heard them,” said Bond. “Prisoner swap. Zoeller gets the Nazi high command in exchange for gold.”
“Stop ‘em,” said Weir weakly. “Must.”
“Shut up, Weir,” said Bond. “I’ll call M and get backup.”
“No time,” said Weir. “You.” His eyes tried to focus on Bond.
“Still have the receiver?” he asked. Bond patted a bulge in his coat. Weir smiled.
“Good,” he whispered. “They don’t know… what we know.”
“That’s right,” said Bond. “They also think you’re dead.”
“I am dead,” said Weir. Bond looked over and saw he was right.
“Shit,” said Bond.
A sharp hiss made Stemmer jump, and he cursed as water misted in his face. Somebody had turned the sprinkler system on, and jets of water generated a fine fog in the room. Stemmer barked orders at Guk-Guk, who lurched towards the front of the building. He grunted several times as he collided with planter boxes and low-hanging light fixtures, and then he was gone in the darkness.
Zoeller backed himself into a narrow gap between two large ferns and waited, crouched low, his Luger held in front of him. Only the gentle hiss of the sprinklers could be heard. Water trickled down the back of his neck. He began to grow impatient. Where was that giant of Stemmer’s? Why couldn’t he get the lights on? Zoeller craned his neck around the fern fronds but could see nothing. “Stemmer!” he whispered.
There was a rustling and a scrape as somebody crawled to the far side of one of the ferns. “Here!” came the quiet reply.
“I’ll shoot out the glass and escape,” Zoeller said. “Ambush anybody who follows.”
“Yes,” came the hissed reply. “Where do we meet?”
“We don’t meet, you idiot,” said Zoeller disgustedly. “Not until Schwangau. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”
Eye glittered behind the fronds. “But the artwork?”
“We have no time for this discussion again,” said Zoeller, angry. He stood up from behind the fern just in time to see the butt of a revolver clout him between the eyes.
“We really don’t,” agreed Bond quietly.
By the light of his small electric torch, Bond found the body of Weir. He was crumpled on the ground, face-down, his back contorted in an odd way. Bond felt for a pulse. He found one - weak and arrhythmic, but detectable.
Bond looked up sharply as Zoeller moaned. Stemmer had fled out the back door almost as soon as the water came on - he was more of a flee-to-fight-another-day sort than Zoeller. Bond had disabled the light switch, but that would keep Guk-Guk occupied only for so long. Bond didn’t relish tangling with the huge Cossack; not only was he too tall to fit through the door without ducking, but he was broad too; Bond estimated he weighed in at 500 pounds. Given Guk-Guk’s size, Bond reasoned that Weir had probably hit him with both bullets at close range, but that didn’t seem to have slowed him down at all.
“We have to get out of here, sir,” whispered Bond. “I imagine moving you is probably bad in your condition, but staying would be worse. Up we go.” He slid an arm under Weir’s belly and, seizing a limp wrist for leverage, slung the super-spy over his shoulders. He was quite light; lifting him was like carrying a child.
Gripping the penlight in his teeth, Bond made for the back door that Stemmer had escaped through. He found himself in a cluster of gardening buildings. Bond looked through a gap between structures and could see the illuminated house; the beams of flashlights were spreading out across the lawn as figures emerged from the estate.
Bond ducked back behind cover and ran behind the greenhouses towards the right-hand side of the house. There was a wall that surrounded the garden; he remembered seeing it from the front drive. Scaling it seemed a better option than trying the house again.
It was a reasonably bright night, with a high moon and few clouds. Bond ducked low as he ran through rows of rosebushes, pruned for winter. A light flashed on him and there were shouts from the house; Bond chose not to stop running.
There was a trellis up against the wall. Climbing it solo would be easy; climbing it with an agent over his shoulder would be difficult. Bond saw few options, however. The trellis was out of sight from the house and an empty wheelbarrow stood next to it. Bond set down Weir, tipped over the wheelbarrow and ducked down behind it, revolver drawn.
Two men ran into view. The security force here responded quickly and was prepared; these men had submachine-guns. Bond shot both of them at twenty meters, hitting them both in the center of the chest. A third man came around the corner, shooting as he ran; a burst of bullets ricocheted off the bottom of the wheelbarrow. Bond shot him twice and the man fell backwards, his weapon continuing to fire into the air.
That would make the rest of them hesitate, if only for a moment. Bond holstered his gun, picked up Weir and began to climb, hand-foot-foot, hand-foot-foot, over the five-meter stone wall. Bond heard shouts as his free hand reached over the top of the wall, and chips of stone showered him as he threw his legs over the top and jumped down.
Landing sent both Bond and Weir sprawling. Hedges partially broke their fall, but precious seconds ticked away as Bond righted himself and had Weir over his shoulder again. The drive was just around the corner of the house. Bond turned to shoot a pursuer who had topped the wall behind them, then sprinted as quickly as he could to reach the gravel circular drive at the front.
Chaos reigned in front of the Duessler residence. Panicked guests were streaming from the front doors, and many of them were already in their vehicles. A huge Packard was pulling into the mouth of the circle, preparing to leave via the long drive to the street. Guards in tuxedos were emerging from the entry as well, but they seemed unwilling to shoot into the crowd. More guards were coming from the other side of the house, and some of them were piling into a pair of Fiats parked in front of the garage.
Bond threaded his way through the fleeing mob, which was swarming around the Packard and preventing it from leaving as quickly as the driver would prefer. The horn honked insistently. As Bond passed by the vehicle, he reached through the open driver’s window, grabbed the keys out of the ignition and kept going. The car died, blocking the exit from the circular drive, as Bond hustled to the Cadillac.
He dumped Weir into the passenger seat and ran around to the driver’s side. Guards were pushing the Packard out of the way, the Fiats’ headlights looming ominously behind it. Bond jumped into the car and started it. He looked over at Weir. Weir’s eyes were open and glazed.
The car pulled onto the drive and roared for the gate. There were two guards in front of it, securing it with a padlock. Bond thumbed the button that opened the compartment for the forward machine-gun toggles. He opened up on the guards, cutting them in half and then chewing away at the gate. The chain secured by the lock parted just as the car reached it, and the iron doors exploded outwards as the Cadillac fishtailed out into the street.
A neat bullethole materialized in the window just behind Bond’s ear. The Fiats were in hot pursuit. Bond revved the engine and shifted into high gear. The Cadillac roared like a lion as Bond flew down the curving, tree-lined boulevards of the fancy side of town.
Bond looked in his rear-view mirror. The Fiats were behind him. They didn’t have the kind of horsepower he had at his disposal, but the cars were lighter and nimbler. There were also two of them, and they had men hanging out the windows shooting machine-guns at him. To the best of his knowledge, Bond didn’t think the car had any rear-mounted weapons.
But it did have the blinding lights. Bond looked for a good opportunity to use them. The whistle of a train announced a possible chance. There was a crossing up ahead. At his current pace he would beat the train there.
Bond slowed down. He kept his head low, weaving the car as much as possible to make a difficult target. As the Fiats caught up, their shots began to tell; the glass of the rear and front windshields starred over multiple times.
Bond timed his approach of the tracks carefully, ensuring he arrived just ahead of the train. At the final bend before the crossing, he let the Fiats creep up on his back bumped and then triggered the rear lights. One million candlepower lit up the back fins, with parabolic mirrors directing the beams just behind the car. Just then Bond stepped on the gas, and the car leaped onto the tracks just ahead of the train.
One of the Fiats’ drivers swerved, running into a telephone pole rather than attempting the tracks. He was the lucky one. The other driver couldn’t react in time to change course; his car intersected the train and went under it, flattened in the wink of an eye by countless thousands of tons of rolling steel. Bond saw an explosion of sparks behind him but kept going.
The windows were now almost impossible to see through. Bond used his revolver butt to clear the glass out of the front windshield.
“Looks… looks better as a convertible anyway,” wheezed Weir. His breathing was forced and blood was running out of his nose, but his eyes had cleared.
“Hang in there, Weir,” said Bond. “Minutes from a hospital.”
“No hospital,” coughed Weir. “Too late. You heard them, Bond. Exchange tomorrow.”
“I heard them,” said Bond. “Prisoner swap. Zoeller gets the Nazi high command in exchange for gold.”
“Stop ‘em,” said Weir weakly. “Must.”
“Shut up, Weir,” said Bond. “I’ll call M and get backup.”
“No time,” said Weir. “You.” His eyes tried to focus on Bond.
“Still have the receiver?” he asked. Bond patted a bulge in his coat. Weir smiled.
“Good,” he whispered. “They don’t know… what we know.”
“That’s right,” said Bond. “They also think you’re dead.”
“I am dead,” said Weir. Bond looked over and saw he was right.
“Shit,” said Bond.