On His Majesty's Secret Service (12)
Bond nailed the last of the lids back on the boxes and paused to catch his breath. He and Susan had been working for the better part of the morning. They had tidied up the mess in the storage area, concealing the bodies of Archie and his cohorts in a disused closet in another part of the building. They had anonymously called for the airbase mechanical crew to haul the wreckage of the tractors away (once Archie had been disposed of), and they had removed the remains of the roll-up door and boarded it over.
“I don’t get it,” Susan said as Bond carefully picked up the Monet painting and carried it to the same room where the bodies were hidden. “Why take away one thing?”
“Archie needs an excuse for his absence,” he explained. “When Zoeller comes back here, he’ll see the missing door and one missing painting, and he’ll assume that his servant got greedy, broke in, stole a valuable painting and slipped away. Zoeller won’t like it, but he won’t automatically abort whatever he’s doing either. And that’s what we need to ensure: that Zoeller sticks to his plan.”
Bond looked at his watch. “It’s close to noon,” he said. “Susan, you’ll have to do a little more work to earn your gold, because I can’t be in two places at once. I need you to put your eyes on the gold. Can you do that?”
“You mean my gold,” said Susan, “and yes. But how will I find it?”
“Zoeller spoke of a marina,” said Bond. “Any idea where that might be?”
“Sure, I know the place,” said Susan. “It’s on the Spree in the French zone. I’ve seen the sails from the air plenty of times. I guess Berliners like to sail boats on the river.”
“What I need you to do,” said Bond, “is go there and look for the biggest man you’ve ever seen. He’ll have a mask on his face. You find him, you’ll find the gold. But don’t let him see you.”
“Run down the masked man, find the gold - check,” said Susan. “What’re you going to do?”
“Well,” said Bond, “first I have to get my car out of the shop.”
The host and hostess of the hotel had been true to their word. The men at the auto shop had done a fine job of cutting the canopy away from the car, buffing down the metal stubs, and running a bead of black rubber over the ragged edges. The bullet-holes had been filled and the paint matched; it had even been polished to a high shine. The car probably wouldn’t stand up to a close inspection, but at a distance it looked like it was made to be a convertible.
Bond paid in cash and drove away. He set the receiver down on the front seat of the car and turned it on. Susan’s voice rang out loud and clear.
“…unbelievably stupid,” she said. “But I picked up a pair of binoculars, so that ought to help once this cab gets to the marina. Hey, I hope you’re picking all this up, or I’m going to feel like an idiot talking to myself all afternoon.”
Bond smiled to himself. It was a pity there was no way to communicate in both directions. This way, Bond could at least keep tabs on what Susan was doing while he himself went to locate the prisoner exchange.
But that was the problem, he thought while driving through Berlin’s busy workday streets. The Soviets could be bringing their prisoners to any one of the checkpoints along the boundary between the East and West sides of the city. He would have to check them all.
Still, Bond reasoned, there would have to be an orderly way this exchange would proceed. He was operating on the assumption that Zoeller had the gold, and the Soviets had the prisoners, and the two would be swapped. Surely the two sides would not trust each other, so they would confirm that each had what they wanted, and then they would make the exchange. Since the gold was supposedly at the marina, for instance, it seemed reasonable that upon some signal Zoeller would be floating the gold downriver into the Soviet zone.
But it was unlikely that the prisoner exchange would happen in the same place. Gold could be concealed but men would be harder, and crossing the border even by water would generate questions on the Allied side. No, the prisoners would be crossing by land, having been issued papers by the Soviets so they could pretend to be East Germans working on the West side.
Where would they cross? Bond thought it likely that Zoeller had not chosen Miss Duessler’s estate as his headquarters by accident. That placed the most probable crossing places on the American side of the West zone. Bond liked Heinrichstrasse the best of the options; it was the largest street and had the clearest view from multiple angles, ideal for Zoeller to ensure that the Soviets had kept their part of the bargain.
Bond drove to Heinrichstrasse. “James,” said Susan, “I think I’ve got something. There’s a good-sized yacht out here, at the end of a long private pier, and there’s armed guards on patrol. No way I can get out on that boat, but I’m looking at it from a good hiding place, and there’s an absolute monster of a man walking around on deck. He’s got a big furry hat, and he’s got a bandanna over his face like he’s a character out of a Tom Mix movie.”
Bond judged that the Soviets wouldn’t use the rail crossing. They’d have their men walk over the border. Trains were too confined; you wouldn’t be able to see anything from a distance. Bond parked the car two blocks from the crossing and walked to Heinrichstrasse. The crossing was busy, mostly foot traffic but a number of trucks went back and forth. The trucks were searched by the border guards; Bond figured the crossing wouldn’t happen that way either.
Several cars were parked in a plaza just south of the crossing. One of them was a Fiat, with the same dark coloration as the cars that had chased him the previous night. Bond frowned and took back streets to work his way closer to that vehicle.
“Okay, get this, James,” said Susan in a hushed voice. “A car just pulled up into the marina, a car with diplomatic plates. It’s got little Soviet flags flapping around on the hood. A guy just got out and went up to the private pier. He was let through, but his bodyguards weren’t.” Bond nodded to himself. The Soviets would want to inspect the gold. And they would probably have means to radio in if it checked out.
Bond determined the car was parked in front of a hotel. He found an alley that ran on the other side of the business and peeked in a kitchen door. The cooking staff was busy and inattentive. Bond took off his coat, put a towel over his arm, grabbed a tray and went out into the hotel lobby to bus tables.
Zoeller was there. He had been strategically positioned at a table by the large picture windows at the front of the hotel. From that point he had a commanding view of the crossing. Coffee and luncheon service was laid out in front of him, and a telephone was at his elbow. Zoeller was preoccupied with looking out the window. Miss Duessler sat opposite him, and two of Zoeller’s white-tuxedoed security detail hovered behind their chairs.
Bond picked up some perfectly clean glasses and retreated to a quiet corner where he could listen in on the receiver. “The boat’s cast off,” Susan reported. “They’re out in the water, heading towards the boundary. No, wait a minute; they’re backing water. They’re holding position this side of the boundary. James, dammit; they’re going to get away with my gold!”
Bond switched it off and returned to the lobby. Zoeller was at the only window that had a good view of the crossing. If he wanted to see what was going on, he would have to get closer. A waiter came out of the kitchen with a pot of coffee. Bond snatched it. “I’ll handle this; you had better get the gentleman’s toast before he gets any angrier!” Protesting, the waiter retreated, and Bond drifted near Zoeller’s table.
“More coffee, madame?” he asked softly. Miss Duessler didn’t look up. “No, no,” she said.
“Sir?” asked Bond, turning to Zoeller.
“A moment,” said Zoeller, peering out the window. Bond followed his gaze. On the far side of the boundary, a covered truck pulled up. Men got out of the back - men wearing ordinary hats and overcoats, dressed as simple men going to work at jobs in factories or workshops. Zoeller held opera-glasses to his eyes.
“There’s Richter… and Schtell,” he said to himself. “I count seven… no, eight. They are all there.” He had the appearance of somebody deeply satisfied.
Zoeller pocketed his opera glasses. Holding up his coffee cup with one hand, he picked up the phone with the other. As Bond poured, Zoeller dialed a number.
“It is satisfactory,” Zoeller said into the phone. “You may proceed.” He hung up and frowned.
“You idiot,” he said to Bond. “Why didn’t you put the cream in first?”
Miss Duessler looked at Bond then, and a tiny puzzled frown distorted her lovely face. “The driver?” she said.
There was an explosion from outside, violent enough to shake the windows. The boundary crossing was engulfed in smoke, and a truck that had been crossing at that moment had all the glass in its windows shattered. Sounds of panic and sirens bled into the hotel, but Bond noticed that Zoeller didn’t so much as flinch.
And then it hit him. Quickmatch wasn’t about Zoeller reuniting with his fellow Nazi officers. It was about exposing them in one place so he could kill them.
“I don’t get it,” Susan said as Bond carefully picked up the Monet painting and carried it to the same room where the bodies were hidden. “Why take away one thing?”
“Archie needs an excuse for his absence,” he explained. “When Zoeller comes back here, he’ll see the missing door and one missing painting, and he’ll assume that his servant got greedy, broke in, stole a valuable painting and slipped away. Zoeller won’t like it, but he won’t automatically abort whatever he’s doing either. And that’s what we need to ensure: that Zoeller sticks to his plan.”
Bond looked at his watch. “It’s close to noon,” he said. “Susan, you’ll have to do a little more work to earn your gold, because I can’t be in two places at once. I need you to put your eyes on the gold. Can you do that?”
“You mean my gold,” said Susan, “and yes. But how will I find it?”
“Zoeller spoke of a marina,” said Bond. “Any idea where that might be?”
“Sure, I know the place,” said Susan. “It’s on the Spree in the French zone. I’ve seen the sails from the air plenty of times. I guess Berliners like to sail boats on the river.”
“What I need you to do,” said Bond, “is go there and look for the biggest man you’ve ever seen. He’ll have a mask on his face. You find him, you’ll find the gold. But don’t let him see you.”
“Run down the masked man, find the gold - check,” said Susan. “What’re you going to do?”
“Well,” said Bond, “first I have to get my car out of the shop.”
The host and hostess of the hotel had been true to their word. The men at the auto shop had done a fine job of cutting the canopy away from the car, buffing down the metal stubs, and running a bead of black rubber over the ragged edges. The bullet-holes had been filled and the paint matched; it had even been polished to a high shine. The car probably wouldn’t stand up to a close inspection, but at a distance it looked like it was made to be a convertible.
Bond paid in cash and drove away. He set the receiver down on the front seat of the car and turned it on. Susan’s voice rang out loud and clear.
“…unbelievably stupid,” she said. “But I picked up a pair of binoculars, so that ought to help once this cab gets to the marina. Hey, I hope you’re picking all this up, or I’m going to feel like an idiot talking to myself all afternoon.”
Bond smiled to himself. It was a pity there was no way to communicate in both directions. This way, Bond could at least keep tabs on what Susan was doing while he himself went to locate the prisoner exchange.
But that was the problem, he thought while driving through Berlin’s busy workday streets. The Soviets could be bringing their prisoners to any one of the checkpoints along the boundary between the East and West sides of the city. He would have to check them all.
Still, Bond reasoned, there would have to be an orderly way this exchange would proceed. He was operating on the assumption that Zoeller had the gold, and the Soviets had the prisoners, and the two would be swapped. Surely the two sides would not trust each other, so they would confirm that each had what they wanted, and then they would make the exchange. Since the gold was supposedly at the marina, for instance, it seemed reasonable that upon some signal Zoeller would be floating the gold downriver into the Soviet zone.
But it was unlikely that the prisoner exchange would happen in the same place. Gold could be concealed but men would be harder, and crossing the border even by water would generate questions on the Allied side. No, the prisoners would be crossing by land, having been issued papers by the Soviets so they could pretend to be East Germans working on the West side.
Where would they cross? Bond thought it likely that Zoeller had not chosen Miss Duessler’s estate as his headquarters by accident. That placed the most probable crossing places on the American side of the West zone. Bond liked Heinrichstrasse the best of the options; it was the largest street and had the clearest view from multiple angles, ideal for Zoeller to ensure that the Soviets had kept their part of the bargain.
Bond drove to Heinrichstrasse. “James,” said Susan, “I think I’ve got something. There’s a good-sized yacht out here, at the end of a long private pier, and there’s armed guards on patrol. No way I can get out on that boat, but I’m looking at it from a good hiding place, and there’s an absolute monster of a man walking around on deck. He’s got a big furry hat, and he’s got a bandanna over his face like he’s a character out of a Tom Mix movie.”
Bond judged that the Soviets wouldn’t use the rail crossing. They’d have their men walk over the border. Trains were too confined; you wouldn’t be able to see anything from a distance. Bond parked the car two blocks from the crossing and walked to Heinrichstrasse. The crossing was busy, mostly foot traffic but a number of trucks went back and forth. The trucks were searched by the border guards; Bond figured the crossing wouldn’t happen that way either.
Several cars were parked in a plaza just south of the crossing. One of them was a Fiat, with the same dark coloration as the cars that had chased him the previous night. Bond frowned and took back streets to work his way closer to that vehicle.
“Okay, get this, James,” said Susan in a hushed voice. “A car just pulled up into the marina, a car with diplomatic plates. It’s got little Soviet flags flapping around on the hood. A guy just got out and went up to the private pier. He was let through, but his bodyguards weren’t.” Bond nodded to himself. The Soviets would want to inspect the gold. And they would probably have means to radio in if it checked out.
Bond determined the car was parked in front of a hotel. He found an alley that ran on the other side of the business and peeked in a kitchen door. The cooking staff was busy and inattentive. Bond took off his coat, put a towel over his arm, grabbed a tray and went out into the hotel lobby to bus tables.
Zoeller was there. He had been strategically positioned at a table by the large picture windows at the front of the hotel. From that point he had a commanding view of the crossing. Coffee and luncheon service was laid out in front of him, and a telephone was at his elbow. Zoeller was preoccupied with looking out the window. Miss Duessler sat opposite him, and two of Zoeller’s white-tuxedoed security detail hovered behind their chairs.
Bond picked up some perfectly clean glasses and retreated to a quiet corner where he could listen in on the receiver. “The boat’s cast off,” Susan reported. “They’re out in the water, heading towards the boundary. No, wait a minute; they’re backing water. They’re holding position this side of the boundary. James, dammit; they’re going to get away with my gold!”
Bond switched it off and returned to the lobby. Zoeller was at the only window that had a good view of the crossing. If he wanted to see what was going on, he would have to get closer. A waiter came out of the kitchen with a pot of coffee. Bond snatched it. “I’ll handle this; you had better get the gentleman’s toast before he gets any angrier!” Protesting, the waiter retreated, and Bond drifted near Zoeller’s table.
“More coffee, madame?” he asked softly. Miss Duessler didn’t look up. “No, no,” she said.
“Sir?” asked Bond, turning to Zoeller.
“A moment,” said Zoeller, peering out the window. Bond followed his gaze. On the far side of the boundary, a covered truck pulled up. Men got out of the back - men wearing ordinary hats and overcoats, dressed as simple men going to work at jobs in factories or workshops. Zoeller held opera-glasses to his eyes.
“There’s Richter… and Schtell,” he said to himself. “I count seven… no, eight. They are all there.” He had the appearance of somebody deeply satisfied.
Zoeller pocketed his opera glasses. Holding up his coffee cup with one hand, he picked up the phone with the other. As Bond poured, Zoeller dialed a number.
“It is satisfactory,” Zoeller said into the phone. “You may proceed.” He hung up and frowned.
“You idiot,” he said to Bond. “Why didn’t you put the cream in first?”
Miss Duessler looked at Bond then, and a tiny puzzled frown distorted her lovely face. “The driver?” she said.
There was an explosion from outside, violent enough to shake the windows. The boundary crossing was engulfed in smoke, and a truck that had been crossing at that moment had all the glass in its windows shattered. Sounds of panic and sirens bled into the hotel, but Bond noticed that Zoeller didn’t so much as flinch.
And then it hit him. Quickmatch wasn’t about Zoeller reuniting with his fellow Nazi officers. It was about exposing them in one place so he could kill them.