She paused, looking back over her right shoulder. `James, there are lots of better views where we're going.
Bond walked a little faster, and with more bounce to his step than he had felt for some time.
`Doubt it, but where are we going anyway?' He felt their shoulders touch, and the merest hint of mutual attraction sparking between them.
`Interlaken, of course. Where else?' The woman was a witch, moving their invisible emotions close together with speed.
`Then, as you say, we'd better get moving. Can we eat in Thun?' `Naturally.
`Oh, just one thing.' He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, feeling her flesh through the silk, like static on his fingers.
`Yes?' She turned, slowing to a halt.
`I hate to do this to you, Fredericka, but I need some ID. A man can't be too careful these days.' Once more the silver dust of her laugh spread around them. `Okay, James. I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours.
`Chance would be a fine thing.' He flipped open his wallet to reveal his service ID, beneath its little laminated shield, and Fredericka reached into a large leather shoulder bag, producing her own card. As she returned it, he caught a glimpse of an automatic pistol, snug in a holster built into the bag. He had been denied carrying a weapon into the country, and suddenly felt naked and vulnerable.
Within ten minutes, they were settled into her three-year-old white Porsche, which was in need of a wash, and heading out of Berne on route six, following the river Aare to Thun, the lovely old town which always reminded Bond of the Frankenstein story. If you stand in the small Town Hall Square the Rathausplatz in Thun, and look up beyond the Rathaus itself, you can see the great castle looming above you, and the whole view is reminiscent of every Frankenstein movie ever made.
She drove fast, but with. experienced skill, her shoes kicked off, stockinged feet dancing on the pedals, and her long, slim arm moving almost lazily over the gear shift. From the moment they left the airport parking area, she made it clear that they would not talk business.
`We're supposed to be an item,' she said, glancing at him, a delightful smile glowing from mouth and eyes. `That's what my people have decreed, and who am I to disobey them?' `Who indeed?' Bond clutched at the corner of his seat as she negotiated a long bend just a fraction too fast for his liking, but hanging into the turn, not allowing the car to drift. `By item, you mean lovers, I presume?' `Correct. We're to stay where she stayed, and my papers show that I've just flown in from London with you. You're a relative, aren't you?' `Distant cousin. Was that your people's idea?' `A joint decision with your Chief. Now, I'll tell you the rest over dinner. Oh, and don't worry, I won't hold you to the entire details of our cover.' `Why a cover at all?' `Later. Over dinner, I'll tell you.
Silence for half a kilometer, then, `You speak exceptional English.' Too late he realized how trite that sounded, and heard her laugh again.
`And we have been getting such good weather this August, yes?' She changed up as they reached a straight stretch of road, piling on a little speed. `I ought to speak good English, my mother came from Hastings, where your kIng Harold was taken by William the Conqueror.' `I know the story. Harold got an arrow in his retina.' `You know what one of the Norman archers said? 'That's one in the eye for Harold.'' Again, the laugh. `My father was Swiss, but I got my degree at Cambridge.' `What in, history?' `Modern languages. Why would you think...?' `History? Your exceptional grasp of the Battle of Hastings.
`Oh, I have an exceptional grasp of many things, James.' `I'd bet on it. You weren't up at Cambridge with the deceased by any chance?' `Later, James. I'll tell you everything later.' In less than an hour they were in Thun. They parked, then walked across to the old Falcon, an hotel in which Bond had spent many happy days years before. Less than fifteen minutes later they were seated in the restaurant, being fussed over and looking forward to dinner, for the Falcon has a reputation for good food.
For the first time since their meeting at the airport, Bond now had a real opportunity to study more than Fredericka von Grusse's body.
The laughing green eyes and Curly Simon mouth were her best assets, for, while her skin was clear and flawless, the rest of her face was long, her nose slightly crooked and her jaw a shade square.
Not beautiful by any standard, but interesting, replete with character.
She gazed contentedly at him across the table, making him aware that the eyes and mouth contained more than simply surface humour.
`So, Fredericka. You're ready to tell me a story?' `Some of it, yes.' She rolled a piece of smoked salmon on to her fork, popping it daintily between her lips. `You were right, of course. Part of the reason they've assigned me to this is because I was up at Cambridge with Laura March. 1 didn't know her well, but we attended the same lectures, had the same supervisor. After Cambridge I saw her occasionally after all we were both in the same business but I really didn't know her well.' `So why the cover? Lovebirds off on a spree. Us, I mean.' `She was murdered, James. That's fact. We all know that now, and in our line of work `We can't be too careful.' `Exactly. You have any idea why she was killed?' `Do you?' `I wouldn't have asked if I knew. We're completely in the dark, so, as you can imagine, there's a certain amount of panic. Have we got part of some terrorist cell operating on our turf? Did someone choose Switzerland as a killing field? I know it's paranoid, but we need information, and we're not getting it from her colleagues. That's one of the reasons we refused them the okay to come over and work the case.' `You know as much as I do.' Bond leaned back in his chair pushing his plate away, swallowing the last morsel of his salmon. `In fact you probably know more than I do. Her colleagues were about as chatty as a bunch of turtles. I saw her immediate superiors, with my Chief, and we both knew they were holding something back. You knew she worked the anti-terrorist beat?' `Of course, that's why we're nervous. Also, the method was odd and smacked of the old Bulgarian DS.' She was speaking of the Durzharna Sigurnost, the former Bulgarian intelligence and security service. The DS had once contained a ruthless death squad, which at one point had access to the highly secret laboratory run by the KGB's Operational and Technical Directorate. It was from liaison between the KGB's First Chief Directorate, the DS, and OTD, that plans were made for the secret killing of a number of Bulgarian emigre's, using exotic poisons like the feared ricin which was almost undetectable.
`Tell me about how she was killed.' He leaned forward as a waitress, plump and smiling, cleared their used plates and set down dishes of succulent lamb chops and roast those delicious potato cakes flavored with onion and cheese together with tomatoes stuffed with ground lamb's liver, mixed with herbs and spices.
Initially, Fredericka had asked Bond to order for both of them. `I never know what I want.' She had looked up at him, under flirting eyelids. Now she nodded and smiled as she began to serve him, and the waitress brought the Beaujolais, which Bond sipped, nodding his approval.
Only when they had started to eat, did Fredericka continue to talk.
`The method? I have the entire report with me.' Her eyes flicked in the direction of her shoulder bag which she kept near to her all the time, constantly allowing a hand to drift towards it, touching the leather as though anxious to reassure herself that it was there. `The weapon was undoubtedly a high-powered air rifle or pistol.
Maybe one of the type that uses a CO2 c,barge.
You know about the capsule in her neck?
Bond nodded. `What was in it?' She swallowed a piece of lamb, raising her eyes to heaven, signing that the meat was incredibly good. Even in the way she ate, Fredericka gave the impression of being a very sensuous woman. She was also fond of the tactile senses, reaching over to touch the back of Bond's hand with her fingertips, tracing her fingers across her own breast, then giving a short sigh. `We've been unusually lucky.
Our own people might've gone on looking for weeks. It just so happens that the cops in Berne are hosting three Japanese forensic specialists. They're over here for a year, examining European methods, and advising on some of their techniques. It was an off-the-cuff thing. They thought one of these men might be interested.
Unpronounceable name, but he spotted a couple of things, pointed them out, suggested the tests. In a word, the capsule contained tetrodoxin.' `As in blowfish?' `You've got it. They don't come more exotic than that.
`Remind me.' So, as they ate, Fredericka talked, at first almost casually, about tetrodoxin.
Tetrodoxin was the poison of choice of the ancient Japanese shadow warriors, the followers of Ninjitsu, the Ninjas. They would use it to anoint the now familiar shuriken throwing stars and for centuries one of the most secret arts of Ninjitsu was the method for preparing the deadly nerve poison.
During World War Two one of the legends of those who fought in the jungle, was the story of the silent night-killers who moved, hooded, like cats through dense foliage, reaching out to touch sentries, or sleeping soldiers, who would die of `snakebite'. Only later did military doctors realize the bite had been delivered from a
