‘You’re certain of this?’ Bond refused to show anything but nonchalant calm.
‘Sure as night follows day – which is pretty fast around here . . .’ Tirpitz stopped abruptly as he looked across the dining room, his gaze resting on the couple who had come in to such an enthusiastic welcome.
‘Well, what do you know?’ The corners of Tirpitz’s mouth turned down even further. ‘Take a look, Bond. That’s the man himself. The Count Konrad von Gloda, and his lady, known simply as the Countess.’ He gulped some coffee. ‘I said it was an apt name. In Swedish, Gloda means Glow. At Langley we gave him the cryptonym Glow- worm. He glows with gold from old Nazi pickings, and all he must be raking in now as Commander of the NSAA; and he’s also a worm. I am personally going to bottle that specimen.’
The couple certainly looked distinguished. Bond had seen the heavy and expensive fur coats borne away when they had arrived. Now they even sat as though they owned Lapland, looking almost like a Renaissance prince and his lady.
Konrad von Gloda was tall and well-muscled. He held himself straight as a lath. He was also one of those men whom age does not weary. He could be an old-looking fifty or a very young seventy, for it was impossible to calculate the age of a man whose face and bone structure were so fine and bronzed. He sported a full head of iron-grey hair, and as he talked to the Countess he leaned back in his chair, using one hand for gestures while the other was draped over the chair arm. The brown face, glowing with health, had about it an animation which would not have been out of place in that of a thrusting young executive, and there was no doubt, from the glittering grey eyes to the aristrocratic sharp chin and arrogant tilt of the head, that this was a man to be reckoned with. Glow was the word.
‘Star quality?’ Tirpitz whispered.
Bond gave a small nod. You had only to see the man to know he possessed that sought-for quality: charisma.
The Countess also carried herself with the air of one who had the means, and ability, to buy or take anything she wanted. She was, despite the impossibility of guessing the Count’s age, obviously much younger than her partner. She too had the look of a person who prized her body and its physical condition. She gave the impression of one to whom all sport, and exercise, came as second nature. Bond observed the woman’s smooth-skinned beauty, the svelte grooming of her dark hair, and the classic features and reflected that this would certainly include the oldest of indoor sports.
Bond was still covertly watching the couple when a waiter came hurrying over to the table. ‘Mr Bond?’ he asked.
Bond nodded.
‘There’s a telephone call for you, sir. In the box by the reception desk. A Miss Paula Vacker wishes to speak to you.’
Bond was on his feet quickly, catching the slightly quizzical look in Brad Tirpitz’s eye.
‘Problems?’ Tirpitz’s voice appeared to have softened, but Bond refused to react. ‘Bad’ Brad, he decided, should be treated with a caution reserved for rattlesnakes.
‘Just a call from Helsinki.’ He began to move, inwardly bewildered that Paula could have found him here.
As he passed the von Glodas’ table, Bond allowed himself a straight, seemingly disinterested, glance at the couple. The Count himself raised his head, catching Bond’s eye. The look was one of near tangible malice: a hatred which Bond could feel long after he had passed the table, as though the Count’s glittering grey eyes were boring into the back of his head.
The receptionist indicated a small, half-open booth containing a telephone. Bond was there in two strides, lifting the receiver and speaking immediately.
‘Paula?’
‘One moment,’ from the operator. There was a click on the line, and the sense that someone was on the other end.
‘Paula?’ he repeated.
If questioned then, Bond could not have sworn on oath that it was Paula’s voice, though he would have claimed a 90 per cent certainty. Unusually for the Finnish telephone system, the line was not good, the voice seeming hollow, as though from an echo chamber.
‘James,’ the voice said. ‘Any minute now, I should imagine. Say goodbye to Anni.’ There followed a long and eerie laugh, which trailed away, as though Paula were deliberately moving the receiver from her lips, then slowly returning it to its cradle.
Bond’s brow creased, a concern building quickly inside him. ‘Paula? Is that you . . . ?’ He stopped, knowing there was no point in talking into a dead instrument. Say goodbye to Anni . . . What on earth? Then it struck him. Rivke was on the ski run. Or maybe she hadn’t even reached it. Bond raced for the main doors of the hotel.
His hand was already outstretched when a voice behind him snapped, ‘Don’t even think of it, Bond. Not dressed like that.’ Brad Tirpitz was at his shoulder. ‘You’d last less than five minutes out there. It’s well below freezing.’
‘Get me some gear, and fast, Brad.’
‘Get your own. What in hell’s the matter?’ Tirpitz took a step towards the cloakroom near Reception.
‘I’ll explain later. Rivke’s out on the ski run, and I’ve a hunch she’s in danger.’ It crossed his mind that Rivke Ingber might not, after all, be on the slopes. Paula had said, ‘Any minute now, I should imagine,’ Whatever was planned could have already happened.
Tirpitz was back, his own outdoor clothes grasped in his arms – boots, scarf, goggles, gloves and padded jacket. ‘Just tell me’, the voice commanding, ‘and I’ll do what I can. Go get your own stuff. I always play safe and keep the winter gear close at hand.’ Already he was kicking off his shoes and pulling boots on. There was obviously no arguing with Tirpitz.
Bond turned towards the row of lifts. ‘If Rivke’s on the slopes, just get her down fast, and in one piece,’ he shouted, banging at the button. On reaching his room, Bond took less than three minutes to get into outdoor clothes. As he made the change, he glanced constantly out of the window, towards the chair lift and ski slopes. Everything appeared normal, as it did when he finally reached the bottom of the chair lift outside, just six minutes after leaving Reception.
Most people had already made their way back into the hotel: the best time for skiing was over. Bond recognised the figure of Brad Tirpitz standing near the hut at the bottom of the lift, with a couple of others.
‘Well?’ Bond asked.
‘I got them to telephone the top. Her name’s on the list. She’s on her way down now. She’s wearing a crimson ski suit. Give me the full dope on this, Bond. Is it to do with the op?’
‘Later.’ Bond craned, narrowing his eyes behind the goggles, searching the upward sheen of snow for a sight of Rivke.
The shallow mountain ridge formed a series of steps, covering some one and a half kilometres. The top of the run was hidden from view, but the marked piste was curving and intricate: sliding between fir trees at points, some of it so gentle that it appeared almost flat, while there were sections, following easy downhill runs, that steepened to awesome angles.
The last half kilometre was a nursery slope, no more than a long, straight, gentle run out. Two young men, in black ski suits with white striped woollen hats, were expertly completing what had obviously been a fast run down from the top. They executed showy finishes on the run out, laughing and making a lot of noise.
‘Here she comes.’ Brad handed over his binoculars, with which he had been scanning the top of the final fall line. ‘Crimson suit.’
Bond raised the glasses. Rivke was obviously very good, side-slipping and traversing the steep slope, coming out of it into a straight run, slowing as the snow flattened, then gathering a little speed as she breasted the rise and began to follow the fall line down the long final slope. She had just touched the run out, less than half a kilometre away from them, when the snow seemed to boil on either side of her, and a great white mist rose behind. In the centre of the blossom of fine snow, a sudden fire – red, then white – flashed upwards.
The sound of the muffled crump reached them a second after Bond saw Rivke’s body turning over in mid air, thrown up with the exploding snow.
9
