SPEEDLINE
Bond felt the gut-twist of impotent horror as he watched, peering through the goggles into the rising haze of snow. The crimson figure, twirling like a rag doll, disappeared into the fine white spray, while the few people near Tirpitz and Bond flattened themselves on the ground, as though under mortar fire. Brad Tirpitz, like Bond, remained upright. His only action was to grab back the binoculars and lift them to his eyes.
‘She’s there. Unconscious, I think.’ Tirpitz spoke like a spotter on the battlefield calling in an air strike, or ranging artillery. ‘Yes, face up, half buried in snow. About one hundred yards down from where it happened.’
Bond took back the glasses to look for himself. The snow was settling, and he could make out the figure quite clearly, spread-eagled in a drift.
Another voice came from behind them. ‘The hotel’s called the police and an ambulance. It’s not far, but no rescue team’s going to get up there quickly. The snow’s too soft. They’ll have to bring in a helicopter.’
Bond turned. Kolya Mosolov stood near them, also with raised binoculars.
In the few seconds following the explosion, Bond’s mind had gone into overdrive. Paula’s telephone call – if it was Paula – bore out most of what Rivke had said, hardening his earlier conclusions. Paula Vacker was certainly not what she had seemed. She had set up Bond at the apartment during the first visit to Helsinki. Somehow she knew about the night games with Rivke and had set her up as well. Even more, Paula had arranged this present ski slope incident with incredible timing. She knew where Bond had been; she knew where Rivke was; she knew what had been arranged. It could add up to one thing only: Paula had some kind of access to the four members of Icebreaker.
Bond pulled himself from his thoughts. ‘What do you reckon?’ He turned to Kolya for a second, before looking back up the slope.
‘I said. A helicopter. The centre of the run out is hard, but Rivke’s bogged-down in the soft snow. If we want action fast, it has to be a helicopter.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Bond snapped. What do youreckon happened?’
Kolya shrugged, under the layers of winter clothing. ‘Land mine, I guess. They still get them around here. From the Russo-Finnish Winter War, or World War Two. Even after all this time. They move, too – in early winter with the first blizzards. Yes, I’d guess a land mine.’
‘What if I told you I was warned?’
‘That’s right,’ Brad said, his binoculars still glued to the flash of red that was Rivke. ‘Bond had some kind of message. A phone call.’
Kolya seemed uninterested. ‘Ah, we’ll have to talk about it. But where the hell are the police and the helicopter?’
As if on cue, a police Saab Finlandia came skidding into the main hotel car park, pulling up a few paces short of where Kolya, Tirpitz, and Bond stood. Two officers got out. Kolya was immediately beside them, speaking Finnish like a native born. There was some uncharacteristic gesticulating, then Kolya turned back to Bond, muttering an obscene Russian oath. ‘They can’t get a chopper here for another half hour.’ He looked very angry. ‘And the rescue team’ll take as long.’
‘Then we have . . .’
Bond was cut short by Brad Tirpitz. ‘She’s moving. Conscious. Trying to get up. No, she’s down again. Legs, I think.’
Bond quickly asked Kolya if the police car carried such a thing as a loud-hailer. There was another fast exchange. Then Kolya shouted back to Bond, ‘Yes, they’ve got one.’
Bond was off, running as best he could over the frozen ground, his gloved hand unclipping a jacket pocket to reach for his car keys. ‘Get it ready,’ he shouted back. ‘I’ll bring her down myself. Get the loud-hailer ready.’
The locks on the Saab were well-oiled and treated with antifreeze, so Bond had no difficulty in opening up. He switched offthe alarm sensors, then went to the rear, pulling up the big hatchback, and removing a pair of toggle ropes and the large drum that was the Pains-Wessex Speedline. He locked up again, resetting the alarms, and hurried back to the foot of the ski run where one of the policemen – looking a little self-conscious – held a Graviner loud-hailer.
‘She’s sitting up. Waved once, and indicated she couldn’t move any more.’ Tirpitz passed on the information as Bond approached.
‘Right.’ Bond held out his hand and took the loud-hailer from the policeman, flicking the switch and raising it in Rivke’s direction. He was careful not to let the metal touch his lips.
‘If you can hear me, Rivke, raise one arm. This is James.’ The voice, magnified by the amplifier to a volume ten times that of his normal speech, echoed around them.
He saw the movement, and Tirpitz, with the binoculars up, reported it: ‘She’s lifted an arm.’
Bond checked that the loud-hailer was aimed directly towards Rivke. ‘I’m going to fire a line to you, Rivke. Don’t be scared. It’s propelled by a rocket that should pass quite close to you. Signify if you understand.’
Again the arm was raised.
‘When the line reaches you, do you think you can secure it around your body, under the arms?’
Another affirmative.
‘Do you think we could then slowly pull you down?’
Affirmative.
‘If this proves to be impossible, if you are in any pain as we drag you down, signify by raising both hands. Do you read me?’
Once more the affirmative sign.
‘All right.’ Bond turned back to the others, giving them directions.
The Pains-Wessex Speedline is a complete, self-contained, line-throwing unit which looks like a heavy cylinder with a carrying handle and trigger mechanism at the top. It is arguably the best line-throwing unit in the world. Bond removed the protective plastic covering at the front of the cylinder, exposing the rocket, well-shielded, in the centre, and the 275 metres of packed, ready-flaked line which took up the bulk of the space. He removed the free end of the line, instructing the others to make it fast around the Finlandia’s rear bumper, and placed himself almost directly below the crimson figure in the snow.
When the line was secure, Bond removed the safety pin at the rear of the carrying handle, then shifted his hand to the moulded grip behind the trigger guard. He dug the heels of his Mukluk boots into the snow and advanced four paces up the slope. The snow was soft and very deep to the right of the broad ski slope fall line – where it was packed rock hard and only negotiable with the aid of ice climbing equipment.
Four steps and Bond was sinking almost to his waist, but the position was reasonable for a good shot with the line – the far end of which trailed out behind him to the bumper of the Finlandia. Bracing himself, Bond held the cylinder away from his body, allowing it to find the correct point of balance. When he was certain the rocket would clear Rivke, he pressed the trigger.
There was a dull thud as the firing pin struck the igniter. Then, with spectacular speed and a plume of smoke, the rocket leaped into the clear air, its line threading out after it, seeming to gain speed as it went, a single-strand bow of rope curling high above the snow.
The rocket passed well clear of Rivke’s body, but right on course, taking the line directly above her, to land with a dull plop. For a second, the line appeared to hang in its arc, quivering in the still air. Then, with an almost controlled neatness, it began to fall – a long brown snake running from a point high above where Rivke lay.
Bond fought his way through the thick snow, back to the others, taking the loud-hailer from one of the policemen. ‘Raise your arm if you can pull the rope above you down to your body.’ Bond’s voice once more echoed off the slopes.
In spite of the freezing weather, several people had come out to watch. Others could be seen peering through the hotel windows. The sound of an ambulance’s klaxon was increasing as it approached.
‘Binoculars, please.’ Bond was commanding, not asking. Tirpitz handed over the glasses, and Bond adjusted the knurled wheel, bringing Rivke into sharp focus.
She appeared to be lying at an odd angle, waist deep in snow, though there were traces of cracked, hard snow and ice around the area in which she lay. From what little he could see of the girl’s face, Bond had the impression that she was in pain. Laboriously she hauled back on the line, pulling the far end towards her from above. The process seemed to take a very long time. Rivke – obviously in distress, and suffering from cold as well as pain – kept stopping to rest. The simple job of hauling the linedown had turned into a major battle. From his
