‘Parachutes?’ Bond suggested.
For the first time, the nurse lost her brightness. ‘You will both be given a meal before we leave. Until then, I have other work to do.’ The door shut, and they heard the click of a key turning in the lock from the outside.
‘That’s it, then,’ said Rivke. ‘If you’d ever thought about it, dear James, there’ll be no cottage for us, with roses around the door.’
‘I had thought about it, Rivke. I never give up hope.’
‘Knowing my father, he’ll like as not drop us off at 20,000 feet.’
Bond grunted. ‘Hence the nurse’s reaction when I mentioned parachutes.’
‘Shhhh.’ Rivke made a sharp noise. ‘There’s someone in the passage. Outside the door.’
Bond looked towards her. He had heard nothing, but Rivke suddenly appeared alert, if not edgy. Bond moved – surprised that his limbs worked with such ease and speed. Indeed, the action seemed to produce a new and sudden alertness in him. The dopy feeling left him and now Bond cursed himself again, for he realised he’d broken another elementary rule by blabbing his head off to Rivke without making even a rudimentary surveillance check.
Bond sprinted, unembarrassed by his nudity, to the table in the corner, grabbed a glass and returned as quickly to the bed. Whispering, he told Rivke, ‘I can always smash it. Surprising how effective broken glass can be on flesh.’
She nodded, her head cocked, listening. Still Bond heard nothing. Then, with a speed and suddenness that took even Bond unawares, the door shot open and Paula Vacker was in the room.
She moved silently – as Bond’s housekeeper May would have said, ‘like greased lightning’. Before either Rivke or Bond could react, Paula had snaked between the two beds. Bond caught a glimpse of his own P7 automatic raised twice and heard the tinkle of glass as Paula put the bedhead lights out of action with two quick butt strokes from the gun.
‘What . . . ?’ Bond began, realising that this made little difference to the lighting, as most of the illumination came from the ceiling strip light.
‘Just keep quiet,’ Paula advised him, the P7 circling the two beds as she moved back towards the door, crouched, pulled a bundle into the room, then closed the door again, locking it behind her. ‘The electronics, James, were inside the bedhead light bulbs. Every word – all your conversation with sweet little Rivke here – has now been relayed to Count von Gloda.’
‘But . . . ?’
‘Enough.’ The P7 was pointed at Rivke not Bond. With her foot, Paula pushed the bundle towards Bond’s bed. Get into those. You’re going to become an officer in the Fuhrer’s army for a while.’
Bond got up and undid the bundle. There was thermal underwear, stockings, a heavy rollneck and a field grey winter uniform, smock and trousers; boots, gloves, and a uniform fur hat. Quickly he started to dress. ‘What’s all this about, Paula?’
‘I’ll explain when there’s time,’ she snapped back. ‘Just get on with what you’re doing. We’re going to cut it fine in any case. Kolya’s taken a run for it, so there’s only the two of us now. Partners in crime, James. At least we’re going to get out.’
Bond was already nearly dressed. He moved to the door side of his bed. ‘What about Rivke?’
‘What
‘We can’t get her out. Whose side are you on anyway?’
‘Surprisingly enough, yours, James. More than can be said for the Fuhrer’s daughter.’
As she said it, Rivke moved. Paula stepped back and Bond saw a kind of blur as, with alarming ease, Rivke slid her legs from the plaster casts, swivelled sideways, and swung off the bed, one hand clasped around the butt of a small pistol. There was not a single mark on her body, and the supposed broken legs worked like those of an athlete. Paula swore, shouting at Rivke to drop the gun.
Bond, still getting into the last pieces of clothing, saw the whole thing in a kind of slow motion: Rivke, dressed only in a pair of briefs, with the gun arm rising as her feet hit the floor; Paula’s arms extending into the full- length firing position; Rivke still moving forward, then the one loud echoing blast from the P7; a cloud of gunsmoke making swirling patterns; Rivke’s face disintegrating in a fine mist of blood and bone, as her body, looped backwards by the blast, arced away from them over the bed.
Then the smell of the burned powder.
Paula swore again. ‘Last thing I wanted. The noise.’
For one of the few times in his life, James Bond felt out of control. He had already recognised the beginning of emotional feelings towards Rivke. He knew of Paula’s treachery. Now balanced on the balls of his feet, Bond prepared to make a last, desperate attempt: a leap towards Paula’s gun arm. But shemerely tossed the P7 towards him, making a grab for Rivke’s small pistol.
‘You’d better take that, James. May need it. We could be lucky. I stole the nurse’s key, and sent her off on some fool’s job. There’s nobody in this wing, so the shot may not have been heard. But we’re going to need wings on our heels.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bond said, suspecting the truth even as he spoke.
‘I’ll tell you the whole thing later, but can’t you understand? You didn’t give them anything under torture, so they rigged you up with Rivke. You spilled it all to his daughter because you trusted her. She’s Daddy’s little helper, always has been. From what I understand she hoped to be the first woman Fuhrer, in due course. Now, will you come on? I’ve got to try and get you out of here. Partners in crime – like I said.’
17
A DEAL IS A DEAL
Paula wore a heavy, well-cut officer’s greatcoat over the uniform Bond had last seen her in. The boots were visible under the coat, and to crown the effect she had added a military fur hat.
Bond glanced towards the bed that had lately contained Rivke. The plaster leg casts were obviously hollow frauds, bearing out Paula’s accusations. He was nauseated by the sight of the wall behind, spattered, like some surrealist painting, with blood and tissue. You could still smell Rivke in the room.
He turned away, picking up the officer’s fur hat, which Paula had provided for him. Throughout Operation Icebreaker, allegiances seemed to have swerved to and fro in a series of knife-edge uncertainties. He still couldn’t be sure of Paula’s true intentions, but at least she seemed serious about getting him away from the bunker. This meant putting distance between himself and von Gloda, which was a most appealing prospect.
‘As far as the guards are concerned, I’m acting on the Fuhrer’s orders,’ Paula said. ‘There’s a standard pass for each of us.’ She handed over a small square of white plastic, like a credit card. ‘We don’t go anywhere near the main workshops or the arms stores. Just keep your head well down in case we run into anyone who’s seen you before, and stay close to me. Let me do the talking as well, James. The exit is through the small bunker, and the chances are well above average. They’re running around in one hell of a flap since von Gloda gave the movement orders –
‘About that; I . . .’ Bond began.
‘About nothing.’ Paula spoke sharply. ‘All in good time. Just trust me, for once. Like you, I’m not in this for fun.’ Her gloved hand rested on his arm for a second. ‘Believe me, James, they caught you by using that girl, and I had no way to warn you. The oldest trick in the book as well. Shove a prisoner in with someone he trusts, then listen to the conversation.’ She laughed again. ‘I was with von Gloda when they brought the tapes. He leaped about ten metres into the air. Idiot – he was so sure that, because you’d survived his torture without saying anything, there was nothing for him to worry about. Now, James, stay close to me.’
Paula unlocked the door, and they stepped out into the passageway, pausing for a second while she relocked the door from the outside. The passage was empty, lined with white tiles – sterile with a hint of disinfectant in the air. Other small hospital wards led off to the left and right, and at the end of the passage – which lay to their left – was a metal door. If nothing else, von Gloda was well-organised.
Paula led the way forward towards the metal door. ‘Keep the gun out of sight, but ready for Custer’s last stand,’ she warned him. ‘If we get into a shootout, the chances are not so brilliant.’ Her own hand was thrust deep into her right pocket, where she had placed Rivke’s pistol.
The corridor, on the far side of the hospital wing, was well-decorated – the hessian covering, with some
