`And it was broken off?' `Yes.' `When?' `Two weeks ago. She had planned to go out to Schloss Drache for her leave in August. She actually told me they would be getting married in August. Apparently it was all arranged. Then, a couple of weeks ago she came into my office looking ill white, unsteady. It was a Friday afternoon and she said D. D. had called her. There was some drama and he was sending his private aircraft for her. On the Monday she came in and told me it was all over.
`She was in a state? Emotional?' `Yes. Very unhappy, but she gave the impression that the reason for the break-up was valid. She actually said to me, 'It's quite out of the question.
We can't marry. I just wish he'd told me ~~~~ `Told her what?' `I don't know. She said that she'd talk about it when she came back from her leave. Booked the Interlaken hotel at the last minute.
Said she didn't know if it was a good idea, because they'd been very happy there, but it would give her some kind of perspective.
`So she was never able to discuss the reason with you?' She shook her head, biting her lip, plainly upset.
When he looked at her again, Bond saw tears hovering in her eyes.
`She loved him so much James. It really was one of those great romances.
`Yet she took the break-up --- how can I say it?
Stoically?' `She said she understood, and that it was quite impossible. I mean, when she came into my office on the Friday, she looked sick-very sick with concern. When she came in on the Monday, she was together. It was as if she had been able to accept the break-up and knew the marriage would never have worked.' `That's it?' `That's all I know.
There was a long pause. Somewhere far away, down the corridor, somebody slammed a door.
`So, you're going to stay hidden away until your leave is up?' `Something like that. Gerald won't be too happy. He'll have lost his two most precious assets, and I know where a lot of the bodies are buried.
He won't let me go easily.' `You think you're in any kind of danger?' She shook her head, then laughed. `Gerald's a pompous idiot, but he's not that stupid. No, I don't think I'm in any physical danger.' `What about Laura? Did you ever think she was in physical danger?' `It's something we don't really think about.
Anyone in the Anti-terrorist Section could be in danger.' `But she knew things, knew of people...
`More than most. There was a period when she was working on the hostages business with the Americans. Trying to find out where people like Terry Waite were being kept. She was good, James, so certainly some of the terrorist organizations would know of her, though they might only know her as a cipher-a code name.
She was very careful. I told you: a real pro.
`So, if you were asked under oath, you would have to say that there was always a possibility?' `Of course. The same possibility that we all face.
No more, no less. There was no particular outfit that she was afraid of. That's all.' Bond grunted, and slowly got to his feet.
`Do you have to go?' There was a hint of begging in her voice, and her eyes had a pleading look. `I'm very much alone. I mean I could do with some company.' `I'm sorry. I must go. You've given me information that I have to follow up.' `Not even a 'thank you' cuddle?' He shook his head, reached out and gave her shoulder a comforting caress. `Maybe some other time, Carmel.
`That would be really nice.
Outside in the street, the day had turned into evening. Warm, with that wonderful pearly summer sky that you get over London on good August nights.
Back at the Regency house, off the King's Road, he found a police car, and a pair of uniformed officers waiting patiently. They told him there had been a fire. `Nothing serious, sir, but it looks like arson, and a break- in.
It was obvious that the cops had not been taken into the confidence of the Security Service. The lock had been mended, and the small entrance lobby was black with soot from the fire. The offending rubbish bin had been dusted for prints, and removed into the garden.
The bedroom window had been broken somehow.
He thanked the police and called a twenty-four-hour glazier who turned up at around eight-thirty. He had just finished with the window when the telephone rang for the first time. It was the red phone, his private and secure line with the office.
`Get anything interesting at Brown's?' M asked quietly.
`Quite a lot, sir. I'm following it up.
`Don't call me.' M sounded like a theatrical agent after an audition. `I'll contact you.' `Right, sir. I hope you've taken our sister service apart.' `It's being dealt with. I'll be in touch.' The house phone rang as he was about to go out and get some dinner at a nearby favourite restaurant. He answered warily.
`James, it's me.' Fredericka's voice was husky.
`Where are you?' `I've booked into the Inn on the Park. I said my husband would be joining me.
`And is he?' `I certainly hope you are. I'm registered as Mrs Van Warren.' `As in rabbit?' `The same.' `Right. Mr Van Warren will be with you in half an hour.' `Goodie. I have a tale to tell, James.
`Join the club.' `I can hardly wait.' He cradled the receiver and muttered, `The things I do for England.' Ten minutes later he stepped from the house carrying a small overnight case. It was almost ten o'clock, which meant that he missed the television news, and so knew nothing about the young woman found murdered, stabbed to death, in a third-floor room at the exclusive Brown's Hotel. Nor did he hear or see the slightly inaccurate description of himself which had been put out by the police as the last man to be seen with her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THIS IS HOW IT MUST END
`James, it's you, look at it!' Fredericka stood in the doorway of the bedroom holding the Daily Telegraph which had been delivered with breakfast.
She lifted the front page so that it faced Bond, who was lying back against the pillows. There were banner headlines: BEAUTY STABBED iN LONDON HOTEL. Below, the subheading read, Man sought by police.
Side by side were two photographs, one of a somewhat elaborate brunette next to a composite picture, produced by a photofit computer programme.
The composite bore more than a passing resemblance to James Bond.
*
*
*
On the previous night, Bond had found himself expected at the Inn on the Park. She had booked a suite which looked out across Hyde Park, not that he wanted to even glance at Hyde Park from the windows, for she met him at the door, a towelling robe loosely knotted at the waist, the knot parting as she stepped back to reveal that she was wearing the bare minimum underneath, with the accent on bare.
They finished saying hello about two hours later, after which he called room service and they sat across a small table eating smoked salmon and a huge chef's salad while he told her how things stood.
`The letter was certainly to David,' he swallowed, `but not to dear departed brother David. I suspect she never intended to send that letter. I believe it was a kind of private therapy.
Sometimes people deal with emotions by writing letters to a loved one now out of reach. I'd bet money that's what Laura March was doing.
`And the loved one was?' He told her. Inevitably her jaw dropped and she asked the familiar question, `Not the David Dragonpol?' `In the flesh.' `Ah.' She gave him a sloe-eyed, knowing look.
`We know of the famous Mr Dragonpol.
`Everyone knows of the famous Mr Dragonpol.
`I mean the royal 'we', as in my service knows of David Dragonpol.' `Really? Interesting?' `I use the term 'my service' loosely. I honestly don't know if I'm still a member of it. Like you, I'm on leave pending a Court of Inquiry. But, yes, I've seen the name come across various desks from time to time. He travels a lot.
`My information is that he stays holed up in a castle on the Rhine.' She nodded. `Schloss Drache, sure. He comes in via Germany, but he's been in and out like a jack rabbit you should pardon the simile over the last couple of years. A day here, two days there, a change of plans. Busy man, David Dragonpol what a crazy name, Dragonpol.' She ran it over her neat little pink tongue, then tried it again.
