experimenting with a white rose bearing blood-red tips on each petal. As far as he's aware, the person concerned has not actually pulled it off. He told me that one was exhibited at a show last year and it came very near to the perfection the grower is seeking. It was named Bleeding Heart, and he actually spoke to the grower who said she thought the perfect specimen would be ready in a year or two.
`Someone we know?' `Someone we're going to know. A widow, aged forty-one, by the name of Maeve Horton. Maeve Horton, the younger sister of David Dragonpol.
Maeve Horton who lives with her brother in his castle, Schloss Drache, on the banks of the Rhine.
Maeve Horton, sister to David Dragonpol who, if we believe that letter we found, was 'brother and dear dead lover' to Laura March.' `So we pay a call on David Dragonpol and his sister?' `You bet we do.' He worked the phones again for a couple of hours, first checking flights, making bookings and car reservations; then trying his many official contacts, winkling out a telephone number for Dragonpol at Schloss Drache. By midnight everything was in place.
On the Thursday morning, they flew to Bonn, took delivery of the rental BMW and began the long drive down the Rhine to Andernach where they spent the night, and part of Friday morning at the delightful Villa am Rhine. It was from their suite at this hotel that Bond used the telephone number which he was told would get him in touch with Dragonpol.
The telephone was answered by a woman who spoke fluent German with an atrocious British accent, so he launched straight into English.
`Mrs Horton? Is that Mrs Horton?' `Yes, who's this?' She had a low, very calm voice and sounded as though she was the kind of woman who expected bad news every time the telephone rang.
`You won't know me, Mrs Horton. My name's Bond. James Bond, and I really need to speak with your brother, Mr Dragonpol. Is he available?' She started to speak, then stopped and waited for a moment in silence. Bond had the impression she was not alone. Then: `What's it about, Mr Boned?' `Bond,' he corrected. `I'm a representative of a British government agency. I have my opposite number from Switzerland with me, and we really do have to speak with Mr Dragonpol if it's convenient. If not, we will wait, of course, but I personally feel it would be best to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.' He let the words sink in, and felt that she had probably put her hand over the receiver and was talking to someone else.
Then that familiar voice, known throughout the world, spoke into his ear. `Mr Bond? This is David Dragonpol.' The voice was unmistakable, and the man's face came straight to mind as soon as he spoke: calm, firm and with an authority you could feel even on the telephone.
`I'm very sorry to trouble you, sir, but this really is quite important.
`You're from a British government agency, my sister tells me, so hat means you want to talk to me about Laura... He left the end of the sentence unsaid, as though calculating that Bond would fill in the gaps. It was very theatrical.
`Yes, sir. It won't take long, I..
`I understand, yes. I suppose I've been waiting for someone to arrive on my doorstep. Can you come over today?' `This afternoon if that's convenient, Mr Dragonpol.
`Of course. Look, why don't you stay for the night? We can talk.
I'd welcome talking to someone else about this whole terrible business.
Have dinner with us, then, perhaps I can show you around Schloss Drache. If you have the slightest interest in the theatre or any of the performing arts, you're in for a very pleasant surprise.
`It's very kind of you, sir, but well, there are two of us. .
`Yourself and.. ?` `Fraulein von Grusse, from Switzerland. As I said to Mrs Horton, she's my opposite number, so to speak.' They made arrangements. Dragonpol gave him directions to follow what he considered the best route: `The most scenic route anyway, the most dramatic, for you first see Schloss Drache from above.
Now, they were looking at it, from a viewing area fenced off at the roadside with room for perhaps half a dozen cars. Together they leaned on the rails and took in the gorgeous view: the great river, its banks rising in irregular hills of stone and dark green fir trees.
`Aw heck,' Fredericka frowned. `I thought it would be all blue and gold like the one in Orlando.' `Or the one in California.' `Or even the one in Paris, France, now.
`Out of luck, Flick. I don't think Sleeping Beauty lives in this one.' Directly below them the huge rectangle of grey stone seemed to merge with the rock against which it stood. Originally, Bond thought, Schloss Drache was probably built around a large courtyard, but obviously this, at some time, had been roofed in with reddish-grey slate which rose from the stone walkways behind battlements some ten feet thick.
The windows indicated that the massive place was at least four storeys high. Huge rooms, Bond figured. In each corner, close to the battlements, a circular turret rose, hugging the wall. Even from this distance it was clear that the turrets could easily accommodate two, if not three, fair-sized rooms.
At the far north-west side of the main structure a chunky square tower rose, like an enlarged version of many of the Norman towers seen on English churches. The top of the tower was lined with battlements, and from there a man would be able to see, literally, for miles, in all directions.
From the viewing area it was also obvious that the first sight, which made the entire Schloss look as though it were growing from the rock, was not correct. Now, you could see clearly that a thick wall sprouted from the rear, enclosing what seemed to be a large garden set among the rocks.
They could see stone walkways, and paths, sudden flashes of colour, bushes, even trees and fountains landscaped into this unlikely setting.
`I wonder if that's where she grows the roses?' Fredericka was resting her head against his shoulder and he turned to kiss her lightly on the forehead, smelling the fresh scent of her hair. For a second his mind flashed away to other places, other times, and the distinctive scents of other women. Twice he had sworn never to get too involved again, for it always led to disaster. Yet Fredericka seemed different from the others. She demanded nothing of him, and gave only affection. Never once had either of them sworn undying love, or demanded commitment to any sort of lasting relationship. He gave her a squeeze and slowly they walked back to the car.
A kilometer or so along the road they came to a notice in German, Italian, Spanish, French and English. It told them `Private Road. To Schloss Drache Only. Unauthorized Persons Must Keep Out.' The slip road, a little further on, was also marked, and, taking it, they found themselves descending towards the river, down a narrow road which zigzagged perilously, then plunged into a dark thicket of pine trees, emerging alongside the river, then turning until the castle was lowering down on them. Its mountainous walls appeared to be leaning in against the sky that strange optical illusion made when clouds move as you look up at tall buildings.
`Makes you wonder how many people died when they put this place together.' Fredericka made no attempt to disguise her awe.
`Certainly puts the building of the pyramids to shame.' He eased the car forward. The road narrowed, leading to a small bridge which opened on to a stone turning circle directly in front of a pair of magnificent arched doors reaching up for something like thirty feet.
They were old, but their immense brass hinges and fitments gleamed as though they were polished regularly, and the doors themselves were also slick with some kind of wood preserver.
`I wonder how you attract attention. Is there a bell pull? Does Igor come shuffling out?' As Fredericka spoke, the doors began to move, swinging back to reveal an open courtyard.
`I think they already know we're here.' Bond took the car slowly through the gates and into the courtyard that contained two Range Rovers, a black Merc and a sleek Lexus. He pulled in beside the Lexus, the gates closed behind them, and he took a quick look at the surroundings. Three sides of this parking entrance looked like a classic monastic cloister, complete with arches and gargoyles. The wall facing them was cloistered, but split in two where a set of long stone steps ran up to another vast door: this one looking vaguely Victorian, complete with stained- glass panels.
As they climbed out, a butler, complete in tail coat, and two younger men in green livery, appeared from the doorway and descended on the car, opening the boot and removing luggage with the expertise of a pair of thieves.
