There was silence. Bond was not prepared to laugh at May’s or Moneypenny’s predicament.
‘So,’ the inspector became serious again. ‘I am pleased to meet you. My name is Osten. Heinrich Osten.’ His mouth opened in a grimace which revealed blackened teeth. ‘Some people like to call me by another name. Der Haken. I do not know why, but it sticks. Probably it is because I hook out criminals.’ He laughed again. ‘I think, perhaps, I might even have hooked you, Herr Bond. The two of us have much to talk about. A great deal. I think I shall ride in your motor so we can talk. The ladies can go in the other cars.’
‘No!’ said Nannie sharply.
‘Oh, but yes.’
Osten reached for the rear door and tugged it open. Already a uniformed man was half helping and half pulling Sukie from the passenger side. She and Nannie were dragged protesting and kicking to the other cars. Bond hoped Nannie had the sense not to reveal the .22. Then he realised how she would act. She would make a lot of noise, and in that way obtain legal freedom.
Osten gave his apple smile again. ‘We shall talk better without the chatter of women, I think. In any case, Herr Bond, you do not wish them to hear me charge you with being an accessory to kidnapping and possibly murder, do you?’
7
THE HOOK
Bond drove with exaggerated care. For one thing, the sinister man who now sat next to him appeared to he possessed of a latent insanity which could explode into life at the slightest provocation. Bond had felt the presence of evil many times in his life, but now it was as strong as he could ever recall. The grotesque Inspektor Osten smelled of something else, and it took time to identify the old-fashioned bay rum which he obviously used in large quantities on his thatch of hair. They were several kilometres along the road before the silence was broken.
‘Murder and kidnapping,’ Osten said quietly, almost to himself.
‘Blood sports,’ Bond answered placidly. The policeman gave a low, rumbling chuckle.
‘Blood sports is good, Mr Bond. Very good.’
‘And you’re going to charge me with them?’
‘I can have you for murder,’ Osten chuckled. ‘You and the two young women. How do you say in England? On toast, I can have you.’
‘I think you should check with your superiors before you try anything like that. In particular your own Department of Security and Intelligence.’
‘Those skulking, prying idiots have little jurisdiction over me, Mr Bond.’ Osten gave a short, contemptuous laugh.
‘You’re a law unto yourself, Inspektor?’
Osten sighed. Then, ‘In this instance I am the law, and that’s what matters. You have been concerned for two English ladies who have disappeared from a clinic . . .’
‘One is a Scottish lady, Inspektor.’
‘Whatever,’ he raised a tiny doll’s hand, the action at once dismissive and full of derision. ‘You are the only key, the linking factor in this small mystery; the man who knew both victims. It is natural, then, that I must question you – interrogate you – thoroughly regarding these disappearances . . .’
‘I’ve yet to learn the details myself. One of the ladies is my housekeeper . . .’
‘The younger one?’ The question was asked in a particularly unpleasant manner, and Bond replied with some asperity.
‘No, Inspektor, the elderly Scottish lady. She’s been with me for many years. The younger lady is a colleague. I think you should forget about interrogations until you hear from people of slightly higher status . . .’
‘There are other matters – bringing a firearm into the country, a public shoot-out resulting in three deaths and great danger to innocent people using the autobahn . . .’
‘With respect, the three men were trying to kill me and the two ladies who were in my car.’
Osten nodded, but with reservation. ‘We shall see. In Salzburg we shall see.’
Casually, the man they called the Hook leaned over, his long arm stabbing forward, like a reptile, the tiny hand moving deftly. The inspector was not only experienced, Bond thought: he also had a highly developed intuition. Within seconds, he had removed both the ASP and the baton from their holsters.
‘I am always uncomfortable with a man armed like this.’ The apple cheeks puffed out like a balloon into a red shiny smile.
‘If you look in my wallet, you’ll find that I have an international licence to carry the gun,’ Bond said, tightening his hands grimly on the wheel.
‘We shall see.’ Osten gave another sigh and repeated, ‘In Salzburg we shall see.’
It was late when they reached the city, and Osten began to direct him peremptorily – left here, then right and another right. Bond caught a glimpse of the River Salzach, and the bridges crossing it. Behind him the Hohensalzburg castle, once the stronghold of the prince-archbishops, stood floodlit on its great mass of Dolomite rock, above the old town and river.
They were heading for the new town, and Bond expected to be guided towards the police headquarters. Instead, he found himself driving through a maze of streets, past a pair of modern apartment blocks and down into an underground car park. The two other cars, which they had lost on the outskirts of the city, were waiting, neatly parked with a space between them for the Bentley. Sukie sat in one, Nannie in the other.
A sudden uneasiness put Bond’s senses on the alert. He had been assured by the Resident that the police were there to get him safely into Salzburg. Instead he was faced with a very unpleasant and probably corrupt policeman, and an apparently prearranged plan to bring them to a private building. He had no doubt that the car park belonged to an apartment block.
‘Lower my window.’ Osten spoke quietly.
One of the policemen had come over to Osten’s side of the Bentley, and another stood in front of the vehicle. The second man had a machine pistol tucked into his hip, the evil eye of the muzzle pointing directly at Bond.
Through the open window, Osten muttered a few sentences of command in German. His voice was pitched so low, and his odd high-piping Viennese German so rapid that Bond caught only a few words: ‘The women first’, then a mutter, ‘separate rooms . . . under guard at all times . . . until we have everything sorted out . . .’He ended with a question, which Bond did not catch at all. The answer, however, was clear.
‘You are to telephone him as soon as possible.’
Heinrich Osten nodded his oversized head repeatedly, like a toy in a rear car window. He told the uniformed man to carry on. The one with the machine pistol did not move.
‘We sit quietly for a few minutes.’ The head turned towards Bond, red cheeks puffed in a smile.
‘As you have only hinted at charges against me, I think I should be allowed to speak to my Embassy in Vienna.’ Bond clipped out the words, as though they were parade ground orders.
‘All in good time. There are formalities.’ Osten sat supremely calm, his hands folded as though in complete command of the situation.
‘Formalities? What formalities?’ Bond shouted. ‘People have rights. In particular, I am on an official assignment. I demand to . . .’
Osten gave the hint of a nod towards the policeman with the machine pistol. ‘You can demand nothing, Mr Bond. Surely you understand that. You are a stranger in a strange land. By the very fact that I am the representative of the law, and you have an Uzi trained on you, you have no rights.’
Bond watched Sukie and Nannie being hustled from the other cars. They were kept well apart from one another. Both looked frightened. Sukie did not even turn her head in the direction of the Bentley, but Nannie glanced towards him. In an instant the message was clear in her eyes. She was still armed and biding her time. A remarkably tough lady, he thought: tough and attractive in a clean-scrubbed kind of way.
The women disappeared from Bond’s line of vision, and a moment later Osten prodded him in the ribs with his own ASP.
‘Leave the keys in the car, Mr Bond. It has to be moved from here before the morning. Just get out, showing
