your hands the whole time. My officer with the Uzi is a little nervous.’
Bond did as he was bid. The nearly deserted underground park felt cool and eerie, smelling of gasoline, rubber and oil.
The man with the machine pistol motioned to him to walk between the other cars to a small exit passage, and towards what appeared to be a brick wall. Osten made a slight movement, and Bond caught sight of a flat remote control in his left hand. Silently a door-sized section of the brickwork moved inwards and then slid to one side, revealing steel elevator doors. Somewhere in the car park an engine fired, throbbed and settled as a vehicle made its exit.
The elevator arrived with a brief sigh, and Bond was signalled to enter. The three men stood without speaking as the lift cage made its noiseless upward journey. The doors slid open and again Bond was ushered forward, this time into a passageway lined with modern prints. A second later they were in a large, luxurious apartment. The carpets were Turkish, the furnishings modern, in wood, steel, glass and expensive fabrics. On the walls were paintings and drawings by Piper, Sutherland, Bonnard, Gross and Hockney. From the enormous open- plan room, plate-glass windows led to a wide balcony. To the left, an archway revealed the dining area and kitchen. From lower arches ran two long passages with gleaming white doors on either side. A police officer stood in each of these as though on guard. Outside a floodlit Hohensalzburg could be seen before Osten ordered the curtains to be closed. Light blue velvet slid along soundless rails.
‘Nice little place you have for a police inspector,’ Bond said.
‘Ah, my friend. I wish it were mine. I have only borrowed it for this one evening.’
Bond nodded, trying to indicate this was obvious, if only because of the style and elegance. He turned to face the inspector, and began speaking rapidly. ‘Now, sir. I appreciate what you’ve told me, but you must know that our Embassy and the department I represent have already given instructions as to my safety, and received assurances from your own people. You say I have no right to demand anything, but you make a grave error there. In fact I have the right to demand everything.’
Der Haken looked at him glassy-eyed, then gave a loud chuckle. ‘If you were alive, Mr Bond. Yes, if you were still alive you would have the right, and I would have the duty to co-operate if I were also alive. Unhappily we are both dead men.’
Bond scowled, just beginning to appreciate what Osten intended.
‘The problem is actually yours,’ the policeman continued. ‘For you really are a dead man. I am merely lying – what is the phrase? Lying doggo?’
‘A little old-fashioned, but it’ll do.’
Osten smiled and glanced around him. ‘I shall be living in this kind of world very shortly. A good place for a ghost, yes?’
‘Enchanting. And what kind of place will I be haunting?’
Any trace of humanity disappeared from the policeman’s face. The muscles turned to hard rock, and the glassy stare broke and splintered. Even the apple cheeks seemed to lose colour and become sallow.
‘The grave, Mr Bond. You will be haunting the cold, cold grave. You will be nowhere. Nothing. It will be as though you had never existed.’ His small hand flicked up so that he could glance at his wrist watch, and he turned to the man with the Uzi, sharply ordering him to switch on the television. ‘The late news will be starting any moment. My death should already have been reported. Yours will be announced as probable – though it will be more than probable before dawn. Please sit down and watch. I think you’ll agree that my improvisation has been brilliant, for I only had a very short time to set things up.’
Bond slumped into a chair, half his mind on the chances of dealing with Osten and his accomplices, the other half working out what the policeman had planned and why.
There were commercials on the big colour screen. Attractive Austrian girls standing against mountain scenery told the world of the essential value of a sun barrier cream. A young man arrived hatless from the air, climbed from his light aircraft and said the view was
The news graphics filled the screen and a serious-faced brunette appeared. The lead story was about a shooting incident on the A12 autobahn. One car carrying tourists had been fired at and had crashed in flames. The pictures showed the wreckage of the silver Renault surrounded by police and ambulances. The young woman, now looking very grave, appeared again. The horror had been compounded by the death of five police officers in a freak accident as they sped from Salzburg to the scene of the shooting. One of the police cars had gone out of control and was hit broadside on by the other. Both cars had skidded into woodland and caught fire.
There were more pictures showing the remains of the two cars. Then Inspektor Heinrich Osten’s official photograph came up in black and white, and the newscaster said that Austria had lost one of her most efficient and long-serving officers. The inspector had been travelling in the second car and had died of multiple burns.
Next Bond saw his own photograph and the number plate of the Bentley Mulsanne Turbo. He was said to be a British diplomat, travelling on private business, probably with two unidentified young women. He was wanted for questioning regarding the original shooting incident. A statement from the Embassy said he had telephoned appealing for help, but they feared he might have been affected by stress and run amok. ‘He has been under great strain during the last few days,’ a bland Embassy spokesman told a television reporter. So, the Service and Foreign Office had decided to deny him. Well, that was standard. The car, diplomat and young women had disappeared and there were fears for their lives. The police would resume the search at daybreak, but the car could easily have gone off one of the mountain roads. The worst was feared.
Der Haken began to laugh. ‘You see how simple it all is, Mr Bond? When they find your car smashed to pieces at the bottom of a ravine sometime tomorrow, the search will be over. There will be three mutilated bodies inside.’
The full impact of the inspector’s plan had struck home.
‘Mine will be without its head, I presume?’ Bond asked calmly.
‘Naturally,’ Der Haken said with a scowl. ‘It seems you know what’s going on.’
‘I know that somehow you’ve managed to murder five of your colleagues . . .’
The tiny hand came up. ‘No! No! Not my colleagues, Mr Bond. Tramps, vagrants. Scum. Yes, we cleaned up some scum . . .’
‘With two extra police cars?’
‘With the two original police cars. The ones in the garage are fakes. I have kept a pair of white VWs with detachable police decals and plates for a long time, in case I should need them. The moment arrived suddenly.’
‘Yesterday?’
‘When I discovered the real reason for the kidnapping of your friends – and the reward. Yes, it was yesterday. I have ways and means of contacting people. Once I knew about the ransom demand I made enquiries and came up with . . .’
‘The Head Hunt.’
‘Precisely. You’re very well informed. The people offering the large prize gave me the impression that you were in the dark – that is correct, in the dark?’
‘For a late starter, Inspektor, you seem to be well organised,’ said Bond.
‘Ach! Organised!’ The polished cheeks blossomed with pride. ‘I have spent most of my life being ready to move at short notice – with ways, means, papers, friends, transport.’
Clearly the man was very sure of himself, as well he might be, with Bond captive in a building high above Salzburg, his own territory. He was also expansive.
‘I have always known the chance of real wealth and escape would come through something big like a blackmail or kidnap case. The petty criminals could never supply me with the kind of money I really need to be independent. If I was able to do a private deal, in, as I have said, a blackmail, or kidnap, case, then my last years were secure. But I never in my craziest dreams expected the riches that have come with you, Mr Bond.’ He beamed like a malicious child. ‘In my time here I have made sure that my team had the proper incentives. Now they have a great and always good reason for helping me. They’re not really uniformed men, of course. They are my detective squad. But they would die for me . . .’
‘Or for the money,’ Bond said coldly. ‘They might even dispose of you for the money.’
Der Haken laughed shortly. ‘You have to be up early in the morning to catch an old bird like me, Mr Bond.
