recognised first. The bluffness had disappeared, and was replaced by a pleading tone. ‘Surely you’ve done enough.’
‘We’ve managed well enough so far,’ another voice said. ‘You have been co-operative – to a point – Herr Direktor, but we cannot take chances. We shall leave only when Bond is secure and our people are far away. The situation is ideal for the shortwave transmitter; and your patients have not suffered. Another twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours will make little difference to you. Eventually we shall leave you in peace.’
‘
‘You wouldn’t . . .’ There was trembling terror in Kirchturn’s voice, not hysterical fear, but the genuine terror that strikes a man facing death by torture.
‘You’ve seen our faces, Herr Direktor. You know who we are.’
‘I would never . . .’
‘Don’t even think about it. You have one more message to pass for us when Bond gets to Paris. After that . . . Well, we shall see.’
Bond shivered. He had recognised a voice he would never have thought, in a thousand years, he would hear in this situation. He took a deep breath and slowly pulled, widening the crack between the windows. Then he moved the curtains a fraction to peer into the room.
Kirchtum was strapped into an old-fashioned desk chair with a circular seat, made of wood and leather, and with three legs on castors. The bookcase behind him had been swept clean and books replaced by a powerful radio transmitter. A broad-shouldered man sat in front of the radio, another stood behind Kirchtum’s chair, and the third, legs apart, faced the Direktor. Bond recognised him at once, just as he had known the voice.
He breathed in through his nose, lifted the ASP and lunged through the windows. There was no time for hesitation. What he had heard told him that the three men constituted the entire enemy force at the Klinik Mozart.
The ASP thumped four times, two bullets shattering the chest of the man behind Kirchtum’s chair, the other two plunging into the back of the radio operator. The third man whirled around, mouth open, hand moving to his hip.
‘Hold it there, Quinn! One move and your legs go – right?’
Steve Quinn, the Service’s man in Rome, stood rock still, his mouth curving into a snarl as Bond removed the pistol from inside his jacket.
‘Mr Bond? How . . . ?’ Kirchtum spoke in a hoarse whisper.
‘You’re finished, James. No matter what you do to me, you’re finished.’ Quinn had not quite regained his composure, but he made a good attempt.
‘Not quite,’ said Bond smiling, but without triumph. ‘Not quite yet, though I admit I was surprised to find you here. Who are you really working for, Quinn? SPECTRE?’
‘No.’ Quinn gave him the shadow of a smile. ‘Pure KGB First Chief Directorate, naturally – for years, and not even Tabby knows. Now on temporary detachment to Department Eight, your old sparring partner, SMERSH. Unlike you, James, I’ve always been a Mozart man. I prefer to dance to good music.’
‘Oh, you’ll dance.’ Bond’s expression betrayed the cold, cruel streak that was the darkest side of his nature.
11
HAWK’S WING AND MACABRE
James Bond was not prepared to waste time. He knew, to his cost, the dangers of keeping an enemy talking. It was a technique he had used to his own advantage before now, and Steve Quinn was quite capable of trying to play for time. Crisply, still keeping his distance, Bond ordered him to stand well away from the wall, spread his legs, stretch out his arms and lean forward, palms against the wall. Once in that position, he made Quinn shuffle his feet back even further so that he had no leverage for a quick attack.
Only then did Bond approach Quinn and frisk him with great care. There was a small Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special revolver tucked into the waistband of his trousers, at the small of his back. A tiny automatic pistol, an Austrian Steyr 6.35 mm was taped to the inside of his left calf, and a wicked little flick knife to the outside of his right ankle.
‘Haven’t seen one of these in years,’ said Bond as he tossed the Steyr on to the desk. ‘No grenades secreted up your backside, I trust.’ He did not smile. ‘You’re a damned walking arsenal, man. You should be careful. Terrorists might be tempted to break into you.’
‘In this game, I’ve always found it useful to keep a few tricks up my sleeve.’
As he spoke the last word, Steve Quinn let his body sag. He collapsed on to the floor and in the fraction of a second flip-rolled to the right, his arm reaching towards the table where the Steyr automatic lay.
‘Don’t try it!’ Bond snapped, taking aim with the ASP.
Quinn was not ready to die for the cause for which he had betrayed the Service. He froze, his hand still raised, like an overgrown child playing the old game of statues.
‘Face down! Spreadeagled!’ Bond ordered, looking around the room for something to secure his prisoner. Keeping the ASP levelled at Quinn, he sidled behind Kirchtum, and used his left hand to unbuckle the two short and two long straps obviously designed to restrain violent patients. As he moved he continued to snap orders at Quinn.
‘Face right down, eat the carpet, you bastard, and get your legs wider apart, arms in the crucifix position.’
Quinn obeyed, grunting obscenities. As the last buckle gave way, Kirchtum began to rub the circulation back into his arms and legs. His wrists were marked where the hard leather thongs had bitten into his flesh.
‘Stay seated,’ Bond whispered. ‘Don’t move. Give the circulation a chance.’
Taking the straps, he approached Quinn with his gun hand well back, knowing that a lashing foot could catch his wrist.
‘The slightest move and I’ll blow a hole in you so big that even the maggots will need maps. Understand?’
Quinn grunted and Bond kicked his legs together, viciously hitting his ankle with the steel-capped toe of his shoe so that he yelped with pain. While the agony was sweeping through him, Bond swiftly slid one of the straps around Quinn’s ankles, pulled hard and buckled the leather tightly.
‘Now the arms! Fingers laced behind your back!’
As though to make him understand, Bond knocked the right wrist with his foot. There was another cry of pain, but Quinn obeyed, and Bond secured his wrists with another strap.
‘This may be old-fashioned, but it’ll keep you quiet until we’ve made more permanent arrangements,’ Bond muttered as he buckled the two long straps together. He fastened one end of the elongated strap around Quinn’s ankles, then brought the rest up around his neck and back to the ankles. He pulled tightly, bringing the prisoner’s head up and forcing the legs towards his trunk. Indeed it was a method old and well tried. If the captive struggled he would strangle himself, for the straps were pulled so tightly that they made Quinn’s body into a bow, with the feet and neck as the outer edges. Even if he tried to relax his legs, the strap would pull hard on the neck.
Quinn let out a stream of obscene abuse, and Bond, enraged now at discovering an old friend to be a mole, kicked him hard in the ribs. He took out a handkerchief and stuffed it into Quinn’s mouth with a curt, ‘Shut up!’
For the first time Bond had a real chance to look around the room. It was furnished in solid nineteenth- century style – a heavy desk, the bookcases rising to the ceiling, the chairs with curved backs. Kirchtum still sat at the desk, his face pale, hands shaking. The big, expansive man had turned to terrified blubber.
Bond went over to the radio, stepping over the books that had been swept off the shelves. The radio operator was slumped in his chair, the blood dripping on to the carpet bright against the faded pattern. Bond pushed the body unceremoniously from the chair. He did not recognise the face, twisted in the surprised agony of death. The other corpse lay sprawled against the wall, as though he was a drunk collapsed at a party. Bond could not put a name to him, but had seen the photograph in the files – East German, a criminal with terrorist leanings. It was amazing, he thought, how many of Europe’s violent villains were turning into mercenaries for the terrorist
