‘That’s right. Will do. I’ll run it through you, but termination, or near termination may be necessary. I’ll get back within the hour. Good.’ He put down the instrument. When he knelt again beside Quinn, the look in the man’s eyes had changed; hatred was now edged with anxiety.
‘It’s okay, Steve. Nobody’s going to hurt you. But, I’m afraid it could be different with Tabby. I’m sorry.’
There was no way that Quinn could even suspect a bluff, or double bluff. He had been in the Service for a long time himself, and was well aware that calling in a psycho – the Service name for their mercenary killers – was no idle threat. He knew the many ways his wife could suffer before she died. He had worked with Bond for years and was sure 007 would show no compunction in carrying out the threat.
Bond continued, ‘I gather there will be a call coming through. I’m going to strap you into the chair in front of the radio. Make the responses fast. Get off the air quickly. Feign bad transmission if you have to. But, Steve, don’t do anything out of line – no missing out words or putting in “alert” sentences. I’ll be able to tell, as you know. Just as you’d be able to detect a dodgy response. If you do make a wrong move, you’ll wake up in Warminster to a long interrogation and a longer time in jail. You’ll also be shown photographs of what they did to Tabby before she died. That I promise you. Now . . .’
He manhandled Quinn into the radio operator’s chair, and adjusted the straps from the strangulation position, binding him tightly into the chair. He felt confident, for the fight appeared to have gone out of Steve Quinn. But you could never tell. The defector might well be so indoctrinated that he could bring himself to sacrifice his wife.
At last he asked if Quinn was willing to play it straight. The big man just nodded his head sullenly, and Bond pulled the gag from his mouth.
‘You bastard!’ Quinn said in a hoarse, breathless voice.
‘It can happen to the best of us, Steve. Just do as you’re told and there’s a chance that both of you will live.’
As he was speaking, the transmitter hummed and crackled into life. Bond’s hand went out to the receive and send switch, set to Receive. A disembodied voice recited the code:
‘Hawk’s Wing to Macabre. Hawk’s Wing to Macabre. Come in Macabre.’
Bond nodded to Quinn, clicked the switch to Send, and for the first time in years prayed.
12
ENGLAND EXPECTS
‘Macabre, Hawk’s Wing, I have you. Over.’
Steve Quinn’s voice sounded too steady for Bond’s liking, but he had to let him go through with it. The voice at the distant end crackled through the small speakers.
‘Hawk’s Wing, Macabre, routine check. Report situation. Over.’
Quinn paused for a second, and Bond allowed the muzzle of the ASP to touch him behind the ear.
‘Situation normal. We await developments. Over.’
‘Call back when package is on its way. Over.’
‘Wilco, Hawk’s Wing. Over and out.’
There was silence for a moment as the switch was clicked to the Receive position again. Then Bond turned to Kirchtum, asking if it all sounded normal.
‘It was usual,’ he said with a nod.
‘Right, Herr Doktor. Now you come into your own. Can you get something that will put this bastard to sleep for around four or five hours, and make him wake up feeling reasonable – no slurred speech or anything?’
‘I have just the thing.’
For the first time, Kirchtum smiled, easing his body painfully from the chair and hobbling towards the door. Half-way there he realised that he was wearing no shoes or socks and limped back to retrieve them. He put them on and slowly left the room.
‘If you have by any chance alerted Hawk’s Wing, you know that Tabby won’t last long once we’ve found you out. You do everything by the book, Quinn, and I’ll do my best for you as well. But the first person to be concerned about is your wife. Right?’
Quinn glared at him with the hatred of a traitor who knows he’s cornered.
‘This applies to your information as well. I want straight answers, and I want them now.’
‘I might not have the answers.’
‘You just tell me what you know. We’ll know truth from fiction in the long run.’
Quinn did not reply.
‘First, what’s going to happen in Paris? At the George Cinq?’
‘Our people are going for you. At the hotel.’
‘But you could have got me here. Enough people have tried already.’
‘Not my people. Not KGB. We banked on you coming down here after May and Moneypenny. Yes, we organised the kidnap. The idea was for us to take you on from here. Getting you to Salzburg was like putting you into a funnel.’
‘Then it wasn’t your people who had a go in the car?’
‘No. One of the competition. They took out the Service people. None of my doing. You seem to have had a guardian angel all the way. The two men I put on to you were from the Rome Station. I was to burn them once they saw you safely into Salzburg.’
‘And send me on to Paris?’
‘Yes, blast you. If it were anyone else but Tabby, I’d . . .’
‘But it is Tabby we’re thinking about.’ Bond paused. ‘Paris? Why Paris?’
Quinn stared steadily into Bond’s eyes. The man did know something more. ‘Why Paris? Remember Tabby.’
‘The rules are it’s to be Berlin, Paris or London. They want your head, Bond, but they want to see it done. We were out to claim the reward and just taking your head wasn’t enough. My instructions were to get you to Paris. The people there have orders to pick you up, and . . .’
He stopped, as though he’d already said enough.
‘And deliver the package?’
There was fifteen seconds’ silence.
‘Yes.’
‘Deliver it where?’
‘To the Man.’
‘Tamil Rahani? The head of SPECTRE?’
‘Yes.’
‘Deliver it where?’ Bond repeated.
No response.
‘Remember Tabby, Quinn. I’ll see Tabby suffers great pain before she dies. Then they’ll come for you. Where am I to be delivered?’
The silence stretched for what seemed to be minutes.
‘Florida.’
‘Where in Florida? Big place, Florida. Where? Disney World?’
Quinn looked away. ‘The most southern tip of the United States,’ he said.
‘Ah.’ Bond nodded.
The Florida Keys, he thought. Those linked islands that stretch 150 kilometres out into the ocean. Bahai Honda Key, Big Pine Key, Cudjoe Key, Boca Chica Key – the names of the most famous ones flicked through his mind. But, the southernmost tip – well, that was Key West, once the home of Ernest Hemingway, a narcotics route, a tourist paradise, with a sprinkling of islands outside the reef. Ideal, thought Bond. Key West – who would have imagined SPECTRE setting up its headquarters there?
‘Key West,’ he said aloud, and Quinn gave a small, ashamed nod. ‘Paris, London or Berlin. They could have included Rome and other major cities. Anywhere they could get me on to a direct Miami flight, eh?’
‘I suppose so.’
