By Royal Command (2 page)

At last the man came near. She could smell garlic and alcohol on his breath, never a pleasant combination. Closer and closer he came, the gun pointing at her head. She would have to act quickly and decisively. He would not make the same mistake twice and a headshot would be fatal.

The man’s head blocked out the light. She could hear his breathing.

Now it was time.

She punched both hands forward. One knocked the man’s gun to the side, the other powered into his face like a steam-hammer, shattering his lower jaw. The force jerked his head back and to one side, snapping his neck. He was dead before he realised his mistake.

Sedova grunted. She had not meant to kill him. The man was weaker than she had calculated, but when your life is at stake you do not take risks.

She stood up and dusted herself down. Her stomach felt bruised and painful; one of the slugs had penetrated the corset and was pressing into her ribs. She plucked it out with her immensely strong fingers and slipped it into her pocket. She soon found the other two bullets, then picked up the gun and wrapped it in a handkerchief.

It was a shame. The cell had been compromised and would need to be wound up. She would have liked to interrogate the man. Find out who he really was and what had happened to Ferreira. And what he had meant when he’d said that she was too late.

Too late for what?

She took the slip of paper from her pocket and looked at it again, making sure she hadn’t misread the name written on it.

She hadn’t. The two words were perfectly clear.

James Bond.

What did it mean?

She would find out, but it would mean a lot of hard work. She would have to search the place from top to bottom, tediously trawl through the man’s papers and try to find out what was going on.

She prodded the man with her foot and cursed him.

The life of a spy consisted of long periods of boredom punctuated by brief intense moments of fear and death.

The rest was all just tractors and paperwork.

2

It is Only When We Are Close to Death That We Feel Fully Alive

Graf von Schlick pressed his foot down and felt the Bugatti Type 55 Supersport surge hungrily forward. These winding Alpine roads really tested her to the limit. Tested him as well – a moment’s loss of concentration and they would go spinning out of control and down the side of the mountain. Liesl at his side gave a little shriek as the wheels hit an icy patch and the car slalomed drunkenly across the road surface.

Von Schlick laughed.

‘Don’t you trust me, my darling?’ he yelled as she clasped his arm.

‘You are trying to scare me, Otto.’

‘On the contrary! I am trying to wake you up. It is only when we are close to death that we feel fully alive.’

Liesl wasn’t sure about this. She felt most fully alive eating chocolate in a nice hot bath while her gramophone played something smooth by the latest American jazz crooner.

The car slithered round a hairpin bend and they continued their descent between high banks of clean white snow.

‘So what did you make of my little cottage?’ von Schlick asked. By cottage he meant his ancestral home – Schloss Donnerspitze – a monstrous medieval castle built high into the side of the Schwarzkogel above Jochberg. To describe it as a cottage was ridiculous. It was a huge pile of massive grey-black stones, ugly and domineering, like a great bully squatting on the mountainside, sneering at the puny houses below.

Growing up, von Schlick had found the castle cold and dark and oppressive. It was built on a giant’s scale and he had never been happy there. He envied the farmers’ children in their pretty and cosy-looking wooden chalets, with flowers round the doors in summer and peaked hats of snow in the winter.

He had left the castle at the earliest opportunity, and gone to university in Vienna where he had bought himself an attractive modern house near the Karlsplatz. It was everything the family castle wasn’t, light and airy and clean and warm. His mother had stayed on at the Schloss, all alone with a dwindling staff, until she had died four years ago, at which point Otto had had the place closed down and packed in mothballs. He had vowed never to return and had been considering selling the hated pile.

Otto’s life was in Vienna now, not here in the backward and boring countryside. He had married Frieda, a minor aristocrat, and they had lived a city life of parties, opera, theatre, nightclubs, eating, drinking and dancing. It was only when he stopped and took a breath after five years of marriage that he realised he had very little in common with his wife. He was certain he didn’t love her and in fact he wasn’t sure he even liked her.

He began spending time with a string of younger, more exciting women who had meant little more to him than the contents of a packet of cigarettes. To be smoked and thrown away, forgotten. Things had changed, though, when he had set eyes on the charming Liesl at the theatre. She was an actress and a dancer, and Otto was utterly captivated by her.

It was soon after they met that Otto announced to his wife that he was tired of city life and had a yearning to return to his roots in the Tyrol.

‘From now on,’ he told her, ‘I will be spending my summers at the Schloss and I will winter here in Vienna. Apart from the odd weekend’s skiing.’

‘Then you will be spending your summers alone,’ said his wife. ‘I have no desire to set foot inside that gloomy monstrosity.’

‘So be it,’ said Otto.

What his wife didn’t need to know was that he had no intention of spending his summers alone. His plan was to install Liesl in the Schloss. She could still act if she wanted, during the winter season in Vienna, but her summers would be spent at Schloss Donnerspitze where she could play at being a Gräfin and mistress of all she surveyed.

They had driven over this morning, taking the road from Vienna at breakneck speeds, their helmets and goggles protecting them from the worst of the icy winds. But when they arrived at the Schloss Liesl had felt more dead than alive and had needed a large brandy to restore her senses.

Her first sight of the castle had not been encouraging and now, on the way back down the mountain, she told Otto that she had grave doubts about moving here.

‘But,
Liebste
,’ Otto pleaded, slowing down slightly so that he wouldn’t have to shout, ‘you did not see the dear old place in its best light. When the sun comes out, and the grass is green and the shaggy-haired dairy cows are gambolling in the flower-filled meadows, their bells tinkling so sweetly, then it will seem like a fairy-tale castle. You
are
my princess, after all,’ he added.

‘We shall see,’ Liesl said, wrinkling her pretty nose.

‘Trust me!’ said Otto, and he slammed his foot down on the accelerator once more as they hit a straight.

‘Please, darling, you have made your point,’ Liesl shouted. ‘You must be more careful. Slow down.’

Otto was just about to say something clever when they screamed around a blind curve and came upon a car stalled in the road. He applied the brakes with ferocious force and wrestled with the wheel until he had subdued the Bugatti and brought her to a halt less than three feet from the other vehicle.

Liesl was on the verge of tears, but Otto was laughing with relief. The girl was right – he would need to be a little more careful in future – but today he was filled with a wild, careless spirit. He had almost believed the rosy picture he had painted of life at the Schloss. Ah, it wouldn’t be so bad. He would drum up some friends, bring them down for parties – all manner of smart types had summer villas in the Alps.

There were two men standing by the car peering at the engine under the open bonnet. They seemed unperturbed by the near accident.

‘Are you in trouble?’ Otto called out. The road was narrow here and the other car was stopped right in the middle so that there was no way he could go round them.

One of the men lifted his head and looked at Otto. He had the smallest eyes Otto had ever seen on a person: they were almost completely hidden behind thick, fleshy eyelids.

‘Do you know about motorcars?’ he said in German, with the hint of a foreign accent. Otto surmised that he was probably Russian.

Did he know about cars?
What a question!
Otto had driven in the 1932 German Grand Prix, in the racing version of the car he was sitting in now, the Type 54.
Did he know about cars, indeed?
He loved cars – why, he sometimes thought he loved them more than he loved women.

‘I know a thing or two,’ he said, climbing out. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

He strode over, placed his hands on the car and leant in to take a look. He could see no immediate and obvious problem, though there was a strong smell of petrol.

‘It is possible you have a leak in your fuel pipe,’ he said, and glanced inside the car. A third man was at the wheel, his face completely wrapped in bandages, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

He was sitting very still.

Otto looked away quickly, not wanting to stare, but the sight had unnerved him. He felt a chill of fear. He wanted to be away from here.

He studied the engine once more and at last spotted something: a wire to the alternator had come unattached.

‘There,’ he said. ‘I think I see your problem.’

Liesl was checking her lipstick in the side mirror. She looked over at the other car just as the two men stepped away from it. Otto had his head buried inside the engine. Liesl frowned as one of the men stooped down and picked up something that was lying hidden in the snow. It appeared to be a small box attached to a wire that snaked under the car. She was about to say something when the man pressed a switch on the box and a great gout of flame billowed from the car’s engine, engulfing Otto’s head and shoulders. He gave a hideous, high-pitched shriek and fell away, clutching his face.

Liesl knew she was in danger; her first thought was to get out of the car and run. It would take too long to slide over the seat, take the wheel, start the car and put it into reverse gear. But, even as she reached for the door handle, the man with puffy eyes stepped up to the car and swung a knuckle-duster at her chin.

She heard a loud pop and was overcome with a terrible sick feeling. Her brain seemed to be fizzing. Then she was walking through snow, surrounded by a hazy whiteness.

No.

It was snowing inside her head.

So cold.

White-out…

3

Hitler-Jugend

‘You are a cheat.’

‘I am not a cheat.’

‘I say you are. How else do you keep on beating us?’

‘I keep on beating you because I am a better card player.’

James Bond was in a faintly ridiculous situation. He was on a train in the Austrian Tyrol somewhere between Innsbruck and Kitzbühel, surrounded by a knot of angry blond-haired German boys. He had thought at first that they were boy scouts; they wore a uniform of khaki military-style shirts with black ties and shorts, which were draped with fussy leather belts and straps. But he had soon discovered that they were
Hitler-Jugend
, Hitler Youth, on their way to a camp in the Alps. He had heard about the organisation, how every boy in Germany from fourteen to eighteen was encouraged to join and go to training camps, rallies and field exercises.

The journey overnight from Boulogne on the transcontinental Arlberg Express had been uneventful, but when James had changed to a local train in Innsbruck he had found it swarming with the boys. The carriages were full of them; like miniature German soldiers, their uniforms decorated with swastikas and the stylised S, the
sig
rune, that they shared with the SS.

A group of them had been sitting on the floor playing cards in the corridor, and, to pass the time, James had joined them. He had won a great deal of money from them, but the more he won, the more they kept trying to win their money back and the more they kept losing. In the end, James had felt so guilty about what was happening that he had thrown down his cards and told them that he had had enough. They had insisted, however, that he carry on and give them another chance. When James refused, a bulky, thick-lipped lad called Gerhardt had grabbed him by the shirtfront and threatened to thump him if he wouldn’t play any more. James had pushed him away, but the boy wouldn’t back down. His face was red and he was trembling with anger.

‘I say that you are a
cheat
,’ he repeated, jabbing James in the chest with a finger.

‘I don’t need to cheat,’ said James, who had spent much of his early life in Switzerland and spoke fluent German.

Gerhardt swayed from side to side in the cramped space as the train rattled round a bend.

‘I am used to winning,’ he said angrily.

‘That’s because you are used to playing with this lot,’ said James. ‘And quite frankly they’re pretty hopeless. So maybe you’ve learnt a valuable lesson today.’

James was a good card player. He had picked up most of his skills from his foul-mouthed Chinese messmate at school, Tommy Chong. Tommy was an excellent player and a good teacher. Winning at cards takes skill, nerve, experience and luck. And James had plenty of each. These boys, though, were enthusiastic and inexperienced, which is not a good combination for gambling.

‘You have taken all my spending money for the trip,’ said a small, bony lad called Artur, who seemed close to tears.

‘You should have stopped gambling before you lost it all then, shouldn’t you?’ said James, trying to disguise the growing note of impatience in his voice. ‘What do you want me to do? Just hand it all back?’

‘Give us the chance to win it back,’ said a third youth.

‘Yes. Double or quits,’ said Artur.

‘No,’ said James. ‘I’ve given you enough chances. Face facts. I’m a better player than any of you, and if you carry on you’ll all end up with nothing.’

‘Well, if you will not give us the chance to win the money fairly, we will have to take it,’ said Gerhardt, jutting his big chin out aggressively.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said James. ‘You may be dressed up like toy soldiers, but I’ll bet you know nothing about fighting. Believe me. If you take me on, you will lose again. My advice to you is to spend a little less time learning to march about waving flags and a little more time learning to play cards. Until then, you should steer clear of any game more complicated than snap.’

It was perhaps not wise of James to taunt the boys like this, because the next thing he knew Gerhardt had grabbed his arms from behind.

‘Search his pockets,’ he barked at his companions.

The others looked unsure and hesitated, which gave James just enough time to stamp down heavily on Gerhardt’s instep. The boy yelled and let James go. James drove his elbow into Gerhardt’s gut and wriggled free just as Artur threw a clumsy punch. He neatly stepped round it, turned, grabbed the boy’s arm and jerked it up into a half-nelson behind his back.

‘Agh,’ Artur grunted. ‘Let me go – you are hurting.’

‘That’s the idea,’ said James. ‘I’ll let you go when you lot promise to stop this stupid fighting.’

‘All right, all right,’ said the boy, and James pushed him away. Gerhardt had other ideas, though, and he lunged at James.

James was ready for him this time. He easily ducked Gerhardt’s blundering attempt at a right hook and brought the heel of his own right hand up hard under the boy’s chin. Gerhardt’s head jerked back, his teeth clacked together and he must have bitten his tongue, because blood started to pour from his mouth. He clamped both hands over his lips and moaned.

Two more of the youths squared up to James, but he gave them such a brutal look of cold fury that they backed off and put up their open palms in surrender.

James took a handful of change from his pocket and flung it to the floor of the train in disgust. ‘There you are,’ he said, ‘you can have that. Sort it out among yourselves. But if you are not prepared to lose with good grace, don’t play cards for money.’

James turned and walked away down the corridor while the youths scrabbled on the floor and bickered over the coins.

James didn’t feel very pleased with himself. He could have handled the situation better and avoided a fight, but he had to admit that he was tired and grumpy. He’d been travelling for two days now – by train to Dover, by ferry to Boulogne, then through the night across northern France and Switzerland into Austria. He had slept very little in that time and had had nothing more to eat than some sandwiches that his Aunt Charmian had packed for him.

Also, he had been dogged by the nagging feeling that someone was watching him, following him. He couldn’t put his finger on it but a sort of sixth sense had set his nerves jangling. It had started at Dover when he had spotted a man in a coat and trilby hat who seemed to be staring down at him from a walkway. The man had been standing in front of a bright window that had turned him into a featureless, black silhouette, so James had no idea if he really had been looking at him, or even what he looked like.

After that he had noticed other things, small things: a glimpse of a man’s watchful face out of the corner of his eye; a face that disappeared as he turned to look; a figure in a crowd that stepped into the shadows when he glanced towards it; footsteps behind him that seemed to have no owner.

He told himself that he was imagining it. After all that had happened to him in the last few months he was bound to have developed a persecution complex. He was wound as tight as a watch spring. He needed to calm down and relax. He was greatly looking forward to arriving in Kitzbühel and meeting up with the school party from Eton that was spending their Easter break in the mountains.

To try and clear his head, he fetched his coat and walked all the way to the back of the train where there was a little open-air observation deck. He tugged the door open and stepped out into the cool breeze and stood leaning on the rail, looking at the passing scenery.

They were clattering along a narrow track that ran through a valley just beginning to emerge from its winter cloak of snow. Above, the great purple-blue Alps poked out above low clouds, their flanks gleaming with swathes of white. They passed a cluster of wide-roofed alpine chalets that reminded James of his childhood in Switzerland. It had been the middle of the night when they had passed through Basel, where he had grown up, so he had seen nothing of it, but now he felt a slight pang of nostalgia. Soon, though, the chalets were obscured from view as they entered a small forest, and his thoughts turned away from those times before they had a chance to become painful.

The steam from the engine caught in the pine trees and for a few minutes it was like travelling through thick fog, then the trees thinned and they were out in the open again and the bright mountain light.

The door behind him opened and he turned to see one of the Hitler Youth come out. James tensed for a fight but the boy gave him a friendly smile and held out his hand.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said in English. ‘I am not looking for trouble. I wanted to apologise for the behaviour of the others.’

‘Apology accepted,’ James said, and shook the boy’s hand.

‘My name is Eugen,’ said the boy, leaning on the rail next to James. ‘We are not all like Gerhardt.’

‘I hope not,’ said James.

‘If you do not join the Hitler Youth they make life very difficult for you,’ said Eugen. ‘I hate it. Oh, there are some fun parts. We go to the countryside and walk and ride our bicycles. There is comradeship. But the training is hard. Do you know what Hitler said?’

James shook his head.

‘We had to learn his speech by heart,’ said Eugen, and he laughed. He then reverted to his native language and did a fair imitation of the German chancellor, his voice clipped and harsh.

‘My programme for educating youth is hard,’ he ranted. ‘Weakness must be hammered away. In my castles of the Teutonic Order a youth will grow up before which the world will tremble. I want a brutal, domineering, fearless, cruel youth. Youth must be all that. It must bear pain. There must be nothing weak and gentle about it. The free, splendid beast of prey must once again flash from its eyes!’

It was James’s turn to laugh now. ‘I think Gerhardt took it all to heart, somewhat,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid there’s more to being tough than having the “free, splendid beast of prey” flashing from your eyes.’

‘Oh, there is more,’ said Eugen, and resumed his impression of Hitler. ‘That is how I will eradicate thousands of years of human domestication! That is how I will create the New Order!’

He stopped and looked around guiltily. ‘I hope nobody can hear me. I would never dare do this among other Germans. They would have me hung.’ He turned to James. ‘The worst thing is they teach us to hate. To hate anyone who is not one of us. Gerhardt and the others will be confused. We have been told many times that the English are weak and ineffective.’

A blast of wind whistled down the valley and James shivered, thrusting his hands deep into his coat pockets to keep warm. ‘In the end we’re all just people,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter where we come from. You are who you are.’

‘I had a friend,’ said Eugen, looking away down the track as it spooled out behind the train. ‘My best friend. A Jewish boy called Siggy Canter. We had grown up together. I never really thought about his religion. But I am not allowed to see him any more. I am scared for the future.’

James could say nothing to reassure Eugen. He had seen enough of the world to know that bad things happened all the time and that human beings had a tendency to be cruel and destructive. He hated gangs. Where weak people joined together to become one strong entity and bully anyone they didn’t approve of. The Hitler Youth were just another gang. The Nazi party in Germany were a gang. The Bolsheviks in Russia…

He once more made an effort to put aside any depressing thoughts and the two of them chatted together until it got too cold. As they went back inside Eugen put a hand on James’s arm. ‘I hope there will not be another war,’ he said. ‘I hope I will never have to face you on a battlefield with a gun in my hand.’

It was late afternoon by the time the train did an almost complete circuit of the town and pulled into Kitzbühel station. There had been a recent heavy snowfall and many excited skiers from the towns and cities along the route bundled off the train, carrying their skis and poles.

James stepped down from his carriage and took in his surroundings. Kitzbühel was 2,500 feet up in the eastern Alps, sitting in a lush valley ringed by mountains. Behind the station was the Kitzbühler Horn, and opposite was the huge flattened peak of the Hahnenkamm, linked to the town by a cable-car. Away to the north, standing out against the sky like a line of broken grey teeth, was the range known as the Wilder Kaiser.

James found a porter, and discovered that his hotel was in easy walking distance. He felt the need to stretch his legs after the long journey and set off after the man into town. They crossed a river and a main road and then took a curving street that ran below the twin fairy-tale churches that dominated Kitzbühel – the tall, narrow Liebfrauenkirche and the baroque Andreaskirche, whose tower, like so many in the Tyrol, was topped off by what looked like a sultan’s turban. It started to snow as they came into the main street, the Vordere Stadgasse, and light powdery flakes drifted aimlessly in the air. The porter cheerfully pushed his laden trolley along the well-made pavement, pointing out the sights to James. There was a picture-book feel about the old medieval town, and it was hard to believe that people lived and worked in these outsized, brightly painted doll’s houses with their red, green and blue shutters and overhanging eaves.

The shops were closing for the day and the cheerful locals were thronging the streets. They were mostly stout alpine types, the women as sturdy-looking as the men. Some were dressed in traditional Tyrolean outfits, the men with feathers in their caps, the women in heavy embroidered dresses, which only added to the feeling that James was on a vast stage set.