Trigger Mortis Page 5

  The two of them ordered smoked salmon, which was good, if cut a little too close to the skin, followed by excellent lamb cutlets from a local farm, cooked to a perfect pink. Vegetables – also from the area – were served al dente in a huge tureen. The wine, with its deep, ruby colour and scent of blackberries, set the meat off perfectly, and for the first time since he had left London, Bond felt completely relaxed.

  ‘I’ve spoken to one of the drivers at Nürburgring,’ Logan told him. ‘He’s agreed to look after you when you get there. You’ve probably heard of him. He’s quite famous. His name is Lancy Smith.’ Bond had to conceal a smile. Smith was the man he was supposed to be protecting – although of course he hadn’t told Logan that. It was ironic that he should be the one who had agreed to help. ‘He’ll show you the circuit and introduce you to everyone else,’ she went on. ‘I haven’t told him anything about you. He just thinks you’re a rich playboy trying to buy your way into the racing circuit. There are a few people like that out there so no one will ask any questions.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’ Bond asked.

  ‘All my life, pretty much. Everyone knows everyone in the racing circuit. They’re all competing against each other but they’re still friends. Lancy was a friend of my father’s.’

  ‘Alan Fairfax?’ Bond was annoyed with himself. The connection should have been obvious from the start. ‘I saw him race once at Silverstone. That would have been ’52.’

  She nodded. ‘The World Driver’s Championship. It was one of his last races.’ Logan picked up her wine glass and held it close, breathing in the aroma. ‘Dad bought Foxton just after I was born,’ she said. ‘He ran it as a business when he wasn’t racing and I always loved it there. He’d have liked me to join the circuit. He had me sitting in a car before I was six months old. You saw that old 8CTF back at the office? That was his. I used to come back from school and help him strip it down. But my mother couldn’t stand the idea of me racing and she simply put her foot down. She said it was too dangerous and in the end, of course, she was proved right.

  ‘My father died at Le Mans two years ago. He wasn’t even driving. He was there as a spectator and it was just his bad luck to be sitting in the grandstand when Pierre Levegh and Lance Macklin had their collision at 125 mph. I’m sure you’ll have read about it in the papers and of course there were all those newsreels. The bonnet of Levegh’s Mercedes came off and sliced through the crowd, killing a whole row of spectators, one after the other. It literally cut them in half. And that was just the start of it. There were pieces of smashed-up engines and brakes – then a fireball of burning petrol. Eighty-three people died that day. There were a hundred more with terrible injuries. He was one of them. He was taken to hospital in Angers but they couldn’t do anything for him. He died the next day.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ What else could Bond say?

  ‘I was meant to be with him but I was here, working. And after he’d gone I just carried on. My mother never comes here any more. She can’t stand the sight of racing cars.’ Logan set her glass down. ‘Is there really a chance that someone might get killed at Nürburgring?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Don’t let it happen, James. These drivers are so brave . . . you’ll see. Take care – and look after yourself too.’

  Suddenly Bond wanted to be closer to this girl. She was smart, attractive and adventurous, but above all she had the quality that always acted as a magnet for him. The need to be loved. He wondered why she was so alone. He reached out and put his hand on hers. ‘Thank you, Logan,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a great job looking after me. But why don’t we take the night off? We weren’t going to talk about motor racing. There must be other things you like.’

  She drew her hand away. ‘Yes, there are plenty of things. I like long walks and good food and the smell of mown grass and sunsets. But that’s not what you’re talking about, is it? Nearly all the people in my world are men and they’re all after the same thing. You’ll find that out soon enough when you get to Germany. There are plenty of girls who throw themselves at racing drivers. You’ll see them in the stands. Peroxide blondes in short jackets and tight dresses. The saddest ones even travel from circuit to circuit hoping they can latch on to someone new. But I’m not like that.’

  ‘And I’m not a professional racing driver,’ Bond replied. ‘Remember? I’m meant to be a rich playboy with more money than sense. All I’m saying is that in a couple of days I’ll be out of your life. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy tonight.’

  ‘I am enjoying it.’ She produced her first genuine smile and it changed her face, lighting up her eyes and bringing a warmth that Bond hadn’t noticed before. ‘I don’t know anything about you either. Except you can handle a car, I’ll say that for you. And you’re obviously not afraid of danger. Where did you get that scar, for instance? There are all sorts of things I’d like to ask about you but I’m sure you won’t tell me.’

  ‘That depends how hard you try.’

  The rest of the meal passed pleasantly enough and the two of them were touching shoulders as they returned to the car. Logan had insisted on driving and he was secretly glad that it meant she had to come with him to the hotel. It was a fairly ordinary place with solid beams and an inglenook fireplace in the reception, uneven walls and stairs that creaked. He had asked for the best room and had been amused to find himself in the honeymoon suite. Tonight he would be sleeping in a four-poster bed that sagged in the middle. And Logan? He could sense that she wanted to stay with him but that something was holding her back.

  And then, as they drove into the gravel path that swept round to the front door, everything changed. A grey Austin four-door saloon was pulling away and the driver was in a hurry. The wheels skidded, spitting up some of the surface, and the car leapt forward with an angry start. There was nobody in the front passenger seat but two people in the back. One of them was a woman with black hair and violet eyes that flashed briefly in the window – and at that moment Bond knew that he had seen the car before, outside his house in London, and that the woman was Pussy Galore.

  Logan Fairfax came to a halt and Bond threw open the door. ‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘Keep the engine running.’

  ‘What is it?’ She had heard the urgency in his voice and had seen him become, quite suddenly, a different man: colder, harder, single-minded.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Bond ran into the hotel. He still wasn’t sure what was happening. Why had Pussy decided to come here? Why had she suddenly gone? He had given her the name and the telephone number of the hotel when he left London but he wouldn’t have expected her to drive down without calling him first. In fact (he admitted it ruefully now), there had been a part of him that had been hoping she would simply pack her bags and fly home, that she would be gone when he returned. Then he remembered what she had told him. She had said there were two men following her. He had just seen two men in the Austin. The CIA? Bond had made the assumption too quickly. Suddenly he had his doubts.

  He went straight to the reception desk where there was a young man sitting uncomfortably in the bellboy uniform that his employers forced him to wear. ‘That woman who just left—’ he began.

  ‘Did you miss her, sir?’ The boy was annoyingly cheerful. ‘That was your wife.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mrs Bond arrived earlier this evening, sir. She had dinner alone in the dining room. She said she was expecting you soon.’

  ‘And those men?’

  ‘They must have been waiting for her when she came out. I didn’t actually see them meet her, to be honest with you. I just caught a glimpse of them leaving a moment ago. Is there anything wrong?’

  But Bond was already on his way out of the hotel, back to the car. Logan Fairfax was waiting for him, concerned. She had left the engine running as he had asked.

  He pulled open the door. ‘The car that just left. Did you see which way it went?’

  ‘Yes.’

/>   ‘We have to follow it.’

  She didn’t argue. Of course she was the sort of girl who would know when to ask questions and when simply to get on with the matter in hand. She was away at once, moving off as quickly as the Austin, but with much more control. The gravel stayed where it was.

  They hit the main road. Already Bond was cursing himself. He had wasted time going into the hotel. He should have followed his first instincts and set off at once. There was no sign of the other car and it was a pitch-dark night. If the driver turned off into one of the many lanes that snaked through the countryside they would plunge almost immediately into thick woodland and disappear from sight. Logan seemed to have picked up his thought. ‘There isn’t a turn-off for a couple of miles,’ she said. ‘With a bit of luck, we should be able to see their tail lights.’

  But there was nothing ahead of them . . . just thick Wiltshire woodland and sprawling undergrowth on either side. No cars came the other way. Logan was utterly focused on her driving and Bond saw the speedometer touching sixty. With anyone else he would have been nervous. The road was narrow, twisting and unlit. But she was completely relaxed behind the wheel of the Aston Martin, pushing it through the darkness, and with every minute that passed Bond was certain they must be closing in on the Austin.

  And yet still there was no sign of it. They reached the brow of a hill and Logan brought the car to a halt, gazing ahead of her.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ she said. ‘They must have turned off. We should have caught up with them by now and if they were ahead of us, I’m sure I’d see their lights.’

  ‘We haven’t passed any turn-offs.’

  ‘There aren’t any.’ She frowned. ‘Wait a minute . . . There’s a track going into the woods. It must be a couple of miles back.’

  ‘Where does it go?’

  ‘It doesn’t go anywhere, really. There’s a clearing in the forest and a stone circle. There’s not much of it left but it’s a bit of a local tourist attraction. It’s probably not its real name but people call it The Devil’s Own.’

  The Devil’s Own. Bond digested the three words. Pussy Galore had been in fear of her life and she had come to him. Quite possibly she had fallen into the hands of the two men she had seen in London. But who were they? What did they want with her? And how would an old stone circle lend itself to their cause? There were no answers to those questions and time was running out. Right now, Bond had to decide. Did he continue along this road or did he turn round and go back? The wrong choice might well lead to her death.

  ‘Let’s try it,’ he said. ‘Unless you can think of anywhere else they may have gone.’

  ‘They could have driven up to Walbury Hill, I suppose. Or they could have just pulled in and turned off their lights. They could be half a mile ahead of us now and we wouldn’t see them. But they had no idea we were following them so why would they do that? I think you’re right. I think we should go back.’

  The decision was made. Logan turned the car and they drove back the way they had come, more slowly this time, staring into the darkness for the giveaway glow of a rear light. She hadn’t even asked him who Pussy Galore was, although surely she must suspect the truth . . . or at least, some of it. Bond gritted his teeth as they crawled along the road. He had a feeling that this was all his fault – and it looked very much as if it was going to end badly.

  And then he saw it, so brief that he might have imagined it, except that Bond had never allowed the dark worm of imagination to get in the way of his work. There had been the briefest glimmer of light between the trees. It was white, not red, and too small for a headlight. A torch!

  ‘There!’ he said.

  Logan was already accelerating. They reached a rough track they had passed a few minutes before but ignored because it had no signpost and hardly went anywhere. But this must have been the way the men had taken. She drove more carefully, not wanting the purr of her engine to give them away, knowing that any sound might travel all too easily in the still of the night. And the car played its part too, the tyres crunching almost silently over clumps of gorse and pine cones.

  ‘What do you think they’re doing?’ she whispered.

  ‘I don’t know. How far does this track go?’

  ‘I haven’t been down here for years. Not very far, I think.’

  ‘When we get to the end, turn off the engine and wait for me here. Whatever you do, don’t get out.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  It was a good question. Bond thought of the Walther PPK tucked uselessly in the secret compartment of his Bentley. The Bentley was still parked at the hotel. How he wished now that he had been the one who had driven tonight. He put the thought out of his mind. Instead, as they rolled forward through the wood, he twisted round, wondering if there was anything in the car he might use as a makeshift weapon. Creeping up on two men, unarmed, in unfamiliar terrain was not an option – and to make matters worse, the moon had finally slid out from behind the clouds, lighting everything with a silvery-white glow. But the back seat was not promising: an umbrella, a paper bag with shopping supplies, a newspaper and a couple of books. What about the boot?

  The track ended and they drew in close to the grey Austin, which sat there, dark and empty. The standing stones must be somewhere up ahead. Bond searched through the trees and was rewarded by a second flash of light. Was there going to be an execution? Was this what this was about? Bond braced himself for the terse rap of bullets in the dark but there was nothing.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ he said.

  ‘Good luck.’ Logan didn’t seem to be afraid but her eyes were wide in the moonlight.

  Bond took what he needed. A minute later, he was slipping through the forest, his rope-soled shoes making no sound whatsoever on the soft mosses beneath his feet. There was a footpath winding through trees that were suddenly huge and primeval beneath the moon and he could feel the ancient magic that might have drawn the druids or whoever it was who had come here to build their stone circle. The undergrowth brushed against his legs as he hurried forward, carrying the two items he had brought from the car. The night whispered to him, warning him to go back.

  He came to a clearing and Bond knew that, even with all the extraordinary things that he had experienced in his line of work, he would never forget the sight, bathed in moonlight, that presented itself to him now.

  The Devil’s Own consisted of seven huge stones, broken fingers worn away by time and the elements. The ground on which they stood, forming an irregular circle, was flat with patches of wild grass and the surrounding trees seemed to lean in – as if they were complicit with what was going on. Pussy Galore was standing, stark naked, the moon accentuating her shoulders, her outstretched arms, the curves of her breasts. Ropes led away from her wrists, disappearing behind two of the stones. She was swearing, her body writhing, but the men were ignoring her as they continued with their work.

  They were killing her. With gold paint.

  Bond watched them in disbelief. Each of the men had a paintbrush and a tin of paint, which they were slapping onto her body so that it covered every inch of her flesh. Her arms and stomach were already coated. There was gold paint in her hair and it was trickling down the insides of her legs and dripping from the inverted V beneath her pudendum. Pussy rasped something particularly filthy and one of the men slapped paint across her face, half-covering her nose and lips. She choked and fell silent. The other man said something and they both laughed.

  Bond knew exactly what was happening. He remembered what had been done to Jill Masterton, the girl who had helped him when he had first met Auric Goldfinger at a hotel in Miami. As revenge, Goldfinger had had her painted gold, clogging up the pores of her skin and causing her to die of suffocation. Bond was grateful he hadn’t seen the obscenity for himself. He had been told about it later, by Tilly Masterton, Jill’s sister. So the two men in the grey Austin must be in some way connected to Goldfinger. Someone, somewhere, blamed Pussy Galore for her part in his
downfall and the failure of Operation Grand Slam and they had come for revenge. This was a hideous death in a public place that even had a suitably lurid name (the two men had surely chosen it deliberately) and would make the front pages of every newspaper in the world. And the message would be clear, the link to Goldfinger obvious. She was the betrayer. This was the price.

  If Bond had not followed her from the hotel she would have been dead before morning. As it was, he had very little time. Her body was almost entirely covered with gold. He wouldn’t be able to clean it off himself and the nearest hospital must be at least an hour away. He had to act now.

  The two men had their backs to him. They had no idea he was there, about fifty feet away at the edge of the clearing. Bond had two cartons with him, which he had taken from Logan’s shopping: Fry’s cocoa and Cerebos salt. Had two such innocent items ever been put to more deadly use? He had emptied the contents and then filled the containers with petrol from a spare jerrycan that Logan kept in the boot. He’d also made two fuses out of strips of torn newspaper. There was every chance that they would blow up in his hand but it was too late to worry about that. Bond waited for the right moment. Now. The two men had stepped back as if to admire their handiwork. Pussy Galore was slumped between them, glistening gold, her head hanging down, the muscles in her arms straining to support her body weight. Bond took out his lighter, lit the fuses and threw his two makeshift bombs.

  One fell short. The other hit the ground right next to the nearest of the two men and exploded, the flames leaping up, instantly devouring his legs and stomach. The man screamed. His companion had been splashed by some of the burning petrol – not enough to put him out of action – but as Bond raced forward, covering the short distance between them, at least his attention had been well and truly diverted. He turned as Bond approached but too late. The heel of Bond’s palm, lent extra force by his own momentum, slammed into the underside of the man’s chin, rocketing his head back and almost certainly breaking his neck. Bond was already turning his attention to his partner who had seen what was happening and was caught between a set of contradictions that might almost have been comical: trying to scrabble for his gun with hands that were also fighting the flames. Bond didn’t want to burn his own fists so used a judo move, twisting round and lashing out with the flat of his right foot. The man went down but even before he hit the ground the fire had half done Bond’s work for him. He was dying or dead, a crumpled figure with the flames licking his back.