Trigger Mortis Read online

  Bond took another step closer and took in the full horror of the collision. The Krassny’s fuel tank had ruptured, and because of the bizarre way it had come to rest, engine oil – close to boiling point – had come gushing out, a deadly cascade that had splashed directly onto the driver’s face and hands. Dimitrov was unrecognisable, twisting in agony beneath the hideous black mess. Smoke and steam were rising into the air. What if the car caught fire? It might have already, for one of the true nightmares of methanol was that it burned invisibly and it was quite possible to watch a man die a horrible death without knowing what was killing him.

  Even so, Bond couldn’t stand idly by. It hadn’t been his intention to murder the Russian and certainly not in such a gruesome way. The Krassny didn’t seem to be alight. As Bond reached the slope at the side of the road, he could feel the heat from the engine but there were no flames, invisible or otherwise. Even so, that could change in seconds. One spark and the leaking petrol could ignite and that would be the end of both of them.

  Dimitrov was slightly above him, trapped, jerking crazily in his seat. Bond was wearing gloves and he wasn’t going to take them off, not with the scalding oil splashing down. But the thick fabric made it difficult to unfasten the belts. The locking device seemed to have caught, and as he struggled to release it he could feel the acrid fumes entering his nostrils and stinging his eyes. The whole thing was going to blow. It was going to happen any second now. The Russian must have been aware of it too. He was screaming, his arms flailing in terror. At last, Bond felt the mechanism click and the belt came free. He grabbed Dimitrov under his armpits and, using all his strength, dragged him out and away from the car, back down the slope and away along the side of the track. He had taken no more than five or six steps when the explosion came. Bond felt a blast of heat across his neck and shoulders and threw himself down, protecting the Russian with his own body. Burning leaves and pieces of debris rained down. Turning back he saw that the Krassny was now ablaze, along with many of the trees around it.

  Two cars had pulled up on the side of the track and there were people running towards him, some of them carrying fire extinguishers. Further along the circuit he knew that they would be holding out a yellow flag: serious danger, slow down. But the race would continue. Ivan Dimitrov had passed out. He might well be dying. What did it matter? Somebody else would win.

  EIGHT

  Castle Sin

  A white moon, a castle and a black lake. It could have been a perfect setting for one of those German folktales, or so it seemed to Bond, standing in evening dress in the darkness. But what sort of creature would have made his home here? An Erl King, or perhaps a less welcoming Grendel.

  The Schloss Bronsart was about half an hour from Nürburg, in the thick woodland south of Bad Münstereifel. It was a water castle, one of the many wasserburgs scattered across the German lowlands, buildings that had begun life as ordinary homes but which had grown in scale and splendour in direct proportion to their owners’ fears of marauding bandits or Hussites. This one was situated in the middle of a huge, artificial lake with a single causeway leading to a front entrance complete with drawbridge and portcullis. The main accommodation was three storeys high with the mullioned windows and crow-stepped gables that characterises so much of old Europe. There was a second structure standing next to it, a single tower, topped with a weathervane and steel grey tiles reminiscent of a First World War helmet. The two buildings were connected by a short bridge, just over the water, and, higher up, by a narrow corridor to which brick and thatch had been added almost as an afterthought. A miniature jetty invited visitors to ignore the road and arrive by boat. It was both impressive and absurd at the same time, the vain recreation of something that had been vain and extravagant to begin with.

  James Bond was standing at the far end of the driveway, examining the scene before him. He had left his Bentley in a parking area hidden among the trees. Guests were expected to leave the twentieth century behind them as they walked the last hundred yards across the lake. Blazing torches had been set at intervals, reflecting in the dark water, and two bronze cauldrons burned on either side of the main door. Jason Sin certainly seemed to have a liking for the dramatic. The moon was full, forming a perfect circle in the night sky. A band was playing ‘La Vie en Rose’ – Bond knew the song well – the notes drifting out over the water. It was about nine o’clock and most of the guests had already arrived, the men in black tie, the women in silk and fur with jewellery that was surely borrowed or fake. Bond made his way forward, following them.

  The warmth, the light, and the music at full volume hit him at the same time, drawing him in. At the door, a waiter handed him a flute of champagne and he took a sip, noting that it was not Cristal, as Lancy Smith had promised, but an equally acceptable Dom Pérignon ’53 – still young but a remarkable vintage. He found himself in a hallway, tall and spacious, with a wide marble staircase climbing to the upper floors. But he could already see that these were off-limits to the guests. There was a German standing there, bald, thickset, his arms folded, dressed as if for the party but definitely not a guest. He was as stiff and unmoving as the suits of armour that stood on either side – in fact, he wouldn’t have looked completely ridiculous with a halberd in his hand. Bond smiled at him and raised his glass. The man didn’t even blink.

  There was a doorway to the left and Bond passed through it into a reception room, which in turn led to a great hall, the principal scene of the party. The band was playing up above in a minstrels’ gallery. About two or three hundred people were milling around on the flagstones and it was easy to spot who had taken part in the day’s race: each one of them was surrounded by their own small crowd of admirers. In fact, Bond had never seen so many pretty girls fighting for attention. There was something almost animal about their desire to be noticed and if you had raced the Nürburgring and survived, you could reach out and they would be yours – for tonight, for several nights or, if you cared enough, until you left for the next circuit. Presumably the same would be true for Bond and yet, as he moved into the room, he felt uneasy. Almost every woman he had ever known had put up at least some measure of resistance, challenging him to win her round. This display of soft acquiescence didn’t appeal. All those wide eyes and pouting lips. No. Not for him.

  And one of the two dozen racers who had set off that afternoon was still in hospital, alive but horribly burned. Well, nobody had much sympathy for Ivan Dimitrov among the champagne and the canapés. Even his teammates had turned out, the three of them looking darkly guilty in their cheap dinner jackets. In the end, Lancy Smith had romped home in his Vanwall, a full twenty seconds ahead of the nearest competitor. Bond had achieved what he had been sent here for but he had already put it out of his mind. He had seen Colonel Gaspanov, a SMERSH commander, arguing with the Korean and he wanted to know more. There was no sign of the old fox here. He was probably on his way back to Moscow, working out how to explain that yet another SMERSH operation had failed. And that left Sin Jai-Seong – or Jason Sin. Bond had received a brief and largely unhelpful call from the Head of Records in London.

  ‘There’s not a lot I can tell you. He keeps himself to himself as much as he can . . . hardly ever in the news. He seems to have emigrated from South Korea at the start of the war – the Korean War, that is. He turns up in Hawaii and then in New York State, which is where he’s based. He’s the head of a recruitment company – Blue Diamond – which specialises in low-paid workers, particularly in transit, construction and sanitation. In fact he’s rather cornered the market. There are no estimates to his wealth but he’s said to be the wealthiest Korean in the country. In some respects, he’s a bit of a playboy. You’ll find him around the Grand Prix circuit . . . also tennis, horses, sailing. Pretty much what you’d expect. But at the same time, he has no known vices. He’s not married and doesn’t seem to have any interest in women. He’s not homosexual either. No political affiliations although he turned up at a couple of Republican dinners at t
he last election and may have given them a donation. But that’s common practice for a businessman wanting to hedge his bets and anyway, in America, bribing a politician is part of the etiquette. Are you looking for some sort of affiliation with SMERSH?’

  ‘I don’t know, Records. I just wondered why he was here.’

  ‘Probably the same as everyone else. To watch the race.’

  But not everyone had been talking to Colonel Gaspanov. When Bond had hung up the phone he had decided that he would, most certainly, come here tonight.

  And now there was a stir, a ripple in the crowd, as Sin appeared in a doorway beneath the minstrels’ gallery and moved into the room, accompanied by another man who managed to be both close to him and yet apart with the blank watchfulness of the professional bodyguard. And he was armed. Bond saw at once the telltale outline of a hard leather shoulder holster beneath his jacket. (Bond had always preferred chamois which, though less practical when it came to the draw, had one main advantage: it didn’t spoil the line of his jacket.) For a moment, the bodyguard’s eyes – ice blue and unforgiving – settled on him, then slid away. Bond turned his attention to the party’s host, the wealthiest Korean in the USA.

  Sin Jai-Seong was wearing a beautifully tailored Brioni Roman dinner jacket, not black but midnight blue, and holding a glass of what looked like iced water. Like many very wealthy people that Bond had met he had a sort of magnetism that was hard to define. He was not larger, better-looking or louder than anyone else in the room but he seemed to move in a void of his own making and no matter where he stood he was at the epicentre of everything around him. He was more lithe, more delicate than Bond remembered but that strange aloofness was still present. When he smiled, it was without warmth. His eyes, shielded by the thick, almost opaque spectacles, sucked in every last detail of those around him but gave away nothing. It was as if this party – the silver platters of food, the champagne, the music, the chandeliers, the great hall with its tapestries and antique mirrors – had all sprung from his imagination. He moved through it like a sleepwalker.

  He had seen Bond and came over to him. The crowd parted to let him pass, the bodyguard close behind. Finally, the two men stood face to face and at that moment Bond heard the first whispers of dangers still to come. He was not superstitious, at least, not in the crudest sense. He would not step out of the way to avoid walking under a ladder. But he did believe absolutely in the physicality of a ‘sixth sense’ operating in some secret corner of his consciousness. Think of it as an animal instinct. Nobody teaches you that spiders are ugly or that snakes are dangerous. You’re simply born with the knowledge. So it was here. Sin was smiling. He seemed relaxed, friendly. But even as Bond reached out and shook his hand, part of him was recoiling, warning him to stay away.

  ‘Mr Bond?’ Sin’s voice was soft, monotonous. ‘I saw you at the race today, although only briefly. I understand you were the other driver involved in the accident.’

  ‘Yes. It was very unfortunate. I’ve spoken to the racing stewards. It was nobody’s fault.’

  ‘From my experience, these accidents are always somebody’s fault – the driver, his mechanic or . . .’ the dark brown eyes settled on Bond, ‘another competitor. It’s a shame that, in this instance, the accident occurred at a point where there were no witnesses. And surprising too. Mr Dimitrov is a superb racer. I saw him drive on many circuits.’

  ‘That would be before he was banned.’

  Sin ignored Bond’s remark. ‘I have not seen you race before,’ he continued. ‘I find that very strange.’

  ‘Not really.’ Bond tried to sound nonchalant. ‘Only got into it fairly recently. To be honest with you, I may think twice about the whole thing after what happened. I hope that Russian chap’s going to be all right.’

  ‘He has been severely burned.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you haven’t let it spoil the party. Quite a place you have here, Mr Sin.’

  ‘You may call me Jason.’ The invitation should have been friendly but somehow it was vaguely menacing. ‘Sin Jai-Seong is the name that I was born with but people seem to find these things difficult in the West and, anyway, I have left my past life behind. As to this building, I own properties close to many of the world’s racing circuits. It gives me the opportunity to provide hospitality as I am doing tonight. The Schloss Bronsart was constructed by the von Schleiden family, the same people responsible for the fortress above Nürburg. I stay and work here often when I am in Europe.’

  ‘Have you had it long?’

  ‘I purchased it from the last owner a few years ago. He drowned.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. The lake is very cold and very deep. I would advise you to take care when you return to your car.’ He nodded. ‘I will wish you a pleasant evening, Mr Bond.’

  ‘Thank you. And please give my best wishes to the Russians.’

  Sin had been about to leave. But the last remark had been targeted, the words carefully chosen. He turned back to Bond and although the face was still empty, the eyes had narrowed. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You are talking to the Russians?’ Bond said, innocently.

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘Dimitrov. His teammates. And his family.’

  Sin nodded again, more slowly this time. ‘I have already ascertained that Mr Dimitrov is comfortable. It is not my responsibility to look after his welfare or that of his compatriots.’

  ‘Well, if you do see any of them, do pass on my good wishes.’

  Sin drifted away and the crowd surged in to fill the space. Bond thought back on the conversation. The barb about the Russians had hit home. Sin might not be talking to any grieving relatives but he was certainly talking to SMERSH. And he had given away more than he had intended. He not only lived part of the year at the castle, he also worked here. That meant he must have an office somewhere in the building – and where there was an office, there would be files, letters, memos . . . all manner of information. Bond glanced upwards. As far as he could tell, the whole ground floor of the Schloss Bronsart was given over to reception rooms, ballrooms and lounges. Bond would find what he was looking for somewhere above.

  Sipping his champagne, he looked around the room. The four-piece band was playing Cole Porter now and a few people were dancing. He noticed Lancy Smith in a corner, surrounded by women. The driver nodded without coming across. The two of them had not spoken to each other since the race and Bond was glad to keep it that way. It was quite possible that the English champion would know something of what had really happened and Bond’s own appearance at Nürburgring might now seem suspicious, given the circumstances. All in all, it was better not to meet again. He slipped out the way he had come and hovered on the edge of the hallway. The guard was still there, standing implacably in front of the stairs.

  Bond was wondering what to do next when a woman appeared, coming out of a room on the other side. His first thought was that she couldn’t be with one of the racing drivers – she wasn’t glamorous enough. Her evening dress was a little too formal, the black grosgrain well tailored without actually showing her body off to full effect. Bond would have preferred a lower cut and a little less fabric around the bodice. If you’re given that shape you might as well flaunt it, and although she was shorter than he liked, and slightly boyish (the close-cropped blonde hair was another mistake), she had a gamine quality that put him in mind of the French actress Jean Seberg. In fact, looking at her a second time, he decided he had been unfair to her. She wasn’t beautiful in a conventional way but she was attractive all the same, with an intelligence in those off-blue eyes that was somehow challenging. Her lips, though a little too small, were still desirable. This was a girl who was too serious for her own good. She was wearing hardly any make-up and her only jewellery was a pair of diamond ear-studs. She might have made more effort, especially at a party like this. But actually the French had a good word for it: jolie-laide. It translates as ugly-pretty but it’s always used as a compliment. That was wha
t this girl was.

  As Bond watched, she went right up to the security guard who automatically adjusted himself to block her way. ‘Excuse me, I need to go upstairs.’ She spoke loudly. She had an American accent.

  ‘I’m sorry, Fräulein. Upstairs it is private. The way is verboten.’

  ‘I just wanted to lie down for a minute. I have a headache. Can’t I use a bedroom?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Fräulein.’ The man spoke slowly, repetitively, with a heavy German accent. ‘Nobody is allowed upstairs.’

  ‘Not even for a minute?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Fräulein . . .’

  The woman gave up and as she moved back towards the great hall she almost bumped into Bond and glowered at him. ‘Can you get out of the way?’ The accent was Manhattan; but not the smart end.

  ‘My aunt always used to recommend a houseleek for a headache,’ Bond said.

  ‘I don’t even know what that is.’

  ‘It’s a herb that grows in Scotland. Failing that, a head massage might do the trick.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m James Bond.’

  ‘I know. You had the crash with the Russian in his Krassny.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She tried to get past but he stopped her. ‘Did you see the race?’

  ‘Of course. I’m a writer – a journalist. I’ve been sent here to do a report.’

  ‘Oh really? Who by?’

  ‘Motor Sport.’

  It made sense. She certainly didn’t look like a hanger-on: she had the air of intelligence that might well belong to a journalist. ‘Well, if you write about my accident, go easy on me, will you? I heard something blow in the engine just before it happened. You’d have thought Maserati would have learned by now. These eight-cylinder configurations are far too complicated.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to write about you at all, Mr Bond,’ she said, coolly. ‘My readers are more interested in the winners.’