John Gardner - Seafire

Flicka had been very accurate in her description of these two men. As the one called Archibald moved around Bond, coming into his line of vision, he saw that the pair looked like escapees from a cartoon. In spite of their immaculate turnout, they presented a bizarre couple. Both had dark hair, cut very short in a style once favored by the Beatles, and the hair coloring seemed at odds with their pink, almost feminine, complexions. The pair were obviously related, for each had unnaturally thick pale lips, while their eyebrows were clownish – inverted thick Vs – which made them look as though they were permanently asking questions.

"I really think it's time we got moving." Archibald moved again. "Let me tell you what we're going to do."

"Excellent thought, Mr. Archibald. I was about to suggest the same thing."

"We're going out of this room," Archibald continued, "and down the service stairs. It's five floors down and – though it sounds a shade melodramatic – if either of you makes a wrong move, both of you will die."

"Instantaneously, wouldn't you say, Mr. Archibald?"

"Couldn't have put it better myself, Mr. Cuthbert."

"And what happens then?" Bond tried to sound casual as he desperately thought of some way of immediate escape that would pose no threat to Flicka.

"We head for the service exit, don't we, Mr. Archibald?"

"Right again, Mr. Cuthbert. The service exit, outside of which there should be a car, complete with driver."

"Then we take this cozy little journey?"

"You're very quick, Mr. Bond. That's about it. Into the car and away. At this time on a Sunday evening it's unlikely we'll be seen by anyone."

"Aren't the two of you going to miss choir practice?" Flicka asked with no trace of fear.

"Very droll, Fräulein von Grüsse, but we'll have plenty of time for that later. Actually, we do have rather fine voices. Maybe we'll get a chance to sing at your funerals."

"Well, that's very nice for the pair of you." Bond shifted a little to his right. "But what if we don't really want to make the journey?"

"Mr. Bond, you have no option." Archibald hefted the pistol uncomfortably in his left hand, and Bond could see the bandages showing under the cuff of his right sleeve. It was clear that he was not happy using a weapon held in his left hand.

"Oh, no, Mr. Bond. Please don't even think about it." Archie moved back a couple of paces as he saw Bond's eyes take in the damaged right wrist. "You actually broke a bone, did you know that?"

"Only one?"

"Very painful. But I'm quite good at pain. I can take it and inflict it, as you'll probably see. Now, could you move over to your lady friend." He made a small gesture toward Flicka with his pistol. "Oh, come on, Mr. Bond, don't be tiresome. Just move."

"Better do as he says, darling." She smiled across the room. "I think they've both got slightly mercurial tempers."

Bond slowly went over to her, flashing a look that told her that, in spite of their grotesque appearance, he had already taken in the extent of the danger they represented. When people like Cuthbert and Archie came in pairs they were usually psychotics, and he had no desire to even attempt taking them out until a foolproof moment presented itself.

Cuthbert had stepped back from Flicka, and Archie told them to hold hands. "Pretend you're on a nice little lovers' walk to Grantchester," he added, signaling that Tarn's people had kept them under surveillance from the moment they had arrived in Cambridge.

As their hands touched, Cuthbert stepped forward and snapped a pair of handcuffs around both their wrists. "There," he cooed. "Isn't that a nice lovers' knot? Now, I suggest we move at a steady pace. Mr. Archibald will lead the way, you will follow, and I'll bring up the rear."

"And please don't make us do anything we'd regret," added Archibald.

He paused just outside the door, nodded, and led them along the passage to the plain door marked "Staff Only."

The rear staircase was bare: concrete steps and whitewashed walls all the way down. Bond noted that these unlikely toughs both moved with the quick surefooted speed of highly trained soldiers, and the thought that they might possibly be paid mercenaries flicked through his mind. But for their appearances they could have been a couple of men from the SAS or the American Delta Force.

They were both obviously very alert during the journey down. Bond had no doubt that any attempted escape would result in fast, sudden death.

At the ground floor, Archibald made a quick gesture with his head, nodding toward a pair of doors with an interior automatic bar lock. For the few seconds it took to get to the doors the pistols disappeared, but both men hemmed in their prisoners, using their bodies to keep them close and moving in the right direction.

The doors opened onto a side street, where Tarn's other Rover sat, its engine purring and a man at the wheel. Archibald opened the nearside door, pushing Flicka and Bond into the vehicle, while Cuthbert had the door open on the farside and slid into the rear. In seconds they were moving, crammed close in the back of the car, flanked by the two gunmen.

"Everything okay?" The driver did not move his head, concentrating on taking the car out into the main flow of traffic.

"Like a charm," Cuthbert replied.

"Clockwork, I'd say," Archibald added.

"Wherever we're going, you'll be stopped long before you're out of the city." Bond felt confident about that probability. With the surveillance teams around, it should not take long for one of the units to latch on to the second Rover.

Yet nothing happened. The only moment that caused any tension in the car was when they had to pull over as, with a shriek of sirens, two fire engines, a pair of ambulances, and a police car hurtled past. They reached the ramp onto the M11 without any sign of police or paramilitary roadblocks, though the driver was constantly warned by Cuthbert to check nobody was following.

Occasionally Bond glanced toward Flicka, and several times their eyes met in cold comfort, reflecting that they were both at a complete loss as to how they could evade their two weird captors.

One further worry was that neither of them had been blindfolded. Nobody seemed in the least concerned that they could follow the route with ease.

"You don't mind us seeing where we're going?" Bond finally asked.

"Do you mind, Mr. Cuthbert?"

"Not in the least, Mr. Archibald."

The odd pair sniggered and Cuthbert added, "I can't see the Chief letting you trace the way back."

"No return ticket," Archibald snapped smugly.

Eventually they came off the Motorway at Exit 8, and for a few minutes Bond thought they were heading toward Stanstead Airport, but they continued on through the town of Tackley, then turned off onto a minor road about a mile farther on.

Now it became difficult to follow directions as they twisted and turned through a series of lanes and secondary roads with few signposts. At last the Rover made an abrupt turn through an open gateway, up a long, winding drive flanked by shrubbery that appeared to have been allowed to grow wild and out of hand. There were places where the bushes, encroaching on the drive, scraped against the car. Finally the headlights picked out what looked like a large Victorian house. In the darkness the gables and brickwork took on a sinister look: a Gothic pile gone to ruin, its silhouette black against the dark sky. It could have come from the Brontës or Dickens: Wuthering Heights or Bleak House .

The driver flashed the lights of the Rover, and an answering pinpoint of light came from the doorway.

"Not here yet, by the looks of things," the driver muttered.

"Late for their own funerals," Cuthbert said brightly.