John Gardner - Seafire

"Ah, so good." The voice was as slow and lumbering as that of a retard. The grin did not reach his vacant eyes, and he withdrew into his office as though that simple action was a feat of great skill.

Saal looked up at Bond. "Every sixth male child of the Rollen family is born with a defect also. Yet he is a partner who does nothing. He's incapable of anything but the simplest task, and he can be a shade intimidating. Also, he has an uncanny memory. He remembers things and people from twenty years ago. I once heard him describe, completely, his own baptism. Unhappily, when roused, poor Kurt can be violent. Rather dangerously violent, unless you know how to deal with him." He gestured toward the bottom of the stairs. "Now, our lovely Heidi will see you out."

"Lovely Heidi" was the blonde eighth temptation of man.

"I think I once read a book about you, Heidi," Bond said with a smile as she held the street door open for him.

"Oh, no, Mr. Boldman. She was my Swiss cousin. Also, she was a good little girl."

Out in the Marienplatz again, he allowed Flicka to come flaring into his mind, and quickly she banished all thoughts of what could be done with Heidi, given the right time and place.

He then pondered on the near nightmare quality of the law firm of Saal, Saal u. Rollen, realizing that in all probability the throwbacks in both the Saal and Rollen families came from some incestuous relationships, when Wasserburg had been truly a Bavarian backwater some hundreds of years ago.

He strolled slowly to the edge of the square and turned into an alley, which took him to the rear of the buildings. It needed only a casual glance at the back entrance of the lawyers' office to be certain that there was no overt security or alarms on the place. Also, he noted that the back door appeared to have only a normal lock. As long as they did not secure that lock with its retaining catch, the rear door would be his easiest way in.

Turning, he headed to the parking lot where he had left the car. Given what he intended to do that night, he thought it would be as well to look over the landscape – in particular the escape routes.

He opened the car and rummaged around in the front for a few minutes, glancing into the mirrors to make certain that he was not being observed. He could see nobody, and that sixth sense that had so often saved him before told him he was clear.

Outside again, he walked back to the parking lot exit, strolling along the road that would take him onto the B-304. A few steps along this side road he saw a lane turning off to the right. On the wall, beside the lane, there was a notice warning of danger. This narrow road led out onto a smooth plateau that ended abruptly in rocky outcrops and a line of white warning poles. He could hear the river from practically anywhere around the Marienplatz, but now the roar was very close and, on reaching the wooden poles, he saw that he stood at the edge of a huge craggy cliff face. Two hundred feet below him, the waters of the river Inn snarled over more rocks.

The local Lovers' Leap, he thought, retracing his steps and making his way back to the hotel, where the first person he saw was the elderly waiter who told him they had excellent Gänsebraten mit Karoffelknödeln for dinner. "People come from a long way to sample our roast goose with potato dumplings," he added. "I should be quick into the dining room, or you will miss this delight."

Indeed, the goose was a delight, and the potato dumplings were probably the best he had ever tasted, but he left the table a little concerned, for Bavarian food, while tasty, could lie heavily on the stomach. His mind, however, dwelt on the strangers he had seen in the square on his way back to the hotel. Thugs, toughs, young men and women, many of the men with their heads shaved, all of them in various kinds of disreputable dress. The kind of louts, he thought, who over the past couple of years had made the German cities unsafe: attacking foreigners, firebombing synagogues, and marching in antigovernment protests.

Back in his room he called Flicka, who sounded brighter, particularly when he said that he hoped to be back either tomorrow or the day after. Then he used code words to let her know his intentions for that night.

"Should I tell the vicar?" she asked innocently. The vicar was their password for the Minister.

"I don't see why not if it makes him happy. He is like Dad, keeping Mum?"

"Like the grave, but I think he fancies his chances. He came into the office this afternoon and sat a little too close for comfort. Held my hand with a squeeze when he was leaving."

"Never marry into Whitehall, my dear. The Junior Minister of today is not always the Prime Minister of tomorrow. You can get your name in the papers as well, consorting with members of HM Government."

"I know it." There was laughter in her voice as she used a particularly ribald code word. One that she had thought up, signifying certain desires.

It was eight-thirty by the time he had changed into black jeans, rollneck and denim jacket. The holster for his automatic was firmly in place on his right hip and hidden by the jacket, while spare ammunition magazines were distributed about his body, and the knife was strapped on his left forearm. He also carried the disguised Swiss Army Knife and a small, powerful flashlight in his pocket. Earlier he had sat on the bed and memorized the route from the detailed map of Tarnenwerder provided by Bill Tanner.

It was almost a ten-mile drive, mainly on small country side roads, but it took him to a point on a boundary road of the Tarnenwerder estate where he could safely leave the car, backed in among a thick cave of shrubbery by the roadside.

Quietly he left the vehicle, standing, as usual, for several minutes to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He knew that the ground sloped upward from the road, and at the crest of the rise he would be able to look down onto the old house less than three hundred yards away.

He now saw that the way up was lighted by the reflection of what seemed to be flickering fire from the other side of the rise. He could also hear the voice, electronically amplified, of Max Tarn, and he shivered, for already it sounded like the rabble-rousing oratory of someone from the historic past.

When he reached the crest, the sight that struck him, almost like a blow to the mind, was even more reminiscent of some replay of an old 1930s movie.

The house itself was huge and bathed in light – a great tall oblong edifice in gray stone. In front a long raised terrace with central steps and an ornate stone balustrade stretched the entire length of the building. In the center at the top of the steps, a solid wooden lectern had been set up and Maximilian Tarn, in a brown uniform that also owed much to another era, stood, flanked by men in similar dress, haranguing a crowd of two or three hundred – a sea of people, men and women, girls and boys, ranged in well-ordered lines across a vast lawn. Each of these people held a blazing torch that threw disconcerting and moving shadows against the trees and the facade of Tarnenwerder. Tarn's shadow was, by some prearranged trick of lighting, huge and glowering against the house itself.

"It is with these thoughts in our minds that we must go forward. Fight. Keep faith. Stand firm, shoulder to shoulder. Remember the glorious dead who were betrayed." Tarn raised both his hands in little jerking movements as he held me audience entranced. "Only if we stay true to the message of our great forefathers…" One hand swept upward, clawing the air. "Only if we stay true to the oaths of those who went before, will we rebuild what the glorious Adolf Hitler succeeded in building before he was betrayed – One Empire… One People… One Leader."