John Gardner - Seafire

The long uncontrolled skid ended with the VW crashing straight through the wooden barrier and out onto the road. He whipped the wheel to the right, straightened up as he saw the Merc attempting to back up and cut him off. But he had control of the car again and went barreling past the rear of the Mercedes, screeching around the corner and away.

No, he thought. No, not away. It would be a gamble but he would take it. The alley with its danger signs was coming up fast on his right, so he braked and swung into the narrow road, then put on speed again. He had not fastened his seat belt when the attack had begun, so he was able to hang on to the wheel with one hand, his arm rigid, holding the wheel at twelve o'clock to steer with accuracy, while his left hand began to unlatch the door.

In front of him he saw that the white posts that ran along the top of the cliff face had red reflectors on them. It was simply a question of judgment. He hit a rock and the car lost contact with the ground for a second, landing a little to the left as he regained control.

It was only when he was roughly twenty yards from the line of posts that he gave the car its last burst of speed, then threw open the door and rolled to his left.

He hit the ground hard, winded for a second before he could move toward the nearest piece of cover, a small clump of rocks. Just as he rolled, the Corrado hit the warning poles. He saw it leap forward as though it were trying to grab at air and fly, then the nose dipped and it fell. From his cover he heard the first crunch as the metal hit the rock face, then the sudden boom and whoosh as it hit again, rupturing the gas tank, sending a sheet of flame up to the top of the drop.

The Mercedes and BMW both crept from the alleyway, their drivers obviously well briefed in the danger of driving too fast into this dangerous place. Four men, plus the massive Rollen, were out of the cars as the final crunching and clatter came from two hundred feet below. As Bond sneaked a peep over the rocks he saw that one of the men was Maurice Goodwin.

"My God," one of them said. "He's gone over the edge. Careful, Kurt…" as Rollen walked toward the sheer drop and looked down.

"He's burning," Kurt said in a slow, unbelieving voice. "We've failed. Oh my God, we've failed."

"Kurt," Maurice Goodwin said. "We haven't failed. He's dead. Nobody could have survived in that wreck."

"Then we've not failed." Slow. "We've won, eh, Mo. We've won."

"Please, Kurt, don't call me Mo. My name's Maurice."

He stayed where he was, lying on the ground hidden by the little mound of rocks. His body was bruised and sore, while the bite on his arm began to throb. Tarn's men left fairly quickly, and the local police and rescue team arrived within minutes of their jubilant departure. Several townspeople, alerted by the crash and explosion of the car, followed, milling around anxious to see what had happened.

He used the sudden influx of people to get to his feet, mingle for a few minutes, trying to ease the aches in his body, and think of ways and means to get out of Wasserburg as quickly as possible.

Finally he slipped away, walking back to the hotel across a deserted Marienplatz. There was nobody about in the hotel entrance, so he was able to get to his room unseen. Once there he took a quick very hot shower, cleaned off the lacerations in his arm, which looked slightly red and swollen, and made a more permanent bandage from a couple of handkerchiefs. He dressed in blazer and slacks and then returned downstairs again.

The elderly waiter was nodding off behind the small reception desk.

"You work long hours, my friend." Bond shook him by the shoulder.

"Ach." The waiter slowly opened his eyes. "I don't sleep much these days. You get older, you don't need so much sleep. What can I do for you?"

Bond asked if he knew a reliable taxi service, "I want to get to Munich as quickly as possible."

"How quickly?"

"Now. Straightaway."

"My brother. He's stupid enough to go anywhere at any time. Wait." He dialed a number and proceeded to have an agitated conversation with somebody he called Wolfie. Putting a hand over the mouthpiece, he grinned. "He'll do it, but you'll have to make it worth his while."

After a little haggling they settled on a price. Bond paid his hotel bill and went back to finish his packing. Fifteen minutes later he carried the garment bag and the briefcase, repacked with the weapons in the safe compartment, downstairs and found the waiter's brother chatting in the small foyer.

The brother turned out to be older than the waiter, and wore thick-tensed glasses, but he grabbed the bags and set off toward his car. Before following him, Bond pushed a handful of notes into the waiter's hand and half whispered, "You've never seen me, okay?"

"I never see anybody. That's how you get from being a teenager in Hitler's Germany. It always pays never to see or hear anything."

Wolfie appeared to be under the impression that he was a Formula One driver, but he still took well over an hour and a half to get to Munich Airport. There were only four really frightening incidents during the drive, and Bond paid up, hurrying into the almost deserted airport to find that he had a very long wait, as there were no flights to London until a British Airways departure at seven-thirty in the morning. There were seats on the flight, so he managed to exchange his Lufthansa ticket, to the delight of the young woman at the BA desk.

Speed was essential, he thought, once he arrived in London, so he did not check in any luggage. His next step was to use a telephone carefully enough not to give any prior warnings to the person whose voice he carried on the tape in his pocket.

Using a credit card, he called Bill Tanner at his home number and very quickly laid the news on him, covering both Max Tarn's bid for a Fourth Reich in Germany and the name of the person who had betrayed MicroGlobe One and the entire country.

"You're certain?" Tanner was as shaken as Bond had been.

"One hundred percent proof positive, Bill. Here's what I want you to do." He outlined the exact steps that needed to be taken in the morning. "I'll call Flicka just before the flight departure," he ended. "You can both meet me; but for heaven's sake have everything else fixed."

"It'll all be done." Tanner was about to close the line when Bond asked if they still employed Burke and Hare.

"We certainly do."

"Better have them on hand as well."

Burke and Hare were nicknames for Bill Burkeshaw and Tony Hairman, the two most experienced inquisitors who worked for the Intelligence Service. They would certainly be needing them if things were to run to a smooth climax.

He found a seat in front of one of the airport television sets where you could watch CNN in English. It was positioned so that he had an uninterrupted view of the whole concourse, and he remained there until the British Airways flight was called. Only then did he use the telephone again to call Fredericka von Grüsse, who answered brightly.

He gave her the flight number and time of arrival at Heathrow, tersely telling her to meet him, closing the line quickly.

The BA Airbus 360 landed at exactly eight-thirty local time – a two-hour trip with a time difference of one hour between Munich and London.

Flicka embraced him as though he had been away for a month, not just a couple of days. Bill Tanner stood to one side, then clasped his hand.

"Everything done?" Bond asked, and Tanner nodded without speaking.

"What the hell's going on?" Flicka looked confused.

"You'll see." He gave her a mischievous smile. "Hope you didn't do anything rash, like bringing a rental car and driver out, because we're heading straight for the Home Office in Bill's car."