John Gardner - Icebreaker

For a second, Rivke was silent. Then: ‘No, James. No. You had no alternative, obviously. No, I was thinking about what my father said – God knows why I call him a father. He’s really no father of mine. When he came in, he said something about you having provided information. I was dozing, but he sounded sarcastic. He thanked you for the information.’

Bond felt the lead of despair deep in his guts. M had sent him blind into a compromising situation, though he could not blame his chief for that. M’s reasoning would have been the less knowledge the better, as far as Bond was concerned. Like himself, M had almost certainly been duped by what had transpired: the real Brad Tirpitz’s elimination, Kolya Mosolov’s double-dealing with von Glöda. And then there was the duplicity of Paula Vacker. The despair came from the knowledge that he had let his country down, and failed his Service. In Bond’s book these were the cardinal sins.

By now, von Glöda would almost certainly be going through all the standard routines of moving shop: packing, organising transport, loading up the BTRs with all the arms and munitions they could carry, shredding documents. Bond wondered if von Glöda had some temporary base – apart from the major new Command Post – from which he could operate. Now he would want to get out as quickly as possible, but it might take up to twenty-four hours.

Bond looked around to see if any of his clothes had been left with him. There was a locker opposite the bed, though not large enough to contain clothing. The rest of the room was bare, just the formal trappings of a small private hospital ward: another small locker opposite Rivke’s bed; a table, with glasses, a bottle and medical equipment standing in the corner. Nothing useful that he could see.

There were curtain-bearing rails around each bed, two lamps – above the bedheads – a strip light set in the ceiling, and the usual small ventilation grilles.

The idea came to him that he might overpower the nurse, strip her, and try to get out disguised as a woman. But the notion was self-evidently ludicrous, for Bond scarcely had the build which lent itself to female impersonation. In addition, just thinking it made him feel dopy again. He wondered what drugs they’d shot him with after the torture.

If von Glöda were to keep his bargain with Kolya – which seemed highly unlikely – Bond’s only chance would be an escape from Kolya Mosolov’s custody.

There was a sound in the passage outside. The door opened and the nurse came in, bright, starched and hygienic. ‘Well,’ she started briskly, ‘I have news. You’ll both be leaving here soon. The Führer has decided to take you out with him. I’m here to warn you that you’ll be moving in a few hours.’

‘Hostage time,’ said Bond, sighing.

The nurse smiled brightly, saying she expected that was it.

‘And how do we go?’ Bond had some notion it might help to keep her talking, if only to gain a little information. ‘Snowcat? BTR? What?’

The nurse’s smile did not leave her mouth. ‘I shall be travelling with you. You’re perfectly fit, Mr Bond, but we’re concerned about Miss Ingber’s legs. She prefers being called Miss Ingber, I gather. I must be with her. We’ll all be going in the Führer’s personal aircraft.’

‘Aircraft?’ Bond did not even realise they had flying facilities.

‘Oh yes, there’s a runway among the trees. It’s kept clear even in the worst weather. We have a couple of light aircraft here – ski-fitted in winter, of course – and the Führer’s executive jet, a converted Mystère-Falcon. Very fast but lands on anything . . .’

‘Can it take off on anything?’ Bond thought of the bleak ice and snow among the trees.

‘When the runway’s clear.’ The nurse seemed unconcerned. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. We always have ice burners out along the metal runway just before he leaves.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘Now, is there anything you need?’

‘Parachutes?’ Bond suggested.

For the first time, the nurse lost her brightness. ‘You will both be given a meal before we leave. Until then, I have other work to do.’ The door shut, and they heard the click of a key turning in the lock from the outside.

‘That’s it, then,’ said Rivke. ‘If you’d ever thought about it, dear James, there’ll be no cottage for us, with roses around the door.’

‘I had thought about it, Rivke. I never give up hope.’

‘Knowing my father, he’ll like as not drop us off at 20,000 feet.’

Bond grunted. ‘Hence the nurse’s reaction when I mentioned parachutes.’

‘Shhhh.’ Rivke made a sharp noise. ‘There’s someone in the passage. Outside the door.’

Bond looked towards her. He had heard nothing, but Rivke suddenly appeared alert, if not edgy. Bond moved – surprised that his limbs worked with such ease and speed. Indeed, the action seemed to produce a new and sudden alertness in him. The dopy feeling left him and now Bond cursed himself again, for he realised he’d broken another elementary rule by blabbing his head off to Rivke without making even a rudimentary surveillance check.

Bond sprinted, unembarrassed by his nudity, to the table in the corner, grabbed a glass and returned as quickly to the bed. Whispering, he told Rivke, ‘I can always smash it. Surprising how effective broken glass can be on flesh.’

She nodded, her head cocked, listening. Still Bond heard nothing. Then, with a speed and suddenness that took even Bond unawares, the door shot open and Paula Vacker was in the room.

She moved silently – as Bond’s housekeeper May would have said, ‘like greased lightning’. Before either Rivke or Bond could react, Paula had snaked between the two beds. Bond caught a glimpse of his own P7 automatic raised twice and heard the tinkle of glass as Paula put the bedhead lights out of action with two quick butt strokes from the gun.

‘What . . . ?’ Bond began, realising that this made little difference to the lighting, as most of the illumination came from the ceiling strip light.

‘Just keep quiet,’ Paula advised him, the P7 circling the two beds as she moved back towards the door, crouched, pulled a bundle into the room, then closed the door again, locking it behind her. ‘The electronics, James, were inside the bedhead light bulbs. Every word – all your conversation with sweet little Rivke here – has now been relayed to Count von Glöda.’

‘But . . . ?’

‘Enough.’ The P7 was pointed at Rivke not Bond. With her foot, Paula pushed the bundle towards Bond’s bed. Get into those. You’re going to become an officer in the Führer’s army for a while.’

Bond got up and undid the bundle. There was thermal underwear, stockings, a heavy rollneck and a field grey winter uniform, smock and trousers; boots, gloves, and a uniform fur hat. Quickly he started to dress. ‘What’s all this about, Paula?’

‘I’ll explain when there’s time,’ she snapped back. ‘Just get on with what you’re doing. We’re going to cut it fine in any case. Kolya’s taken a run for it, so there’s only the two of us now. Partners in crime, James. At least we’re going to get out.’

Bond was already nearly dressed. He moved to the door side of his bed. ‘What about Rivke?’

‘What about her?’

‘We can’t get her out. Whose side are you on anyway?’

‘Surprisingly enough, yours, James. More than can be said for the Führer’s daughter.’

As she said it, Rivke moved. Paula stepped back and Bond saw a kind of blur as, with alarming ease, Rivke slid her legs from the plaster casts, swivelled sideways, and swung off the bed, one hand clasped around the butt of a small pistol. There was not a single mark on her body, and the supposed broken legs worked like those of an athlete. Paula swore, shouting at Rivke to drop the gun.