“No, we wouldn’t,” Harding agreed. “But could he handle a long aeroplane flight?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Good.” Harding took the sketch and opened the attaché case. He dropped it inside, then removed the envelope containing the Skin 17 microdot. “This is it. It’s attached to a piece of film. Whatever you do, don’t lose it. It’ll be your neck. Remember what the Union have on you.”
Lindenbeek swallowed hard. “How can I forget?” He gingerly took the envelope from Harding.
Hospital Erasme, located on Route de Lennik south of Brussels, is one of the most modern and largest facilities in all of Belgium. As it is also a university hospital, Erasme is considered to have the best equipment and technology in the country, as well as the most sophisticated and professional staff.
At exactly 7:55 A.M., a few hours before Bond would attend the Skin 17 emergency briefing, Dr. Lindenbeek walked into surgery on the second floor wearing greens, mask, and a cap. He scrubbed his hands and allowed a nurse to fit rubber gloves over them. The patient, a fifty-eight-year-old Chinese man named Lee Ming, was already on the table and was groggy from the drugs he had been given. Preparing the patient for surgery had taken nearly an hour.
A local anesthetic was applied to Lee’s left side, under the collarbone. Lindenbeek examined his equipment while he waited for the drugs to work. The pacemaker was a top-line “demand” model made by Sulzer Intermedics Inc., which meant that the device sensed the heart’s activity and stimulated it only when the natural rate fell below a certain level. Lindenbeek preferred Sulzer Intermedics, an American company, not only because they had a convenient office in Belgium, but because he considered them the best.
“He’s ready, doctor,” the anesthetist said in Flemish.
Dr. Lindenbeek inserted a needle to find the subclavian vein under the left collarbone. After he found it, he made a subcutaneous incision to one side of the needle. He then slid an introducer over the needle, which looked like a big syringe with no plunger. The next step was to insert the pacemaker leads through the introducer down the vein into the heart. Fluoroscopy was used to visualize the lead in the patient.
“I think I’ll need a stylet,” Lindenbeek said. He removed the lead and placed a wire stylet on it so that it would be a little suffer. This would aid in positioning the lead.
It was a tedious process but one that had to be performed with precision and care. The first lead took nearly an hour to position, and there was still a second one to insert. Ninety minutes into the operation, Lindenbeek was ready to go on to the next step.
The electrical status of the leads was checked to see how much energy was actually needed to pace the heart. Lindenbeek cautiously adjusted the electricity, then took the gold-colored pacemaker from the tray. He attached the leads to the pacemaker, then gave the order to check everything on the EKG.
“Looks good, doctor,” the nurse said.
He nodded, then proceeded to carry on with the final phase of the operation. He carefully made a “pocket” under the incision by blunt dissection between the pectoral muscle and the skin. Once that was done, Lindenbeek inserted the sealed pacer into the pocket and closed the incision.
Right,” Lindenbeek said. “You’re all finished, Mr. Lee.”
Lee blinked. “I think I fell asleep.”
You did fine. We’re going to take you to the recovery room now. 1see you in a little bit. Try not to move too much.”
Lee was wheeled out of surgery and Lindenbeek removed his gloves and mask. He went to the waiting room, where he found Steven Harding reading a magazine. Harding saw him and stood up.
“Well?” he asked.
“Everything’s fine,” Lindenbeek said. “He can go home tonight if you really want, but I recommend he stay until tomorrow morning.”
Harding considered this and said, “All right. I’d rather be safe than sorry.” He then lowered his voice and asked, “So . . . where exactly is it?”
Lindenbeek whispered, “The microdot is attached to the battery inside the pacemaker. I had to do it that way in order to seal the pacemaker and sterilize it.”
Harding nodded. “Good. That’s fine, then. Well done.”
“I’m glad you are pleased. Now, will this nightmare finally end?”
Harding smiled, his beady, birdlike eyes sparkling. “I will speak to my superiors this afternoon. I’m sure they will be in touch. Thank you, doctor.”
As Harding left the waiting room, Dr. Lindenbeek stood and watched him. He didn’t like that man. He didn’t like anyone associated with the so-called Union. At least he had done what they wanted. Now he prayed that he could get on with his life in peace.
Harding took a taxi back to the hotel and indulged himself in a fine lunch at the M6tropole cafe. It consisted of creamed potato soup with smoked eel, salmon in flaky pastry with sevruga caviar, asparagus, and a bottle of Duvel beer. After lunch he went to the Rue d’Aerschot, Brussels’s meager red light district, where he spent several thousand Belgian francs in the company of a plump but serviceable prostitute.
When he got back to his room that evening, the message light on his phone was blinking. He retrieved the message, frowned, and returned the call.
It was not good news.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself. He hung up the phone, then dialed a local contact in Brussels.
“Hello?” he muttered to the Frenchman who answered. “I don’t speak French. Listen, this is Mongoose, right? I’ve just learned that A British secret service agent is driving here tomorrow in a BLUE JAGUAR XK8. He’s on to us. He’ll be on the E19, coming into Brussels, between noon and two o’clock. Is there something you can do about him?”
SIX
THE ROAD TO BRUSSELS
JAMES BOND picked up the Jaguar XK8 from Q branch after receiving a brief admonition from Major Boothroyd concerning a couple of new features he had added since Bond had used the car last. One of these was a supercharger, an Eaton Ml 12, which normally delivered 370 bhp and 387-pound-foot torque. Bond had insisted on a modification to increase the boost to give 500 bhp, which Boothroyd had reluctantly made.
He took the M20 motorway to the Channel Tunnel Terminal between Dover and Folkestone and boarded Le Shuttle auto-transporter, which, in thirty-five minutes, unloaded cars at Calais. Bond skirted south toward Lille, then got on the E19, the Paris to Brussels autoroute. Recent rains and sunny weather made the landscape rich with green, yellow, and orange brushstrokes. The countryside whipped past Bond as he tested the new supercharger on the open road. It felt great to get away from England and finally make headway on the case.
The Jaguar was twenty miles from “the Ring,” the busy roadway that encircled the main city, when Bond noticed two high-speed motorcycles gaining on him. They appeared to be identical dark green Kawasaki ZZ-R1100 superbikes. Bond was familiar with the vehicles and knew them to be powerful, heavy, and very fast.
Obtaining an extra boost from a ram-air system that ducted cool air from a slot in the fairing nose to a pressurized air box, they could easily keep up with the Jaguar.
A third ZZ-R1100 pulled out onto the highway from an entrance ramp in front of him just as the other two reached a point fifty yards behind Bond’s car. He was certain that they were performing rehearsed maneuvers—the timing was just too skillful. Bond sat straight in the seat, gripped the wheel, and increased his speed to ninety in order to overtake the motorcycle in the right lane in front of him. It didn’t help that traffic was moderately heavy.
Bond veered into the center lane so that he could pass the rider and get a good look at him. At that angle he appeared to be dressed in army-fatigues and an olive green crash helmet, neatly color coordinated with the bike. Was it a costume? Perhaps the three riders were part of some kind of auto show and weren’t dangerous at all?