The rider gasped when he saw the strange, birdlike thing headed straight for him. He barely had time to scream.
The scout met the cycle head-on, knocking the rider off the bike. Bond pulled the scout up and away as the motorcycle skidded on its side and eventually came to rest in the ditch.
“Prepare to dock scout,” Bond said as he maneuvered the remarkable device back behind the Jaguar.
He gave the command, and the bird pulled underneath the chassis] and locked into place just as Bond entered “the Ring.” Blending in with heavy traffic, the Jaguar safely drove past the power plants, car dealerships, and business parks that dotted the landscape.
Bond activated the mobile speaker phone, then called out the speed dial code for headquarters in London. After the normal security checks, he was put through to Bill Tanner’s office. His secretary answered and told Bond that M and the Chief of Staff were off-site at a meeting.
“Damn,” he said. “Put me through to Helena Marksbury please.”
In a moment he heard his personal assistant’s lilting voice.
“James?” she answered. Bond could hear her apprehension. She probably had looked forward to a few days of his absence.
“Helena, we have a problem,” he said. “Someone knew I was on my way to Brussels, and three men on motorcycles tried to kill me.”
“My God, James, are you all right?” she asked with concern.
“Yes. I need you to get this message to the Chief of Staff immediately. He and M are at a meeting off-site.” He gave her the detail “Find them and tell them that a Code Eighty is in effect.” This MEANT that a security breach had occurred.
“Right,” she said. “I’m on it now, James. Are you in Brussels?”
“Almost. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Be careful,” she said, then rang off. Despite the awkward situation that existed between them, Bond was thankful that Helena was capable of carrying on in a professional manner.
He soon got off the Ring road and onto Industrial Boulevard, which led toward the center of Brussels, and once again offered a silent thanks to Major Boothroyd and the rest of Q Branch.
It was a beautiful, sunny, spring day. Bond parked the car in a garage near the Grand Place, the magnificent square that is considered the centerpiece of Brussels. Bordered on all four sides by icons of Belgium’s royal history, the Grand Place is a dazzling display of ornamental gables, gilded facades, medieval banners, and gold-filigreed rooftop sculptures. The Gothic Town Hall, dating back to the early 1400s, remains intact; the other buildings, the neo-Gothic King’s House and the Brewers Guild House, date from the late 1600s. The Brussels aldermen continue to meet in the Town Hall, the exterior of which is decorated in part by fifteenth- and sixteenth-century insider’s jokes. The sculptures include a group of drinking monks, a sleeping Moor and his harem, a heap of chairs resembling the medieval torture called strappado, and St. Michael slaying a female-breasted devil. Bond had once heard a story that the architect, Jan van Ruysbroeck, committed suicide by leaping from the belfry when he realized that it is off center and has an off-center entrance.
It was nearly two o’clock. Bond put on a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers sunglasses that would identify him to his contact, then walked southwest through the colorful and narrow cobblestoned streets to the intersection of Rue du Chene and Rue de l’Étuve. There, surrounded by camera-snapping tourists, was the famous statue of the urinating little boy known as Manneken-Pis. Although not the original statue (which was subject to vandalism and was removed), the current idol is an exact replica and is perhaps the most well known symbol of Brussels. Bond didn’t know what its origins were, but he knew that it dated from the early 1400s and was perhaps the effigy of a patriotic Belgian lad who sprinkled a hated Spanish sentry who had passed beneath his window. Another story -was that he had saved the Town Hall from a small fire by extinguishing it using the only means avail-able. Today, “Little Julian,” as he is called, was dressed in a strange red cloak with a white fur collar. Louis XV of France began the tradition of presenting colorful costumes to the little boy and since then he has acquired hundreds of outfits.
“He must have a very large bladder to keep peeing like that,” a female voice said in English, but with a thick European accent.
Bond glanced to his left and saw in attractive woman dressed in a smart beige trouser suit and a light jacket. She was wearing Ray-Bans; had strawberry-blond, short, curly hair, a light cream complexion; and her sensual lips were painted with light red lipstick. A toothpick lodged at the corner of her mouth. She appeared to be around thirty, and she had the figure of a fashion model.
“I’m just glad this isn’t considered a drinking fountain,” Bond replied.
She removed the sunglasses to reveal bright blue eyes that sparkled in the sunlight. She held cut her hand and said, “Gina Hollander. Station B.”
Bond took her hand, which felt smooth and warm. “Fond. James Bond.”
“Come on,” she said, gesturing with her head, “let’s go to the station house, then we’ll get your car and take it to your hotel.” Her English was good, but Bond could tell she wasn’t terribly comfortable with it.
“Parlez-vous français?” he asked.
“Oui,” she said, then switched “back to English, “but my first language is Dutch, Flemish. You speak Dutch?”
“Not nearly as well as you speak English,” he replied.
“Then let’s stick to English, I need the practice.”
She was not beautiful, but Bond found, her very appealing. The short, curly hairstyle gave her a pixielike quality that most people would describe as cute, an adjective Bond always avoided. She was petite, but she walked with confidence and grace, as if she were six feet tall.
“Which is my hotel, by the way?” he asked.
“The Métropole. It’s one of the best in town.”
“I know it. I’ve stayed there before.”
“Our target is staying there, too.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when we get to the station house. It’s just over here.”
She led him into a very narrow street off Petite Rue des Bouchers, near the famous folk puppet showcase Theatre Toone, and into a pastry shop. The smell of baked goods was overpowering.
“Care for a cream puff?” she asked.
He smiled and said, “Later, perhaps.”
Gina said something in Flemish to the woman behind the counter, then led Bond through a door, into the kitchen, where a large, sweating man was loading a tray of rolls into an oven. She went through another door to a staircase that led to a second-floor loft: the headquarters of Station B.
It was a comfortable one room/one bathroom flat that had been transformed into an office, just barely large enough for an operative and some equipment. Besides the usual computer gear, file cabinets, fax machine, and copier, there was a sofa bed, a television, and kitchenette. It was decorated with a decidedly feminine touch, and there was an abundance of Belgian lace draped over the furniture.
“I don’t live here, but the sofa bed is handy if I ever have to stay late,” she said as they entered. “Have a seat anywhere. You want something to drink?”
“Vodka with ice, please. Before we do anything, though, I have to call London. We have a little problem.”