Had he talked? As hard as Bond cudgelled his brains, he could not tell. In the midst of the sharp, satanic pictures of torture, there was no memory of what else had passed between him and his interrogators.
Depressed, he looked at Rivke. She was staring at him, her eyes soft and gentle, just as they had been in that hotel in the early morning. Her lips moved, soundlessly, but Bond could easily read what she was mouthing: ‘James, I love you.’
He smiled, and gave her a little nod as the nurse tipped the cup of beef tea so that he could swallow more.
He was alive. Rivke was there. While he lived there was still a chance that the National Socialist Action Army could be stopped and their Führer wiped from the new world map he wanted so badly to draw.
16
PARTNERS IN CRIME
After the beef tea, Bond was given an injection, and the nurse said something about frostbite. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right in a few hours.’
Bond looked across at Rivke and started to say something, but drifted off into a cloud of sleep. Later he could not tell if it had been a dream or not, but there had seemed to be a waking period during which von Glöda stood at the foot of the bed. The tall man was smiling – unctuous and evil. ‘There, Mr Bond. I told you we would get all we needed from you. Better than the drugs and chemicals. I trust we haven’t ruined your sex life. I think not. Anyway, thank you for the information. A great help to us.’
On finally waking, Bond was more or less convinced that this had been no dream, so vivid was the picture of von Glöda. There were dreams, however, dreams about the same man: dreams in which von Glöda stood decked out in Nazi uniform, surrounded by the trappings of power at a kind of Nuremberg rally.
A wave of terror washed through him as the memory of the ordeal under the icy water returned, then passed quickly. He felt better now, if lulled and dopily disorientated. He was anxious to get going. Indeed, he had little choice. Either find a way out of von Glöda’s labyrinth, or take the inevitable trip to Moscow, with its final showdown between himself and what used to be SMERSH.
‘Are you awake, James?’
In the few seconds of returning to the world, Bond had forgotten Rivke’s presence in the room. He turned his head, smiling, ‘Mixed sanatoria. What will they think of next?’
She laughed, inclining her head towards the two great lumps of plaster, strung up on pulleys, that were her legs. ‘Not much we can do about it, though. More’s the pity. My stinking father was in here a little while ago.’
That clinched it. Von Glöda’s speech had not been a dream. Bond swore silently. How much had he given away to them, under the pain and disorientation of the ice dunking? There was no way to tell. Quickly he calculated the chances of a determined NSAA team getting into the Regent’s Park building. The odds would be about eighty to one against. But they would only need to penetrate one man. That would shorten the odds and, if he had given them the information, the NSAA would certainly already have their team briefed. Too late for him even to warn M.
‘You look worried. What terrible things did they do to you, James?’
‘They took me for a swim in a winter wonderland, my darling. Nothing so dreadful. But what about you? I saw the accident. We thought you were taken away by a genuine ambulance and the police. Obviously we were wrong.’
‘I was just coming down the final slope, looking forward to seeing you again. Then, poof – nothing. I woke up with a lot of pain in my legs and my father standing over me. He had that woman with him. I don’t think she’s here though. But they did have some kind of a hospital organised. Both legs broken, and a couple of ribs. They plastered me up, took me for a long ride, and I finally woke up here. The Count calls it his Command Post, but I’ve no idea where we are. The nurses are friendly enough but won’t tell me anything.’
‘If my calculations are correct . . .’ Bond eased himself on to his side so that he could more easily talk to Rivke and look at her simultaneously. There were signs of strain around her eyes, and she was in obvious discomfort caused by the casts on her legs and the traction. ‘If I’m right, we’re in a large bunker, situated around ten to twelve kilometres east of the Finnish border. On the Russian side.’
‘Russian?’ Rivke opened her mouth, eyes wide with amazement.
Bond nodded. ‘Your beloved Papa has pulled a very fast one.’ He made a grimace, conveying a certain admiration. ‘You have to admit he’s been exceptionally clever. We have searched everywhere for clues, and all the time he’s been operating from the most unlikely place – within Soviet territory.’
Rivke laughed quietly, the sound tinged with bitterness. ‘He always was clever. Who’d have looked in Russia for the headquarters of a Fascist group?’
‘Quite.’ Bond stayed silent for a moment. ‘How bad are the legs?’
She lifted a hand – a gesture of helplessness. ‘You can see for yourself.’
‘They haven’t given you any therapy yet? Let you try and walk – even with crutches or a Zimmer?’
‘You’re joking. I can’t feel much pain. It’s just very uncomfortable. Why?’
‘There’s got to be a way out of this place, and I’m not going alone or leaving you behind.’ He paused, as if making up his mind. ‘Not now that I’ve found you, Rivke.’
When he next looked, Bond thought he could detect a moistness in the large eyes. ‘James, that’s wonderful of you, but if there is a way out, you’ll have to try it yourself, by yourself.’
Bond’s brow creased. If there was a way, could he get back in time? Bring help? He put the answers into words. ‘I don’t think the clock’s on our side, Rivke. Not if I’ve told them what I think . . .’
‘Told them . . . ?’
‘Being ducked in almost frozen water, without your clothes on, is slightly disorientating. I passed out a couple of times. They wanted the answers to two questions.’ He went on to say that he knew one answer, but could only guess the other.
‘What kind of questions?’
In a few words Bond told her about the NSAA man being captured in London before he could commit suicide. ‘Your father’s got a new Command Post. This fellow has enough information to tip off our people. The devil of it is that the London prisoner probably doesn’t realise he knows. Your maniac father had a group sent to his new Command Post for briefing, before leaving for London. Our interrogators, like yours with Mossad, are not fools. The right questions’ll yield the answers.’
‘So you think your Service already knows where this new place – this second Command Post – is located?’
‘I wouldn’t put money on it. But if I’ve told von Glöda’s inquisitors we have the man, and that he’s been interrogated, they can add up the answers as well as our people. I should think your father’s moving everyone out of here pretty damned fast.
‘You said there were two questions?’
‘Oh, they wanted to know where our people were keeping him. That’s no problem, really. There’s a chance one man could get at him; but any full-scale assault’s out of the question.’
‘Why, James?’
‘We keep a special interrogation centre in the basement of our Headquarters building in London. He’s holed up there.’
Rivke bit her lip. ‘And you really think you told them?’
‘There’s a possibility. You said your father was in here earlier. I can vaguely remember that. He gave the impression they knew about it. You were awake . . .’
‘Yes.’ She looked away for a second, not meeting his eyes.