‘Do you think they could operate the tracking system from the laboratory?’
Bond frowned. ‘It’s feasible, I suppose. What I don’t understand is how they could have sunk the submarines - if that’s what happened.’ He did a racing change and blessed the telescopic shock-absorbers as the Esprit ironed out a pot-hole and swung round a corner as if hooked to a rail.
Anya shrank back into the bucket seat. ‘Do you always drive like this?’
Bond darted a glance at her. ‘No. Sometimes I speed a little.’ A piece of straight road loomed up and the needle flickered against the hundred mark. ‘How did your conducted tour go?’
‘Very slowly. Nobody understood my questions, or at least, pretended not to. But some of those men were Bulgars, I would swear it. They understood Russian.’
‘So you saw nothing? No laboratories? No unusual equipment?’
‘They showed me a kind of sitting-room. That was most untechnical. Very old-fashioned in fact - except for the model of a tanker. The latest addition to the Stromberg line. It is called the Lepadus. It weighs over six hundred thousand tons.’ Bond whistled through his teeth. ‘It must be the biggest in the world.’
Anya’s chin lifted proudly. ‘After the Karl Marx.''
Bond sighed and slipped past a lorry while the driver wondered why he had never seen him coming up in the rear-view mirror. ‘I might have guessed. Maybe it would be a good idea to check out this Lepadus. I’ll get on to M about it.’
Anya leant across and tapped Bond lightly on the knee. ‘That will not be necessary, James’ - she pronounced it ‘Shems’ which Bond found rather charming - ‘I have already contacted our information service.*
Bond nodded and pursed his lips. It would be foolish to underestimate Major Amasova. She was the ultimate proof that beauty and brains could go together. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and frowned. That was funny. The motorcycle and side-car that had suddenly appeared behind them. The sea was on one side, a hundred feet below a low stone wall, and there was sheer cliff on the other. The motorcycle must have been in a lay-by. It was almost as if it had been waiting for them. Bond put his foot down and the Lotus surged forward. Anya caught up with her stomach and followed Bond’s checking eyes.
‘Do you think we’re being followed?’
‘Possibly. But they won’t be able to live with us in that thing. I’d be more worried if there was anyone in the sidecar.’ Bond put his foot down and flicked into fourth as the needle hovered round the ninety mark. The mounting excitement of the Grand Prix engine settled into a contented bay. Ahead was a long stretch of straight road with the sea twinkling far below.
‘He’s dropping back - James.’
Bond’s eyes shot to the mirror. At first glance it seemed as if Anya was right. Bond suppressed a smile. Serve the fellow right. It was an impertinence to try and keep up with the Lotus in that thing. Then Bond looked again. The combination was actually breaking up! There was a ferocious wobble and the motorcycle veered off to the left. Bond watched in amazement. The sidecar was still coming on!
‘James! It’s coming for us!’
Anya was right. Like a land torpedo, the sidecar was gaining on them fast. Bond drove the accelerator pedal down until his foot was flattening the carpet pile. The engine roared enthusiastically and the rev counter climbed towards the six thousand mark. A hundred and twenty, a hundred and twenty- five - racing change into fifth - a hundred and thirty, a hundred and thirty-five. The needle was still climbing, but -
‘It’s gaining on us!'
What the devil was it? Some kind of guided missile programmed to destroy them? Was there no way of shaking it off? Bond searched the road ahead. They were coming up fast behind a furniture van. Bond read the Italian on the back: The Mandami Mattress Company. Well, it was soon going to be sweet dreams, unless ... Bond shot towards the van as if intent on ramming it and felt Anya tensing beside him. The wedge nose of the Esprit trembled under the tail board and he glanced at the mirror. Death dressed in yellow and orange was streaking towards them. Bond threw the wheel over and heard Anya scream. An articulated lorry filled the road. Its headlights swore but Bond's pressure on the accelerator pedal did not slacken. As the wall of metal bore down on them the Lotus rippled and then hurled itself forward. There was an eldritch wail like an express train passing in the night and the world disintegrated into a kaleidoscope of smeared vision and ruptured sound.
Bond jerked the wheel to the right and the car skipped into line behind him. Suddenly, the road in front was empty. Thank God! The tension released itself as if through an opened valve. He glanced at the mirror. Behind, it was snowing. The road was obscured by a blizzard of white flakes. Not snowflakes, feathers! The side-car had detonated on impact with the van and blown God knows how many feather mattresses to kingdom come. In hot pursuit, the motorcyclist, half blinded by feathers, lost control of his machine. The bike twisted like a rubber band and went through the low wall as if it was pie crust. For an instant it seemed to hang in space, and then traced a graceful parabola to the ocean. Driver and machine were not separated when they hit the water. Bond’s cruel face looked down at the widening, froth-flecked ripples without expression. He shook his head.
‘All those feathers and be still couldn't fly.'
The cloud of feathers began to disperse and drift towards the sea, revealing the charred superstructure of the van. Flames licked through the roof and the driver stood beside the still- intact cab of his blazing vehicle and semaphored his feelings to heaven.
Bond watched as a battered Fiat saloon picked its way through the wreckage and waited for the occupants to come stumbling out and join the van driver in a pantomime of Latin gesticulation. But the Fiat did not stop. Clear of the obstruction, it picked up speed and came towards them. Fast. Bond jerked his head round and the 14-inch 7Js blitzed gravel against the perimeter wall. In five seconds the needle had passed fifty and the Lotus was filling its lungs with power. The Fiat hurtled after them and the chase was on. Bond glanced in the mirror and his jaw tightened. The Fiat was holding on well. Something must have been souped up under that rusty bonnet. As he looked, a figure leaned out of one of the windows and something glinted. Crack! Crack! Two single shots and then a burst of automatic fire. Bond sawed at the wheel and swung the Lotus from side to side as a bend loomed up. For a fraction of a second, an oncoming car hung before them and Bond saw a close-up of the driver’s terrified face. Then they were in a tunnel. So fast that Bond had no time to flick up the headlights. A semi-circle of light became huge before them and bullets hurled chunks of rock against the side of the car. Out of the corner of his eye, Bond could see that Anya had her Beretta in her hand. She turned towards the window.
‘Don’t bother.’
‘But-’
‘I know you’re a crack shot.’ Bond smiled grimly and drifted into a bend. The tail of the Lotus swung out and then snapped back with a seductive wriggle. ‘I’ve done some research as well.’ He glanced at the dashboard. ‘How far behind are they?5
‘Thirty metres.’
‘It’s what my old Scottish nanny used to call “byebyes time”.’ He pressed a switch. Nothing happened. Cursing, he pressed it again.
Anya said nothing. She merely leaned out of her window and squeezed off two shots. The cracks were barely audible over the roar of the wind and the engine. The Fiat held its course for a few moments and then slewed violently across the road. Its wheels seemed to fold under it and it snapped off a hollow bollard like a rotten tooth and plunged down a steep incline. The petrol tank exploded on the first bounce and like a fireball aimed at hell the Fiat plummeted on to the rocks three hundred feet below. There was a second, more violent explosion and a column of black smoke to mark the spot for the fast disappearing Lotus.