That had been less than an hour ago and now she could tell from the slow pace of the car and the noise of other traffic that they had reached a large town—Maidstone if she was being taken back to the site.
In the comparative silence of their progress through the town she suddenly heard Krebs’s voice. There was a note of urgency in it.
«Mein Kapitän,» he said. «I have been watching a car for some time. It is certainly following us. It has seldom been using its lights. It is only a hundred metres behind us now. I think it is the car of Commander Bond.»
Drax grunted with surprise and she could hear his big body shift round to get a quick look.
He swore sharply and then there was silence and she could feel the big car weaving and straining in the thin traffic. «Ja, sowas!» said Drax finally. His voice was thoughtful. «So that old museum-piece of his can still move. So much the better, my dear Krebs. He seems to be alone.» He laughed harshly. «So we will give him a run for his money and if he survives it we will get him in the bag with the woman. Turn on the radio. Home Service. We will soon find out if there is a hitch.»
There was a short crackle of static and then Gala could hear the voice of the Prime Minister, the voice of all the great occasions in her life, coming through in broken fragments as Drax put the car into third and accelerated out of the town, ‘… weapon devised by the ingenuity of man… a thousand miles into the firmament… area patrolled by Her Majesty’s ships… designed exclusively for the defence of our beloved island… a long era of peace… development for Man’s great journey away from the confines of this planet… Sir Hugo Drax, that great patriot and benefactor of our country…’
Gala heard Drax’s roar of laughter above the howling of the wind, a great scornful bray of triumph, and then the set was switched off.
«James,» whispered Gala to herself. «There’s only you left. Be careful. But make haste.»
Bond’s face was a mask of dust and filthy with the blood of flies and moths that had smashed against it. Often he had had to take a cramped hand off the wheel to clear his goggles but the Bentley was going beautifully and he felt sure of holding the Mercedes.
He was touching ninety-five on the straight just before the entrance to Leeds Castle when great lights were suddenly switched on behind him and a four-tone windhorn sounded its impudent ‘pom-pim-pom-pam’ almost in his ear.
The apparition of a third car in the race was almost unbelievable. Bond had hardly troubled to look in his driving-mirror since he left London. No one but a racing-driver or a desperate man could have kept up with them, and his mind was in a turmoil as he automatically pulled over to the left and saw out of the corner of his eye a low, fire-engine-red car come up level with him and draw away with a good ten miles an hour extra on its clock.
He caught a glimpse of the famous Alfa radiator and along the edge of the bonnet in bold white script the words Attaboy II. Then there was the grinning face of a youth in shirtsleeves who stuck two rude fingers in the air before he pulled away in the welter of sound which an Alfa at speed compounds from the whine of its supercharger, the Gatling crackle of its exhaust, and the thunderous howl of its transmission.
Bond grinned in admiration as he raised a hand to the driver. Alfa-Romeo supercharged straight-eight, he thought to himself. Must be nearly as old as mine. ’32 or ’33 probably. And only half my c.c. Targa Florio in 1931 and did well everywhere after that. Probably a hot-rod type from one of the RAF stations round here. Trying to get back from a party in time to sign in before he’s put on the report. He watched affectionately as the Alfa wagged its tail in the S-bend abreast of Leeds Castle and then howled off on the long wide road towards the distant Charing-fork.
Bond could imagine the grin of delight as the boy came up with Drax. ‘Oh, boy. It’s a Merc!’ And the rage of Drax at the impudent music of the windhorn. Must be doing 105, reflected Bond. Hope the damn fool doesn’t run out of road. He watched the two sets of tail lights closing up, the boy in the Alfa preparing for his trick of coming up behind and suddenly switching everything on when he could see a chance to get by.
There. Four hundred yards away the Mercedes showed white in the sudden twin shafts from the Alfa. There was a mile of clear road ahead, straight as a die. Bond could almost feel the boy’s feet stamping the pedal still further into the floorboards. Attaboy!
Up front in the Mercedes Krebs had his mouth close to Drax’s ear. «Another of them,» he shouted urgently. «Can’t see his face. Coming up to pass now.»
Drax let out a harsh obscenity. His bared teeth showed white in the pale glimmer from the dashboard. «Teach the swine a lesson,» he said, setting his shoulders and gripping the wheel tightly in the great leather gauntlets. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the nose of the Alfa creep up to starboard. ‘Pom-pim-pom-pam’ chirped the windhorn; softly, delicately, Drax inched the wheel of the Mercedes to the right and, at the horrible crash of metal, whipped it back again to correct the slew of his tail.
«Bravo! Bravo!» screamed Krebs, beside himself with excitement as he knelt on the seat and looked back. «Double somersault. Jumped the hedge upside down. I think he’s burning already. Yes. There are flames.»
«That’ll give our fine Mister Bond something to think about,» snarled Drax, breathing heavily.
But Bond, his face a tight mask, had hardly checked his speed and there was nothing but revenge in his mind as he hurtled on after the flying Mercedes.
He had seen it all. The grotesque flight of the red car as it turned over and over, the flying figure of the driver, his arms and legs spreadeagled as he soared out of the driving seat, and the final thunder as the car hurdled the hedge upside down and crashed into the field.
As he flashed by, noting the horrible graffiti of the black skid-marked across the tarmac, his mind recorded one final macabre touch. Somehow undamaged in the holocaust, the windhorn was still making contact and its ululations were going on up to the sky, stridently clearing imaginary roads for the passage of Attaboy II — ‘Pom-pim-pom-pam.’ ‘Tom-pim-pom-pam…’
So a murder had taken place in front of his eyes. Or at any rate an attempted murder. So, whatever his motives, Sir Hugo Drax had declared war and didn’t mind Bond knowing it. This made a lot of things easier. It meant that Drax was a criminal and probably a maniac. Above all it meant certain danger for the Moonraker. That was enough for Bond. He reached under the dashboard and from its concealed holster drew out the long-barrelled .45 Colt Army Special and laid it on the seat beside him. The battle was now in the open and somehow the Mercedes must be stopped.
Using the road as if it was Donington, Bond rammed his foot down and kept it there. Gradually, with the needle twitching either side of the hundred mark he began to narrow the gap.
Drax took the left-hand fork at Charing and hissed up the long hill. Ahead, in the giant beam of his headlights, one of Bowaters’ huge eight-wheeled AEC Diesel carriers was just grinding into the first bend of the hairpin, labouring under the fourteen tons of newsprint it was taking on a night run to one of the East Kent newspapers.