‘It should be the same routine you use when lighting a fuse on an explosive charge. Walk away. Never run in case you trip.’
She had nodded. She obviously knew something about explosives, so there had been some field training, he supposed. During the journey to Rosslare he would go through it piece by piece.
They did not cut across the Green but sauntered along the north side, heading for the east side where the car was parked. As they drew level with the Shelbourne Hotel, Bond almost froze. Glancing across at the famous hotel, he saw for only the second time in the flesh the precise, compact figure of Colonel Maxim Smolin, accompanied by two short, heavily built men. The three were descending the steps, looking left and right as though expecting transport.
‘Don’t look towards the Shelbourne,’ Bond muttered under his breath. ‘No, Heather, don’t look,’ he repeated, quickening his pace as she reacted. ‘Keep walking. Your ex-lover just came out of his cave.’
7
ACCIDENT
There was no point in trying to run. Smolin knew Heather clothed and unclothed, and Bond reckoned that Smolin would know him on sight as well. After all, his photograph was in the files of probably every intelligence agency in the world. All he could hope was that in the traffic and with Smolin’s obvious concern over his own transport, he would not have spotted them. But he knew the chances were slim. Smolin was trained to single out the most unlikely faces among a crowd of thousands.
Gently taking Heather’s arm, Bond guided her around the corner, almost imperceptibly increasing their pace as they walked towards the car.
He felt the familiar, unpleasant tingling around the back of his neck – like a dozen small, deadly spiders unleashed in the nape hair. It was not one hundred per cent accurate, but Bond was realistic enough to know the odds were very high on Colonel Maxim Smolin’s eyes watching their retreating backs. He was also probably smiling at the coincidence of catching sight of his former lover in the middle of Dublin. Or, Bond wondered, was it simply coincidence? In this business coincidence was usually a dirty word. M always maintained there was no such thing, just as Freud had once said that, in conditions of stress and confusion, there was no such thing as an accident. Once inside, Bond scanned the mirror as he twisted the key in the ignition and clipped on his seat belt. The traffic was heavy, but he just caught the flash of a dun-coloured Cortina passing behind them with a dark blue Audi close on its bumper. Already he had seen Big Mick at the wheel of the maroon Volvo, so all the cars were circling the Green. The trick would be to get out successfully and on to the road to the outskirts of Dun Laoghaire, then along the coast. The route would take them through Bray and Arklow, Gorey and Wexford, then down to Rosslare. A trick it certainly would be, for they might have to circle the Green more than once to get into position, and that meant passing the Shelbourne again.
Gently Bond started to back out from his parking space, waiting a little impatiently for a gap to appear in the traffic. When he saw the opportunity, he reversed the car very fast, slammed the gear into first and took off at some speed. Seconds later he was tucked neatly in behind the Audi.
They circled the Green once and there was no sign of Smolin and his two large companions outside the Shelbourne. The Cortina left them at that junction and went straight on towards Merrion Row and Baggot Street. By the time they reached the same point a second time, Big Mick was behind them so that the Saab was tightly boxed in, with the Cortina well ahead and out of sight as the forward scout. Glancing in the mirror, Bond saw Big Mick’s craggy face split into a grin at the successful link-up. In the back seat Heather’s shopping rolled around, slipping and sliding as Bond threw the car from one lane to another. He wanted to get out of Dublin as soon as possible.
‘Why did he like to be called Wald?’ Bond asked suddenly.
They were now well away, approaching Bray in a steady stream of traffic, with its great church, looking almost French, dominating the small town.
Heather had been silent, allowing Bond to concentrate, while they had negotiated the pleasant, if crowded, roads that took them out of the city, past Jury’s Hotel and the anachronistic Royal Dublin Society in Ballsbridge. At his question she started in her seat.
‘Wald? You mean Franz? Jungle?’
‘I’m not talking about the Black Forest, old love.’
Bond’s eyes scanned the road ahead, the mirrors and instruments, making regular checks every thirty seconds. Yet his mind was balanced between driving and the interrogation he wanted to conduct. Heather was silent, as though she was preparing her answer.
‘It was odd. You’ve seen his photograph? Yes, well, he was so good-looking with his blond hair, clear skin, and so fit and slim, that he looked like those old photographs you see of Hitler’s ideal German – a true Aryan.’
‘So why did he like to be called Wald?’ he repeated a little impatiently.
‘He was vain.’
‘And what’s that got to do with it?’
They had stopped for some traffic lights. Bond’s car was close to the Audi’s rear, with Big Mick’s Volvo separated from them by two lorries.
‘About the work, he was vain. He said he could always hide from anybody. He had this idea that no one would ever find him if he didn’t want to be found. It would be like searching a dense forest. I think it was Elli who said we should call him Wald, and that pleased him. He is a little full of himself – is that the right phrase?’
Bond nodded. ‘Hence Jungle Baisley now. Looking for him would be like looking for a particular tree?’
‘That’s about it. Or like a needle in a haystack.’
Now Bond was even more concerned. ‘You say Elli gave him the nickname. You five met together regularly?’ That would have been almost suicidally bad security, he thought. But there were many things about Cream Cake that pointed towards bad security.
‘Not often, no. But there were meetings.’
‘Were they called by your controller?’
‘No. Swift saw us one at a time. We had regular meetings in safe houses; rendezvous in shops or parks. But you must understand that we all knew each other since we were children.’
Bond thought they were almost children when this monstrous plan was conceived. Two were dead for sure, the others had prices on their heads and their tongues. Smolin would not rest until they were all safely in their coffins. And what of Swift, their control? There had been a great deal about Swift in the files M had put his way. Swift was a street name, his real identity carefully hidden, even in the official documents. But Bond knew the man behind that name. He was a legend among case officers, one of the most experienced and careful people in the business. He had been given the name Swift because of the speed at which he worked on his clients: swift and sure-footed. He was not the kind of man to make errors. Yet if Heather had told Bond the truth about the way Cream Cake had ended, Swift’s judgment had let him down at last.
They passed through lush green countryside. A few cottages sent up drifting smoke from their turf-burning fires. It was a land that was tranquil, if untidy – untidy like Cream Cake. Quickly, Bond went through it again in his mind.
All five had parents who had been sleepers, handing over only the odd piece of useful intelligence. Yet all of them were very well placed. Bridget’s father was a lawyer, with some important officials among his clientele. Millicent’s parents were both doctors who had a number of intelligence community people on their lists. The other three came from military or para-military families: Ebbie’s father was an officer with the Vopos, Jungle’s and Heather’s were German officers working out of the Karlshorst barracks, which housed both intelligence buildings and the Soviet Headquarters in East Germany. It was easy to see how a few years ago those five young people had shone out when the Planners thought of compromising key targets in East Germany.