When it was over, Ebbie dried him with a rough towel, and redressed his hands. This time, he led her back to the bedroom. For all her innocent looks, it was obvious that she was far from inexperienced, for she showed not only great stamina, but also imagination and invention. Through that night they made love to one another three more times, once with a stormy wildness; then with passion – Ebbie above him, reciting a sensuous poem to the rhythm of her own body; and finally with intense tenderness which made Bond think almost sadly of his dead wife, Tracy.
Bond tried the castle several times throughout the night, still with no result. In the end he gave up and drifted to sleep with Ebbie twined around him.
He woke with a start, realising that dawn was not far away. Gently he disentangled himself from Ebbie’s smooth body and looked at his watch. It was five-thirty. Sliding from the bed, he padded quietly to the bathroom. His hands felt less sore, though the arm mangled by Fafie still throbbed. Washing was easier than he expected and by six o’clock, with dim light starting to show outside, Bond was dressed and equipped with the ASP, baton and his hidden weapons.
Ebbie still lay in a deep sleep, her fair hair spread across the pillow, her face tranquil. She would probably need all the rest she could get that day, so Bond pocketed the room key and went silently into the corridor. The room service table had gone, and the whole hotel was wrapped in silence. As he made his way down to the main lobby, the calm was broken by occasional sounds of the kitchen staff preparing breakfast below. Nobody was on duty at the reception desk so he made his way to the coin-operated telephone, dragging a pile of Irish change from his pocket.
A decidedly sleepy and disgruntled voice answered from the Clonmel Arms Hotel, and he had to repeat his request to be put through to Mr and Mrs Palmerston. There was an unduly long wait before the operator came back on the line.
‘I’m sorry sir, but they’ve checked out.’
‘When?’ Alarm bells sounded in his head.
‘I’ve just come on duty myself, sir. But some friends of theirs arrived unexpectedly, so I’m told. Mr and Mrs Palmerston left around a half hour ago.’
Bond’s nerves shrieked as he thanked the operator and quickly hung up. What ‘friends’? But he already knew the answer. Blackfriar – General Chernov – had caught up with Smolin, and it would not be long before he reached Bond and Ebbie. Whether he had half an hour or ten minutes, it was essential that Bond put himself back in control of the situation. Instantly he dialled a Dublin number. It rang for several minutes before the voice answered sharply.
‘Murray.’
‘Jacko B. There are problems. I have to make this official.’
‘Where are you?’ Norman Murray sounded on edge.
‘Kilkenny. The Newpark Hotel. I think your friend and mine, Basilisk, has been lifted with the girl you saw at the airport. The rumour about Blackfriar is true. There’s a place called Three Sisters Castle . . .’
‘We know all about Three Sisters. We have no jurisdiction. It’s Embassy property. Bit of a fracas there, Jacko. Was that you, now?’
‘Some of it, but I’m here with the girl from the Ashford Castle Hotel. Got me?’
‘Right.’
‘We’re also due to be lifted. If you can . . .’
But Murray was way ahead of him. ‘I know all about Basilisk, and it’s a lash-up. I’ll do what I can, Jacko. Watch your back. Official now, you say?’
‘Very official and very dangerous.’
‘I doubt it, but get out and head for Dublin. We don’t have orders to lift you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We were lifting Basilisk and it’s gone sour. Now, will you get going?’
‘No transport.’
‘Well, you’ll have to steal something, Jacko. I hear you’re good at that kind of thing.’ Murray gave a quick laugh and rang off, leaving Bond looking at the dead telephone in his hand.
Ebbie, he thought: I must get her out, even if we have to hide in the hedgerows. As he turned to leave the telephone, another thought struck him. He should try the ‘harmonicas’ in the castle once more. He dialled the number and pressed the tiny plastic strip on to the earpiece. Suddenly it was filled with a confusion of sounds. Several people were talking in different parts of the castle. What he could hear made him tighten his grip on the telephone.
‘They’ve lost the traitor Smolin and his girl. Shit!’ This was in Russian.
There was a sinister laugh, then Ingrid’s voice. ‘The General’s going to be very happy.’
A clearer conversation in German probably came from the Communications Room.
‘Yes, message received and understood. Hans,’ the voice shouted loudly and an answer came from far away, then closer. ‘Hans, the team in Rome have tracked them down at last. Dietrich and the man Belzinger took a flight out last night. Can you get the Chief?’
‘He’s trying to locate the other pair – radio silence.’
‘Break it. Dietrich and Belzinger are headed for Hong Kong.’
‘God, I don’t believe it.’
‘Neither will the General, but get him. Get him quickly.’
Hong Kong, thought Bond. Jungle and Dietrich were really distancing themselves from Europe. The sooner he got Ebbie out the better it would be for all of them. He turned and took the stairs at a run. Reaching their room, he unlocked the door and headed straight for the bed.
‘Ebbie! Ebbie, wake up . . .’ His voice trailed off, for the bedclothes were pulled back and Ebbie was gone.
Before he could react to the prickle of danger, a voice whispered close to his ear, ‘Don’t even think about going for the gun, Mr Bond. You are of little use to me and I’d blow you away, now, in this room, if I had to. Hands on your head and turn around slowly.’
He had heard the voice once before on tape so he knew that as he turned he would be gazing into a face seldom seen in the West – the clean-cut, almost French-looking features of General Konstantin Nikolaevich Chernov, Chief Investigating Officer of Department 8 of Directorate S, KGB. Blackfriar himself.
‘A strange meeting, eh, Mr Bond? After following each other in office paper chases all this time.’
Chernov had a smile on his face and a large automatic pistol in his hand, while behind him three large men crowded in, like hounds gathered for the kill.
13
BLACKFRIAR
‘Well.’ Bond looked straight into Chernov’s green-flecked eyes. ‘You’re a long way from your usual territory, Comrade General. It must be odd to be away from your comfortable office in the Square, or have they moved Department 8 out to that modern monstrosity off the ring road – the so-called Scientific Research Centre?’
A wisp of a smile appeared on Chernov’s lips. Anyone, Bond thought, could have taken him for an influential, wealthy businessman: the slim, powerful body under a beautifully cut grey suit; the tanned, undeniably good-looking features; the personal magnetism of the man, combined with his height – he was well over six feet tall – made him a commanding personality. It was easy to see how this man had become the Chief Investigating Officer of the erstwhile SMERSH.
‘You read the right books, Comrade Bond, if I may say so; the right kind of fiction.’ He lowered the pistol, a heavy Stetchkin, and turned his head in a slightly diffident manner to give a crisp instruction to one of the men behind him. ‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled again as though he genuinely liked Bond. ‘I’m sorry, but your reputation goes ahead of you. I’ve asked my people to remove any toys you might be carrying.’
His free hand went up to brush one of the greying, thick wings of hair described so accurately on the file at Headquarters: ‘The hair is thick, greying at the temples, unusually long for a member of the Russian Service, but always well-groomed and distinguished by the wings that almost cover his ears. It is swept straight back with no parting.’ Bond knew most of the senior KGB and GRU officers’ profiles by heart.