4
DUCKING AND DIVING
The man who hurled himself into the elevator cage must have thought that Heather was alone. Later Bond realised that all he would have seen from the gloomy foyer would have been the white trenchcoat, for Heather had taken a step forward as the doors swung open. Bond was thrown against the glass side of the cage and, taken by surprise, he was uncertain whether to reach for the pistol or baton. But he could not afford to hesitate. The assailant already had one hand firmly on Heather’s shoulder and was spinning her round, his other arm raised high, holding an object that looked like a large hammer. Desperately fighting to regain his balance as he slithered against the glass, Bond struck out with his right leg, aiming a hard, straight blow with his heel forced forward, in the direction of the intruder’s lower legs. He felt his shoe make contact and heard a muffled grunt as the man missed striking Heather with the hammer by inches, instead smashing the rear mirror glass of the cage.
As the attacker tried to recover his balance, Bond was tugging the collapsible baton from its holster on his right hip. He flicked it down sharply so that the telescoped steel clicked into place, making a formidable weapon, and he struck out at the man’s neck. He went down without even a cry. There was just the dull thud of the steel baton, followed by a scraping noise as the killer’s head hit the splintered glass.
Suddenly there was silence, punctuated only by the sound of Heather’s little choking sobs. Bond reached out to see if there was an emergency light switch inside the elevator cage. His hand touched the control panel and the doors began to close. They opened again as the safety mechanism came into play when they hit the assailant’s legs sprawled out into the foyer. The same thing happened three times before Bond found an override button and the cage was flooded with light.
Heather was hunched in the far corner, away from the inert body clad in black jeans, black rollneck and gloves. The man’s hair too was dark, but the crimson streaks of blood lent a macabre, punk-like effect. The shattered mirror reflected the gory patches and the great star-shaped cracks produced a kaleidoscopic picture of black and red.
With his right foot, Bond heaved the body over. The man was not dead. His mouth had fallen open and his face was patterned with cuts from hairline to mouth where his face had hit the glass. Some of the slashes looked quite deep, but the quick breathing was audible, and the blood seemed to be flowing normally. When consciousness returned, he would probably feel more pain from Bond’s blow than the cuts.
‘A couple of aspirins and he’ll be as right as rain,’ Bond muttered.
‘Mischa,’ Heather said vehemently.
‘You know him?’
‘He’s one of the heavies they kept in Berlin; Moscow-trained.’ As she spoke, Heather seemed to be pushing herself away, attempting to put as much space as possible between herself and the man she recognised as Mischa. All the time, the doors kept closing and opening against Mischa’s legs, sounding a regular tympanic beat in the background.
‘Persistent things, elevator doors,’ said Bond as he bent over the unhappy Mischa. He probed around and finally pulled from under the body the weapon meant for the back of Heather’s skull. It was a brand new carpenter’s mallet. He weighed it in his hand, a heavy wooden hammer with a king-size head. Then he wiped the handle with his handkerchief and put it back on the floor. Bending again, he began to go over the body, searching for any other weapon that might be concealed.
‘He doesn’t even have loose change or a pack of cigarettes,’ Bond announced, straightening up. ‘Do we, by any chance, Heather, have another way out of this wretched building? A fire escape or something?’
‘Yes. There’s a metal zig-zag thing at the back of the salon. I had it put in when we refurbished the place. Why do you ask?’
‘Because, sweet lucky Heather – and you’ve been damned lucky – friend Mischa did not come alone. Not if comrade Colonel Maxim Smolin did for the two other girls and meant you to go by the same unpleasant route.’
‘But Maxim wouldn’t . . .’ she began, then after a pause asked, ‘Why?’
‘Mischa carries nothing else on him, only the instrument to bludgeon you to death. There’s no knife; no little medical instrument for the swift removal of tongues – and that’s the trademark isn’t it?’
She gave a small, frightened nod. Bond kicked the mallet to the back of the cage, grabbed the unconscious Mischa by the scruff of his rollneck and, lifting him without effort, pushed him out into the foyer. Once Mischa was free of the doors, Bond slammed the heel of his hand on to the up button. They made the silent ascent to the entrance of the beauty salon. Heather switched off the security alarms in a neat metal cupboard set into the wall. Then she pushed open the double doors.
‘No lights,’ Bond ordered. ‘Lead me.’
He felt her hand, remarkably cool for one who had just escaped death, clasp his as she negotiated her way past the basins and dryers of the hairdressing salon, then into a corridor punctuated with clinical white doors. A final door, with the sign Emergency Exit visible in red overhead, opened with a push bar, and the cool of the evening hit them as they emerged on to a metal platform. From there you could almost reach out and touch the neighbouring buildings. To the right, narrow swaying steps zig-zagged down.
‘How do we get out? At the bottom, I mean,’ Bond asked, looking down. He could see nothing but a tiny square courtyard surrounded by tall buildings.
‘Only key-holders can use the exit. We have four sets, one for each of my managers – hairdressing, beauty consultant, massage – and one for me. There’s a door into a passageway that runs alongside the car showroom and a door at the other end. The same key works for both doors. The far door takes you into Berkeley Street.’
‘Go, then! Go!’
She turned towards the fire escape, one hand on the guard rail, and at that moment Bond heard the thudding of feet running towards them from the other side of the door.
‘Quick!’ He did not raise his voice. ‘Get down there and leave the doors open for me. There’s a dark green Bentley parked opposite the Mayfair. Go into the foyer and wait for me. If I arrive in a hurry with both hands showing, run straight to the car. If my right hand’s in my pocket and I’m taking my time, lose yourself for half an hour, then come back and wait. Same signals at half-hour intervals. Now, move!’
She seemed to hesitate for a second, and then went down the metal stairs which seemed to shake precariously as her speed increased, while Bond swivelled towards the exit. He drew his ASP 9mm, holding it low against his hip. The thudding grew louder and when he thought the distance right, Bond pulled back sharply, opening the door. He did it the text book way, leaving just enough time to check that his targets were not policemen – who were likely to be unfriendly if they thought he was a criminal intruder.
By no stretch of the imagination were these men police, unless London’s forces had taken to using Colt .45 automatics without warning. The men who had been pounding down the passage slithered to a halt as soon as Bond showed himself. Oddly, they had put the lights on in the corridor so that they could be seen quite clearly; though Bond was aware that he was an equally good target, even standing sideways, as he’d been taught so often on the small arms course. There were two of them, well-muscled hit men, one moving fast behind the other.