Bond began to take up the first pressure on the trigger. As the rear of the Renault came fully into his sights, he squeezed hard and got the two shots away. He was conscious of the double crack from his left. Nannie was giving the tyres hell. Then several things happened quickly. The nearside front tyre disintegrated in a terrible burning and shredding of rubber. Bond remembered thinking that Nannie had been very lucky to get a couple of puny .22 shots so close to the inner section of the tyre.
The car began to slew inwards, toppling slightly as though it would cartwheel straight into the Bentley, but the driver struggled with wheel and brakes and the silver car just about stayed in line, running fast and straight towards the hard shoulder, hopelessly doomed. At the same time as the tyre disintegrated, the two Glaser Slugs from the ASP scorched through the bodywork and into the petrol tank.
Almost in slow motion, the Renault seemed to continue on its squealing, unsteady course. Then, just as it passed the rear of the Bentley, a long, thin sheet of flame, like natural gas being burned off hissed from the back of the car. There was even time to notice that the flame was tinged with blue before the whole rear end of the Renault became a rumbling, irregular, growing crimson ball.
The car began to cartwheel, a burning, twisted wreck, about a hundred metres beyond the Bentley, before the noise reached them: a great hiss and whump, followed by a screaming of rubber and metal as it went through its spectacular death throes.
Nobody moved for a second, then Bond reacted. Two or three cars were approaching the scene, and he was in no mood to be involved with the police at this stage.
‘What kind of shape are we in?’ he called.
‘Dented, and there are a lot of holes in the bodywork, but the wheels seem okay. There’s a very nasty scrape down this side. Stem to stern.’
Nannie was the other side of the car. She unhitched her skirt from the suspender belt, showing a fragment of white lace as she did so. Bond asked Sukie if she was okay.
‘Shaken, but undamaged, I think.’
‘Get in, both of you,’ said Bond crisply. He dived towards the driving seat, conscious of at least one car containing people in checked shirts and sun hats cautiously drawing up near the burning wreckage. He twisted the key almost viciously in the ignition and the huge engine throbbed into life. He knocked off the main brake with his left hand, slid into drive and smoothly took the Mulsanne back on to the autobahn.
The traffic was still light, giving Bond the opportunity to check the car’s engine and handling. There was no loss of fuel, oil or hydraulic pressure; he went steadily up through the gears and back again. The brakes appeared unaffected. The cruise control went in and came out normally, and the damage to the coachwork did not seem to have affected either the suspension or handling.
After five minutes he was satisfied that the car was relatively undamaged, though he did not doubt there was a good deal of penetration to the bodywork from the Winchester blasts. The Bentley would now be a sitting target for the Austrian police, who were unlikely to be enamoured of shoot-outs between cars on their relatively safe autobahns – particularly when the participants ended up incinerated. He needed to reach a telephone quickly and alert London, to get them to call the Austrian police off. Bond was also concerned about the fate of Quinn’s team. Or could that have been his team, turned rogue hunters for the Swiss millions? Another image nagged at his mind – Nannie Norrich with the lush thigh exposed and the expertly handled .22 pistol.
‘I think you’d better let me have the armoury, Nannie,’ he said quietly, hardly turning his head.
‘Oh, no, James. No, James. No, James, no,’ she sang, quite prettily.
‘I don’t like women roving around with guns, especially in the current circumstances, and in this car. How in heaven’s name did I miss it anyway?’
‘Because, while you’re obviously a pro, you’re also something of a gentleman, James. You failed to grope the inside of my thighs when you frisked me in Cannobio.’
He recalled her flirtatious manner, and the cheeky smile. ‘So, I suppose I’m now paying for the error. Are you going to tell me it’s pointing at the back of my head?’
‘Actually it’s pointing towards my own left knee, back where it belongs. Not the most comfortable place to have a weapon.’ She paused. ‘Well, not that kind of a weapon anyway.’
A sign came up indicating a picnic area ahead. Bond slowed and pulled off the road, down a track through dense fir trees, and into a clearing. Rustic tables and benches stood in the centre. There was not a picnicker in sight. To one side a neat, clean, telephone box in working order awaited them.
Bond parked the car near the trees, ready for a quick getaway if necessary. He cut the engine, unfastened his seat belt, and turned to face Nannie Norrich, holding out his right hand, palm upwards.
‘The gun, Nannie. I have to make a couple of important calls, and I’m not taking chances. Just give me the gun.’
Nannie smiled at him, a gentle, fond smile. ‘You’d have to take it from me, James, and that might not be as easy as you imagine. Look, I used that weapon to help you. Sukie’s given me my orders and I am going to co-operate. I can promise you, had she instructed otherwise, you would have known it very soon after my joining you.’
‘Sukie’s ordered you?’ Bond felt lost.
‘She’s my boss. For the time being, anyway. I take orders from her, and . . .’
Sukie Tempesta put a hand on Bond’s arm. ‘I think I should explain, James. Nannie is an old school friend. She is also President of NUB.’
‘And what the devil’s the NUB?’ Bond was cross now.
‘Norrich Universal Bodyguards.’
‘What?’
‘Minders,’ said Nannie, still very cheerful.
‘Minders?’ For a second he was incredulous.
‘Minders, as in people who look after other people for money. Minders. Protectors.’ Nannie began again: James, NUB is an allwomen outfit, staffed by a special kind of woman. My girls are highly trained in weaponry, karate, all the martial arts, driving, flying – you name it, we do it. Truly, we’re good, and we have a distinguished clientèle.’
‘And Sukie Tempesta is among that clientèle?’
‘Naturally. I always try to do that job myself.’
‘Your people didn’t do it very well the other evening in Belgium.’ Bond heard the snarl in his voice. ‘At the filling station. I ought to charge commission.’
Nannie sighed. ‘It was unfortunate . . .’
‘It was also my fault,’ added Sukie. ‘Nannie wanted to pick me up in Brussels, when her deputy had to leave. I said I’d get home without any trouble. I was wrong.’
‘Of course you were wrong. Look, James, you’ve got problems. So has Sukie, mainly because she’s a multimillionaire who insists on living in Rome for most of the year. She’s a sitting duck. Go and make your telephone calls and just trust me. Trust us. Trust NUB.’
Eventually Bond shrugged, got out of the car and locked the two women in behind him. He took the CC500 from the boot and went over to the telephone booth. He made the slightly more complex attachments to link up the scrambler to the pay telephone. Then he dialled the operator, and placed a call to the Resident in Vienna.
The conversation was brief, and ended with the Resident agreeing to square with the Austrian police. He even suggested that a patrol meet Bond at the picnic area, if possible including the officer in charge of the May and Moneypenny kidnapping. ‘Sit tight,’ he advised. ‘They should be with you in about an hour.’