‘You’re a law unto yourself, Inspektor?’
Osten sighed. Then, ‘In this instance I am the law, and that’s what matters. You have been concerned for two English ladies who have disappeared from a clinic . . .’
‘One is a Scottish lady, Inspektor.’
‘Whatever,’ he raised a tiny doll’s hand, the action at once dismissive and full of derision. ‘You are the only key, the linking factor in this small mystery; the man who knew both victims. It is natural, then, that I must question you – interrogate you – thoroughly regarding these disappearances . . .’
‘I’ve yet to learn the details myself. One of the ladies is my housekeeper . . .’
‘The younger one?’ The question was asked in a particularly unpleasant manner, and Bond replied with some asperity.
‘No, Inspektor, the elderly Scottish lady. She’s been with me for many years. The younger lady is a colleague. I think you should forget about interrogations until you hear from people of slightly higher status . . .’
‘There are other matters – bringing a firearm into the country, a public shoot-out resulting in three deaths and great danger to innocent people using the autobahn . . .’
‘With respect, the three men were trying to kill me and the two ladies who were in my car.’
Osten nodded, but with reservation. ‘We shall see. In Salzburg we shall see.’
Casually, the man they called the Hook leaned over, his long arm stabbing forward, like a reptile, the tiny hand moving deftly. The inspector was not only experienced, Bond thought: he also had a highly developed intuition. Within seconds, he had removed both the ASP and the baton from their holsters.
‘I am always uncomfortable with a man armed like this.’ The apple cheeks puffed out like a balloon into a red shiny smile.
‘If you look in my wallet, you’ll find that I have an international licence to carry the gun,’ Bond said, tightening his hands grimly on the wheel.
‘We shall see.’ Osten gave another sigh and repeated, ‘In Salzburg we shall see.’
It was late when they reached the city, and Osten began to direct him peremptorily – left here, then right and another right. Bond caught a glimpse of the River Salzach, and the bridges crossing it. Behind him the Hohensalzburg castle, once the stronghold of the prince-archbishops, stood floodlit on its great mass of Dolomite rock, above the old town and river.
They were heading for the new town, and Bond expected to be guided towards the police headquarters. Instead, he found himself driving through a maze of streets, past a pair of modern apartment blocks and down into an underground car park. The two other cars, which they had lost on the outskirts of the city, were waiting, neatly parked with a space between them for the Bentley. Sukie sat in one, Nannie in the other.
A sudden uneasiness put Bond’s senses on the alert. He had been assured by the Resident that the police were there to get him safely into Salzburg. Instead he was faced with a very unpleasant and probably corrupt policeman, and an apparently prearranged plan to bring them to a private building. He had no doubt that the car park belonged to an apartment block.
‘Lower my window.’ Osten spoke quietly.
One of the policemen had come over to Osten’s side of the Bentley, and another stood in front of the vehicle. The second man had a machine pistol tucked into his hip, the evil eye of the muzzle pointing directly at Bond.
Through the open window, Osten muttered a few sentences of command in German. His voice was pitched so low, and his odd high-piping Viennese German so rapid that Bond caught only a few words: ‘The women first’, then a mutter, ‘separate rooms . . . under guard at all times . . . until we have everything sorted out . . .’He ended with a question, which Bond did not catch at all. The answer, however, was clear.
‘You are to telephone him as soon as possible.’
Heinrich Osten nodded his oversized head repeatedly, like a toy in a rear car window. He told the uniformed man to carry on. The one with the machine pistol did not move.
‘We sit quietly for a few minutes.’ The head turned towards Bond, red cheeks puffed in a smile.
‘As you have only hinted at charges against me, I think I should be allowed to speak to my Embassy in Vienna.’ Bond clipped out the words, as though they were parade ground orders.
‘All in good time. There are formalities.’ Osten sat supremely calm, his hands folded as though in complete command of the situation.
‘Formalities? What formalities?’ Bond shouted. ‘People have rights. In particular, I am on an official assignment. I demand to . . .’
Osten gave the hint of a nod towards the policeman with the machine pistol. ‘You can demand nothing, Mr Bond. Surely you understand that. You are a stranger in a strange land. By the very fact that I am the representative of the law, and you have an Uzi trained on you, you have no rights.’
Bond watched Sukie and Nannie being hustled from the other cars. They were kept well apart from one another. Both looked frightened. Sukie did not even turn her head in the direction of the Bentley, but Nannie glanced towards him. In an instant the message was clear in her eyes. She was still armed and biding her time. A remarkably tough lady, he thought: tough and attractive in a clean-scrubbed kind of way.
The women disappeared from Bond’s line of vision, and a moment later Osten prodded him in the ribs with his own ASP.
‘Leave the keys in the car, Mr Bond. It has to be moved from here before the morning. Just get out, showing your hands the whole time. My officer with the Uzi is a little nervous.’
Bond did as he was bid. The nearly deserted underground park felt cool and eerie, smelling of gasoline, rubber and oil.
The man with the machine pistol motioned to him to walk between the other cars to a small exit passage, and towards what appeared to be a brick wall. Osten made a slight movement, and Bond caught sight of a flat remote control in his left hand. Silently a door-sized section of the brickwork moved inwards and then slid to one side, revealing steel elevator doors. Somewhere in the car park an engine fired, throbbed and settled as a vehicle made its exit.
The elevator arrived with a brief sigh, and Bond was signalled to enter. The three men stood without speaking as the lift cage made its noiseless upward journey. The doors slid open and again Bond was ushered forward, this time into a passageway lined with modern prints. A second later they were in a large, luxurious apartment. The carpets were Turkish, the furnishings modern, in wood, steel, glass and expensive fabrics. On the walls were paintings and drawings by Piper, Sutherland, Bonnard, Gross and Hockney. From the enormous open-plan room, plate-glass windows led to a wide balcony. To the left, an archway revealed the dining area and kitchen. From lower arches ran two long passages with gleaming white doors on either side. A police officer stood in each of these as though on guard. Outside a floodlit Hohensalzburg could be seen before Osten ordered the curtains to be closed. Light blue velvet slid along soundless rails.
‘Nice little place you have for a police inspector,’ Bond said.
‘Ah, my friend. I wish it were mine. I have only borrowed it for this one evening.’
Bond nodded, trying to indicate this was obvious, if only because of the style and elegance. He turned to face the inspector, and began speaking rapidly. ‘Now, sir. I appreciate what you’ve told me, but you must know that our Embassy and the department I represent have already given instructions as to my safety, and received assurances from your own people. You say I have no right to demand anything, but you make a grave error there. In fact I have the right to demand everything.’
Der Haken looked at him glassy-eyed, then gave a loud chuckle. ‘If you were alive, Mr Bond. Yes, if you were still alive you would have the right, and I would have the duty to co-operate if I were also alive. Unhappily we are both dead men.’