"Big fleas have little fleas,
Upon their backs to bite 'em.
While little fleas have lesser fleas,
And so ad infinitum.
"I reckon that's the case with the way in which we're being run. We're really with the middle management – that's what MicroGlobe One is – and they don't want to go out on a limb – especially with someone as wealthy and powerful as Tarn. Dolmech has already said they won't be able to follow the paper trail unless they have him. So, pick 'em all up, cart off boxes of files and mainframe computer tapes from Tarn International, and what have you got?"
"What?"
"Sets full of clever lawyers. An organization with the power to wipe out traces of a paper trail that goes far beyond the Tarn International offices. Our lords and masters're scared to death that Tarn would be out, at least on bail, in a matter of hours, and that Dolmech just wouldn't be able to follow through with his promises. In other words, the entire case would turn to dust and ashes and a lot of people would end up with egg on their faces."
Flicka grunted. Then: "And they really believe that we can put the fear of God into him and make him run for cover?"
"Yes, and we probably can. The real problem is whether they can keep a trace on him and stop him removing any hard evidence. If Tarn's the man I think he is, he's probably too clever to leave any clues, any kind of trail. In Cambridge we'll undoubtedly be hedged about with security people – watchers, vans and cars with all the latest gizmos and gadgets intent on running Tarn to earth. Whether, in the real world, they'll actually be able to do that is a moot point. What they're after is headlines on Monday which say that Sir Max and Lady Tarn have disappeared. Foul Play Suspected. Suspicious Circumstances. Enough clout to let the police go in and root around – with some of our people in tow – without a great legal chorus telling them they can't do this, or that, or the other thing. Everybody'll be forced to cooperate or look guilty as hell. They'll only be doing a public service. Looking for clues. Trying to find out if the Tarns've been kidnapped, or whether there's something even worse lurking at the heart of his organization."
"I suppose that might just work."
"They're banking on it, Fredericka, and I have to admit that it's probably a safer way than going in blind and having the Tarn legal department shouting "Unfair! Foul! Hands off!' while other people are disposing of the evidence. Nowadays you can get rid of records in a matter of hours. In fact, the real records might not actually be there. Our tame police commissioner actually told me that Tarn imagines he's fireproof, and in some ways he probably is."
"How're we going to get him trotting off to his favorite hiding place, then?"
"By doing what we can do best as a team. I reckon we have until late on Sunday afternoon. Perhaps a note left at the University Arms. A cryptic message which he can't ignore. That's the way I think we've got to do it."
"Mmmm," Flicka mused. "'Meet me at midnight, under the blasted oak. I have information that will save your life.'" She mimicked a witch's cackle.
"Nothing quite as dramatic as that. I'd rather tell him to his face. After all, our mentors and guides say that he'll already have my name on file – from the Caribbean Prince. They tell me he never misses a trick, not if he thinks it's going to be of use to him."
"He can't be that omnipotent. You did your best to save his damned ship, tried to save one of the officer's lives. Christ, James, you can't believe he's got unlimited power?"
Bond shook his head. "No, I believe that's just Micro-Globe One's paranoia, but we might as well be prepared." He glanced at his watch. "Time we were going. At least we'll have missed the worst traffic out of London by now."
As it turned out, most of London appeared to have decided to postpone leaving the city. Flicka drove, cursing other motorists and generally carrying on a running commentary, laced with liberal epithets concerning all drivers in general apart from herself.
Bond leaned back in the passenger seat, put on the map-reading light, and opened up the slim dossier on Tarn. It began with a series of photographs. The familiar fit-looking, sharp-but-pleasant features stared back at him; the eyes – even frozen by the camera – seemed to glitter in their usual amiable manner below the neatly trimmed iron-gray hair. Max Tarn's friendliness and approachability were traits often commented on by the press, though other tales persisted, hinting at a darker, brooding, more sinister side.
About three pages in, he found the usual red flag denoting that the rest of the file – some thirty pages – was classified.
It began with a long note on Tarn's lineage:
Born: circa 1939 – possibly 20th June – and probably to the old Prussian Tarn family whose estates, ten kilometers from Wasserburg am Inn – some seventy kilometers from the Austrian border – were eventually confiscated by the Nazis. (See Note C.)
His mother, Ilse Tarn, had supposedly taken him out of Germany shortly after his birth. He was certainly registered as an alien in London in 1940. The documents were extant, as were the naturalization papers that were dated 20th April 1940, but on these the Tarns – mère et fils – were described as Austrian Jews and classified as refugees. To this was appended a note that they were "not lacking funds."
The Tarns settled in a small market town in Surrey, and eventually Max was educated at a local grammar school, winning a scholarship to Oxford, where he read PPE (politics, philosophy, and economics).
Attached to the section on Tarn's background was a short study by the Security Service, which had performed a detailed scrutiny in 1968 when the Monopolies Commission was trying to rule on a takeover of one of the largest freight-carrying companies in England by Tarn Freight Ltd.
The investigation turned up some odd stories but could not gather any firm evidence. The then Director General of the Security Service had noted that, bearing in mind the circumstances of the Tarns' arrival in Britain, the stories were almost certainly true, but any release to the press or through any other agency would in all probability bring legal action. Max Tarn and his mother – it was suggested – had all the necessary documentation to prove they were of Jewish origin and came from Linz, Austria.
The report from the two officers who had traveled to Wasserburg (Note C in the file) was of more than passing interest. The old and proud military family with their huge estates near the unique town of Wasserburg appeared to have come to the end of its line, while the old Tarn mansion – Tarnenwerder – was, in effect, still there, a crumbling Gothic ruin harboring tales of ghosts and bloody deeds. The local authorities had been attempting to have the entire estate cleared and developed for the construction of much-needed housing, but the old family lawyers – Saal, Saal u. Rollen, who still had offices in the Marienplatz, Wasserburg am Inn – had fought every step of the way, claiming that any attempt would be met by legal action as at least one member of the family may still be alive.
In Wasserburg, however, there were elderly men and women who had worked for the Tarns. They had a different tale – especially of the last days of the great family. The old Graf von Tarn and the Gräfin, they said, had been dragged from the house, in September 1939, by members of the SS who pillaged the place, removing the entire family, which consisted of the two elderly people, their son, Klaus, and one daughter, Elsa. Their fate was generally believed to have been in one of the death camps, though some said they knew for certain that the last four Tarns had been shot and buried on the estate. The house became a recovery center for SS officers, but was left to go to wrack and ruin at the end of the war.