10

Edelweiss

A humdrum of tourists milled down Vorderstradt, idly glancing in sparkling boutiques they could ill afford whilst gorging themselves on ice-creams which they obviously could. Beneath the implacable exterior Bond's mind was alight: the Laguardia woman, MI5: how had he missed that? M had told him they had Smolenski pegged and journalistic cover was perfect: able to ask awkward questions, snoop around and generally act as rudely as they liked. Not for the first time that week he thought he'd dropped the ball. After the initial shock his mind consoled him with her looks, undimmed upon re-acquaintance. Dressed in fine red silk blouse and taupe linen skirt she wore a white scarf loosely around that delicate and highly kissable neck. A Prada bag unceremoniously cast to the side of the table reassured him it was not carried through affectation. Aside from rather unruly hair she was the very model of the classy, confident young woman; her slim, athletic figure now more pronounced than before.

The waiter delivered an ice-bound Perrier in a tall, slim, sweating glass. Bond ordered a Martini then set the Q-Berry to 'white-noise'.

'So we're batting for the same side, Ms. Laguardia. Or should I say "BFG"?'

'From the Roald Dahl story. It was one of my favourites as a child – the heroine was called Sophie and like me wore glasses. She befriends the Big Friendly Giant and battles the big ugly ones. All in her nightie. Anyway, let's not go through the tiresome rigmarole of introductions just because neither of us is who the other one thought they were.'

'And have I met the real you?'

''Fraid so,' she wrinkled her nose, a gesture he felt sure she knew to be unashamedly attractive, 'Warts and all - I'm no actress.'

'That's a shame, but I'm sure the warts are an exaggeration,' a reflex glint appeared in the blue-grey eyes.

'My, my; aren't we cock-sure of ourselves already?' the briefest hesitation was judged to perfection. 'You're surprised to find the Five agent is a woman, right? Expected someone old and geriatric like Hawkins or Rickman I expect?'

'Hawkins did have good legs…'

'…but instead they land you with someone not only a few years younger but also…by jove! A dashed woman trying to mix it in a man's world? So up go the defences and already you're talking down to me. I had hoped for better to be quite honest.' The tongue was only half tucked into her cheek, his attitude obviously all too familiar.

'Guilty, at least to some degree, I'm sorry,' he admitted. 'In my defence I would say I rarely say "by jove",' he attempted a conciliatory grin. Her face softened slightly.

'You normally work alone, right?'

'Only person I trust. To be honest I wasn't impressed to be teamed up no matter who it was. But a pretty face, if I may be so truthfully bold, is part compensation: I'd look like a toy-boy or a geriatric nurse sat here with Hawkins and his bloody pipe!' This elicited an unselfconscious laugh.

'So what's the deal: how long have you been working on our Russian friend then?' he asked some time later.

'Me? Six months: got a lot invested in him. Picked it up from a background op. that's been running for a few years. Covert surveillance, compiling a list of associates, patterns work mainly. Frankly not very high priority alongside the terrorism panic. He rose slightly up the ranks last year when two employees from his Casino in Milan who'd been talking to the press were found with a gut full of concrete. Force-fed whilst still alive.'

'And those bearing witness shall be turned unto stone. Nice.'

'Sorry?'

'Just reminded me of an old saying. So it's time to send for Sophie Laguardia.'

'Not quite. Suddenly Smolenski's promoted to the A-list and the guy who was supposed to take on the assignment goes down with a bad case of Hampstead-Heath-itis. So there's me, newly recruited from Intelligence on her first front line assignment. Only it just got a hell of a lot bigger since you entered the picture – straight to the top of the rankings. So now I need to know: is my being a novice going to be a problem for you, Mr. Big-Shot form MI6?'

'Nun at all,' he replied, wasting a good pun on a rhetorical question.

'Good. So: your turn to spill. All I know is that you're one of the elephants that we zoo-keepers from Five have to clean up behind.'

'Glad to see inter-departmental prejudice is still being taught so thoroughly. You must score high marks for "building diverse and collaborative relationships"…'

'I'm quoting directly from the handbook,' she said with a straight face. 'So? I'm assuming you're one of the fabled double-Os?'

'Does it matter?'

'Well if you are it means your objective is to kill.'

'Only if necessary. The job isn't just hired-gun,' her eyebrows raised quizzically. 'It's judgement. Besides, it's not enough to kill – there's something bigger than just Smolenski going on and we need to get inside to find out what the hell it is. It's like removing a tic – if you don't get the whole thing right away the damage continues after the creature is dead. We need to get on the inside and yes, that might get messy. I'm assuming you came armed with more than just your dazzling wit and a new hair-do?'

'I've got it where it counts sugar,' she replied unflinchingly, her accent more pronounced as she milked the terminology. American accents Bond found were like satellite TV channel: generally unpleasant but if you searched long enough you were bound to find one you liked.

'To that there's no answer,' he resisted. 'You're the expert - what have we got to go on?'

'Okay well Skillerbet's officially registered in Innsbruck but that's only a PO Box. Most of the admin and transactional work is done in Bangalore, a bit like a call-centre. They're elusive about where their headquarters is but we reckon it's this gambling rehab clinic, a place called Edelweiss Spitze on the Glockner mountain range about forty miles southeast of here. Officially it's a centre for research into gambling addiction rehabilitation – undoubtedly a P.R. sop to his conscience - but from what I've been able to find out they do take quite a variety of patients from all over Europe, and not just the rich. Makes a big deal of it in response to criticisms of his business dealings.'

'Skillerbet sails pretty close to the wind – pressure-selling, exploitation, encouraging people to bet-the-farm.'

'Exactly – preying on the poor and desperate – far from the glamorous image: it's all pretty shoddy if you ask me.'

'But perfectly legal.'

'Well, here, yes – the U.S. has banned it, yet our lot seem intent on encouraging it.'

'You sound like my housekeeper.'

'And you sound like something out of an Agatha Christie novel; housekeeper – who has a housekeeper these days? Some Slovakian gymnast presumably?'

Bond grinned.

'Her gymnastic days are definitely behind her. Tell me more about this clinic. How often does Smolenski visit?'

'One week in four. He follows a pattern: one week here with the assortment of mis-shapes you saw at Goodwood, one week he's in London acting the celebrity, one week in Moscow or Poland – we don't have that piece of the jigsaw. The fourth varies – New York, Frankfurt, Monaco…whatever. If he runs true to schedule he'll be arriving tomorrow evening.'

'So this is where he runs the operation from – head-office, research and development, all the heavy-weight I.T. Makes sense – out of the way, secure. The question is what else goes on up there?'

'You tell me, I'm just the reference book,' a note of bitterness crept in: presumably she too resented the involvement of an outsider. 'Skillerbet's an unpleasant set-up but I can't get from there to terrorism. Yes, one or two of the perpetrators had debts with them, but they had debts with a lot of people. You must have more if you think he's linked?'

Bond kept his suspicions to himself, settling on a vague statement about 'positive intelligence' before going back to the question.

'The only thing certain is that we need to get inside.'

'Aha – now that's tricky: its half way up a bloody mountain. A single private approach road – got part way along it once but got turned back by guards. Not a huge place from the amount of traffic – I monitored the comings and goings for two weeks last June. Maybe fifty working there, that's all. But as for getting in – tough. I've had one or two ideas but you're the expert – so what's the plan?'

'Need to know basis only – but let's just say I'm doubly glad you're not Hawkins – he'd have made one hell of an ugly wife.'

As the terrace busied with a party of sightseers the conversation turned to more prosaic topics including skiing and the local wines, postponing talk of their mission until the evening.

They dined at a quietly excellent little restaurant in nearby Jochberg, eschewing the delights of the fine but public Tennerhof. Bond paid the host a hundred Euros for privacy, mention of a 'very important question' hinting at a proposal which drew an indulgent smile. Their conversation was thus helped by the Heuriger's continuous acoustic guitar throughout the evening, the waiters leaving the two lovebirds alone.

The chef excelled with a rare steak served in a local green pepper sauce washed down in Bond's case by half a bottle of a grainy Russian Vodka, whilst Sophie played safe with the local Esterhazy Rulander. Conversation inevitably returned to Smolenski and his lifestyle.

'I know from my sources that at the moment he's in Hamburg overseeing the completion of his new yacht – a six hundred-foot leviathan named 'Entrepreneur'. Heli-pad, ballroom, even a god-damned submarine dock. Can you believe that?' Bond could – he'd seen the roll call of the world's billionaires' private yachts, and the six-hundred footer had a grim inevitability about it, Blohm and Voss the likely constructors.

The hoteliers' invitation to sample 'the World's Greatest Apfelstrudel' proved in Bond's opinion to be wholly accurate and the meal was rounded off by two large, steaming black coffees with pear schnapps.

'Disgusting stuff but it doesn't do to offend the hosts,' he said, smiling. This time it was Sophie who seemed anxious to get back to business.

'So what's the plan then? I'm presuming while the cats away we mice don't simply just walk in the front door?' she threw in sarcastically.

'That's exactly what we do,' he grinned. He had already decided that despite not being enamoured with Sophie's presence the appearance of a couple could prove useful. She was less than amused, however, when he explained.

'Why can't you be the gambling addict you arrogant sod and me the supportive partner?' Her brow furrowed and Bond was momentarily distracted by the contours of her face in the candlelight.

'A: I probably wouldn't be seeking help, as all men are arrogant, if you recall; and B: if I did I wouldn't tell my lovely wife…' The logic was flawed but he already knew what he wanted to do and having her the centre of attention would be essential. 'I'm gambling that Smolenski won't be expecting us on his doorstep – no one will be primed – his entire entourage are away. All I need is half an hour to take a look around so I need people occupied. Based on what we know the nerve centre has to be up there. We should soon get a sniff of it.' In reality he thought it would not be anything like this easy and that cleverer methods would be required.

He paid the bill with a further tip, though the staff could not help but notice that the lady was less than happy as they left: such was life.

The evening had no climax, Sophie retiring to her room immediately they returned to the hotel, petulance or not he couldn't tell. He took a scotch in the small hotel bar before turning in: it would be a long tomorrow.

0

'Remind me just what the hell I'm travelling in again?' Sophie was obviously used to life's creature comforts and Bond would admit that the Bowler did not offer first class accommodation. 'I mean, the world seems to travel in something air-conditioned and German round here, even the four-by-fours. Your Land-Rover is thirty years out of date,' she added as they were passed an ungainly Porsche Cayenne with blackened glass and twenty-two inch rims.

'Great for the car park at Sainsbury's, less good for getting out of sticky situations. And it's not a Land-Rover, by the way.'

'And that's why God invented the good-old American Jeep. We could at least have gotten us a Jeep - go anywhere with lea-ther and air-con…'

'…and cup holders?'

'Yes…' she grasped the sarcasm mid-sentence. 'Either way it'd beat this old shed…'

'I'm a traditionalist: Queen and Country,' he responded, resisting the urge to extol the Bowler's many virtues, contenting himself with dispatching a slow-moving truck with a sudden surge of acceleration which took Sophie off guard.

Aside from the world's very deep wet bits, the Bowler Wildcat is one of the fastest modes of traversing the planet yet devised. Built by a small company in deepest Derbyshire it looks to the uninitiated like a customised Land-Rover – the trusty sit-up-and-beg army Defender in a bulging, carbon-fibre party frock. Those more familiar with the Landie will quickly spot the unique proportions – wider and lower in stance and longer of wheelbase the Wildcat shares few elements of its parent's DNA, transplanted into a bespoke space-frame designed specifically for desert races such as the infamous Paris-Dakar. In an event whose attrition rate is two-thirds, which often claims lives and has been known to be interrupted by civil war, eight Bowlers had completed the course the previous year.

Bond's Wildcat was a five-litre super-charged variant geared for acceleration rather than outright top speed but it could touch one-fifty if pressed. Five hundred and seventy five horsepower combined with the latest weight-saving technology in body, chassis and drive-train led to the one statistic which summed the car up: a nought to sixty miles per hour sprint time of four seconds – enough to scare Porsche drivers aplenty even over rough terrain. It had room in the back for all the equipment he required – including the Walther P99QA he felt naked without – all discretely hidden in the metalwork for the journey on military transport via Munich two days earlier.

Like the rest of his professional tools he'd practiced long and hard, much of it up at Otterburn as well as at Land-Rover's test track in the Midlands, but this would be his first chance to use it in anger. Like most pieces of focussed engineering there were compromises such as a lack of interior comforts. Compared with Kitzbuhel's pedigree parade of BMW and Mercedes four-by-fours the Bowler growled and strained at the leash like an unruly pit-bull. To Sophie it was a pain in the derriere. Bond loved it.

They'd set out at eight to beat the tourists, Bond estimating it would take an hour to get to the summit of the Grossglockner pass. They'd breakfasted in the hotel: a rather excellent buffet mixing the best of the local ham, cheese and fruit with the obligatory full-English – with an Austrian twist, of course. Bond had a large plate of scrambled eggs with smoked-salmon strips followed by a mound of bacon rashers while Sophie stuck to a restrained bowl of muesli and some fruit. He downed two large black coffees before excusing himself to obtain a packed lunch from the kitchens on the pretence of a day's hiking, giving their objective as the Hahnenkamm, Kitzbuhel's second peak. Thus equipped they loaded up the Bowler and meandered out through the southern streets onto the main road south.

They drove at a quick but easy pace along the valley before starting to climb up the winding Thurn Pass. Half an hour later they dropped into the broad Salzach valley, heading east along the A168. The valley was high sided and though the mind got used to the stunning views the eye was still drawn by an occasional vista suddenly opening up between the mountains, or as the sun broke and a rainbow materialised across a waterfall cascading from a crag. Twenty minutes later they skirted Zell-am-Zee and Bond took a right, following the signs south that would lead them up the Grossglockner.

At three thousand eight hundred metres Grossglockner is Austria's highest peak and the highest Alp east of the Brenner Pass. Its distinctive pyramidal shape comprises two peaks – the 'Gross' and 'Klein' (big and small) – separated by a saddle known as Glocknerscharte. Part of the Hohe Tauern mountain range overlooking the Pasterze, Austria's largest glacier, Grossglockner is also one of the country's main tourist attractions, aided since 1935 by the astounding Grossglockner pass, a twenty-nine mile public highway which climbs two and a half thousand metres through some of the most spectacular scenery in Europe. Forty-one hairpin bends and over sixty other corners twist between rock and sheer three hundred metre drops which await the careless. Nevertheless this morning the main obstacle was traffic: with overtaking room at a premium he'd rather avoid the slow parade of coach parties.

Driving at a steady sixty-five (Bond always thought in miles) amid the flat foothills and through Fusch he was again struck by the incredible splendour of the area. As they climbed the view grew ever more breathtaking; as the drops increased, the vegetation grew thinner and the sight of clouds beneath them started to disorientate.

It took them fifteen minutes to wind carefully up through the toll-gates and past the gift shops, additions since the heady pre-war days of Stuck and Nuvolari heroically piloting their Mercedes-Benz and Auto-Union silver-arrows in the pre-war hillclimbs.

It was just after nine when they reached the Edelweiss Spitze viewing platform, the highest point on the road and regular stop-off which even at this hour was home to thirty or forty sight-seers. A handful of cars, a small coach and a dozen bikes dotted the car park. From here a horseshoe-shaped cobbled road ran around the ridge, and beside the return road a second, private road quickly disappeared around the far side of the outcrop. It was here that Bond now pointed the Bowler.

The road was barely a double-car width and for the first few hundred yards this did not matter but then, passing through a shallow tree-lined gorge they emerged with rock only to their right, the view to the left looking as though the mountain had yet to be painted in. In its place a hazy view out across the valley they had just driven – floor some fifteen hundred feet below, opposing mountains two miles distant and snow-capped despite the season.

Sophie gave an involuntary 'wow' and leaned across the cabin. The road clinging limpet-like to the rock started climbed gently, curving first left then, through an archway, to the right. A flimsy-looking steel barrier was all that stood between them and scenic oblivion.

'I only got as far as the gorge – security must be having a day off.'

'Don't think so, look,' he indicated an electronic eye mounted in a roadside shrine, following their passage.

'Just keep your eyes on the bloody road, okay?'

Coming around the right hand bend the road suddenly climbed up to a large wooden gate set into an outcrop that rose three-hundred feet out of sight. As they drew closer they realised the gate was huge – maybe thirty feet high – and across the road some five yards ahead of it was a fence, maybe ten feet high, beyond which a small waterfall cascaded down the rock and apparently through the road itself.

In the rock to the right a metal panel contained an intercom and swipe-card reader.

'End of the line,' said Bond as he pulled the Bowler alongside. Sophie was looking ahead.

'It's a bloody drawer-bridge!' She was right: the space between the fence and the gate was an abyss. You had to admire the security precautions, he thought – distinctly odd for a clinic, though.

He pushed the button and explained in German that Mr. and Mrs. Sterling had an appointment to see Doctor Rebecca Marx, gambling that she was with Smolenski. The snapped response did not bode well.

'They don't take personal callers. Bugger off, basically.'

'You're surprised at this? Duh! And that's it – that was your plan? Just knock on and walk in?'

He grinned and again pressed the button. There was another brief exchange during which Sophie heard Smolenski's name mentioned twice. Then a pause.

'My silken powers of persuasion never fail…'

Sophie gave him a quizzical glance.

'Okay, they're letting us in to leave our contact details. And because I said I couldn't turn around on the road…' she laughed. 'But we're in, and that's the important thing.'

A generator-whine signalled the gate's descent, the wooden façade proving to be just that: the bridge itself was at least five-feet thick and comprised concrete and steel as well as a smooth, tarred surface, so that when fully extended it formed a seamless part of the track, guard-rails and all. To the right was a half-tunnel of moulded Perspex which sent the waterfall flowing down an unseen gulley in the rock face. The bridge was supported by a pair of hydraulic rams two-feet in diameter – unsurprising as the gate must weigh five tonnes.

'Why does it feel like we just dived into a shark-infested lake…?' Sophie breathed nervously. He knew the feeling; the difference was he enjoyed it.

They drove across the bridge and into a short, concrete-lined tunnel where Bond noted the hydraulic mechanism, then out onto a bright, spacious terrace fifty yards wide cutting thirty yards into mountainside. It reminded him of an Oxford quad complete with curiously shaped doorways, a balcony, flowerbeds and even a well. The fourth side was open to the view while above them towered a startlingly modern glass canopy; starting some twenty feet above their heads it curved sharply up the cliff face forming a kind of outer shell, meeting the rock at a point out of their vision maybe a hundred feet overhead. Given this architectural feature the clinic itself appeared rather subdued. Bond parked the Bowler next to a monstrous black Audi Q7 and a litterbin and withdrew his phone.

'You have an urgent call now?' asked Sophie incredulously.

'Just checking – thought so,' and apparently satisfied he put the phone away. He reached behind him for the bag which had contained their lunch. 'Hello there!' this as he opened the door of the car, pre-empting the security guard's approaching sub-machine gun.

'Nein! Drehen Sie sich herum, urlaub!' The guard was a very solid six and a half footer. Bond switched to ignorant Britischer.

'We're here to see Doctor Marx, yes? Marx?'

Another tirade, this time one hand maintaining contact with the Kalashnikov. A second man entered the courtyard: much smaller – maybe five nine – plump with black tousled hair and bottle-bottom glasses. His manner was polite but firm.

'I am Herr Trinn. This is private property. You must leave now.' Bond ran through the explanation about seeing Doctor Marx once more, casually placing a used tissue inside the bag, crumpling it and depositing it in the bin. Trinn indulgently took down their details without conviction.

'It's a lovely place – I do hope you can accommodate my wife. She really does need your help.' Sophie subtly but resolutely stood on his right foot and pressed hard. Bond grinned through gritted teeth.

'And Edelweiss are your favourite flower too, aren't they my sweet?' Trinn gave a short laugh.

'So they are with Doctor Marx – it aids "psychological tranquillity". We have fresh Edelweiss brought in every day – it's said they're becoming hard to get in the area because of us!' As if reminded he checked his watch, 'In fact you must go now as we are having our delivery soon. That shows our meticulous attention to detail, I think!' he finished triumphantly and ushered them back to their car.

'Indeed it does, Herr Trinn. Auf wiedersein!' then aside to Sophie: 'That's the trouble with Germans –they don't see the big picture.'

He reversed the Bowler across the yard, gave a cheery wave to the smug German and the wary guard then retraced their route into the tunnel. Sophie thought he took unnecessary care negotiating what appeared a generous opening pausing, windows open checking his mirrors and fiddling the controls for a good twenty seconds before finally moving across the bridge and accelerated away. The gate started to rise almost before they were safely across.

'I'm presuming there was a point to that little pantomime?'

'Need to know only.'

'Oh yes, thanks for that,' she shook her head as they made their way back along the narrow cliff-road. 'So, that was a shambles then. Didn't get near anything, not a peep. Did you really expect to just waltz in and be shown around? So we're done,' Sophie summarised with an air of disgruntled finality, looking back in the mirrors. 'It'd take a big army to get in that place. Don't suppose you have one handy by any chance?'

'Would you settle for a very small army and a big ugly baby?'

Her blank expression made him grin.