12

Kristalwelten

An insistent beeping woke him and he cursed having allowed himself to fall asleep. Jumping to the cockpit he tore open the laptop and peered at the alert – a new sonic registration inside the main atrium. A looping video clip showed a car entering the car park. Bond immediately recognised as Junkers giving instructions to the staff. It seemed the rest of Smolenski's party had been delayed and would not arrive until around eight, two hours from now. This was not good. His plan had been to monitor Smolenski for a few hours then have Baby-Nellie tape the rest while he drove via the hotel to make the rendezvous at Kristalwelten at nine. UnableHeHeHe to pick up Nellie's signal directly he'd have to scroll through her recordings when he returned. He needed a back-up plan. He asked Sophie how her German was.

'Sehr gut, danke,' came the reply. He told her to hole-up at the café at the Edelweiss viewing platform around a mile from their current vantage point.

'Park yourself in a corner and listen in. Reception might not be a hundred-per-cent but you should get the drift. You'll look like a hiker listening to music.'

'And I brought my laptop rather than my iPod?'

'So you're not with the latest fashion – deal with it.'

'And you'll be…?' He told her of the cryptic note at Goodwood and the meeting at Kristalwelten as they packed the car.

'If it was Sly or the Cartwright-woman she isn't going to show…'

'But if it's Marx she may be the "in" we need.'

'Or it may be a trap.'

'Smolenski thought he was dealing with me with the bomb: any contingency would be an admittance of fallibility. Whoever sent it, the note's real'

'Fair point. So, you go and see what she has and, erm, remove it by whatever means possible? Including sleeping with her, no doubt. Needs must, right?' There was a note of disapproval. 'I wonder what would happen if "she" turned out to be a "he"…what would you do then, Stud?' Amusement rang through the coolness. In answer he kissed her and despite her best efforts she did not resist.

'It's a bit of a trek, probably take me three and a half hours round trip but I want to get there early. The café opens late so you shouldn't get thrown out. Only call me in an emergency.'

'And I'm listening for what exactly?'

'He comes here for a reason, and it isn't some clinic I'm damned sure of that. If he's bringing his entourage then he's here for some kind of board meeting – and that's where we find out what Skillerbet has to do with these attacks. He thinks he's in a safe environment - I think we'll get an idea pretty quickly even if we have to wait for the details. With a bit of luck by tomorrow morning we could have enough information to sanction a full raid and seizure of Skillerbet's assets. Then we go home.'

He didn't for a minute think it would be that simple but that was the story she needed for the moment.

Before leaving he checked that the drone was still in place. The video window showed a steady image of the glass window into the mountain, colourful reflections ever changing in the failing sunlight.

They retraced their route to the main pass and into the small car park beside the robust, two-storey white building with the steeply pitched terracotta roof. Colourful awnings flapped in the evening breeze. A gentle sea of cloud had rolled up the valley and would make visibility poor on the descent.

He dropped her at the bright yellow door to the café, leaning across to kiss her on the cheek only to have her grab him by the collar and roughly press her lips against his.

'For the audience.'

'Encore,' he replied and returned it with interest. A tourist bus sounded its horn and she jumped down from the car.

'See you later darling!' she called musically before grabbing her rucksack and slamming the door. He gave her a cursory wave then swung the big car towards the road, reflexes on alert. This was where things started to get interesting.

Turning sharply he caught a glimpse of Sophie taking up sensible station in an isolated corner of the café. She looked beautiful, and for a moment he felt a tinge of guilt. It passed quickly.

Swarovski has manufactured the world's finest cut crystal at Wattens near Innsbruck since 1895. Through the twentieth century Swarovski gained a reputation for quality and avant-garde techniques and design which continues to the present through costume jewellery and high-grade optical equipment in addition to the better known statues and sculptures. Kristalwelten, or 'Crystal World', is the ambitious museum-cum-art-gallery-cum-retail-outlet attached to the factory. Built partly underground this three-storey construction acts as a showcase for unique works commissioned by world-famous artists using Swarovski's crystal. Best described as eclectic it features such diverse exhibits as a pair of giants' gloves, a twenty foot long squid and more predictably the world's largest and smallest cut crystals.

As night fell Bond approached the complex's most striking feature, a twenty-foot head carved into the grass-covered earth that formed the structure's roof. The huge circular face loomed eerily above him as he passed into the deserted entrance. Its two-foot diameter eyes sparkle with lit crystals while a waterfall cascaded from an expressionless mouth.

The note gave no specifics but having positioned himself where he could see the entrance Bond saw nothing of interest in the half hour as the day's visitors started to drift away into the dusk. The clientele was a predictable mix of nationalities: an easy place to blend-in.

It was eight fifty-five when he registered a familiar face - smaller than he remembered, scuttling down the path from the car park between tall rows of corn. He watched the figure pass close by and disappear into a darkened gallery. It was not ideal: small with a single entrance and exit, but its labyrinthine nature would provide some cover. After a few minutes he followed.

Passing into the dimly lit atrium he glanced at the exhibits – a three-hundred carat crystal set into a large floor-mounted display case; a life-sized horse and rider both colourfully and expensively adorned in crystal-laden mediaeval fighting armour; to the left a hollow-glass wall running the full ten-metre height of the room filled with crystals of infinite sizes and colours, set off by carefully arranged LED and strobe lighting.

The figure passed into the next gallery. A glance back to the entrance satisfied him no one had followed and he stepped quickly through a black curtain.

He found himself inside an optical illusion. The room was hemispherical, maybe thirty feet in diameter, its domed roof a patchwork of reflecting prisms which flowed down the walls and behind a perimeter guard rail to the floor. In a moat behind the rails lights threw colours and pictures onto the walls and roof, prisms rotating and changing shape to ensure the whole space including the mirror-finished floor appeared to constantly shift. A sea of dazzling images one moment, a mysterious night-sky the next.

Moebius stood facing the wall.

'I love this place – it's so very peaceful. I often come here to think. Light and dark, Mr. Bond: those two apparent enemies. Yet like so many things, the one has no meaning without the other. Like the chicken and the egg, yes? Which came first?'

'Spare me the philosophy Moebius: we haven't got much time. Tell me something I don't know.'

The man seemed distracted. He clung to the guard rail like it was his hold on reality, eyes surveying the ceiling, voice distant.

'Vorgov says that conflict is the natural state of the world, that man's struggle to create order is working against that. All man's achievements, indeed the story of every species' evolution has been through struggle, through turmoil. It is the natural way he says.'

'Survival of the fittest – not very original.'

'I suppose not. But if you view that those struggles are necessary and will happen anyway, that no matter how long you hold back the tide eventually the waters will find their way; once you accept that inevitability…' Bond tried to decide if the man was armed – he took a step further into the room, positioning himself away from the rail.

'If you're trying to seek absolution you've come to the wrong place, Moebius. And unless you're going to talk I'm leaving.' He turned away.

'C-Bay, Mr. Bond. As you may have guessed it is a market place – global, on-line, but basically just a marketplace – for information, intelligence: weapons - anything. Smolenski set it up to "accelerate evolution", help the human race along,' he looked Bond in the eyes with a pleading air. 'If wars ended sooner, even if they end in the same conclusion, less people would get killed. This is right, this is logical, yes?'

'Who are you trying to persuade, me or yourself?'

'If you accelerate conflict then you reach the same end result with less bloodshed. This is logical.' A frightening possibility was dawning in Bond's mind.

'Just tell me what I need to know.'

'Yes: I know now, we must stop it. What you need to know – and how to stop it – is on here.' He held out a USB memory stick. 'Details of the system and security; the contacts, the communications methods; financing: the lot. I can't convince myself any more – you are my hope…' he took a hopeful step towards Bond and in his face he saw Sophie's amused insinuation was true.

'Why not the police?'

'Because I want to live. You don't know how powerful Vorgov is – not just his money; information - he's brilliant at exploiting everything he knows, every contact. That's what makes C-Bay so powerful; it enables him to control people… Except me: I want out. But no matter who I go to, he'll know. He always knows…' the sentence hung ominously on the air.

'And in return?'

Moebius moved across the mirrored floor.

'I want you - it is you I trust, you can take me away…' the eyes were wet, the face grimacing.

A whine like jet engine rose from the doorway. Instinctively Bond threw himself to the floor.

'Oh, I can do that, Jan…'

Flames suddenly turned the dim space into daylight and Bond was forced to cover his eyes. A solid orange jet of fire cut the darkness above Bond's head and incinerated Moebius where he stood. In the mirrored dome fire seeming to engulf him totally, his outline blurring as the air cooked in the intense heat.

At its nucleus Moebius gave a strangled scream before his lifeless flaming carcass crumpled to the floor. The horrible odour of roast meat filled the air. The jet subsided, the assailant anticipating two bodies.

Bond did not wait for discovery: Walther drawn, silencer fitted he pumped a pair of bullets into the centre of the doorway. Leaping from the ground he threw himself at the resulting groan, flattening a bulky figure to the ground beside the venomous weapon.

The smell was overpowering but he had no time to think – a second figure attacked him from the left. He raised the gun only to have it knocked from his grasp, the metal walkway echoing as it clattered out of reach. Bond sprang from the dead body, grasped the leg of his new opponent and twisted it violently. The man span with the twist, cleverly avoiding a break, and used the momentum to catch Bond in the ribs with his trailing leg. Pain flared as a second blow met his shoulder. He grabbed the arm, twisted and pulled, bringing the man down and around. Estimating the location of his opponent's face he used the flattened heel of his right hand to shatter the man's nose in the darkness, feeling the crack and wetness that followed.

A searing pain in his crotch told him the man was not done and off balance he heard the figure stumble towards the entrance. Recovering his gun he followed.

A burst of automatic fire blew a six-inch chunk of black marble from the wall beside his head and he immediately dropped and scrambled back round the corner: a third man had kept guard at the entrance. His vision held an imprint of a man with a sub-machine gun held at chest height, his injured partner hunched nearby, gun raised. His had to draw them in. Stepping back he raised the Walther and placed a single shot into the hollow glass wall of crystal backing onto the atrium. The wall exploded into sparkling life sending a waterfall of crystal cascaded into the entrance hall. A second shot accelerated the flow. Then he ran.

Machine-gun fire and the sound of feet kicking through glass followed. He heard what sounded like a war cry: the man was approaching, and seemed to hold no fear. Bounding up a metal staircase three steps at a time he removed the silencer trading stealth for power. The man rounded the corner firing vigorously. Bond loosed two shots not waiting to see if they struck home.

A neon lighting display exploded above him sending a shower of glass and sparks raining across the metal-latticework. He slung his body through the arch at the end of the walkway just as another salvo chewed the doorframe above his head. Into a sparsely furnished room with one large central display case and smaller wall displays. Running into the next room he heard heavy footsteps on the metal staircase and the sound of a magazine being loaded. Smolenski had sent a three-man army to eliminate him and Moebius and seemingly didn't care the mess they made; power and retribution.

His mind recalled the gallery lay out from the leaflet: the series of linear themed galleries ran through to a final video show and gargantuan shop. One room labelled the 'Eno' room – a darkened 'meditation space' might give him the cover he needed.

Past richly decorated costumes, crystal Christmas trees, a glisteningly-tentacled squid: he was in room six and needed to reach number eight.

But seven was a painfully well-lit corridor maybe twenty yards long, lined with the obligatory crystal and featuring a floor composed entirely of pulsating LCD screens showing a swirling vortex of colour. He slowed minutely to calibrate his vision.

'So much for lucky numbers…'

Without warning the ground exploded in a hail of glass and bullets. Bond threw himself down a short flight of steps at the end, aggravating his shoulder but managing a controlled forward roll which saw him land behind a display stand.

The shooting stopped. Gun raised he listened but there was only the fizzing and crackling of electricity through the smoke. Tongues of flame rose but there was no movement. His attacker had most definitely burned his bridges. Where was he now?

Re-loading he rose and without taking his eyes off the smoky corridor. Slowly he backed out of this gallery, passing the un-needed sanctuary of the Eno-room. He spied a door marked 'Privat' and soundlessly slid through it.

The serviced corridor was as mundane as the world on the other side was fantastic: bare concrete floor and walls, air-conditioning ducts and fluorescence worming across the ceiling. Turning right he ran quickly to its furthest extremity planning to intercept his foe in the last gallery or the shop. The last door was marked 'Geschäft'. He listened: heard nothing, then opened it a crack, gun raised. Service lighting only – all the staff had gone home. Glancing at his watch he realised the time and thought of Sophie.

Suddenly the door slammed painfully on his right wrist and his gun dropped to the floor. Cursing he threw his weight at the door forcing into the face of the hidden attacker. The man stumbled and Bond reached for the gun - too slowly. A foot kicked it beneath a large display case of rather vulgar crystal animals.

Turning, he saw the stubby nose of a sub-machine gun. Springing on his left foot a well-aimed kick knocked the muzzle away just as it spat forth its deadly venom and bullets peppered the ceiling, obliterating a range of intricate chandeliers and triggering a series of piercing alarms. Glass rained, littering the floor and piercing his face.

'You do realise all damages have to be paid for?' he said as the man fell then followed up with a right-hander with his bodyweight behind it. Ripping the gun from the man's grasp he trained it on its owner.

'Now then…' he began, but the man had a back up. A knife whistled past Bond's ear as he ducked his head in a reflex action. He pulled the trigger but succeeded only in creating a new skylight. The magazine was emptied.

'Damn!' He threw the gun aside and briefly looked to recover the Walther but it was useless. The man was half way to the exit. Bond noted a massive chandelier which must have hung full ten-feet from the roof near the exit. His eyes scanned for a suitable instrument: he spotted a red and green crystal handled samurai sword in a display case. Shattering the case with his elbow he grabbed the sword and in one movement threw it, spinning, towards the chandelier. It made contact at the roof stem triggering the entire glittering mass to crash down onto the man below.

'And if I told people they wouldn't believe me.'

Bond walked between shattered cases and sculptures, broken glass cracking beneath his boots. A pair of legs protruded obscenely from the destruction, blood seeping across the polished black tiles in a widening puddle. A number of heavy, vertical crystal shafts had pierced his torso. Bond bent to search for ID but then a familiar metallic click told him to stop.

'Do not move.'

The voice was muted and heavily accented; a slick, wet noise told him his earlier victim had returned to seek vengeance for the facial reconstruction.

At that moment he felt his phone vibrate. He feigned to reach for it and drew the anticipated response to stop.

'Draw it slowly and slide it across the ground. And be quick! I am losing patience!' And a lot of blood by the sound of it: he must be weak.

Bond complied, the end game inevitable. The phone slid through the debris to within a foot of the man, a tall, thickset Slav in night camouflage.

'Let us see who is so anxious to contact you, shall we?' and the Slav put the phone to his ear, carefully holding his gun in his right hand.

Bond gave a high-pitched whistle. The Slav's body suddenly jolted, a look of surprise overtaking his face. Electricity shot from the earpiece sending his brain into instant spasm. The gun and phone fell: the features lost all expression. He fell heavily to his knees then flat on the floor in a lifeless swan dive.

'That's the trouble with mobiles – such high charges.'

A minute later, sirens sounding in the distance, he slipped into the driver's seat of the Bowler and flipped open the phone. It was a video message from Sophie, her pixelated face worried.

'Bond – no idea where you are but I couldn't wait any longer. Our friend finally showed at ten with his full team and some more besides. They've been talking a lot and, boy, you are not going to believe what they're up to.' He suspected he might. 'I've e-mailed you a summary but it can't wait 'till morning – there's something big going down tonight and I, erm, I'm going in.

'Sorry to have to break it to you like this, but I'm not single – I have a team out here, there's three of us, and we're going in tonight. Can't say how but you'll figure it out. Like I say, sorry I didn't tell you but, well, as you said, "need to know only"…'

And with that the message ended.

Bond fired the engine, rammed the car into gear and stamped hard on the accelerator. He ignored the road markings and pointed the big car directly at the Autoroute entrance ramp, ploughing across the cornfield: time was most definitely of the essence.