CHAPTER NINE
The Middle Distance Aeroplane Company (Part 2)
The man's eyes widened. He half-turned, and Bond was aware of something happening a split-second too late to react. A heavy blow landed on the side of his head, and he fell sideways.
"Wass ist ⸺" the man began, but the other two toughs had moved in on him.
A second blow cracked on the back of Bond's head, and he flattened against the wall of the kiosk. He was aware of the woman in the kiosk staring at him with her mouth formed into a perfect 'O' and her eyes bulging wide. He could hear nothing but for a freight-train running between his ears.
A third blow to the kidneys, and Bond slid down to one knee. He lashed back behind himself, touched nothing, but heard leather scrape on concrete.
A loud 'bap!' echoed off the enclosing U-Bahn station walls, followed by a second one and then a third.
He shoved off from the kiosk, not so much turning as his feet tangling and in doing so rotating him around.
The man from the airplane company was on one knee. One of the toughs lay flat on his back, his legs making motions like he were trying to walk, arterial red pumping out through the opening of his suit. The man from the airplane company stared at Bond with wild, crazed eyes. He didn't seem aware of the Nazi-era gun in his hand.
"Whuh ⸺ whuh ⸺ whuh ⸺" Bond was unable to even form words. His vision swam, and for one giddy second he fought back an intense nausea.
In a single smooth motion, the man from the airplane company dropped his gun back into his briefcase and extracted an envelope, which he thrust at Bond.
Bond, his brain slow to process, stared at the white rectangle without comprehending.
"Hier!" the man said.
Bond still stared at it. He could feel his eyes trying to cross themselves, and a strange and detached part of his brain analytically marveled that he was struck twice in the head.
"Hier!" he said with more urgency. "Nimm es!"
Bond mumbled, "No, I'm, er, Green. Herr Green ⸺"
"Nimm es, du Scheißkerl!" he all but screamed, then he leaned over and stuffed the envelope into a breast pocket before gathering up his briefcase and bolting up the stairs.
He was aware of sound around him ⸺ the weird silence that occupied only his brain was beginning to burn off, like morning fog. He could hear a rumble of sound, of shouts, the sound of people tending to the dying man.
A flutter on the stairs, and he knew the police were en route. Two Stadtpolizei hurried down the steps at the far end of the subway. Both looked young and in good health, and as they came down, they spotted the crime. Several of the bystanders were calling to them.
Bond had no idea how good his cover was, or what degree of protection it might or might not provide. He didn't want to find out.
He lurched to his feet, and again for a moment the whole underground platform undulated around him as if he were in the middle of a Dali painting. Then it clicked more or less back in place, and Bond staggered off into the opposite direction ⸺ toward the stairs down to the platform.
A slew of voices cried out that he was leaving ⸺ having been attacked, he was naturally complicit in the young hooligan's death.
Bond hit a turnstile and rolled over the top of it, aware of shouts and cries and a strong urgent voice calling out "Halt!" but he shoved through the crowd coming up.
Bond descended the tiled passageway two steps at a time, earning glares and muttered curses at the crowd coming up. A train had pulled in, and disgorged its flood of people. He risked a glance back ⸺ the two Stadtpolizei were crowded into the center of the human ice jam, slowly oozing down after him.
No exits. His brain suddenly decided to inform him that there were no exits except up, past the two cops.
The Stadtpolizei struggled to close on him, but sharp words and German stubbornness held them up.
Bond reached the platform as the last of the crowd trailed off the train. He had seconds before the doors clattered shut, and he stretched ⸺ through into that final burst ⸺ a thoroughbred going for a photo finish.
The door slammed on Bond and for a moment re-opened, with the two Stadtpolizei surging across the platform, arms outstretched. One shouted for the train to stop while the other tried to catch the door, but it slammed just shy of his fingers, and Bond, his brain still partially seized up, could see one Stadtpolizei shouting his rage and frustration while the other continued to gesture futilely at the train in the hopes that it would stop. However, this was Germany, and there were schedules to keep.
# # #
"What the hell happened?" Ackermann demanded.
"What the hell do you mean, 'what the hell happened?'" demanded Bond in the same tone of voice. "Your boy shot him in a U-Bahn station."
"First," said Ackermann, holding up a finger, "he's not my boy, he's Godfrey Coombes' boy. Secondly, what the hell are you doing with a gun?"
"I didn't have a gun, he had the gun. We were attacked, and he pulled it out of his suitcase and he shot it three times."
"Where the hell did he get a gun?"
"Ask Coombes! I don't know!"
Bond leaned back and crossed his arms. They were in a café on Kurfürstendamm, the only two patrons and alone other than for a visibly bored shopkeeper in apron behind the counter.
Bond had debarked the train at the next station and then walked several blocks before trying to hail a taxi that could take him back to his hotel. Between leaving the station and finally getting a taxi, he had put in a single call to the number that Coombes had given him. He told the operator what she could do with her protocol and to get Ackermann ⸺ Mr. Brown ⸺ on the line when he called again in an hour.
An hour later, Ackermann was indeed at the contact number, and Bond had ordered him to the café post haste.
"How do we report this?"
"I don't care," declared Bond. He had a brandy in front of him, and a small towel wetted with cold water pressed to his head, where he was developing a good-sized bump. The shopkeeper was unphased when he asked for the wet towel. "We have to get rid of these cowboys."
"It's not that easy ⸺"
"They are rogues, Theodor. They are loose cannons. They are animals thrashing about blindly in the jungle. They are unpredictable."
" What happened, again? Walk me through it."
"I go into the meeting place, which is the Bersarinstraße U-Bahn station. I wait for the contact. He arrives. We make contact. Three men attack us. End of story."
"With what? What did they attack you with?"
"Knives and a kosh. I was koshed."
"Who were they?"
"I was too occupied and didn't have a chance to ask."
"I mean, were they dressed like apache? Or in suits and ties? Were they dressed like clowns?"
"Suits, lightweight, European. White shirts. Generic ties. Unremarkable."
"So this wasn't some random attack, like muggers going for your wallet."
"In a U-Bahn station, that strikes me as unlikely."
"So this was related to our work with Pushkin."
"Well, I think that takes the top prize for brilliant deductions."
"There's no need for sarcasm, Bond."
"There is every need for sarcasm, Ackermann. These Section 42 people do not know what they are doing. It is as simple as that." He spoke to Ackermann as if he were a child, or a travel agent. "They will muck everything up, and we will lose Konstanteen."
"There's no need for sarcasm," he repeated. "I'm trying to work out what happened, James, so bear with me."
"One dead, in a morgue. The other, I don't know. Might be in police custody, might not." He sighed and examined the towel. There was no blood on it, which he took as a good sign. As he re-applied it gingerly to his head, he added, "Get in touch with the morgue people."
"Yeah yeah yeah," Ackermann said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "This is crazy. Why would someone attack you?"
"They were trying to scare us off."
Ackermann looked at him. "Oh? How so?"
"If this was a hit, they'd have attacked us with knives right off. Or guns. But they sapped me. I imagine they wanted to wound the courier rather than kill him. His having a gun was a surprise."
"Scare us off? Why?"
"Oh, c'mon, Theodor, you're not that dense, are you?"
"Pretend that I am. Walk me through it."
"There are two things here that should be of concern to us and to Coombes and to the Section 42 people. One, some other players want Kronsteen. If they scare us off ⸺ the one big customer ⸺ and then either you or Coombes or Pushkin will have to find a new buyer for him, quick."
Ackermann slowly nodded. "That makes sense," he admitted.
"Which means, next time they won't try and scare us off. Next time, they'll try and kill us."
"Oh. Well, that's reassuring. What's the second thing?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
To Ackermann's headshake, Bond said, "How did they know about the meeting?"