CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Beach at Hendaye (Part 1)
Bond worked the telephone that night. He telephoned everyone that he could, from the Section 42 contact number to bars where he and Ackermann had enjoyed drinks.
Everywhere, the reply was the same.
Ackermann wasn't there.
They didn't know where he was.
No one knew when he was expected.
His index finger sore from dialling, Bond looked through the glass panel of the telephone booth at the back of a ratskeller where he had ensconced himself with a pair of dry martinis and a handful of coins.
He checked a slip of paper from his pocket and dialled another number. "The hell is this," he got by way of greeting.
"Arnold?"
"Neydermeier?"
"I'm looking for Ackermann. I can't find him anywhere."
"Oh. Didn't Coombes tell you?"
"No."
"Place called, hold on, lemme check." The phone clunked on a bedside table as Arnold set it down. "Here it is," he said as he picked it up again. Place called Hendaye. Hendaye-plage, near the Spanish border."
"On the Med?" Bond asked. The name didn't ring an immediate bell.
"The coast," Arnold said. "Now, lemme get back to sleep, it's damned late.
# # #
Hendaye was a small village on the Atlantic Coast at a spot where France rubbed up against Spain. It was divided into three parts ⸺ the town, which stretches from Saint Vincent's church to the area around the railway station; the seaside quarter, or la plage; and the heights, which was a popular camping area and situated between and behind the other two.
Given its location, its history was replete with cross-border raids, fortifications thrown up and torn down again, the occasional siege, and a massacre or two. Spanish and German leaders, including von Ribbentrop and Hitler himself, had met at the train station to discuss Spain's part in the Axis during World War Two.
Two of its most notable sons were Martin Guerre, a 16th century peasant who was a famous imposer, and Etienne Pellot, a French corsair. And of course, Hemingway lived in Hendaye during the '20s.
Today, it boasted a weekly open-air market in the town square and 17th-century ruins that one could visit, as well as a couple of monasteries. But it was mostly of interest to people who liked to go hiking, camping and perhaps even climbing on the Jumeaux rocks, weathered stone on the rugged, wind-swept coast that resembled stacked stones.
Drifting sand marbled the road along la plage. The sun shone bright but lifeless in a sky like carefully washed zinc, leaning in toward the mauve hills. The lonely beach wandered for miles in either direction, desolate except for an occasional lost béarnaise cow lowing at the surf. The cold wind was too much even for the heartiest of outdoorsy tourists. Nearly all of the hotels were shuttered against the wind. It caused Bond's rented Peugeot to shiver, and made him glad that it was equipped with heater and a radio that picked up the only station in range, a Spanish station playing Basque folk music.
Most of the town's restaurants were in the quartier de la Plage and at the waterfront along the Bay of Txingudi. The ruins of the 17th-century fortifications and the old cannons facing Hondarribia in Basque Spain were a feature of the promenade.
Bond parked his Peugeot a street off from the Promenade, and wended his way through a twisty alley with garbage can landmines and ominous puddles to the front of a glass-encased restaurant on the Boulevard de la Mer, a padlocked kiosk with a torn sign saying 'Ices' to act as sentinel at the door. A few cars had parked on the Promenade, all of them looking more tourist than local. A silver Simca Ariane had nosed in next to the kiosk.
Bond pushed through the glass door into a room warm and lit in amber. A young girl in a pink smock looked up from the accounts book over which she had been pouring. "Oui?"
Bond asked for coffee, and was seated at a rough-hewn table. She brought him the coffee and a coffee service in silver, and Bond stared out at the grey confluence of sky and sea just past the window, lit in the growing pink of the setting sun. "Do you have any guests?" he asked wearily in French. This was his dozenth cup of coffee and his dozenth inquiry, and his stomach and veins were swimming in caffeinated water and his brain was soft and spongy.
"Just a pair," she said in a gentle tone. "A husband and wife."
"Oh? French?"
"Oh, non, monsieur. Un Allemand et sa femme américaine."
Bond cocked his head. "If I may ask, what is their name?"
"Monsieur et madame Brown." She pronounced the name as if it were three syllables.
He set aside his cup of coffee and said, "I should like to check in.
# # #
The dining room was set with a dozen tables under linen, with napkins and silverware at the ready, even though only three guests were expected to dine. Cinzano ashtrays marked every odd bar chair, and behind the counter was a hectare of shiny chrome for making and shaking cocktails. Behind the bar were rows of bottles, lit from below. The tile floor reflected the chill from the outside.
The girl in the pink smock had changed into a black dress and false eyelashes. "Que voulez-vous boire?" she asked as Bond ponied up to the bar.
"Martini, s'il vous plaît," he said.
"Gin or vodka?"
Bond shrugged. "Gin, for a start. Then a vodka martini."
She smiled. "I admire your style, M. Neydermeier."
Bond poured a Gordons and Dolin into his face, and both he and the girl in black agreed how difficult it was to operate a hotel in a place such as Heydaye. From the kitchen, he heard the hiss and crackle of a deep fat fryer, and the swish of things dropped into it.
Bond learned that the Browns had arrived yesterday they arrived, but the girl didn't know how long they were staying, but the longer the better. She joined Bond in his second martini ⸺ she had a Disaronno Originale neat.
He kept his back to the entry and heard them before they entered.
The girl in the black dress made to indicate to Bond that they had arrived, but a glance from him and she arrested herself, then nodded with understanding. The blonde woman was his wife, and M. Brown was cuckolding him.
Bond glanced over his shoulder as they walked past. Ackermann wore a cashmere overcoat over his lightweight bespoke Savile Row suit ⸺ she wore a creamy silk gown and her hair teased to a towering height.
Bond mouthed a 'merci' to the girl and, martini in hand, stepped off the stool and followed them to the table.
The looked up at him as they were seating themselves. "Hello, Mr. Brown," Bond said in English. "Mrs. Brown."
The shock showed on the faces of Theodor Gabriel Ackermann and Shiri Ritchfield.
But Ackermann recovered first. "Mr. Green, please join us."
The dinner was mostly quiet. As Hendaye was at the junction of the French and Spanish coastline, on the Atlantic, they were served bacalao a la Vizcaína ⸺salt cod in the Basque style.
Midway through the meal, which Ackermann had been picking at in a desultory fashion, with his attention absorbed by the movements of his fork, he suddenly asked, "Do you have to follow me?"
"I'm here on business, Mr. Brown. There's been some difficulty."
"Difficulty?" Shiri Ritchfield asked.
Ackermann said, "You don't have to call me 'Mr. Brown,' you know."
"Don't I, Mr. Brown?"
"What difficulty?" Shiri asked.
"Nothing much," Bond said. "Small hold-up with documentation. Something related to a vehicle, a Mercedes." He gestured to the plate. "Don't care for the fish?"
"What car?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Bond. "Nobody could reach you. Finally, I figured out you were here."
"How did you manage that?"
"Mr. White thought you might be here."
It took him a moment to connect 'Mr. White' to Major Kerwin Arnold. "Ahh," he said, and that was it.
Bond gave a patently false laugh. "We might have guessed there would be a hang-up."
The waitress came from the kitchen. When she saw Ackermann's plate with only half the fish eaten, she asked, "Didn't you like it?"
"It's fine."
"Shall I bring you something else?"
"No," he growled.
"We also have piperade, or marmitako."
"This is fine," he said.
"Or ris de veau."
"This is fine!" he snapped, then looked around embarrassed, even though they were the only diners in the room.
"I'll have ris de veau," said Shiri in a small voice.
Bond said, "The gentleman and I are fine, thank you. But if you could, send out a bottle of wine."
"We have Txakoli."
"Txakoli," he agreed, not quite sure what it would be.
Staring at his plate, Ackermann said, "I'm sorry," in a small voice. His mind was far away.
Once she departed, Bond studied Ackermann for a long moment. "What're you playing it?"
"What?"
"What do you mean, 'what?' Where are we?" Before Ackermann could answer, Bond pushed forward. "We are a whole country away. Not just that, but on the furthest edge of France from Berlin. And I had to hunt you down to find you. Why?"
He looked uncomfortable at first. And then he spoke, as if having decided to share. "My being here has to do with the Lemon deal.
"This is a long way to go to talk about Mr. Lemon," said Bond.