CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Farmhouse (Part 1)
Devereaux had been drinking, so Bond opted to drive.
They passed along the Unter den Linden headed for the checkpoint, not the fastest way of getting there but Bond wanted to give Devereaux time to get a little sobered up.
From the passenger seat in Bond's rented BMW Neue Klasse, Devereaux said to no one, "You know, I thought I knew this town."
"Oh?" said Bond.
"My old man was always telling me about the old country. Hell, even before I stepped on the boat to Europe, I thought of Americans as aliens."
"You're German? But your name is Devereaux."
"Americanified," he said, "Frenchified. Was Devern, once. Way back."
Bond turned right at Friedrichstrasse, just before Humboldt University, which was a direct line to Checkpoint Charlie.
Bond dropped into bottom gear as he crossed the tram tracks of Zimmerstrasse, and came up to a line of cars at the checkpoint.
The first thing a visitor sees is the large 'No Entry' sign that looked bigger than the little white hut squatting in the middle of the road, with 'U.S. ARMY CHECKPOINT' in huge letters on the roof. Other signs warn that 'You are leaving the American Sector' in English, German, French and Russian. A flagpole thrust up a limp American flag above a collection of olive-and-white motor pool cars and jeeps. West German policemen lurked outside in long grey overcoats and Afrika Korps caps while inside the hut young pink-faced G.I.s in starched khaki shirts write in ledgers or converse over the phone.
There was activity at the checkpoint ⸺ camera flashes froze moments of eternity. The pavement shone with water and detergent under the feet of the gaggle of press that crowded around the point, and the boots of the soldiers trying to keep them out of the line of traffic. A U.S. military ambulance waited patiently. Whatever had happened, had happened, and this was the cleaning-up phase.
Because of the chaos, they were waving through vehicles. Bond flipped his Neydermeier passport to the American soldier and an insurance card to the West German policeman, then the same again as he entered the Russian-control sector and continued on toward the Hallesches Tor ⸺ described once as a district of pimps, whores, and brothels.
Bond continued south until he saw the 'S' signs indicating the Schnellstrasse and moved up to the legal speed of sixty kilometers per hour. The BMW proved to be a good and serviceable, despite its geometric appearance ⸺ efficient, well-built, solid, and ugly. Very German.
As he came level with the old Bismarck Chancellery, black and gutted in the bright velvet moonlight, red lights blazed at him from behind. A Volkspolizei motorcycle.
Devereaux sat up as Bond pulled over. "What's up, what's going on?"
"Relax," said Bond.
"What's going on?" he demanded.
"Relax," Bond ordered, sternly. "And keep quiet."
A young man in uniform approached the driver's side window, stopped, and saluted. "Your papers."
Bond presented the Neydermieier passport and prayed to god that the Volkspolitizei didn't see the nervous grin on Devereaux's face.
The Vopo inspected the papers, then shone a torch across the rear seat and floor.
He slapped closed the passport and presented it accompanied by a neat bow and salute. "Thank you, sir."
"May I go?" Bond asked.
"Just switch on your lights, sir."
"They are on."
"Main beams must be on here in East Berlin. That is the law."
"I see," said Bond. "I didn't know. Thank you." He flicked the switch on.
Bond pulled away as the Vopo returned to his motorcycle.
"Are we good?" Devereaux asked, then repeated, "Are we good?"
"We're good," said Bond.
"Are we?" He looked at him with panic in his eyes. "Are we?"
"Relax," said Bond, "it was just a traffic stop."
"Was it?"
Bond didn't answer, but kept driving.
"I need a drink," Devereaux said, "I need a Goddamned drink."
When Bond returned from France, he found a message waiting for him at his hotel ⸺ called Pallette.
Pallette said that he was wanted for a meeting, as soon as possible, and was told where to pick up Devereaux ⸺ in front of the Café Kranzler on the Ku-damm in Charlottenburg. He gave an address in East Berlin.
"What's the meeting about?" Bond had asked.
"Damned if I know," Devereaux had answered, and from the fumes off his breath Bond knew that he was well drunk.
Now, heading away from Berlin in the Eastern quadrant, with a drunk navigator and ⸺ he was uncomfortably aware ⸺ no weapons other than his leather-soled shoes, Bond felt particularly exposed.
"This damned project," Devereaux mumbled. "So less viable than the Munich project."
"What was the Munich project?" Bond asked.
"Nothing," said Devereaux, "doesn't concern you, son." He sighed, and added, "But I'd opt for it, just the same."
"What's gone wrong?"
"Wages escalate. Demands escalate. It's all counterproductive."
Bond said, "I thought the function of the communist state was to dignify labor, not to denigrate it."
"Oh, you're funny."
"Take a page from European diplomacy. The purpose of political debate is to achieve results, not win arguments."
"Screw that," spat Devereaux, "I'd rather win arguments."
The Schnellstrasse out of Berlin was lined with trees, stunted by war and pollution and the smoky exhaust that was the norm for the Russian and Eastern European cars around them. Their last few tenacious leaves hung on like jilted lovers.
As the sun was going down, here and there, young women dressed in trousers attended to small herds of cows or goats, or in one case a few geese, hying them homeward. High-wheeled bullock carts lumbered ponderously along the narrow fringes of the road, and twice big trucks filled with mocking gesticulating girls passed them, coming home from their work in the fields.
To the left, a range of low hills was summit-deep in developing mist, and the road curved to skirt a forest. Ahead of them, an ancient car with a bulbous brass radiator and landau coachwork slowed traffic, Bond overtook it, only to find ahead of them a line of those heavy trucks with articulated trailers, called 'road trains.'
Five minutes later, Bond said, "Something ahead."
Devereaux looked. "An accident?" He was suddenly sober.
Ahead was a vehicle with its lights on and a red and white illuminated bull's-eye device was swinging blurred arcs across the road.
Bond stopped the BMW.
The man holding the signalling light wore a white crash-helmet, leather riding-breeches, and a brown leather jacket with stiff red epaulettes. He tucked his signalling-lamp into the top of his black jackboots as Bond wound down the window. He looked at both of the men, then said in German, "Who is the owner of this vehicle, please?"
Bond admitted that he was the renter of the car and passed to the officer the insurance papers and the documents the car rental agency had given to him.
"Passports," he insisted, and Bond, with reluctance, passed both his and Devereaux's.
The officer went over each page in their passports and tugged at the binding. Behind him was a motorcycle with a sidecar, and on the far side of the road a jeep-like vehicle without lights, with two shades in the driver's and passenger's seats.
The man in the crash-helmet took their papers over to the jeep.
"The hell is this?" demanded Devereaux in a harsh whisper.
"Quiet," said Bond. He could hear the patter of voices ⸺ questions in German, but the decisions were in Russian.
Then the two men in the jeep climbed out onto the road. One was dressed in a very English style, like a country squire, but the other wore the uniform of a Russian corporal.
They pressed the papers down on the hood of the jeep and studied them with a flashlight before climbing back in. Then ⸺ without switching on its lights ⸺ the jeep reversed at full speed a distance of six yards before executing a tight bandit's turn.
"Follow," ordered the man in the white crash-helmet, pointing after the jeep.
"Better follow it, boy," said Devereaux. "They got our passports. We're not going anywhere without them."