When he reached the crest, the sight that struck him, almost like a blow to the mind, was even more reminiscent of some replay of an old 1930s movie.

The house itself was huge and bathed in light - a great tall oblong edifice in gray stone. In front a long raised terrace with central steps and an ornate stone bal.u.s.trade stretched the entire length of the building. In the center at the top of the steps, a solid wooden lectern had been set up and Maximilian Tarn, in a brown uniform that also owed much to another era, stood, flanked by men in similar dress, haranguing a crowd of two or three hundred - a sea of people, men and women, girls and boys, ranged in well-ordered lines across a vast lawn. Each of these people held a blazing torch that threw disconcerting and moving shadows against the trees and the facade of Tarnenwerder. Tarn's shadow was, by some prearranged trick of lighting, huge and glowering against the house itself.

"It is with these thoughts in our minds that we must go forward. Fight. Keep faith. Stand firm, shoulder to shoulder. Remember the glorious dead who were betrayed." Tarn raised both his hands in little jerking movements as he held me audience entranced. "Only if we stay true to the message of our great forefathers . . ." One hand swept upward, clawing the air. "Only if we stay true to the oaths of those who went before, will we rebuild what the glorious Adolf Hitler succeeded in building before he was betrayed - One Empire . . . One People . . . One Leader."

Bond felt a cold sweat clouding his forehead. Tarn's voice, gestures, and manner were almost exact replicas of those that had belonged to Adolf Hitler sixty-odd years before. Even the last words - "Ein Reich . . . Ein Volk . . . Ein Fuhrer!" - were Hitler's words, and they were a signal to the crowd, which bellowed back in a great series of waves like crashing surf: "Sieg Heil . . . Sieg Heil . . . Sieg Heil!" Hail Victory.

Then came the moment that made Bond's stomach turn over and the cold sweat envelop his entire body. The sudden launching into song - one that he knew from old films and recordings and that conjured up the whole n.a.z.i horror:

Die Fahnen hoch, die Reihe dicht geschlossen!

The flags held high! The ranks stand tight together.

It was the n.a.z.i hymn, its marching song, its anthem, the "Horst Wessel."

The very tune brought images, culled from books, news films, doc.u.mentaries, and photographs, sharply to his mind: the young men shot to pieces on the ground, the sea, and in the air; he almost heard the jackboots stamping, his mind seeing the flamboyant uniforms of the SS, and the sinister faces of the Gestapo. Europe a ruin, and the thousands who had disappeared to the camps. The six million Jews who had gone to the gas chambers. It was as though an entire montage of terror had filled his head: the walking dead of Auschwitz, Belsen, Dachau, and the other death camps; the piles of skin and bone; the smoke from the dread chimneys. The horror of those past years early in this century when the whole of the continent shrank under the n.a.z.i yoke. Was it all returning again?

There was no doubt now that Sir Max Tarn had already captured the leadership of the new n.a.z.i Party, resurrected from its brutal past, fed by the indecision of the present German leadership, and watered by the requirements of a new age ripe for the taking.

Max Tarn, he knew, had banked on some spectacular act that would bring him forgiveness for former dealings in death, and set him up as a figure to be reckoned with on a global scale. It was, the unhappy Trish Nuzzi had told him, going to happen in the Caribbean. So this obscenity he now watched was but a prelude of what would come if by any chance the obsessive man could pull off some incredible coup that might make him untouchable in the eyes of the world.

Through all the flashing pictures in Bond's head, the words of the infamous "Horst Wessel Song" seemed even more prophetic:

Kam'raden, die Rotfront und Reaktion erschossen, Marschieren im Geist in unsern Reihen mit.

Comrades who, though shot by Red Front or Reaction, Still march with us, their spirits in our ranks.

Indeed, old n.a.z.i ghosts would revel and caper among this crowd, while the once-defeated leadership - from Hitler to Himmler - would stand close to this would-be Fuhrer, smiling and nodding at what he was intent on bringing back, plunging the world into yet another dark age and dragging the old abominations from their very graves.

Bond was so wrapped up in revulsion that he failed to catch any sign of danger to himself. He had been oblivious to the security patrols that were obviously circling the perimeter of the Tarnenwerder estate. His first glimpse of an emergency came as a sudden flash of movement from within the grounds and to his left.

He turned to see two brown-uniformed men about fifty yards away, unleashing a pair of German shepherd attack dogs. The trained animals had sensed him as an intruder, and now they flew toward him with low growls.

He was on his feet and blundering down through the shrubbery heading back to the car, as the two beasts came bounding over the rise. He pulled his knife with his left hand and unholstered the automatic pistol with his right, running for his life and aware of the dogs closing like a pair of express trains.

He did not quite make the car before the first animal attacked, snarling and leaping for his right arm, its weight carrying him against the car, knocking the breath from his body. He felt a sharp pain as the dog's teeth sank into his forearm and pulled. For a second the heavy shepherd made a mistake, snapping at his arm again but putting itself between Bond's body and the pistol. He put a bullet into the beast, which seemed to stop dead before being thrown backward with a long yelp of agony.

The other shepherd, hearing its partner yelp and seeing it fall, hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it gave him enough time to slide into the car and close the door.

The dog landed heavily on the hood, barking and clawing against the windshield, saliva running from its jaws, the sharp teeth clearly visible. Bond started the engine, slammed the vehicle into gear, and shot from the cave of overgrown shrubbery, wrenching hard at the wheel and throwing the dog to the ground, as he accelerated onto the road.

Two bullets struck the rear of the Corrado. He felt the heavy thumps but could not detect damage. Hunched over the wheel and driving as though the hounds of h.e.l.l were after him, he screeched around a long bend and headed back toward Wa.s.serburg. If his mission was to be truly successful, he had one more important thing to do, and he knew only too well that he had jeopardized the whole business by making the trip out to Tarnenwerder.

After ten minutes he was sure that n.o.body had followed, but he considered that would only be a matter of time. The dog handlers had got a good look at the car, so it would not take them long to report the matter. When that was done, Tarn's orders could take only one form - Bond's death warrant.

It was almost ten-thirty as he steered the car into the parking lot, where he chose a s.p.a.ce close to the exit. For a few moments he sat in the driver's seat, examining the damage to his forearm. There was blood, but the dog's fangs had not gone deep. He counted four long lacerations, which he covered with a handkerchief tied tightly and soaking up the blood immediately.

Time was now at a premium, so he rolled down his sleeve over the makeshift bandage, removed the miniature camera from the glove compartment, and left the car, jogging away toward the rear of the buildings on the side of the Marienplatz in which Saal, Saal u. Rollen was situated.

It took less than five minutes to reach the back of the lawyers' offices, and only thirty seconds to slide a credit card between the curved bolt and its housing. n.o.body, it seemed, had bothered to clip down the retainer, which would have posed difficulties.

He stood for a moment in the darkness inside the office, switching on the flashlight and shielding it with his hand, then making his way along the pa.s.sage that led to the large entrance hall. All was silence, and he could see the computers under their protective hoods. Again he stood listening. Not a sound, so he began to move silently up the stairs, across the landing, and to the door with its little notice that read "H. Saal."

He had expected to need his lockpicks to get into Helmut's office, but the door was open and he was able to swing the flashlight beam around the room. The huge desk was similar to the one in Fritz's office, but the wall opposite was lined with a tall bank of gray filing cabinets.

Listening again for a few seconds, he went over to the one window and pulled down the blind, then made for the cabinets, which were neatly lettered by alphabet. The letter T took up half of the wall, so it took little brain to realize that Helmut kept a large number of doc.u.ments on Tarn and Tarnenwerder there in his office.

The latest legal work for Tarn, Bond decided, would be in the last drawer labeled T. Slowly he removed his lock-picks, in their Swiss Army Knife disguise, and got down to the business at hand.

The cabinets were normal commercial pieces of equipment, about as easy to unlock as a child's money box. This was either all too simple, he thought, or Helmut was a lawyer with a very trusting nature. The last drawer clicked and slid open, displaying about ten files hanging neatly on their rails. As he removed the first folder, Bond tried to use some logic on the situation. Helmut Saal had installed no special alarms or security equipment because Wa.s.serburg, in all probability, had a low crime rate. The people of this unique little town were all descendants of families who had lived and died here over the centuries. Wa.s.serburg was not the kind of place you moved into from somewhere on the other side of the country. This, being a given fact, meant that few would ever want to look at the files concerning Tarn and the estate. True, there had been small legal skirmishes over the years, when consortiums, and even the authorities in Munich, had tried to take over the estate, but even that would not be any cause for concern. Possibly there were very old doc.u.ments that traced the estate's history back over centuries, but they would be stored in some safe vault. More recent papers could be kept here in the office with impunity. Any legal firm that still clung to archaic laws concerning generations of Saals and Rollens would not give a thought to having its doc.u.ments behind ultra-secure locks and warning devices.

He moved the file over to Helmut's desk and began to examine the papers within, holding the small light in his teeth. The very first item showed that he had struck pay dirt, for it was a copy of an application for one Maximilian Erwen von Tarn to reclaim his German citizenship. Attached to it were copies of the official correspondence concerning the application, and the final page showed that the whole thing had been granted in March of 1992.

Other papers in this one file alone concerned the issue of a pa.s.sport to Tarn, while the last section of doc.u.ments were copies of a court order banning anyone else's claim to ownership of the house called Tarnenwerder and its considerable estates. The whole shooting match had legally belonged to the said Maximilian Erwen von Tarn since January '92, even though he had not officially reclaimed his German citizenship until March.

There was enough here to satisfy The Committee that Sir Max Tarn, business tyc.o.o.n and philanthropist, was not quite what he seemed. Certainly, as dual nationality could not apply, he had been sailing and flying under a false flag for some time.

He took out the camera and began adjusting it in order to get clear, well-lit shots of the papers. As he put his hand down on the corner of Helmut's desk he glanced toward the right-hand set of drawers that ran down to the floor. The bottom one was slightly open, and he glimpsed a small red pinpoint of light from within.

Opening it further revealed a combination answer-phone, set to pick up any incoming messages. He touched the little arrowed b.u.t.ton marked Rewind, knowing that sometimes people did nothing about rewinding the tape after they had played it back. When it stopped he pressed the Play Messages b.u.t.ton, heard the beep and then the second shock of the night. "This is most urgent," said a disembodied voice on the tape. "An agent from the British Intelligence Service is on his way to Wa.s.serburg. His mission is to run a check on Max and on the current Tarnenwerder situation. The man will be operating under the name James Boldman, and I would advise that Max give him the disappearing treatment." Then followed a description of himself, James Bond, together with a few other facts - facts pertaining to MicroGlobe One and the current situation in England.

It was not so much the message as the voice that rocked Bond on his heels. It was one he recognized immediately. Someone with whom he worked very closely and would never have thought capable of penetrating an organization like Two Zeros or even MicroGlobe One. Reaching down, he removed the tape from the answer-phone and slipped it into his pocket. Going back to the job of photographing the doc.u.ments, he found himself working like an automaton. The ident.i.ty of the person who had betrayed him was so devastating that he could think of little else, but he completed the work, returned the file to its place in the cabinet and, using his picks again, relocked the drawer. It was one of the things he had learned very early in his training. If you become involved in a covert burglary it is always best to leave things at least approximately how you found them.

He even did a quick search of the other drawers in Helmut's desk to see if there was an extra tape for the answer-phone. Eventually he found a small packet of these tucked away beside the instrument itself and cursed that he had not looked more carefully to start with.

Now all he had to do was get back to the hotel, pay his account, and head for Munich. If he managed to get that far, it was possible that, by then, Tarn's men could be watching out for him, which would pose a new and difficult threat.

There was still no sign of life outside the offices of Saal, Saal u. Rollen, and as he quietly made his way down the stairs, Bond at last began to think that maybe he would get away with it.

He reached the bottom of the stairs when the lights came on.

"So, Mr. Boldman, or should I call you Mr. Bond? Would you like to talk with me for a while?" She looked as tempting as ever, in a military-style raincoat. The only thing he did not like about her now was the lethal little automatic she held in her right hand, very close to her delicious body.

"Heidi? Hi," he said, allowing a smile to creep over his face. "So you got my note. I didn't really expect you to come." He showed no sign of having seen the pistol as he walked forward, his arms outstretched as though to embrace her.

"Your note? I . . . What're you talking about, Mr. . . . ?" His greeting had thrown Heidi just enough for her to pause before doing anything - like pulling the trigger.

Bond kept on going, straight toward her. "Heidi, I'm so pleased. Now where would you like to have dinner?" By this time he was only two steps away and could clearly see the puzzled expression.

He moved in close, and her right hand brushed his left side so that he could trap the wrist and gun with his left arm, cutting in like a vise. She opened her mouth just before he brought up his right elbow and struck her violently on the side of the jaw.

"I do hate striking women, Heidi, but you should have stayed a good little girl." The pistol dropped to the floor as he applied more pressure with his left arm, while the next blow was a hard chop to the base of the neck with the heel of his right hand.

She went down completely, sprawled at his feet. Quickly he felt the pulse in her neck to make sure she was still alive, which she was, though she would probably remain unconscious for a good ten minutes, maybe even more.

Scooping up her pistol, he headed straight to the rear of the building, letting himself out and quietly closing the door behind him. At a steady jog trot he made for the parking lot, now more conscious of the dog bite in his right forearm. Trying to banish any thought of the pain from his mind, he made the car in three minutes flat, realizing that he did not have the time for such niceties as collecting his luggage or paying the bill at the Paulanerstuben.

He had just started the engine and was pulling out of the s.p.a.ce beside the main exit when a black BMW roared in front of him and a similar-colored Mercedes-Benz blocked off the exit.

Two men leaped from the Merc, and a third hit the ground running as the BMW came to a jolting stop. All three men were armed, and he saw that one of them was the huge Kurt Rollen he had seen that morning.

He let out the brake and pushed hard on the accelerator, pointing the VW straight at the lone man who had jumped from the BMW. He muttered to himself - "I don't know your name, but I call you the lone idiot" - for the approaching figure obviously considered himself invincible. Bond slewed the car to the right, braking hard and letting the offside door swat the foolhardy man. There was a sickening thud, and he just caught a glimpse of the mouth open in a scream and eyes wide with sudden terror. He was also almost sure that his target had been thrown several yards, but he would soon find out. He put on more speed and then performed a perfect wheel-and-brake turn that brought him back facing the two men who had come from the Merc. He saw the BMW idiot lying very still a long way off to his right as the first bullets ripped into the Corrado, punching a hole in the shatterproof windshield on the pa.s.senger side, ripping into the seat next to him.

The only way to fight armed men when you are trapped in a car is to use the vehicle itself, and he slammed the accelerator hard against the floor so that the car leaped toward Rollen, who had fired the two shots.

The giant had seen what had happened the BMW imbecile, and he obviously did not want to share the same fate. He paused, fired again, the bullet pa.s.sing over the Corrado as Bond tried to spin the VW and catch Rollen off balance.

The car began the spin, then hit what must have been a patch of oil in the middle of the parking lot. For what seemed to be minutes, he wrestled with the wheel as the VW went completely out of control, snaking its way toward the little wooden fence that separated the parking lot from the road. At one point he saw Rollen's companion suddenly appear on his left side, hands lifted trying to get a shot in, but the Corrado must have brushed him as it went rocketing past, for he heard another b.u.mp and then a yell over the sound of the engine.

The long uncontrolled skid ended with the VW crashing straight through the wooden barrier and out onto the road. He whipped the wheel to the right, straightened up as he saw the Merc attempting to back up and cut him off. But he had control of the car again and went barreling past the rear of the Mercedes, screeching around the corner and away.

No, he thought. No, not away. It would be a gamble but he would take it. The alley with its danger signs was coming up fast on his right, so he braked and swung into the narrow road, then put on speed again. He had not fastened his seat belt when the attack had begun, so he was able to hang on to the wheel with one hand, his arm rigid, holding the wheel at twelve o'clock to steer with accuracy, while his left hand began to unlatch the door.

In front of him he saw that the white posts that ran along the top of the cliff face had red reflectors on them. It was simply a question of judgment. He hit a rock and the car lost contact with the ground for a second, landing a little to the left as he regained control.

It was only when he was roughly twenty yards from the line of posts that he gave the car its last burst of speed, then threw open the door and rolled to his left.

He hit the ground hard, winded for a second before he could move toward the nearest piece of cover, a small clump of rocks. Just as he rolled, the Corrado hit the warning poles. He saw it leap forward as though it were trying to grab at air and fly, then the nose dipped and it fell. From his cover he heard the first crunch as the metal hit the rock face, then the sudden boom and whoosh as it hit again, rupturing the gas tank, sending a sheet of flame up to the top of the drop.

The Mercedes and BMW both crept from the alleyway, their drivers obviously well briefed in the danger of driving too fast into this dangerous place. Four men, plus the ma.s.sive Rollen, were out of the cars as the final crunching and clatter came from two hundred feet below. As Bond sneaked a peep over the rocks he saw that one of the men was Maurice Goodwin.

"My G.o.d," one of them said. "He's gone over the edge. Careful, Kurt . . ." as Rollen walked toward the sheer drop and looked down.

"He's burning," Kurt said in a slow, unbelieving voice. "We've failed. Oh my G.o.d, we've failed."

"Kurt," Maurice Goodwin said. "We haven't failed. He's dead. n.o.body could have survived in that wreck."

"Then we've not failed." Slow. "We've won, eh, Mo. We've won."

"Please, Kurt, don't call me Mo. My name's Maurice."

16 - Dead or Alive

He stayed where he was, lying on the ground hidden by the little mound of rocks. His body was bruised and sore, while the bite on his arm began to throb. Tarn's men left fairly quickly, and the local police and rescue team arrived within minutes of their jubilant departure. Several townspeople, alerted by the crash and explosion of the car, followed, milling around anxious to see what had happened.

He used the sudden influx of people to get to his feet, mingle for a few minutes, trying to ease the aches in his body, and think of ways and means to get out of Wa.s.serburg as quickly as possible.

Finally he slipped away, walking back to the hotel across a deserted Marienplatz. There was n.o.body about in the hotel entrance, so he was able to get to his room unseen. Once there he took a quick very hot shower, cleaned off the lacerations in his arm, which looked slightly red and swollen, and made a more permanent bandage from a couple of handkerchiefs. He dressed in blazer and slacks and then returned downstairs again.

The elderly waiter was nodding off behind the small reception desk.

"You work long hours, my friend." Bond shook him by the shoulder.

"Ach." The waiter slowly opened his eyes. "I don't sleep much these days. You get older, you don't need so much sleep. What can I do for you?"

Bond asked if he knew a reliable taxi service, "I want to get to Munich as quickly as possible."

"How quickly?"

"Now. Straightaway."

"My brother. He's stupid enough to go anywhere at any time. Wait." He dialed a number and proceeded to have an agitated conversation with somebody he called Wolfie. Putting a hand over the mouthpiece, he grinned. "He'll do it, but you'll have to make it worth his while."

After a little haggling they settled on a price. Bond paid his hotel bill and went back to finish his packing. Fifteen minutes later he carried the garment bag and the briefcase, repacked with the weapons in the safe compartment, downstairs and found the waiter's brother chatting in the small foyer.

The brother turned out to be older than the waiter, and wore thick-tensed gla.s.ses, but he grabbed the bags and set off toward his car. Before following him, Bond pushed a handful of notes into the waiter's hand and half whispered, "You've never seen me, okay?"

"I never see anybody. That's how you get from being a teenager in Hitler's Germany. It always pays never to see or hear anything."

Wolfie appeared to be under the impression that he was a Formula One driver, but he still took well over an hour and a half to get to Munich Airport. There were only four really frightening incidents during the drive, and Bond paid up, hurrying into the almost deserted airport to find that he had a very long wait, as there were no flights to London until a British Airways departure at seven-thirty in the morning. There were seats on the flight, so he managed to exchange his Lufthansa ticket, to the delight of the young woman at the BA desk.

Speed was essential, he thought, once he arrived in London, so he did not check in any luggage. His next step was to use a telephone carefully enough not to give any prior warnings to the person whose voice he carried on the tape in his pocket.

Using a credit card, he called Bill Tanner at his home number and very quickly laid the news on him, covering both Max Tarn's bid for a Fourth Reich in Germany and the name of the person who had betrayed MicroGlobe One and the entire country.

"You're certain?" Tanner was as shaken as Bond had been.

"One hundred percent proof positive, Bill. Here's what I want you to do." He outlined the exact steps that needed to be taken in the morning. "I'll call Flicka just before the flight departure," he ended. "You can both meet me; but for heaven's sake have everything else fixed."

"It'll all be done." Tanner was about to close the line when Bond asked if they still employed Burke and Hare.

"We certainly do."

"Better have them on hand as well."

Burke and Hare were nicknames for Bill Burkeshaw and Tony Hairman, the two most experienced inquisitors who worked for the Intelligence Service. They would certainly be needing them if things were to run to a smooth climax.

He found a seat in front of one of the airport television sets where you could watch CNN in English. It was positioned so that he had an uninterrupted view of the whole concourse, and he remained there until the British Airways flight was called. Only then did he use the telephone again to call Fredericka von Grusse, who answered brightly.

He gave her the flight number and time of arrival at Heathrow, tersely telling her to meet him, closing the line quickly.