Seafire, page 15
Bond then rang Flicka in London, stressing that he was fine, had arrived and discovered some interesting facts already. He also said that he would call again after his meeting with what he called a property lawyer in the town.
The building from which the Saal brothers and Herr Rollen carried out their business, while obviously very old, had been constantly renovated over several centuries.
Initially, the building had probably been a small town-house for some local worthy. From the half-timbered exterior and the visible leaded windows, he reckoned that it probably had a largish entrance hall, with rooms to left and right, while upstairs it possibly maintained what had originally been three bedrooms.
On reaching the door he found that it was a solid oak panel with metal bindings and hinges, into which had been set a large Yale-type lock – much bigger than the kind of thing you saw on houses in the rest of the world, but still small enough to slip with a thick piece of celluloid or a credit card.
He took a good look at the doorjamb and all the windows, and sought out any telltale wiring or electronic boxes signaling a sophisticated alarm system. There were none, and the telephone wiring came in high, from an overhead pole on the right-hand corner at the front of the building. Bond knew by the size of the telephone input box that it was unlikely to contain any extra surprises.
He pressed the bell, and some seconds later the door was opened. He found himself staring into a pair of large gray eyes topped by amazingly long lashes. Below the eyes was a pert little nose and below that a wide mouth, obviously designed by the Almighty to set a completely new standard of temptation for men. The woman wore her think blonde hair in what at one time would have been called a French plait. Nowadays he had no idea what they called the style, but the hair was so perfect and thick that he had an immediate desire to plunge a hand into it and see if there were gold coins hidden under the smooth glossy surface.
The vision looked to be in her mid-twenties and was dressed modestly, in a manner at variance with her looks – and also the twinkle in her eyes. A second later he saw a black-haired young woman, identically dressed, in a kind of long black nylon coverall that certainly hid whatever street clothes either of the girls wore. This signified that the young women wore these rather ugly uniforms as a protection against damaging or marking their own clothes while laboring in Saal, Saal u. Rollen's vineyard.
By the time he could draw his eyes away from the blonde's charms she had asked if he was Herr Boldman. He somewhat haltingly said yes and he was here to see Herr Fritz Saal.
The smile remained warm, embracing even, as she asked him to follow her upstairs – something she said in a slightly arch fashion that made it into a more personal invitation.
He pulled himself out of his reverie and looked around, realizing that he would have to examine the lower interior of the building more thoroughly on the way out. His casual glance revealed nothing in the shape of electronic code pads for alarm activation. In fact, all the electronics appeared to be two computers and a large laser printer. The dark girl he had glimpsed briefly was now seated behind one of the computers, rattling away at the keyboard as though her life depended on it, which, he thought, bearing in mind the association of the Saals with Max Tarn, it probably did.
As he had thought, there were three doors that led from a small landing at the top of the stairs, plus a short corridor that slid off to the right and ended in another door, which, he concluded, was a bathroom.
The three doors were individually marked with the names of Herr H. Saal, Herr F. Saal, and Heir K. Rollen. The blonde vision tapped at Heir F. Saal's door, opening it immediately and announcing, "Herr Boldman."
Fritz Saal appeared to be sitting behind a huge desk angled into one corner of the room, but it was only when Bond gave him a smiling bow that he realized Herr Saal was standing, prior to coming around the desk.
It was impossible to put an age on the man, and his appearance immediately brought to mind the Tenniel drawings of either Tweedledum or Tweedledee from Through the Looking Glass. The head was slightly out of proportion to his stature, which was, to be politically correct, impaired. In plain language he was a dwarf of around four feet two inches, including the obvious lifts built into his shoes. Like others in his predicament, Saal made up for his lack of inches by a cheerful, even ebullient, manner. He greeted Bond with a firm handshake, and very quickly it became obvious that his height in no way affected his voice, charm, or business acumen. Returning to his desk, Saal pushed two folders toward him. They were both of moderately sized estates – though one was a working farm – and for the next half hour or so they discussed the possibilities.
Eventually, Bond said that what his consortium was really looking for was a place the size of – he went through a show of looking up the name in a notebook – Tarnenwerder, which he was under the impression had been left to wrack and ruin.
Saal shook his head sagely. "Tarnenwerder," he said without the hint of a smile, "is something else altogether. To be truthful, Mr. Boldman, I'd rather not discuss it."
"I understood that you had dealings with that particular property."
"No. No, I personally have no dealings with it. My brother, and our father before us, deals with Tarnenwerder. In fact, the place has been on our books for many generations. If I had my way, we would have passed it to another firm decades ago, but I fear that I rarely get my way in this company. You see, it's the only thing my brother Helmut deals with, and we have not spoken for twenty years on account of it." He gave a sad little laugh. "I would have left this firm years ago if it hadn't been for our strange legal position. No male of the Saal or Rollen family is allowed by our company articles to leave the firm, except, of course, in the event of death."
"That's a strange legal point."
"Very strange, and drawn up a number of centuries ago. The firm is tied to Tarnenwerder and the von Tarn family as if by an unbreakable umbilical cord. Unhappily, the very anomaly of the company articles makes it more binding. Originally, the Saals and Rollens were the stewards of the von Tarns. They moved up in the world to become lawyers, but the von Tarns saw to it that we remained, for all time, joined hip and thigh."
"And all this has caused a split in your family?"
"As I say, I have not spoken to my brother in twenty years – and he's seven years older than I. His wife does not speak to my wife. To the end of their days, my mother was on good terms with me, and my father did not even acknowledge me in the street. It's a strange world, and has nothing to do with my shortness of stature. Every fourth male Saal is born a dwarf." He made a small waving motion with his hand. "Yes, we're supposed to talk about ourselves in a different way these days, but I have never been politically correct – and the politics of my country are slowly descending into the pit of the 1930s again. Did you know that?"
"I have heard about it, and have seen some of it."
"If you want concrete proof, just go over to Tarnenwerder at nine o'clock tonight and you'll see what our ancestors saw in the 1930s. History, particularly when it is the history of politics, is a circular thing. As the Americans say, what goes around comes around. The scourge of the thirties and forties is coming around yet again."
They talked for another fifteen minutes, with Fritz Saal making notes regarding the mythical consortium and its requirements. Bond gave him the London address and he said he would be in touch.
Saal walked with him to the door and out onto the landing. They were just shaking hands once more in farewell when the door to K. Rollen's office opened. Bond stepped back a pace, for the man who looked out from this office was a giant. He stood around six foot four, had hands like bunches of steel bananas, a large shaven head, and a face that reminded him of a gargoyle.
"It's all right, Kurt," Saal said gently. "Nothing for you to worry about."
"Ah, so good." The voice was as slow and lumbering as that of a retard. The grin did not reach his vacant eyes, and he withdrew into his office as though that simple action was a feat of great skill.
Saal looked up at Bond. "Every sixth male child of the Rollen family is born with a defect also. Yet he is a partner who does nothing. He's incapable of anything but the simplest task, and he can be a shade intimidating. Also, he has an uncanny memory. He remembers things and people from twenty years ago. I once heard him describe, completely, his own baptism. Unhappily, when roused, poor Kurt can be violent. Rather dangerously violent, unless you know how to deal with him." He gestured toward the bottom of the stairs. "Now, our lovely Heidi will see you out."
"Lovely Heidi" was the blonde eighth temptation of man.
"I think I once read a book about you, Heidi," Bond said with a smile as she held the street door open for him.
"Oh, no, Mr. Boldman. She was my Swiss cousin. Also, she was a good little girl."
Out in the Marienplatz again, he allowed Flicka to come flaring into his mind, and quickly she banished all thoughts of what could be done with Heidi, given the right time and place.
He then pondered on the near nightmare quality of the law firm of Saal, Saal u. Rollen, realizing that in all probability the throwbacks in both the Saal and Rollen families came from some incestuous relationships, when Wasserburg had been truly a Bavarian backwater some hundreds of years ago.
He strolled slowly to the edge of the square and turned into an alley, which took him to the rear of the buildings. It needed only a casual glance at the back entrance of the lawyers' office to be certain that there was no overt security or alarms on the place. Also, he noted that the back door appeared to have only a normal lock. As long as they did not secure that lock with its retaining catch, the rear door would be his easiest way in.
Turning, he headed to the parking lot where he had left the car. Given what he intended to do that night, he thought it would be as well to look over the landscape – in particular the escape routes.
He opened the car and rummaged around in the front for a few minutes, glancing into the mirrors to make certain that he was not being observed. He could see nobody, and that sixth sense that had so often saved him before told him he was clear.
Outside again, he walked back to the parking lot exit, strolling along the road that would take him onto the B-304. A few steps along this side road he saw a lane turning off to the right. On the wall, beside the lane, there was a notice warning of danger. This narrow road led out onto a smooth plateau that ended abruptly in rocky outcrops and a line of white warning poles. He could hear the river from practically anywhere around the Marienplatz, but now the roar was very close and, on reaching the wooden poles, he saw that he stood at the edge of a huge craggy cliff face. Two hundred feet below him, the waters of the river Inn snarled over more rocks.
The local Lovers' Leap, he thought, retracing his steps and making his way back to the hotel, where the first person he saw was the elderly waiter who told him they had excellent Gänsebraten mit Karoffelknödeln for dinner. "People come from a long way to sample our roast goose with potato dumplings," he added. "I should be quick into the dining room, or you will miss this delight."
Indeed, the goose was a delight, and the potato dumplings were probably the best he had ever tasted, but he left the table a little concerned, for Bavarian food, while tasty, could lie heavily on the stomach. His mind, however, dwelt on the strangers he had seen in the square on his way back to the hotel. Thugs, toughs, young men and women, many of the men with their heads shaved, all of them in various kinds of disreputable dress. The kind of louts, he thought, who over the past couple of years had made the German cities unsafe: attacking foreigners, firebombing synagogues, and marching in antigovernment protests.
Back in his room he called Flicka, who sounded brighter, particularly when he said that he hoped to be back either tomorrow or the day after. Then he used code words to let her know his intentions for that night.
"Should I tell the vicar?" she asked innocently. The vicar was their password for the Minister.
"I don't see why not if it makes him happy. He is like Dad, keeping Mum?"
"Like the grave, but I think he fancies his chances. He came into the office this afternoon and sat a little too close for comfort. Held my hand with a squeeze when he was leaving."
"Never marry into Whitehall, my dear. The Junior Minister of today is not always the Prime Minister of tomorrow. You can get your name in the papers as well, consorting with members of HM Government."
"I know it." There was laughter in her voice as she used a particularly ribald code word. One that she had thought up, signifying certain desires.
It was eight-thirty by the time he had changed into black jeans, rollneck and denim jacket. The holster for his automatic was firmly in place on his right hip and hidden by the jacket, while spare ammunition magazines were distributed about his body, and the knife was strapped on his left forearm. He also carried the disguised Swiss Army Knife and a small, powerful flashlight in his pocket. Earlier he had sat on the bed and memorized the route from the detailed map of Tarnenwerder provided by Bill Tanner.
It was almost a ten-mile drive, mainly on small country side roads, but it took him to a point on a boundary road of the Tarnenwerder estate where he could safely leave the car, backed in among a thick cave of shrubbery by the roadside.
Quietly he left the vehicle, standing, as usual, for several minutes to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He knew that the ground sloped upward from the road, and at the crest of the rise he would be able to look down onto the old house less than three hundred yards away.
He now saw that the way up was lighted by the reflection of what seemed to be flickering fire from the other side of the rise. He could also hear the voice, electronically amplified, of Max Tarn, and he shivered, for already it sounded like the rabble-rousing oratory of someone from the historic past.
15 – Tarnenwerder
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 balustrade 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 Führer!" – 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 Nazi horror:
Die Fahnen hoch, die Reihe dicht geschlossen!
The flags held high! The ranks stand tight together.
It was the Nazi hymn, its marching song, its anthem, the "Horst Wessel."
The very tune brought images, culled from books, news films, documentaries, 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 Nazi yoke. Was it all returning again?
There was no doubt now that Sir Max Tarn had already captured the leadership of the new Nazi 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 Nazi ghosts would revel and caper among this crowd, while the once-defeated leadership – from Hitler to Himmler – would stand close to this would-be Führer, 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.
