Bond - 27 - Never send flowers (31 page)

He also carried a Gerber fighting knife a recent gift from the US Navy Seals and a pack of four waterproof, hand-operated flares. There was nothing fancy here, and nothing that could really go wrong.

`Going for a swim?" Ben asked.

`Not if I can help it. Anything happened?" He picked up the spare radio that Ben had ready for him. `This all set?" `It's tuned, and, yes, all quiet on the Western Front. Not a peep, and the boys out in Frontierland don't seem to have seen anything out of the ordinary.

They sat for the next ninety minutes, still scanning the monitors, with Ben checking in with his people around the lake every thirty minutes.

The check-in consisted of a series of clicks on the radio, denoting each separate man, while Ben responded with a similar number of clicks.

When it happened, it came, as ever, suddenly and unexpectedly.

Nothing showed on the monitors, and Ben kept glancing at his watch.

The check-in clicks had not started on time. Number one should have begun at exactly three-thirty, and the others were due to follow in sequence.

`They're late." He did not yet sound alarmed, but Bond felt the hair bristle on the back of his neck.

`He's here,' he said with absolute certainty.

Then Ben's radio clamoured a series of rapid clicks which was the alarm signal.

`Jesus, you're right.

`I'm already there.

One of the little electric carts, used by the staff to get around the underground tunnels, had been placed in readiness just outside.

Now Bond was held up for a moment as Ben argued, wanting to come with him.

`Stay where you are. If I need help, I'll call in.

So he was off, whining away along the bare-walled tunnel lined with wiring and sanitation ducts. The underground passages were marked to show exactly where you were in relation to the world above, so navigation was a simple matter.

He reached Central Place and took a hard left which brought him to the Riverboat Landing, leaping from the cart and climbing the metal ladder that would take him right on to the landing.

For a moment he closed his eyes, to adjust to the darkness outside, and waited by the door which he softly pushed open.

He stood in the open air with all senses straining, looking up at the moored riverboats and hearing no unusual sound in the night.

Slowly he inched forward until he reached the edge of the landing stage, moving sideways to get a view of the water. Darkness. Silence.

Nothing. Time, he considered, for some light on the scene so he unclipped the radio from his belt.

He was just lifting it to his mouth, the thumb of his right hand pressing the transmit button, when he felt the metal digging into the back of his neck, and heard the throaty, soft whisper which sent a chill of ice down his spine.

`Thank you for coming, James Bond. I've only incapacitated the other watchers. For you, I have a special treat." Dragonpol's tone had altered to one of deep and desperate madness. This time he was not acting.

Dropping the radio, hoping that the touch of his thumb on the button would have already alerted Ben, Bond let his body go limp. It was an old trick, learned long ago. If the muscles seem to go inactive, the person threatening you will imagine he has complete dominance. `Okay, David,' he spoke almost in a whisper so that Dragonpol would have to strain to hear him. `Where do you want me to go?" `Shut up. ` Dragonpol began, and Bond sagged at the knees, turning into the pistol touching his neck and bringing his right fist round in a pile driver which went wide, catching Dragonpol on the shoulder.

Come in, the water's lovely, he shouted, reaching for the man's neck, his fingers connecting with a wetsuit not unlike the one he was wearing, heaving and pulling his adversary off balance.

As they fell from the landing stage, their bodies locked together, Dragonpol's pistol went off, and he felt a small burn in his left shoulder as a bullet tore at his wetsuit.

They rolled into the water with Dragonpol trying desperately to get an arm lock on Bond who was struggling to drag the ASP out of its holster, but his fingers were slipping on the waterproof material.

Then he felt himself being pulled under with the actor's fingers clawing at his throat.

He was on his back now, the tall, heavy, muscular Dragonpol on top of him: fingers at his windpipe and the other arm across his chest pushing down. Bond tried to open his eyes, clamping his mouth shut as he was jammed further and further into the water.

He kicked and squirmed, putting every ounce of strength into moving his opponent from above him, but the man's grip simply tightened, and Bond was slowly thrust deeper under the water, lungs bursting and the strength fast leaving his body.

The red-out came first. It was sudden and strange. In the brief tick of consciousness, he thought something had happened to his eyes, then he realized that this was the moment before oblivion. He opened his mouth, felt the water rush in, choking him, darkness filtering into his brain.

As he gagged and choked, so Bond was given a few seconds of clarity, allowing him to make a last, supreme effort. His muscles spasmed and he rolled to one side. For a moment, Dragonpol lost his grip, slipping underneath Bond. The positions were reversed, but Bond did not have the strength left to maintain control.

With a shriek of rage, David Dragonpol pushed Bond away so that he floundered, all arms and thrashing legs, making the water foam around him.

His adversary launched himself, screaming obscenities, straight in for a final kill.

In that flashing instant Bond saw him for what he was: a crazed killer of dreams, a weaver of nightmares, a destroyer of the beautiful fairy tales that this place gave to men, women and children the world over. He made another grab for the ASP at his hip, and this time pulled it free, his arm coming up, finger squeezing the trigger. The first shot caught Dragonpol in the shoulder, spinning him in a whirl of white water. The second shot went wide, flying out into the middle of the lake.

Bond heard a sudden thump when the bullet found a resting place, and this seemed to terrify Dragonpol, who clutched at his shoulder but deliberately turned from Bond to look out into the lake.

`No!" he yelled. Then again. `No! You can't!

Nothing showed in his eyes as he glanced back, then splashed away, finally flinging himself forward, swimming out to where the sound had come from.

Bond stood in some four feet of water, puzzled, disinclined to finish off the mad killer who appeared to have found superhuman strength for some last battle only he could fight.

The second bullet had hit something very important to the man.

That was obvious. But what? His hand reached down to his belt again, hauling out one of the flares. It was about the size of a small flashlight, with a ring pull at the top.

Bond held it out at arm's length, pressing it next to the pistol in his right hand, grabbing at the ring with the other.

There was the usual pop and jerk in his fist, and the flare soared upwards, arching away towards where Dragonpol still swam hard.

As the light seared the sky, so David Dragonpol stopped swimming, turned and began to shout, first in fury and then, as the flare dipped towards him, in terror. The flare touched the surface, but did not go out.

Instead of a fizzle, a sudden gush of flames leaped into the air and then spread out in a great bowl of fire. In its midst was this tiny figure, engulfed by flame. There was the roar of burning chemicals, then loud above that noise, the sound of hideous screaming as the fire overwhelmed the man who had brought sudden, ingeniously planned death to so many.

CHAPTER TWENTY

HINTS OF CHANGE

It says much for the Disney organization that they had the fire out long before any other local fire brigades arrived. They also had the lake dragged, a charred body and many small items removed, and the water relatively clean before eight in the morning.

The police were there as well, of course, though it was several weeks before their forensic conclusions were passed down to other authorities.

It was perfectly clear that David Dragonpol had been determined to do away with the royal party at the expense of a large number of other innocent lives, though his mistake had been to incapacitate Ben's night watchers before he had set the trap and tethered it in the correct position-just under the surface in the direct path of the Mark Twain.

The trap, when all became clear, was an aluminium beer keg almost certainly filled with a deadly mixture of gasoline and Thermite a black powder of iron oxide mingled with aluminium granules. There had also been a simple remote-control device which would have proved very effective: an electrical detonator set into a small ball of plastique explosive.

If this revolting device had been exploded as the Mark Twain passed over it, the resultant fireball would have undoubtedly engulfed the paddle steamer. Very few people would have got out alive.

The gasoline would have ignited, and in turn this would have set off the Thermite.

Thermite burns rapidly with a temperature in excess of 4,0000 Fahrenheit and so fiercely that it was at one time used to cut and weld metal in shipyards.

Bond's one stray bullet had pierced the keg, so spilling the contents, while the flare had ignited the gasoline, incinerating Dragonpol in the water.

Happily, the fire did not spread on to Big Thunder Mountain or back to any of the other exhibits.

Later, the French police learned that Dragonpol had bribed a lorry driver to as the driver said `Look the other way." Undoubtedly, the keg had been brought into the theme park with a normal delivery. Within forty-eight hours, the Disney security people had put new restrictions on all goods entering the facility.

By eight that Sunday morning, nobody would have known that there had even been an incident, though one look at Bond would have suggested that he was the loser in a barroom brawl. The Disney emergency unit had patched him up, but there was no way short of make-up to hide the bruises.

Now he waited near the main entrance, surprised at the lack of police and local protection, which he had expected to be there in force ready to greet the royal party. So he was bewildered when he saw Ben, still in jeans and a T-shirt, wandering back to his office in the warren of tunnels beneath Disneyland.

`Nobody's told you?" Ben still wore his smile, but his eyebrows shot up in his own unique version of disbelief.

`Told me what?" `It's off. She's not coming.

`Last night's little business did the trick, then?" `No, James.

This morning's little business did the trick." `That's a question of semantics.

`No, I mean less than an hour ago." `An hour..." Ben explained that the royal party had been staying with friends on the outskirts of Paris, and the Press had got wind of the location. The story was that they were there, cameras and notebooks at the ready, when she had emerged with her two children, at seven a.m for the drive to Euro Disney would take at least an hour.

`It seems that one of your people was with the royal detectives.

I haven't got the details, but she spotted Dragonpol's sister among the crowd. The lady in question had a very nasty hand grenade in her handbag. Your officer disarmed her. So, it's all over. The Princess made an immediate decision and called off the visit.

`Pity she didn't take notice earlier.

It was not until he arrived back in London, later in the day, that Bond learned the identity of the officer who had spotted Maeve Horton.

The taxi from Heathrow had dropped him in the King's Road and he walked, carrying his garment bag, to the Regency house. He was about to put his key in the lock when the door was opened by his elderly housekeeper, May, now returned from her jaunt up to Scotland.

May looked at him accusingly. `Mr James, there's a young woman here who says she's a house guest. She's a pleasant lass, and speaks English like a native, though she tells me she's foreign." To be `foreign' as far as May was concerned, was tantamount to being a carrier of what she called `that terrible Black Thing they had in the Middle Ages' Fredericka von Grusse sat in the living-room wearing a very stylish pants suit in red, with a lot of military flair and gold buttons on the jacket.

`You didn't tell me about the Scotch dragon,' she whispered after they got their breath back.

`Flick, the word is Scottish. I thought you spoke English.

Scotch is a drink-though I'm always reading American novels which refer to Scottish people as Scotch. It's like calling citizens of Oporto winos." `I know,' she grinned. `I love you when you get all correctional. I hear there was a bonfire party out at Euro Disney.

`You've heard about Maeve old Hort as well, have you?" `Heard about her? I nabbed her." `You ?` It all came out over a light supper, served by May who had begun to soften towards Fredericka.

Fredericka von Grusse had worked some kind of witchcraft on M and had been sent as the service representative among the Scotland Yard royal detectives.

When it came to leaving the house where the Princess and her children had spent the night, Fredericka had gone to take a look at the journalists before they brought the royal party out.