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tiresome. Just move."
"Better do as he says, darling." She smiled across the room. "I think they've
both got slightly mercurial tempers."
Bond slowly went over to her, flashing a look that told her that, in spite of
their grotesque appearance, he had already taken in the extent of the danger
they represented. When people like Cuthbert and Archie came in pairs they were
usually psychotics, and he had no desire to even attempt taking them out until
a foolproof moment presented itself.
Cuthbert had stepped back from Flicka, and Archie told them to hold hands.
"Pretend you're on a nice little lovers' walk to Grantchester," he added,
signaling that Tarn's people had kept them under surveillance from the moment
they had arrived in Cambridge.
As their hands touched, Cuthbert stepped forward and snapped a pair of
handcuffs around both their wrists. "There," he cooed. "Isn't that a nice
lovers' knot? Now, I suggest we move at a steady pace. Mr. Archibald will lead
the way, you will follow, and I'll bring up the rear."
"And please don't make us do anything we'd regret," added Archibald.
He paused just outside the door, nodded, and led them along the passage to the
plain door marked "Staff Only."
The rear staircase was bare: concrete steps and whitewashed walls all the way
down. Bond noted that these unlikely toughs both moved with the quick
surefooted speed of highly trained soldiers, and the thought that they might
possibly be paid mercenaries flicked through his mind. But for their
appearances they could have been a couple of men from the SAS or the American
Delta Force.
They were both obviously very alert during the journey down. Bond had no doubt
that any attempted escape would result in fast, sudden death.
At the ground floor, Archibald made a quick gesture with his head, nodding
toward a pair of doors with an interior automatic bar lock. For the few
seconds it took to get to the doors the pistols disappeared, but both men
hemmed in their prisoners, using their bodies to keep them close and moving in
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the right direction.
The doors opened onto a side street, where Tarn's other Rover sat, its engine
purring and a man at the wheel. Archibald opened the nearside door, pushing
Flicka and Bond into the vehicle, while Cuthbert had the door open on the
farside and slid into the rear. In seconds they were moving, crammed close in
the back of the car, flanked by the two gunmen.
"Everything okay?" The driver did not move his head, concentrating on taking
the car out into the main flow of traffic.
"Like a charm," Cuthbert replied.
"Clockwork, I'd say," Archibald added.
"Wherever we're going, you'll be stopped long before you're out of the city."
Bond felt confident about that probability. With the surveillance teams
around, it should not take long for one of the units to latch on to the second
Rover.
Yet nothing happened. The only moment that caused any tension in the car was
when they had to pull over as, with a shriek of sirens, two fire engines, a
pair of ambulances, and a police car hurtled past. They reached the ramp onto
the M11 without any sign of police or paramilitary roadblocks, though the
driver was constantly warned by Cuthbert to check nobody was following.
Occasionally Bond glanced toward Flicka, and several times their eyes met in
cold comfort, reflecting that they were both at a complete loss as to how they
could evade their two weird captors.
One further worry was that neither of them had been blindfolded. Nobody seemed
in the least concerned that they could follow the route with ease.
"You don't mind us seeing where we're going?" Bond finally asked.
"Do you mind, Mr. Cuthbert?"
"Not in the least, Mr. Archibald."
The odd pair sniggered and Cuthbert added, "I can't see the Chief letting you
trace the way back."
"No return ticket," Archibald snapped smugly.
Eventually they came off the Motorway at Exit 8, and for a few minutes Bond
thought they were heading toward Stanstead Airport, but they continued on
through the town of Tackley, then turned off onto a minor road about a mile
farther on.
Now it became difficult to follow directions as they twisted and turned
through a series of lanes and secondary roads with few signposts. At last the
Rover made an abrupt turn through an open gateway, up a long, winding drive
flanked by shrubbery that appeared to have been allowed to grow wild and out
of hand. There were places where the bushes, encroaching on the drive, scraped
against the car. Finally the headlights picked out what looked like a large
Victorian house. In the darkness the gables and brickwork took on a sinister
look: a Gothic pile gone to ruin, its silhouette black against the dark sky.
It could have come from the Brontës or Dickens: Wuthering Heights or Bleak
House.
The driver flashed the lights of the Rover, and an answering pinpoint of light
came from the doorway.
"Not here yet, by the looks of things," the driver muttered.
"Late for their own funerals," Cuthbert said brightly.
"Never mind, we can all make ourselves comfortable." Archibald gave Bond a
prod in the ribs. "We've arrived, Mr. Bond. Everyone out."
"All ashore who's going ashore," Cuthbert added.
Still handcuffed together, they climbed from the car into the chill night air.
There was a hint of rain in the wind, and the driver was talking, low and
fast, to a sixth person  a tall young woman carrying a large electric torch. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]