Silence fell as he went through the swing doors, followed by a polite, brittle chatter. Eyes followed him discreetly as he crossed the room and the replies to his good-mornings were muted. Bond took his usual seat between Ruby and Fraulein Bunt. Apparently oblivious to her frosty greeting, he snapped his fingers for a waiter and ordered his double vodka dry Martini. He turned to Fraulein Bunt and smiled into the suspicious yellow eyes. «Would you be very kind?»
«Yes, Sair Hilary. What is it?»
Bond gestured at his still watering eyes. «I’ve got the Count’s trouble. Sort of conjunctivitis, I suppose. The tremendous glare up here. Better today of course, but there’s still a lot of reflection from the snow. And all this paperwork. Could you get me a pair of snow-goggles? I’ll only need to borrow them for a day or two. Just till my eyes get used to the light. Don’t usually have this sort of trouble.»
«Yes. That can be done. I will see that they are put in your room.» She summoned the head waiter and gave him the order in German. The man, looking at Bond with overt dislike, said, «Sofort, gnadiges Fraulein,» and clicked his heels.
«And one more thing, if you will,» said Bond politely. «A small flask of schnapps.» He turned to Fraulein Bunt. «I find I am not sleeping well up here. Perhaps a nightcap would help. I always have one at home – generally whisky. But here I would prefer schnapps. When in Gloria, do as the Glorians do. Ha ha!»
Fraulein Bunt looked at him stonily. She said to the waiter curtly, «In Ordnung!» The man took Bond’s order of Pâté Maison followed by CEufs Gloria and the cheese tray (Bond thought he had better get some stuffing into him!), clicked his heels and went away. Was he one of those who had been at work in the interrogation room? Bond silently ground his teeth. By God, if it came to hitting any of these guards tonight, he was going to hit them damned hard, with everything he’d got! He felt Fraulein Bunt’s eyes inquisitively on him. He untensed himself and began to make amiable conversation about the storm. How long would it last? What was the barometer doing?
Violet, guardedly but helpfully, said the guides thought it would clear up during the afternoon. The barometer was rising. She looked nervously at Fraulein Bunt to see if she had said too much to the pariah, and then, not reassured, went back to her two vast baked potatoes with poached eggs in them.
Bond’s drink came. He swallowed it in two gulps and ordered another. He felt like making any gesture that would startle and outrage. He said, combatively, to Fraulein Bunt, «And how is that poor chap who came up in the cable car this morning? He looked in terrible shape. I do hope he’s up and about again.»
«He makes progress.»
«Oh! Who was that?» asked Ruby eagerly.
«It was an intruder.» Fraulein Bunt’s eyes were hard with warning. «It is not a subject for conversation.»
«Oh, but why not?» asked Bond innocently. «After all, you can’t get much excitement up here. Anything out of the ordinary should be a bit of a relief.»
She said nothing. Bond raised his eyebrows politely and then accepted the snub with a good grace. He asked if any newspapers came up. Or was there a radio bulletin like on board ship? Did they get any news from the outside world?
«No.»
Bond gave up the struggle and got on with his lunch. Ruby’s foot crept up against his in sympathy with the man sent to Coventry. Bond gave it a gentle kick of warning and withdrew his. The girls at the other tables began to leave. Bond toyed with his cheese and coffee until Fraulein Bunt got to her feet and said, «Come, girls.» Bond rose and sat down again. Now, except for the waiters clearing up, he was alone in the restaurant. That was what he wanted. He got up and strolled to the door. Outside, on pegs against the wall, the girls’ outdoor coats and siding gloves hung in an orderly row. The corridor was empty. Bond swept the largest pair of leather gauntlets he could see off the peg where they hung by their joining cord and stuffed them inside his sweater. Then he sauntered along to the reception room. It was empty. The door to the ski-room was open and the surly man was at his work-bench. Bond went in and made one-sided conversation about the weather. Then, under cover of desultory talk about whether the metal skis were not more dangerous than the old wooden ones, he wandered, his hands innocently in his pockets, round the numbered racks in which the skis stood against the wall. They were mostly the girls’ skis. No good! The bindings would be too small for his boots. But, by the door, in unnumbered slots, stood the guides’ skis. Bond’s eyes narrowed to slits as he scanned them, measuring, estimating. Yes, the pair of metal Heads with the red V’s painted on the black curved tips was the best bet. They were of the stiffer, Master’s, category, designed for racing. Bond remembered reading somewhere that the Standard model was inclined to «float» at speed. His choice had the Attenhofer Flex forward release with the Marker lateral release. Two transverse leather thongs wound round the ankle and buckled over the instep would, if he fell, which he was certain to do, ensure against losing a ski.
Bond made a quick guess at how much the bindings would need adjustment to fit his boots and went off down the corridor to his room.
16. Downhill Only
NOW IT was just a question of sitting out the hours. When would they have finished with Campbell? Quick, rough torture is rarely effective against a professional, apart from the likelihood of the man rapidly losing consciousness, becoming so punch-drunk that he is incoherent. The pro, if he is a tough man spiritually, can keep the «game» alive for hours by minor admissions, by telling long, rambling tales and sticking to them. Such tales need verification. Blofeld would undoubtedly have his man in Zurich, would be able to contact him on his radio, get him to check this or that date or address, but that also would require time. Then, if it was proved that Campbell had told lies, they would have to begin again. So far as Bond and his identity were concerned, it all depended on Campbell’s reading of why Bond was up at the Gloria Club. He must guess, because of Bond’s curt disavowal of him, that it was something clandestine, something important. Would he have the wits to cover up Bond, the guts, against the electrical and mechanical devices they would surely use against him? He could say that, when he came to and saw Bond, in his semi-conscious state he had for a moment thought Bond was his brother, James Campbell. Some story like that. If he had the wits! If he had the guts! Had Campbell got a death pill, perhaps one of the buttons on his ski-jacket or trousers? Bond sharply put the thought away. He had been on the edge of wishing that Campbell had!
Well, he would be wise to assume that it was only a matter of hours and then they would come for him. They wouldn’t do it until after lights-out. To do it before would cause too much talk among the girls. No, they would fetch him at night and the next day it would be put about that he had left by the first cable car down to the valley. Meanwhile he would be buried deep in a snow overcoat, or more likely deposited in a high crevasse in the near-by Piz Languard glacier, to come out at the bottom, fifty years later, out of his deep freeze, with multiple contusions but no identification marks – a nameless victim of «les neiges eternelles»!
Yes, he must plan for that. Bond got up from the desk where he had been automatically scribbling down lists of fifteenth-century de Bleuvilles and opened the window. The snow had stopped and there was broken blue in the sky. It would be perfect powder snow, perhaps a foot of it, on the Gloria Run. Now to make everything ready!