On the aircraft they had both studied detailed street maps of Seville, and marked out the route Bond would take once Dolmech had been lifted. Now they would have time to organize the final stages of that journey: a route that would bring Bond and the rescued Dolmech back to the apartment.
The man and woman at what was so obviously a safe house checked that the motorcycle leathers and helmet were right for Bond, showed him where the big Triumph Daytona was hidden, in a small lockup three minutes' walk from the apartment, and did not leave until they were satisfied that the plan for the following day was timed to the second. M had insisted that some of his other people were around to act as backup. Bond did not recognize any of them from his past long experience in the Service, but he did recognize the type: people bound by the silence of secrecy, and dedicated to seeing that a dangerous job was carried out with no hitches. If anything were to go wrong, the fault would not lie on the consciences of those who planned the operation.
For the first time in months, Bond had been given his 9mm Browning ASP and six magazines of ammunition, while Flicka was armed with a smaller, though equally deadly, Beretta automatic – her weapon of choice for the mission. In the early hours of the morning, they sat in the small apartment, stripped the weapons, checked and rechecked them, then, holding each other, drifted off into shallow sleep.
The silent woman had returned at five-thirty in the morning, gently wakening them, preparing coffee, newly baked rolls with preserves and butter. They hardly spoke to one another as they ate, or later as they walked through the town, taking in the main vantage points around the Alcázar Gardens, and the streets that twisted around the area.
Now, as the hands of his watch moved nearer to midday, Bond tossed some currency onto the table and walked away, turning left into the street around the corner from the café. He had timed it earlier: exactly two minutes to get from the café to the Daytona, draw on his gloves, and settle the helmet and visor on his head. He swung into the saddle, kicked the engine into life, and felt the immense power begin to rumble under him, his hand on the throttle, twisting and running the engine in short, noisy bursts. No wonder people who rode these beasts all the time became addicted, he considered. Finally he checked that the automatic pistol was in place and could be reached easily if necessary before knocking away the bike's stand and slowly pulling up to the street that led into the San Fernando. Across the road he caught a glimpse of Flicka moving purposefully toward his left, her shoulder bag held in her right hand, together with a copy of the Financial Times. Dolmech had arrived.
He swung the bike out onto the street, filtering into the traffic going right. There was a large traffic circle some twenty yards down, and this allowed him to turn full circle, bringing him back into San Fernando, so that he could stop on the right-hand side, within feet of Flicka. He negotiated the traffic circle, and thirty yards away, he saw Dolmech break from the crowded Gardens, walking casually toward her. He was dressed exactly as promised: blue jeans, denim shirt and jacket, the heavy leather satchel hanging almost carelessly over his right shoulder.
Bond pulled over, glancing in his mirror to the right, then left. It was as his eyes flicked over to the left that he saw the other bike. It was a Harley-Davidson, but with a pillion passenger. He cursed, as there was no way he could cut it off as it came roaring up behind him, swinging and passing close enough for him to feel a slipstream that had him momentarily fighting for balance.
Everything, from that moment, seemed to happen in slow motion. Bond had been alerted by the second bike, but did not completely take in the danger. As he straightened his motorcycle, he was aware of the Harley picking up a burst of speed, cutting in front of him, slewing to the right, causing him to brake violently.
He saw the back of the second bike and watched helplessly as it shot ahead, pulling over to slow slightly right in front of Flicka and Dolmech. Then the pillion passenger reached out, a small black shape in his gloved hand. Later Bond could have sworn he heard the three loud pops. He certainly saw the driver flick his hand out and grab at the satchel as Peter Dolmech was whipped backward by three bullets, his head disappearing in a fine mist of scarlet as the bullets caught him in the face. He saw Flicka's eyes and mouth, a dreadful carving of horror; the mouth frozen open in a scream of anger, her eyes wide, flaring. He saw her reach for the gun in her shoulder bag and turn sideways as though she expected to feel bullets penetrating her own flesh.
He was powerless, and thought that she had also been hit as the crimson cloud appeared to float over her, producing great red blotches of blood and matter across her face; but by the time she had the weapon half out of her shoulder bag, the motorcycle was roaring away, weaving through the traffic.
The Daytona under him leaped forward as his hand opened the throttle: at least he knew that this bike was more agile than the Harley. Whatever else had happened, the only thought now filling his mind was the recovery of the satchel.
In the heavy traffic that clogged the streets of inner Seville, he managed only an occasional glimpse of the bike carrying the two men. To keep up speed and follow them demanded all the concentration he could muster. The Daytona handled perfectly, and he was able to weave and dodge through the thick, slow-moving crush of cars and trucks that seemed to stretch in an endless snake. Bond leaned to left and right, slaloming through narrow gaps, behind vehicles that seemed to be bumper to bumper. His one concern was to get as near to the other motorcycle as possible. If he had been running their operation, the passenger would already have left the bike and spirited the satchel away on foot, but as he managed to get closer, he was relieved to see that both men were still on the machine. They were also heading away from the city center, out toward the perimeter of the ancient walls. Within fifteen minutes they were almost free of the city streets, bearing out into the open countryside where the flow of motor vehicles was steadier.
He was now about half a mile behind his quarry, and thought that far away behind him he heard the wail of a police siren. By this time he was touching speeds of just under a hundred miles an hour, which meant that the bike he was chasing was reaching a speed well in excess of 100mph. It flashed through his mind that, with a passenger on the bike, the torque on the machine must at times reach a dangerous level.
As it was, Bond could feel the forces of gravity on his own bike and upon himself. While it was exhilarating, there were moments when the wheels hit small indentations that caused the bike to lift and bounce. Even with the helmet and visor, his body was at times pressed back in the saddle, and he found his brain making decisions well in advance of reaching other traffic.
They hit a long incline. He could hear and feel the first strain on the engine, so he shifted down quickly, opening up the throttle again to maintain speed. Slowly, he realized, he was beginning to gain on his opponent.
They were on a three-lane highway now with no oncoming traffic, the main hazard being cars and trucks that did not bother to signal when changing lanes. The speed and power were exhilarating, and he had to focus his concentration, constantly dragging his mind back to the Harley now only a couple of hundred yards in front of him.
Without warning, he saw the bike suddenly veer off to the right, rider and passenger leaning over as the machine took a forty-five-degree angle, then righted itself and shot across the three lines of traffic, disappearing through an exit ramp.