When, at nine o’clock, he awoke and threw open his windows, the sky was overcast with the heavy blank grey that meant snow. Over by the Berghaus, the Schneefinken, and Schneevögel, the snow-finches and Alpine choughs, that lived on the crumbs and leftovers of the picnickers, were fluttering and swooping close round the building – a sure storm-warning. The wind had got up and was blowing in sharp, threatening gusts, and no whine of machinery came from the cable railway. The light aluminium gondolas would have too bad a time in winds of this strength, particularly over the last great swoop of cable that brought them a good quarter of a mile over the exposed shoulder beneath the plateau.
Bond shut the windows and rang for his breakfast. When it came there was a note from Fräulein Bunt on the tray. ‘The Count will be pleased to receive you at eleven o’clock. I.B.’
Bond ate his breakfast and got down to his third page of de Bleuvilles. He had quite a chunk of work to show up, but this was easy stuff. The prospect of successfully bamboozling his way along the Blofeld part of the trail was not so encouraging. He would start boldly at the Gdynia end and work back – get the old rascal to talk about his youth and his parents. Old rascal? Well, dammit, whatever he had become since Operation ‘Thunderball’, there weren’t two Ernst Stavro Blofelds in the world!
They met in the Count’s study. ‘Good morning, Sir Hilary. I hope you slept well? We are going to have snow.’ The Count waved towards the window. ‘It will be a good day for work. No distractions.’
Bond smiled a man-to-man smile. ‘I certainly find those girls pretty distracting. But most charming. What’s the matter with them, by the way? They all look healthy enough.’
The Count was off-hand. ‘They suffer from allergies, Sir Hilary. Crippling allergies. In the agricultural field. They are country girls and their disabilities affect the possibility of their employment. I have devised a cure for such symptoms. I am glad to say that the signs are propitious. We are making much progress together.’ The telephone by his side buzzed. ‘Excuse me.’ The Count picked up the receiver and listened. ‘Ja. Machen Sie die Verbindung.’ He paused. Bond politely studied the papers he had brought along. ‘Zdies de Bleuville ... Da ... Da ... Kharascho!’ He put the receiver back. ‘Forgive me. That was one of my research workers. He has been purchasing some materials for the laboratories. The cable railway is closed, but they are making a special trip up for him. Brave man. He will probably be very sick, poor fellow.’ The green contact lenses hid any sympathy he may have felt. The fixed smile showed none. ‘And now, my dear Sir Hilary, let us get on with our work.’
Bond laid out his big sheets on the desk and proudly ran his finger down through the generations. There was excitement and satisfaction in the Count’s comments and questions. ‘But this is tremendous, really tremendous, my dear fellow. And you say there is mention of a broken spear or a broken sword in the arms? Now when was that granted?’
Bond rattled off a lot of stuff about the Norman Conquest. The broken sword had probably been awarded as a result of some battle. More research in London would be needed to pin the occasion down. Finally Bond rolled up the sheets and got out his notebook. ‘And now we must start working back from the other end, Count.’ Bond became inquisitorial, authoritative. ‘We have your birth date in Gdynia, May 28th, 1908. Yes?’
‘Correct.’
‘Your parents’ names?’
‘Ernst George Blofeld and Maria Stavro Michelopoulos.’
‘Also born in Gdynia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now your grandparents?’
‘Ernst Stefan Blofeld and Elizabeth Lubomirskaya.’
‘Hm, so the Ernst is something of a family Christian name?’
‘It would seem so. My great-grandfather, he was also Ernst.’
‘That is most important. You see, Count, among the Blofelds of Augsburg there are no less than two Ernsts!’
The Count’s hands had been lying on the green pad on his desk, relaxed. Now, impulsively, they joined together and briefly writhed, showing white knuckles.
My God, you’ve got it bad! thought Bond.
‘And that is important?’
‘Very. Christian names run through families. We regard them as most significant clues. Now, can you remember any farther back? You have done well. We have covered three generations. With the dates I shall later ask you for, we have already got back to around 1850. Only another fifty years to go and we shall have arrived at Augsburg.’
‘No.’ It was almost a cry of pain. ‘My great-great-grandfather. Of him I know nothing.’ The hands writhed on the blotting-paper. ‘Perhaps, perhaps. If it is a question of money. People, witnesses could be found.’ The hands parted, held themselves out expansively. ‘My dear Sir Hilary, you and I are men of the world. We understand each other. Extracts from archives, registry offices, the churches – these things, do they have to be completely authentic?’
Got you, you old fox! Bond said affably, with a hint of conspiracy, ‘I don’t quite understand what you mean, Count.’
The hands were now flat on the desk again, happy hands. Blofeld had recognized one of his kind. ‘You are a hard-working man. Sir Hilary. You live modestly in this remote region of Scotland. Life could perhaps be made easier for you. There are perhaps material benefits you desire – motor-cars, a yacht, a pension. You have only to say the word, name a figure.’ The dark-green orbs bored into Bond’s modestly evasive eyes, holding them. ‘Just a little co-operation. A visit here and there in Poland and Germany and France. Of course your expenses would be heavy. Let us say five hundred pounds a week. The technical matters, the documents, and so forth. Those I can arrange. It would only require your supporting evidence. Yes? The Ministry of Justice in Paris, for them the word of the College of Arms is the word of God. Is that not so?’
It was too good to be true! But how to play it? Diffidently, Bond said, ‘What you are suggesting, Count, is – er – not without interest. Of course’ – Bond’s smile was sufficiently expansive, sufficiently bland – ‘if the documents were convincing, so to speak solid, very solid, then it would be quite reasonable for me to authenticate them.’ Bond put spaniel into his eyes, asking to be patted, to be told that everything would be all right, that he would be completely protected. ‘You see what I mean?’
The Count began, with force, sincerity, ‘You need have absolutely no ...’ when there was the noise of an approaching hubbub down the passage. The door burst open. A man, propelled from behind, lurched into the room and fell, writhing, to the floor.
Two of the guards came stiffly to attention behind him. They looked first at the Count and then, sideways, towards Bond, surprised to see him there.
The Count said sharply, ‘Was ist denn los?’
Bond knew the answer and, momentarily, he died. Behind the snow and the blood on the face of the man on the floor, Bond recognized the face of a man he knew.
The blond hair, the nose broken boxing for the Navy, belonged to a friend of his in the Service. It was, unmistakably, Number 2 from Station Z in Zürich!
15 | THE HEAT INCREASES
Yes, it was Shaun Campbell all right! Christ Almighty, what a mess! Station Z had especially been told nothing about Bond’s mission. Campbell must have been following a lead of his own, probably trailing this Russian who had been ‘buying supplies’. Typical of the sort of balls-up that over-security can produce!
The leading guard was talking in rapid, faulty German with a Slav accent. ‘He was found in the open ski compartment at the back of the gondola. Much frozen, but he put up a strong resistance. He had to be subdued. He was no doubt following Captain Boris.’ The man caught himself up. ‘I mean, your guest from the valley, Herr Graf. He says he is an English tourist from Zürich. That he had got no money for the fare. He wanted to pay a visit up here. He was searched. He carried five hundred Swiss francs. No identity papers.’ The man shrugged. ‘He says his name is Campbell.’