‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Bond paid and put on the mask. He reluctantly let go of the table and wove through the entrance. There were raised tiers of wooden benches round the big square rink. Thank God for a chance to sit down! There was an empty seat on the aisle in the bottom row at rink level. Bond stumbled down the wooden steps and fell into it. He righted himself, said ‘Sorry,’ and put his head in his hands. The girl beside him, part of a group of harlequins, Wild Westerners, and pirates, drew her spangled skirt away, whispered something to her neighbour. Bond didn’t care. They wouldn’t throw him out on a night like this. Through the loud-speakers the violins sobbed into ‘The Skaters’ Waltz’. Above them the voice of the MC called, ‘Last dance, ladies and gentlemen. And then all out on to the rink and join hands for the grand finale. Only ten minutes to go to midnight! Last dance, ladies and gentlemen. Last dance!’ There was a rattle of applause. People laughed excitedly.
God in Heaven! thought Bond feebly. Now this! Won’t anybody leave me alone? He fell asleep.
Hours later he felt his shoulder being shaken. ‘On to the rink, sir. Please. All on to the rink for the grand finale. Only a minute to go.’ A man in purple and gold uniform was standing beside him, looking down impatiently.
‘Go away,’ said Bond dully. Then some inner voice told him not to make a scene, not to be conspicuous. He struggled to his feet, made the few steps to the rink, somehow stood upright. His head lowered, like a wounded bull, he looked to left and right, saw a gap in the human chain round the rink, and slid gingerly towards it. A hand was held out to him and he grasped it thankfully. On the other side someone else was trying to get hold of his free hand. And then there came a diversion. From right across the rink, a girl in a short black skating-skirt topped by a shocking-pink fur-lined parka, sped like an arrow across the ice and came to a crash-stop in front of Bond. Bond felt the ice particles hit his legs. He looked up. It was a face he recognized – those brilliant blue eyes, the look of authority now subdued beneath golden sunburn and a brilliant smile of excitement. Who in hell?
The girl slipped in beside him, seized his right hand in her left, joined up on her right. ‘James’ – it was a thrilling whisper – ‘oh, James. It’s me! Tracy! What’s the matter with you? Where have you come from?’
‘Tracy,’ said Bond dully. ‘Tracy. Hold on to me. I’m in bad shape. Tell you later.’
Then Auld Lang Syne began and everyone swung linked hands in unison to the music.
18 | FORK LEFT FOR HELL!
Bond had no idea how he managed to stay upright, but at last it was over and everyone cheered and broke up into pairs and groups.
Tracy got her arm under his. Bond pulled himself together. He said hoarsely, ‘Mix with the crowd, Tracy. Got to get away from here. People after me.’ A sudden hope came to him. ‘Got your car?’
‘Yes, darling. Everything’ll be all right. Just hang on to me. Are people waiting for you outside?’
‘Could be. Watch out for a big black Mercedes. There may be shooting. Better stay away from me. I can make it. Where’s the car?’
‘Down the road to the right. But don’t be silly. Here, I’ve got an idea. You get into this parka.’ She ran the zip down and stripped it off. ‘It’ll be a tight fit. Here, put your arm into this sleeve.’
‘But you’ll get cold.’
‘Do as I tell you. I’ve got a sweater and plenty on underneath. Now the other arm. That’s right.’ She pulled up the zip. ‘Darling James, you look sweet.’
The fur of the parka smelt of Guerlain’s ‘Ode’. It took Bond back to Royale. What a girl! The thought of her, of having an ally, of not being on his own, of being away from that bloody mountain, revived Bond. He held her hand and followed her through the crowd that was now streaming towards the exit. This was going to be a bad moment! Whether or not that cable car had come on down the mountain, by now Blofeld would have had time to get one down full of SPECTRE men. Bond had been seen from the train, would be known to have made for Samaden. By now they would have covered the railway station. They would expect him to try and hide in a crowd. Perhaps the drunken man at the entrance had remembered him. If that saloon moved off and revealed the red-arrowed skis, it would be a cert. Bond let go the girl’s hand and slipped the shattered Rolex back over the knuckles of his right hand. He had gathered enough strength, mostly from the girl, to have one more bash at them!
She looked at him. ‘What are you doing?’
He took her hand again. ‘Nothing.’
They were getting near the exit. Bond peered through the slits in his mask. Yes, by God! Two of the thugs were standing beside the ticket man watching the throng with deadly concentration. On the far side of the road stood the black Mercedes, petrol vapour curling up from its exhaust. No escape. There was only bluff. Bond put his arm round Tracy’s neck and whispered, ‘Kiss me all the way past the ticket-table. They’re there, but I think we can make it.’
She flung an arm over his shoulder and drew him to her. ‘How did you know that that’s what I’ve been waiting for?’ Her lips crushed down sideways on his and, in a tide of laughing, singing people, they were through and on the street.
They turned, still linked, down the road. Yes! There was the darling little white car!
And then the horn on the Mercedes began sounding urgently. Bond’s gait, or perhaps his old-fashioned ski-trousers, had given him away to the man in the car!
‘Quick, darling!’ said Bond urgently.
The girl threw herself in under the wheel, pressed the starter and the car was moving as Bond scrambled in through the opposite door. Bond looked back. Through the rear window he could see the two men standing in the road. They would not shoot with so many witnesses about. Now they ran to the Mercedes. Thank God it was pointing up the hill towards St Moritz! And then Tracy had done a controlled skid round the S bend in the village and they were on the main road that Bond had staggered down half an hour before.
It would be five minutes at least before the Mercedes could turn and get after them. The girl was going like hell, but there was traffic on the road – tinkling sleighs full of fur-wrapped merrymakers on their way back to Pontresina, an occasional car, its snow-chains rattling. She drove on her brakes and her horn, the same triple wind-horn that sounded the high discord Bond remembered so well. Bond said, ‘You’re an angel, Tracy. But take it easy. We don’t want to end up in the ditch.’
The girl glanced sideways at him and laughed with pleasure. ‘That sounds as if you were feeling better. But I cannot see you. Now you can take off that silly mask and my parka. In a minute the heat will come on and you will be roasted. And I would like to see you as I remember you. But you are pleased with me?’
Life was beginning to come back into Bond. It was so wonderful to be in this little car with this marvellous girl. The memory of the dreadful mountain, of all that he had been through, was receding. Now there was hope again, after so much dread and despair. He could feel the tensions uncoiling in his stomach. He said, ‘I’ll tell you if I’m pleased when we get to Zürich. Can you make it? It’s a hell of a way to spend Christmas.’ He wound down the window and threw the domino-mask out, stripped off the parka and draped it over her shoulders. The big sign for the main road down into the valley came up. He said, ‘Left here, Tracy. Filisur and then Coire.’