“No to both questions, Commander. I’m quite satisfied about Headquarters. It’s only the outlying units that worry me. Apart from this section of your Secret Service, we have various detached signal units. Then, of course, there are the Home Ministries of fourteen different nations. I can’t answer for what may leak from those quarters.”
“It can’t be an easy job,” agreed Bond. “Now, about this mess. Has anything else come up since Wing Commander Rattray spoke to you last?”
“Got the bullet. Luger. Severed the spinal cord. Probably fired at around thirty yards, give or take ten yards. Assuming our man was riding a straight course, the bullet must have been fired from dead astern on a level trajectory. Since it can’t have been a man standing in the road, the killer must have been moving in or on some vehicle.”
“So your man would have seen him in the driving-mirror?”
“Probably.”
“If your riders find themselves being followed, do they have any instructions about taking evasive action?”
The Colonel smiled slightly. “Sure. They’re told to go like hell.”
“And at what speed did your man crash?”
“Not fast, they think. Between twenty and forty. What are you getting at, Commander?”
“I was wondering if you’d decided whether it was a pro or an amateur job. If your man wasn’t trying to get away, and assuming he saw the killer in his mirror, which I agree is only a probability, that suggests that he accepted the man on his tail as friend rather than foe. That could mean some sort of disguise that would fit in with the set-up here – something your man would accept even at that hour of the morning.”
A small frown had been gathering across Colonel Schreiber’s smooth forehead. “Commander,” there was an edge of tension in the voice, “we have, of course, been considering every angle of this case, including the one you mention. At midday yesterday the Commanding General declared emergency in this matter, standing security and security ops committees were set up, and from that moment on every angle, every hint of a clue, has been systematically run to earth. And I can tell you, Commander,” the Colonel raised one well-manicured hand and let it descend in soft emphasis on his blotting-pad, “any man who can come up with an even remotely original idea on this case will have to be closely related to Einstein. There is nothing, repeat nothing, to go on in this case whatsoever.”
Bond smiled sympathetically. He got to his feet. “In that case, Colonel, I won’t waste any more of your time this evening. If I could just have the minutes of the various meetings to bring myself up to date, and if one of your men could show me the way to the canteen and my quarters . . .”
“Sure, sure.” The Colonel pressed a bell. A young crew-cutted aide came in. “Proctor, show the Commander to his room in the VIP wing, would you, and then take him along to the bar and the canteen.” He turned to Bond. “I’ll have those papers ready for you after you’ve had a meal and a drink. They’ll be in my office. They can’t be taken out, of course, but you’ll find everything to hand next door, and Proctor will be able to fill you in on anything that’s missing.” He held out his hand. “Okay? Then we’ll meet again in the morning.”
Bond said goodnight and followed the aide out. As he walked along the neutral-painted, neutral-smelling corridors, he reflected that this was probably the most hopeless assignment he had ever been on. If the top security brains of fourteen countries were stumped, what hope had he got? By the time he was in bed that night, in the Spartan luxury of the visitors’ overnight quarters, Bond had decided he would give it a couple more days – largely for the sake of keeping in touch with Mary Ann Russell for as long as possible – and then chuck it. On this decision he fell immediately into a deep and untroubled sleep.
Not two, but four days later, as the dawn came up over the Forest of St Germain, James Bond was lying along the thick branch of an oak tree keeping watch over a small empty glade that lay deep among the trees bordering D98, the road of the murder.