Krebbs grinned happily to himself at the thought of the stupid English having to clean up all this mess. He settled himself back to enjoy the part of the drive he had always liked best, the spring woods full of bluebells and celandines on the way to Chilham.
They had made him particularly happy at night. Lit up amongst the green torches of the young trees by the great headlamps of the Mercedes, they made him think of the beautiful forests of the Ardennes and of the devoted little band with which he had served, and of driving along in a captured American jeep with, just like tonight, his adored leader at the wheel. Der Tag had been a long time coming, but now it was here. With young Krebs in the van. At last the cheering crowds, the medals, the women, the flowers. He gazed out at the fleeting hosts of bluebells and felt warm and happy.
Gala could taste Bond’s blood. His face was beside hers on the leather seat and she shifted to give him more room. His breathing was heavy and irregular and she wondered how badly he was hurt. Tentatively she whispered into his ear. And then louder. He groaned and his breath came faster.
“James,” she whispered urgently. “James.”
He mumbled something and she pushed hard against him.
He uttered a string of obscenities and his body heaved.
He lay still again and she could almost feel him exploring his sensations.
“It’s me, Gala.” She felt him stiffen.
“Christ,” he said. “Hell of a mess.”
“Are you all right? Is anything broken?”
She felt him tense his arms and legs. “Seems all right,” he said. “Crack on the head. Am I talking sense?”
“Of course,” said Gala. “Now listen.”
Hurriedly she told him all she knew, beginning with the notebook.
His body was as rigid as a board against her, and he hardly breathed as he listened to the incredible story.
Then they were running into Canterbury and Bond put his mouth to her ear. “Going to try and chuck myself over the back,” he whispered. “Get to a telephone. Only hope.”
He started to heave himself up on his knees, his weight almost grinding the breath out of the girl.
There was a sharp crack and he fell back on top of her.
“Another move out of you and you’re dead,” said the voice of Krebs coming softly between the front seats.
Only another twenty minutes to the site! Gala gritted her teeth and set about bringing Bond back to consciousness again.
She had only just succeeded when the car drew up at the door of the launching-dome and Krebs, a gun in his hand, was undoing the bonds round their ankles.
They had a glimpse of the familiar moonlit cement and of the semi-circle of guards some distance away before they were hustled through the door and, when their shoes had been torn off by Krebs, out on to the iron catwalk inside the launching-dome.
There the gleaming rocket stood, beautiful, innocent, like a new toy for Cyclops.
But there was a horrible smell of chemicals in the air and to Bond the Moonraker was a giant hypodermic needle ready to be plunged into the heart of England. Despite a growl from Krebs he paused on the stairway and looked up at its glittering nose. A million deaths. A million. A million. A million.
On his hands? For God’s sake! On his hands? With Krebs’s gun prodding him, he went slowly down the steps on the heels of Gala.
As he turned through the doors of Drax’s office, he pulled himself together. Suddenly his mind was clear and all the lethargy and pain had left his body. Something, anything, must be done. Somehow he would find a way. His whole body and mind became focused and sharp as a blade. His eyes were alive again and defeat sloughed off him like the skin of a snake.
Drax had gone ahead and was sitting at his desk. He had a Luger in his hand. It was pointing at a spot halfway between Bond and Gala and it was steady as a rock.
Behind him, Bond heard the double doors thud shut.