They had been keeping up a good speed down the sloping, winding road into the valley. Bond turned to look through the rear window. He swore under his breath. Perhaps a mile behind, twin lights were coming after them. The girl said, ‘I know. I’ve been watching in the mirror. I’m afraid they’re gaining a little. Must be a good driver who knows the road. Probably got snow-chains. But I think I can hold them. Now go on. What have you been up to?’

Bond gave her a garbled version. There was a big gangster up the mountain, living under a false name. He was wanted by the police in England. Bond was vaguely connected with the police, with the Ministry of Defence. (She snorted, ‘Don’t try and fool me. I know you’re in the Secret Service. Papa told me so.’ Bond said curtly, ‘Well, Papa’s talking through his hat.’ She laughed knowingly.) Anyway, Bond continued, he had been sent out to make sure this was the man they wanted. He had found out that he was. But the man had become suspicious of Bond and Bond had had to get out quickly. He gave her a graphic account of the moonlit nightmare of the mountain, of the avalanche, of the man who had been killed by the train, of how he had got to Samaden, dead beat, and had tried to hide in the crowd on the skating-rink. ‘And then,’ he ended lamely, ‘you turned up like a beautiful angel on skates, and here we are.’

She thought the story over for a minute. Then she said calmly, ‘And now, my darling James, just tell me how many of them you killed. And tell me the truth.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m just curious.’

‘You promise to keep this between you and me?’

She said enigmatically, ‘Of course. Everything’s between you and me from now on.’

‘Well, there was the main guard at the so-called Club. That had to be done or I’d be dead myself by now. Then I suppose one got caught by the avalanche. Then, at the bottom, one of them shot at me and I had to spear him with my ski-stick – self-defence. I don’t know how badly he’s hurt. And then there was the man killed by the train. He’d fired six shots at me. And anyway it was his own fault. Let’s say three and a half got themselves killed one way or another.’

‘How many are left?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘I just want to know. Trust me.’

‘Well, I think there were about fifteen up there all told. So that leaves eleven and a half – plus the big man.’

‘And there are three in the car behind? Would they kill us if they caught us?’

‘I’m afraid so. I haven’t got any weapons. I’m sorry, Tracy, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t have much chance either, being a witness and a sort of accomplice of mine. These people think I’m pretty bad news for them.’

‘And you are?’

‘Yes. From now on, I’m the worst.’

‘Well, I’ve got pretty bad news for you. They’re gaining on us and I’ve only got a couple of gallons left in the tank. We’ll have to stop in Filisur. There won’t be a garage open and it’ll mean waking someone up. Can’t hope to do it under ten minutes and they’ll have us. You’ll have to think up something clever.’

There was a ravine and an S turn over a bridge. They were coming out of the first curve over the bridge. Lights blazed at them from across the ravine. There was half a mile between the two cars, but the range across the ravine was perhaps only three hundred yards. Bond wasn’t surprised to see the familiar blue flames flutter from the front of the car. Chips of granite from the overhang splattered down on the bonnet of the car. Then they were into the second half of the S bend and out of sight of their pursuers.

Now came a stretch of reconstruction work where there had been a landslide. There were big warning notices: ‘Achtung! Baustelle! Vorsichtig Fahren!’ The broken road hugged the mountain side on the right. On the left was rickety fencing and then a precipice falling hundreds of feet down into a gorge with an ice-floed river. In the middle of the bad stretch, a huge red wooden arrow pointed right to a narrow track across a temporary bridge. Bond suddenly shouted ‘Stop!’

Tracy pulled up, her front wheels on the bridge. Bond tore open the door. ‘Get on! Wait for me round the next corner. It’s the only chance.’

Good girl! She got going without a word. Bond ran back the few yards to the big red arrow. It was held in the forks of two upright poles. Bond wrenched it off, swung it round so that it pointed to the left, towards the flimsy fence that closed off the yards of old road leading to the collapsed bridge. Bond tore at the fence, pulling the stakes out, flattening it. Glare showed round the corner behind him. He leaped across the temporary road into the shadow of the mountain, flattened himself against it, waited, holding his breath.

The Mercedes was coming faster than it should over the bumpy track, its chains clattering inside the mudguards. It made straight for the black opening to which the arrow now pointed. Bond caught a glimpse of white, strained faces and then the desperate scream of brakes as the driver saw the abyss in front of him. The car seemed almost to stop, but its front wheels must have been over the edge. It balanced for a moment on its iron belly and then slowly, slowly toppled and there was a first appalling crash as it hit the rubble beneath the old bridge. Then another crash and another. Bond ran forward past the lying arrow and looked down. Now the car was flying upside-down through the air. It hit again and a fountain of sparks flashed from a rock ledge. Then, somersaulting, and with its lights somehow still blazing, it smashed on down into the gorge. It hit a last outcrop that knocked it sideways and, spinning laterally, but now with its lights out and only the glint of the moon on metal, it took the last great plunge into the iced-up river. A deep rumble echoed up from the gorge and there was the patter of rocks and stones following the wreckage. And then all was peaceful, moonlit silence.

Bond let out his breath in a quiet hiss between his clenched teeth. Then, mechanically, he straightened things out again, put up the remains of the fence, lifted the arrow, and put it back facing to the right. Then he wiped his sweating hands down the side of his trousers and walked unsteadily down the road and round the next corner.

The little white car was there, pulled in to the side, with its lights out. Bond got in and slumped into his seat. Tracy said nothing but got the car going. The lights of Filisur appeared, warm and yellow in the valley below. She reached out a hand and held his tightly. ‘You’ve had enough for one day. Go to sleep. I’ll get you to Zürich. Please do what I say.’

Bond said nothing. He pressed her hand weakly, leaned his head against the door jamb and was instantly asleep.

He was out for the count.

19 | LOVE FOR BREAKFAST

In the grey dawn, Zürich airport was depressing and almost deserted, but, blessedly, there was a Swissair Caravelle, delayed by fog at London Airport, waiting to take off for London. Bond parked Tracy in the restaurant and, regretfully forsaking the smell of coffee and fried eggs, went and bought himself a ticket, had his passport stamped by a sleepy official (he had half expected to be stopped, but wasn’t), and went to a telephone booth and shut himself in. He looked up Universal Export in the telephone book, and read underneath, as he had hoped, ‘Hauptvertreter Alexander Muir. Privat Wohnung’ and the number. Bond glanced through the glass window at the clock in the departure hall. Six o’clock. Well, Muir would just have to take it.

He rang the number and, after minutes, a sleepy voice said, ‘Ja! Hier Muir.’

Bond said, ‘Sorry, 410, but this is 007. I’m calling from the airport. This is bloody urgent so I’ll have to take a chance on your line being bugged. Got a paper and pencil?’