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times before. The message was very simple `This is how it must end.
Goodbye.
He stood, looking at the single flower, more eloquent than any wreath or
spray, then he turned to Fredericka. `I think we should go, my dear. I
have something to show you back in London. After that it might be the
right time for us to visit Germany." `The Rhineland?" Bond nodded, took
her arm and walked briskly back to his car. He knew that he had found
in this extraordinary rose a tangible link between the death of Laura
March and the four assassinations of that one week of deaths.
CHAPTER NINE
RICHARD'S HIMSELF AGAIN The road had been hewn out of the rock, twisting
and turning so that one minute they were gazing down an almost sheer
drop into the greeny blue waters of the Rhine, and at others they seemed
to be pressed against great cuttings, the rough walls of natural stone
rising on either side of them. They came upon their first view of the
castle suddenly, following a long gentle bend and on to a kilometer of
straight road, the Schloss Drache appearing below them like some kind of
trick, an illusion, for the castle seemed also to have been cut from the
rock itself: a Mount Rushmore in which people lived.
`Bigger than the one at Disneyland,' Bond said quietly, and Fredericka
reached out, putting her hand over his for a second, as the late summer
afternoon sun hit one of the turrets, glancing off the windows, flashing
light from the castle to the river, as though someone within had
directed a prismatic beam directly on to the water.
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The legends of the Rhine passed quickly through Bond's mind-the legend
of the nymph, Lorelei; or the Rhinemaidens, and their hoard of gold.
Time seemed to stand still, and it was hard to believe that only
forty-eight hours ago they had driven away from Laura March's lonely
funeral on England's south coast, as though the hounds of hell were on
their heels.
They made it back to the King's Road in record time, the white Saab 9000
CD Turbo whining through the New Forest and then on to the M3
motorway, Bond breaking the speed limit whenever it seemed safe, driving
hard and using every ounce of skill he could muster. The hybrid rose
with its strange message ran in circles around his brain, stirring
another memory, only half-caught and almost out of reach.
The moment they walked into the apartment he retrieved his briefcase
from its hiding place in the compartment behind the wainscot in his
bedroom, opened it and removed the files, which had so conveniently
found their way into his safe back at the office. He carried the
folders through to the sitting-room and began to pore over them.
Fredericka took her cue and disappeared into the kitchen, making tea,
hot and very strong, which Bond sipped as he went through the flimsy
pages, searching, making notes here and there. He found what he wanted
in the files on Generale Claudio Carrousso `S assassination, and then,
again, in the papers referring to Archie Shaw. The other two the
Russian, Pavel Gruskochev, and the CIA man, Mark Fish required further
checking.
He called an anonymous number in Paris, and waited while his contact
went through the more recent information they had on the Gruskochev
killing. Bond nodded and smiled, making a note on his file as the data
was read quietly to him from an office not far from the Champs Elyse'es.
He then called Washington, went through a little game of telephone tag,
and finally tracked down the man he wanted, who was dining out, in
Arlington, Virginia, with a friend from the Pentagon. The man in
Washington asked how quickly he needed the information, and was told
yesterday. `If it really is that important, I'll go out to Langley and
call you back,' he said, adding that Bond was about the only person in
the world he would do something like this for. An hour later the
telephone rang and Bond again smiled to himself as he made notes, the
telephone pressed hard against his ear.
`Just what I wanted to hear,' he told the caller. `I owe you one.
`And I'll collect. The Washington contact closed the line, and drove
back to the house in Arlington where his friend from the Pentagon waited
patiently she was a G3, twenty-eight years old and with the greatest
legs this side of New York.
Bond then dialled a number in Chalfont St Giles, greeting an old friend
he had not seen for almost two years. After the usual pleasantries, the
talk turned to the growing of hybrid roses. The conversation lasted for
almost thirty minutes.
Only when he had finished talking on the phone, did he call Fredericka
from where she was reading a paperback in the bedroom.
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`So, Sherlock,' she dropped gracefully on to the big leather couch.
`Have you found the secret of life and death?" `Enough to tie a few
knots together, and enough to put at least one name in the frame, as
they say on those TV police dramas. Look. ` He came over and sat close
beside her, the four files on his lap.
`When it comes to murder or assassination, one of the standard
procedures as you must know is the general surveillance of those who
come to the victim's funeral. There were people from both my service
and the Security Service there today. You saw the MIS couple, my guys
were not so obvious, but they were around. Again, as you know, the job
is to identify everyone who comes to pay their respects, and, when it's
all over, someone else usually goes through the so-called floral
tributes.
Notes are kept regarding the messages, and then the sources are tracked
down if necessary. That's straightforward stuff as far as the police,
and the security and intelligence services are concerned.
`Of course. Yes, it's standard." `You saw that hybrid rose. Odd.
I've never seen anything quite so perfect. The petals all seemed
identical, and the blood-red tips could have been painted on, they were
so symmetrical. Then there was the message which would strike the
dimmest probationary detective as odd.
"`This is the way it must end. Goodbye,"' she muttered, almost under
her breath. `Sure, a murderer's message, perhaps? Or a bit of
sentiment..
`No, you were right the first time. Those four assassinations which
took place last week, just before Laura was killed. -`Yes?" `Would it
surprise you that the same hybrid rose, with the same message, turned up
at each of the funerals? The General in Rome; our MP, here in London;
old Pavel in Paris, and the CIA man, Fish, in Washington. In the case
of the MP, Shaw, and the Russian, it was made clear that there should be
no flowers, yet the rose turned up at each interment..
`And the same message? Exactly the same message?" `Exactly. Word for
word, and nobody has been able to trace the source. They simply
appeared at the graveside, or the crematoriums, as if by magic.
There is one tiny clue and it doesn't mean much.
In Paris, the undertaker saw a young boy thirteen or fourteen years old
hanging around the graveside before the service. Again, in Washington,
there was a schoolgirl, early teens, seen in the funeral home, looking
at the flowers." `Kids paid to drop off the rose?" `That's what I would
go for.
`And the message was exactly the same yes, I asked before.
`Word for word. A calling card left by the killer, or killers.
It's like a terrorist group claiming responsibility. Someone, or some
organization, is telling us that, not only did they murder Laura, but
also the four high-profile people as well." `And the rose? I heard you
talking to some expert about roses." He paused, closing the files, and
piling them neatly on his knees. `That's the most interesting piece of
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information. The man I spoke to is probably the world's greatest expert
on roses. He's responsible for at least twelve new varieties himself,
and what he doesn't know about other growers could be written on a pin
head.
`He gave you a name? It's a well-known rose?" `Not well known, but he
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