[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

more than a year or so because of Max Tarn's constant traveling in search of
bigger and better money-spinning ventures, but the Cassandras were proved
wrong. Lady Trish blossomed, and wherever Max Tarn went, on business or
pleasure. Lady Trish went with him, both of the Tarns trailing a small
entourage of hairdressers, secretaries, and bodyguards.
The multitude of Tarn companies worldwide supplied company jets, and it
appeared to most people  from economic editors to the man in the street 
that the Tarns lived and worked as a new world-class royalty.
The final pages of the dossier dealt with the scant evidence that had sparked
the recent probings. Plenty of smoke, but as yet no real fire. Enough hard
evidence to warrant an investigation  which would alert Tarn  but not really
enough to make arrests.
"Interesting reading?" Flicka had remained moderately silent while he had
leafed through the document, and Bond snapped off the reading light, looked
up, and saw they had about twenty minutes before reaching Cambridge. He
returned the dossier to his briefcase and sighed.
"It appears we'll be moving in a rarefied atmosphere if we get close to Sir
Max and Lady Trish." He stretched in his seat. "I'm really quite surprised
that they're actually staying in a hotel like normal human beings. Reading
that thing, you'd think he owned one of the colleges as his personal home."
"They are noted for parading their riches, James. Or hadn't you noticed?"
"I'm not strong on the gossip columns."
"You're not exactly weak on the financial pages, though, are you?"
"I see the names, yes. But I didn't quite realize how powerful he really was.
A field marshal of industry rather than a captain. The man's like a
Renaissance prince, Fredericka."
"The man is a Renaissance prince, my dear. Jealous?"
"Never fancied being one, actually. Too many courtiers waiting around to stab
you in the back."
"But Max Tarn is something else. Not just a Renaissance prince, but a saint 
contributions to every known charity, hospital wards, libraries, art
collections named after him. The man's a king in his own right. That's why I
wondered if he could be frightened enough to do a runner. People like that
usually imagine they're above the law."
"There are things in his background," Bond mused. "Dirty work in his lineage.
That could be a nice little lever."
"Really? Go on, James, tell me about his grubby background."
"Well, it appears that he might or might not really be connected to the old
and revered Prussian family whose name he bears."
"Has he ever claimed to be?"
"Not in so many words."
"There's firm evidence?"
"No. But there's enough to make him pause for a moment. Reading between the
lines, his birthright may well have been stolen on his behalf, and there's no
evidence that he's actually been back to the supposed site of his inheritance,
which, incidentally, is in need of the Tarn billions. The old estate is in
ruins, and you'd have thought that he'd have dropped in to lay the ghosts of
his past  that is, if he really believed himself to have come from old German
nobility. The place, it appears, reeks with specters from long ago."
"You going to haunt him a bit, then?"
"Nothing like disturbing a few shades to put the mockers on the living." Bond
smiled to himself.
A light sprinkle of rain fell as Flicka threaded the car through the Cambridge
Page 16
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
one-way system into Regent Street and to the front of the University Arms
Hotel by the wide tract of parkland known to generations of students as
Parker's Piece.
It was just past ten o'clock, and in front of them a Rolls Royce was being
unloaded, boxed in by two sleek black Rovers.
One of the porters motioned to them to stay back, while another came running
over: "If you'd just wait a moment, ma'am." He bent to speak with Flicka
through her rolled-down window. "We'll be with you in a second. Checking in?"
She nodded, but her eyes were on four people alighting from the Rolls. One was
a tall, slender woman, one hand lifted to a mane of black hair, her head
thrown back as she laughed at something the man next to her was saying.
"Trish Nuzzi, model extraordinary, as I live and go green with envy," she
muttered.
"And there's our specter," Bond breathed, taking in the equally slim,
agile-looking man following Lady Trish. He had a dark, velvet-collared coat
slung over his shoulders and a wide-brimmed hat set at a jaunty angle over the
famous iron-gray hair. His back was ramrod straight and he looked as fit as an
athlete about to take part in some strenuous Olympic sport. As the pair walked
elegantly toward the hotel doors, Bond whispered, "They even look like
Renaissance royalty. Lord, you can smell the money."
"And they have their courtiers with them," Flicka added. The other two men,
staying a respectful couple of paces behind the famous couple, were equally
well-dressed but did not seem to have the same polish as their employers. One
was tall, well-built, even burly, carrying himself like a boxer, his head
turning from side to side, then back to throw careful scrutiny over Bond's
Saab 9000. His companion was shorter and had his hands thrust into the pockets
of a long stylish raincoat that looked like some kind of riding dustcoat from
the old American West.
Around the cars, more people were being off-loaded, the drivers in livery, the
other young men in stylish street clothes. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]