Sreka wrinkled his nose and seemed on the point of attempting some witticism when Vandeveer's mobile burst into a polyphonic rendition of Handel's 'Water Music'.

'Report,' he growled, irritated to have been interrupted in the middle of his favourite villain spiel.

'I have a better idea,' drawled the dry, cultured voice on the other end of the line. 'Why don't you report, Number 73601, and we may forgive that little display of insolence?'

The colour rushed to Vandeveer's cheeks and he stepped into an alcove away from the curious Sreka. He hissed into the phone. 'You know my name, whoever you are. Don't believe that just because you are partly funding my operation you have the right to —'

There was a hoarse little chuckle on the other end of the line. 'Please be quiet, you nauseating Dutchman. You were given to understand from the start that this was not a relationship of equals. The Cult is bankrolling you because we see in you a certain potential, which we like to encourage for reasons that will remain our own. Much in the same way you encourage your daughter in her riding lessons. Very commendable, very sweet....'

Vandeveer's eyes widened.

'Now, Number 73601. If your little fit of independence has passed, perhaps you would care to report your progress? I'm afraid Ms Annabel is occupied at the moment, so you will be dealing with our local operator. He will be along to you shortly.' The person on the other end hung up.

Vandeveer held the phone out in front of him like it was a live grenade.

'Who was that?' inquired Sreka idly, turning away from his examination of the prisoner.

'It was a private matter, Sreka, and I'll thank you not to enquire into it. My... my influence stretches farther than you know...' Vandeveer had to concentrate to portray the steely image which was de rigeur for his level of criminality. His mind was full of horses. 'I'm sorry, where was I?'

Mere moments earlier....

Arthur saw the bald man climb into a golf buggy and whirr away across the fairway of Hole 13 towards the clubhouse.

'Quick! After him!' hissed Arthur when they stepped outside.

'I know, I know,' said X, quickly scanning the horizon. The two stood outside the hotel.

Arthur saw an abandonned golf buggy to their right. 'Get in,' he indicated to X. 'Do you know how to hotwire a golf buggy, X?' he asked.

X reached under the dash. Arthur heard a 'clunk' sound and the fizzing of crossed wires, then the engine growled into life.

'Follow that golf buggy!'

They gave chase at a sedate 5 mph. Nevertheless, X drove like a maniac. He drew up alongside the bald man. The man looked over at Arthur and X in disgust and accelerated. X pulled up alongside the fleeing buggy. Arthur undid his strap and, placing one hand on the roof, stepped out dangerously onto the lip of the buggy. Blades of grass whipped through the gap between the buggies, flapping aginst the toes of his shoes. Arthur could feel the wind upon his face. He took a large step forward and stepped into the passenger seat of the other buggy.

'Who are you?' the bald man said in a German accent.

'Slow down. I just want to ask you a question.'

The man accelerated again.

'I said slow —'

'You'll never catch me!' the bald man said, leaping from the buggy.

Arthur leapt out of the other side, moments before the buggy careered into a tree. X pulled up some way off. The German was running. Then Arthur got an amazing stroke of luck. A cry of 'Fore!' echoed overhead and the German was felled when he was struck on the head by a golf ball, driving him to one knee. Arthur closed the gap and grappled the bald man to the ground, bending his face threateningly over an anthill.

'Now,' he growled, 'I have absolutely no idea what that was all about. But I do know if you don't start talking, I'll be helping you to improve your aardvark impression...'

'Ach! I will talk, I will talk!' The bald man squirmed under Arthur's grip. 'My name... my name is von Trapp. Gahh, damn you imperialist agent scum...'

Arthur paused and thought for a moment. 'Not... not von Trapp the notorious sadist and international terrorist?'

'Jawohl, the very same. Just let me get my feet, and I show you...'

'Not... not von Trapp the former KGB marksman and political agent?'

'Yes, this is me, now if I could just... grgh...'

Arthur's eyebrows lifted in a neat symetrical effect. 'Not...'

'No! No!'

'...not...'

'Don't say it!'

'...not that cute little kid from The Sound of Music?'

The hills were alive with the sound of German swearwords. High in the mountains, eagles scattered from their eyries and avalanches thundered down the vallies. Arthur grinned.

'Wow. How does a good kid go so bad?'

'It was all a long time ago!' growled the former child star. 'And what kind of childhood was it, anyway? On the run from the Nazis, and all your father can think of is getting his end off with the nanny... is it any wonder I am bitter?' With a sudden wrench of wiry strength he threw Arthur off him and shook his fist. 'You haven't seen the last of me, Agency pig-dog! The dying pilchard bleeds under a turquoise moon! Haha!'

Arthur had a blurred impression of movement, and then a handglider unfurled from beneath Von Trapp's suit and he was soaring away across the treetops, leaving the agent standing in the middle of the fairway. Arthur growled, cracked his neck and tapped his watch.

A voice richocheted of the high peaks as von Trapp sailed away. 'De hillz are alive viz the zound of — your doom! Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha!'

'HQ?' Arthur said. 'HQ. I need satellite tracking on a perp, airborne south of our location, over.'

At that moment, X rejoined his partner. 'He got away?'

'Yeah. He got away. He also knew we were Agency. Looks like you were right to be suspicious. There's something going on in this place and I want to know what it is.' Arthur left his partner staring up at von Trapp's receeding dot high in the air.

The evil Von Trapp circled a dense cospe of pine trees to evade his pursers. He began a graceful descent, passing low over the 18th back towards the clubhouse. As he neared the steeply-angled roofs, he twisted to the right and passed nimbly between them — the collapsible canopy of the hang-glider folded back up into the reclusive confines of his coat and he rolled to a
stop, stood up and brushed some snow off of his shoulders. Renewing his grip on the manacled suitcase, he marched briskly across the rooftop, picked the latch off one of the windows and crept into what turned out to be the broom cupboard. He again picked the lock and emerged into the corridor. Von Trapp knew the layout exactly; he'd memorised the topographical plan before setting out from Alpha Complex. He walked briskly into Vandeveer's office and noted with a sad air that he'd left the door to his secret lab open. He called up the lift and descended.

As the lift plummetted down, a series of lights passed ove von Trapp's face, reflecting in his cold, dead eyes. A small snarl curled his top lip and then vanished again. The 'ding' of his arrival brought him back from his internal soliloquy, and he emerged to see Vandeveer turn, panicked, to a much broader gentleman.

'My influence stretches farther than you know... now, where was I?'

'Does it?' asked von Trapp, stepping out from the shadows. Vandeveer turned toward the sound of the voice and appeared to be in the opening stages of a heart attack, gasping for air from the surprise.

Sreka looked sidelong at Vandeveer and the cell containing Sfret and back at the Kojak figure clutching the briefcase. 'Who's dis fella, den?' he asked, not prejudging the situation.

'I am Friedrich von Trapp and I am in charge of this operation from now on.'

The h2g2 Storytime III Archive

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