by John Gardner
The gates were open, and he swung the Fiat into the tight turning circle inside, cut the engine and got out. In front of him was a large and beautiful lily pond, bordered on the right by another gate which, in turn, led to steps overhung with vines and greenery. He could see the white dome of the villa above, and was halfway up the steps when a voice called—
‘Signor Bond?’
He shouted back an affirmative, and, as he reached the top, a young girl appeared. She was dressed in a tank top and jeans that were not so much cut-offs as rip-offs, making her look as though a pair of gorgeous legs had been grafted onto a small, exquisite body. Her face could only be described as cheeky. Dark eyes danced above a snub nose and wide smiling mouth, the whole topped by a bubbly black, tight-curled foam of hair.
She had come out of the big, sliding glass doors of the villa and now stood, smiling, by the poolside. In the palms and tropical fronds to her right a short, white statue of a young satyr thumbed its mouth and produced almost a mirror-image of the girl.
‘Signor Bond,’ she said again, the voice jolly and bright, ‘welcome to Villa Capricciani. I am Beatrice.’ She pronounced it with almost cassata-flavoured Italian – Beh-ah-Tre-che. ‘I am here to greet you. Also to look after you. I am the maid.’
Bond thought he would not like to bet on it, but strode onto the wide terrace which was covered with a green material so that in hot weather you would not barbecue the bare soles of your feet getting to the pool which was now empty and covered. The villas were never open in the winter, so he wondered how M had pulled off the renting of this one. The answer probably lay in a close, maybe secret, arrangement with the owner. M had highly-placed friends the world over, and, Bond suspected, was able to apply pressure when required by circumstances such as these.
As though reading his thoughts, Beatrice stretched out her hand and took his in an unexpectedly firm grasp. ‘The Signora is away. She go to Milano for the Natale. I remain here and guard the house and all the villas entirely.’
‘And I wonder if you guard them for BAST, also?’ Bond thought.
‘Come, I will show you.’ Beatrice gave his hand a short tug, like a child leading him into the villa, then stopped. ‘Ah, I forget. Already you know. You have before been here, yes?’
He smiled and nodded, following her into the big white room with arched ceiling and matching sofas and chairs, encased in cream covers. There were three glass-topped tables, four lamps with surrounds of white glass shaped like opening lilies, and four paintings – one in the style of Hockney, an unknown man leaning against the chrome surround of the pool; three others of various garden views which needed no explaining to Bond.
In spite of Beatrice’s realisation of the fact that he already knew the place, she continued to lead him around, almost at breakneck speed, showing off the three large bedrooms – ‘You will have trouble in making your mind which to use, huh? Or possibly you use them one at a time. Different each night. You are alone, huh? A pity. One different each night would be enjoyable.’ This last was followed by grandsire triples of laughter.
The villa was on one level, just the main room, with doors off to the three bedrooms, and a narrow passage – neatly contrived to store two refrigerators, food, china, pots, pans and cutlery – leading to the kitchen. The rear of the main room was arched and, in turn, led to the dining area: the whole beautifully furnished with a clever mix of old and new, each room taking on a style of its own. Behind the dining area you passed through a pair of french windows on to a second terrace, on the left of which, steps led up to a flat roof, converted into an open-sided room – simply a wood and rush roof, topped by a weathercock, supported by heavy wooden beams and furnished with a long refectory table, making an excellent dining area in summer. The view looked out towards the little white and grey town of Forio, with its ancient refurbished church of Our Lady of Succour, brilliant white, built with simple architectural lines, perched on the older grey stone projecting from the headland of Soccorso.
The rain had cleared, and there was a little winter sun which seemed to hit the church, tiny in the distance, then bounce off to sprinkle and glitter on the water. Bond looked back at the town, with its hills rising above, then returned his gaze to the promontory and the church.
‘Is beautiful, eh?’ Beatrice stood by his side. ‘This is for the help of fishermen; for all who sail. Our Lady of Soccorso takes care of them.’
‘We have a hymn,’ Bond unexpectedly heard himself say. ‘It is a prayer. “Oh hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea.” ’
‘Is good.’
She was standing close to him, and even in the chill of this winter day he could smell the sunshine on her. A sweetness that seemed to have been trapped in the strong hot weeks of summer, mingled with a scent he could not identify.
He turned and walked back, pausing by the steps to look at this incredible wonder which lay behind the villa.
At one time, the local people had thought the Signora – who, as Beatrice had said, was now in Milan – was mad. Widow of a great artist she had bought this land: barren rock. She had arranged for some of it to be blasted away, shaping it into a kind of amphitheatre. Hard against the side of the rock she had then built a large villa which looked like a grey buttressed fortress. The four small villas which she rented out in the summer were converted from old structures, once shepherds’ huts and barns. But her greatest achievement had been the garden which was reflected in some of the pictures back in the Villa Capricciani.
She had gathered together men who loved growing things, as she did, and, with immense toil and frustration had built this incredible, beautiful place full of cyprus, palm, mountain flowers, flowering shrubs and bushes, shaded walks, ponds and fountains, water tricks which would hurl liquid into great archways over paths, or imitate a mountain stream pouring endlessly from bare rock into a blue pool from whence it was recycled to create the illusion of constant moving water. The ponds were peopled by small turtles and goldfish, and even in winter there was colour from hardy plants. All year round there was some form of natural colour, and the beauty of this place stayed in Bond’s memory. Once seen, the garden lived with you, as though it had been implanted in your mind through some magic of its own creation.
He looked up along the stone-encrusted ridge at the far end of the great scooped rock, and allowed his eyes to trace their way along the zig-zag of paths and walks, the trees and bushes bent, growing at angles determined by the harsh winds of winter. Indeed, this was a work of great love and dedication. The local people had long since come to understand that the Signora should be treated with awe and reverence.
‘Is a great genius, the Signora,’ Beatrice said, as though speaking of a saint.
‘An amazing lady.’ Bond smiled at her, standing to one side to allow the girl to descend first, as he looked down at the rear terrace. Since the moment they had met by the pool he had been careful to keep Beatrice in view. Even when she had come close to him on the open, covered roof-top, he had made sure his body had always been turned towards her with one hand braced, stiff and tense, to be used as a cutting edge should she make a wrong move. For all he knew, the effervescent Beatrice could well be the Cat, Saphii Boudai, or at least one of her messengers.
Once back in the house, she said she would light the stove. ‘It will become cold tonight, and I do not wish an invalid on my hands.’ She gave him a sideways glance as though to imply that she would not mind him on her hands if he were fit and willing.
Bond merely smiled and said he would go down to the car and get his luggage. ‘Have you the keys?’ he asked. ‘I should lock the gates.’
‘Of course. They are in the kitchen. In their usual place.’ A pause of four or five heartbeats, then, ‘Everything is in the kitchen as you expect.’ Another pause, slightly shorter. ‘Everything, Signor Bond.’
‘Call me James,’ he threw back over his shoulder. If she was on the side of the devils and not the angels, it would be best to meet her o
n Christian name terms. They said that knowing the name of devil or angel always put you at the advantage.
The bunch of seven or eight keys lay on the free-standing kitchen unit. They were attached to a penlight key-ring and looked as though they had just been tossed onto the work-top, even though the smallest key stuck out separately and was aligned with the edge of the unit. He picked the whole lot up by the small key, inserting it into the lock on the drawer just below the point where the bunch had been lying. It turned easily.
Inside the drawer lay one 9mm Browning automatic and three spare ammunition clips. The action moved slickly, well oiled, and showed there was a round in the chamber. Later he would strip the weapon down and go through it piece by piece. ‘There’ll be a pistol in the locked kitchen drawer,’ M had said. Had Beatrice put it there? Or had she merely been inquisitive and found the secret?
Bond hefted the pistol in his hand. The weight seemed right for a fully loaded weapon. The spare magazines also appeared to be correct, but he knew weapons and ammunition could easily be doctored to feel right. If that happened, then the last thing you ever knew was that someone had been clever, spiked the firing-pin, mechanism, or even the rounds.
For the time being he simply had to trust, slipping the spare magazines into the pockets of his windcheater, putting the Browning’s safety to ‘on’, and pushing it into his waistband, far to the left so that it was hidden, then pulling the butt down so that the muzzle was screwed to the left. This was always advisable. Movie cops and agents so often jammed a pistol straight into the waistband, risking a shot foot, or worse – ‘testicide’ as one leathery weapons instructor had called it.
He locked the drawer again and went out of the kitchen door, which contained a glass panel. On his way down, he went through the whole catastrophe of the Villa Capricciani’s security. The main gates, and the gate at the foot of the steps, could be taken out quickly enough, either by scaling, or the use of a lock-gun. The pair of sliding doors which led from the villa to the front terrace would be a noisy job, but could be accomplished quickly. The kitchen door was simplicity, particularly with the one pane of glass, while the rear french windows offered easy access using a jemmy. Ninety seconds at the most for any of them, he reckoned as he secured the bolts on the main gate, and took his heavy case from the car.
He locked the second gate behind him and went up the stairs and in through the main sliding doors. Beatrice was standing by the telephone, checking the meter which would monitor all outgoing calls. She looked up and gave him her cheeky smile, reading off the numbers and asking him to agree them.
‘Now, I show you what food is here.’ Another smile as she led him towards the kitchen. ‘You found all you needed?’ Over her shoulder with eye contact and the same smile.
Bond nodded. She loves me? She loves me not?
She opened the refrigerator with a flourish, and began to reel off all the provisions she had bought. Chicken, veal, eggs, butter, cheese, milk, three bottles of wine, bacon, sausage, paté, pasta. In the other small fridge set into the opposite units of cupboards and drawers there were vegetables.
‘Is enough until tomorrow?’
‘Only if I’ve got an army staying overnight.’
‘Tomorrow is last proper shopping before Natale.’ Tomorrow was Saturday and Christmas Eve.
‘Yes,’ Bond mused. ‘Christmas is a’coming and the goose is getting fat . . .’
‘You wish for goose?’
He shook his head. ‘Old English children’s rhyme. No, Beatrice, I don’t know how I’ll celebrate Christmas – Natale.’
‘In England you have snow, yes?’
‘Usually only on the Christmas cards. We gather the whole family together, give each other unsuitable gifts, and eat ourselves stupid. Turkey, as a rule. I do not like turkey.’ He looked at her hard and asked how she would be spending Christmas.
‘At the big villa. On my own. I told you. I am in charge. Umberto and Franco, two of the gardeners, will come in to see all is well, and maybe one of the young girls we have to help when the villas are all occupied, or the Signora is at home, will call to see me.’
‘Well, I’ll probably drive into Forio and buy some kind of special feast we can share. How about that?’ If she were a devil, then at least he would know where she was; if an angel, it would not matter.
‘This is good, Signor Bond – James. This I would like.’
‘Okay.’ He found the dark eyes disconcerting, for they locked onto his like radar.
‘Now I must go back to the house. The big villa. La Signora, she telephones me each day. In . . .’ her slim wrist came up showing her watch. ‘In about fifteen minutes. I must be there always for her. Otherwise is lot of shouting over the telephone. Is not good.’
Bond saw she was wearing a very functional wrist-watch. Black metal, with all the bells and whistles Middle Eastern airline pilots liked on their chronometers.
Beatrice paused by the doors leading to the rear terrace. ‘Look, James. I make good cannelloni. How if I come down tonight and cook for you?’
The temptation went in and out of Bond’s mind in the time it takes for an expert to slit a throat. He smiled and shook his head. ‘Very kind of you, Beatrice. Perhaps tomorrow. I’m tired and want to make it an early night. Need the rest. You know, light meal and bed with a good book.’
‘You’re missing one of the great delights of Ischia,’ she said, the cheekiness in both face and voice.
‘I’ll make up for it.’ But, by the time he said it, she had disappeared. All that remained was the soft patter of her shoes on the path leading back to the main villa.
He chose the bedroom at the back of the house: the one furthest away from any of the doors and windows. It was large with a big, old-fashioned wooden bed, built-in closets fitted with doors and interiors that had once belonged to a pair of beautiful old wardrobes. There was a complicated icon facing the bed – elongated figures, a fussy combination of faith and philosophy that showed the Trinity surrounded by saints and angels. It looked like a genuine product of the Stroganov school, but who would know? A doctor friend of Bond’s could have knocked a similar piece off in a matter of weeks, then aged it over twelve months and nobody but an advanced expert would have known.
He hung up the one suit and two spare pairs of slacks, carefully put the shirts, socks and other items in the drawers which formed one side of each cupboard and laid out the short towelling robe he had brought with him. Lastly he casually threw a heavy roll-neck sweater onto the bed, placed a little leather-cased toolkit on the night table, then went into the main room to the telephone.
The number in England picked up on the third ring. ‘Predator,’ said Bond.
‘Hellkin,’ the voice was clear from the distant line. ‘Repeat. Hellkin.’
‘Acknowledge.’ Bond put down the receiver. ‘We will give what cover we can,’ M had said. ‘There will be a daily password so that everyone knows what’s what.’ The instructions were that Bond should telephone on arrival. After that he would call at a similar time every twenty-four hours. The word of the day would be given, and that would last until the next contact. ‘Don’t want our own people getting shot up,’ M had said as though he did not give a damn who got shot up.
In the kitchen, Bond prepared a light meal: a four-egg omelette with a tomato salad. He ate alone, there in the kitchen and confined his drinking to three glasses of the red wine Beatrice had provided. The label said it was a Vino Gran Caruso and he did not doubt it for a minute. He even toyed with the idea of taking a fourth glass, but in view of his situation he left it at three.
After the meal, he went around the entire villa to make certain every lock was applied, every bolt closed, and all curtains drawn. Then he sat in the main room, with the toolkit beside him, and stripped the automatic, examining each part before reassembling it. Then, carefully using two pairs of pliers, he removed the bullets from four rounds of ammunition, each taken at random from the four magazines. Once he checked that t
hey were the real thing Bond disposed of the mutilated shells, filled one magazine and slammed it into the Browning’s butt, cocking the mechanism before readjusting the other clips – one full, the other two with a couple of rounds short.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time he was ready for the next move. In the bathroom he showered, then changed into the thick roll-neck, heavy cord slacks, and a pair of soft black moccasins. He strapped on a leather shoulder-holster from the bottom of his case, then shrugged on his windcheater before sliding the Browning in place, and distributing the spare magazines around his pockets. It was not, he considered, going to be the most comfortable Christmas week he had ever spent.
Finally, Bond moved from room to room, starting in the kitchen, altering the furniture, placing it against doors and near window-entry points before strewing bottles and cans from the kitchen like mines across the floor. He worked back towards his bedroom so that anyone who managed to gain entrance would have to use a torch or cause a great deal of noise. Even with a torch, a trained man would have problems in not bumping against, or falling over, one of the obstacles. He stretched strings between chairs, tying them to pots and pans. He even fitted simple booby-traps of pans, plastic buckets and cooking utensils near doors or the smaller windows.
He then arranged the pillows in the bed, so that the impression to any intruder would be that he was quietly sleeping. It was a very old dodge, but one that worked efficiently on an assassin doing a quick in-and-out job. Lastly, Bond pulled a sleeping-bag from the bottom of his case and, still moving furniture and scattering traps, he put out the lights, carefully heading towards the french windows which led from the dining-room to the rear terrace.
