Win, Lose or Die

by John Gardner

  The sky was clear outside, and the moon not fully up as yet. Silently he closed and locked the windows, making his way slowly and without a sound, to the covered roof-top. The night air stung his face with cold, but, once zipped snug inside the sleeping-bag, set close to the wall near the steps, James Bond closed his eyes and drifted into a light sleep.

  Sleep, for Bond, was always shallow: it came with the job. When he woke it was suddenly, his eyes snapping open, all senses alert, ears straining for sounds. Certainly there was a soft noise, a scraping coming from below, near the french windows.

  He quietly unzipped himself from the sleeping-bag, rolled away and stood up, Browning out and ready with the safety off – all in a matter of thirty or forty seconds. Crouching, he peered over the parapet at the top of the open steps leading to the rear terrace.

  The moon was sinking, but still gave him enough light to see the figure, kneeling and examining the lock.

  Hardly breathing, he inched towards the steps. Below, the figure rose and he could see the intruder’s shape and form coming up from the kneeling position, straightening and turning carefully. There was a weapon in the crouching figure’s hand, an automatic pistol, held with both hands, as the person moved with the proficiency of an expert.

  As she turned, Bond stood up, arms stretched out, grasping his own pistol, feet apart in the classic stance.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Beatrice,’ he said loudly. ‘Just drop the gun and kick it away.’

  The figure below turned sharply, giving a sudden little gasp.

  ‘Do as I say! Now!’ Bond commanded.

  7

  HELLKIN

  She did not drop the pistol, but threw it into the bushes so that it made no noise.

  ‘James. Hellkin,’ she whispered. ‘Hellkin. There’s someone in the grounds.’

  Her voice, Bond thought, had lost its broad accent, and she had given him the code, obeyed his orders, but with the care of one who wishes to avoid noise that might just be heard by some third person. He came down the steps quickly, keeping his back to the wall. ‘Hellkin’ was enough for him.

  ‘What did you see or hear?’ He was close to her, whispering in her ear.

  ‘A torch. A light. Down by the second gate. Five minutes ago. I came straight away.’

  ‘You saw it from where?’

  ‘The main villa. I was on watch: the balcony at the top.’

  ‘Find your pistol.’ Bond cocked his head in the direction of the bushes. ‘Then follow me down and cover me.’

  She dropped to her knees and then flattened her body, squirming into the undergrowth while Bond kept his back to the french windows, standing stock still, waiting for her. Hellkin, he thought. She was on the side of the angels but the intellectuals who still chose cryptos and code names in London were being clever-clever. He seemed to recall that Hellkin was one of the twelve fork-bearing lesser demons of Dante’s Inferno. Hellkin – Alchino, the Allurer. Well, Beh-ah-Tree-che was certainly alluring.

  She was back with him now, holding up a Browning similar to his.

  ‘Cover me,’ he whispered again as he moved along the wall, flattening himself at the corner, then going around it fast, pistol up ready to take out anyone skulking near the kitchen door.

  Nobody. He moved on along the wall, back flat to the stucco again, glancing behind to see that Beatrice was following. He could make out the dark shape against the white wall, inching forward, hands locked around the pistol, elbows bent so that the weapon came level with her forehead.

  The next turning of the wall would bring them to the front of the villa: to the terrace and winter-covered pool. Bond threw himself forward, rolled across the tarmac, arms stretched out and pistol at the ready.

  He saw the movement close to the gate at the foot of the steps and shouted, ‘Halt! Halt, we’re armed.’

  Whoever was on the other side of the gate imagined they were in with a chance, for two bullets ripped through the water lilies and palms, gouging hunks out of the green floor covering of the terrace, all a little close to Bond for comfort. He could see nothing now, but heard the quick double bark of Beatrice’s Browning and a cry, like an animal mewing with pain.

  Bond spun around just in time to see Beatrice come pounding out of the shadows in pursuit of whoever had been hit on the other side of the gate. He shouted to her to stop, seeing the dangers that could lurk below the steps. They would not simply send one man to deal with him. Unless he was greatly mistaken, a whole hit team would be operational and, if anything, Beatrice had probably winged the locksmith who had not even got through the single, second, gate.

  He followed her, trying to keep close to the wall in the darkness, wincing in anticipation of the fatal burst of machine-gun fire that would surely come at any moment. Somewhere from outside, a fair way off, he heard the stutter of a car ignition, then the grind of gears.

  Beatrice had reached the gate without any further shots coming out of the night, turning her head and calling, low-voiced, ‘The keys, James. You have the keys.’

  He already had them out on the penlight ring in his left hand, running his fingers through them to select the key to the inner gate.

  Beatrice had stopped with her back to the wall, trying to find cover in the slim stem of a vine as Bond passed her, fumbling with the keys. It took around twenty seconds which seemed like an hour, but, when the key turned, there was Beatrice at his back, preparing to give covering fire.

  Nobody. No movement. No sudden fire slashing through the night. Only wet spots of blood around the gate, showing dark, like oil, in the small beam from the penlight.

  They spread out, Bond moving left to the car, the girl to the right, crouching and ready, heading for the main gates.

  It took thirty seconds to give the Fiat a perfunctory going over. It was locked and untouched. They both reached the gates, and saw that they had been breached with a lock-pistol, the bolt of which had smashed out the flat oblong mechanism, as it was propelled at high speed by a carbon dioxide cartridge.

  Together they even ventured into the road, Bond crossing first while Beatrice covered him. For ten minutes or so they offered themselves as targets. Nothing. Had the team been frightened off so easily? To the girl he said they should try and secure the gate. She nodded, ‘I have a chain and padlock. I’ll get them now.’ She moved quickly back into the turning circle within the gates, and sped up the steps towards the villa.

  Bond looked over the Fiat again, then leaned against the wall. Why all this trouble for me? he asked himself. Certainly the supposedly undercover job on Invincible had responsibilities. But taking out one man, himself, would make no lasting difference: someone would take his place. He recalled M’s words about their intelligence-gathering. ‘They imagine you’re unique,’ the Old Man had said. ‘They think your presence on Invincible is very bad medicine for them.’ M had made a sarcastic one-note laugh. ‘I suppose BAST and its leaders are your fan club, 007. You should send them an autographed picture.’

  Bond shrugged in the dark. That was not the point. He was the stalking-horse, the tethered goat who might bring BAST to him. It was a pity they had obviously managed to spirit away the member of the team Beatrice had winged. But it was thorough thinking on their part. There was plenty of time and it would be best to move one injured man or woman to safety before they tried again. Later tonight – or morning as it was now? He looked at his watch. Three-thirty on a cold and dangerous morning, and all was not well.

  He heard Beatrice come down the steps, two at a time, but wonderfully light on her feet.

  Together they wrapped the chain around the gates, securing the ground bolts which went into metal and concrete holes, then clicking the large, strong padlock into place. A last look around and they turned back, through the second gate, which Bond locked, and went around the villa to the rear terrace.

  ‘I’ll make coffee.’ Her tone had something about it that you did not argue with, so he unlocked the rear windows, and let her go in first.
When he turned the lights on she said something about the place looking as though gypsies had been camping there. ‘You were being pretty thorough. Anyone coming in here would have made quite a din.’

  ‘That was the general idea,’ Bond smiled. ‘I didn’t know I had a bodyguard so close. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Not in my brief,’ she said, almost curtly and in perfect English.

  ‘I owe you my life.’

  ‘Then you owe me mine.’ She turned, smiling, putting the pistol down on one of the tables. ‘How can you ever repay me?’

  ‘We’ll think of some way.’ Bond’s mouth was only inches from hers. He hovered, then turned away. ‘Coffee,’ he said. ‘We must stay alert, they could be back.’

  ‘It’ll be light soon,’ Beatrice said, busying herself in the kitchen. ‘I doubt they’ll return in the daytime.’

  ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘That you’re here, and that there’s a contract out on you.’

  ‘And how much do you know about contracts?’

  ‘I’m fully trained.’

  ‘That’s not the answer. I asked how much do you know about contracts?’

  ‘I know it’s some crazy terrorist organisation called BAST. And I’ve been told that they know where to find you, that they’ll go to great lengths . . .’

  ‘Suicidal lengths, Beatrice. That’s why we shouldn’t restrict ourselves. They can try to get me on the street, or here, by day or night. I’m the magnet, they are the iron filings. We want one of them. Alive if possible. So, we have to keep our guards up twenty-four hours a day.’

  She remained silent for the few minutes it took her to pour boiling water over the freshly ground coffee in the tall cafetière, adjust the lid and push down on the plunger. ‘Are you intimidated, James?’ Her eyes did not move from the coffee-pot.

  ‘How intimidated?’

  ‘Because you were given a woman bodyguard.’

  Bond laughed, ‘Far from it. Why do some women automatically think that people in our trade are anti-feminist? Well-trained women are sometimes better than men in situations like this. You nearly took one of them out tonight. I didn’t get near. You were also quicker than I. No. Not guilty to being intimidated.’

  ‘Good.’ She raised her head, the dark eyes flashing with something which could have been either pride or power. ‘Good. Because you’re in my charge. I’m the boss, and you do as I say. Understand?’

  The smile disappeared from Bond’s face. ‘I have no orders. Just act naturally, they said. We’ll have someone watching out for you, they said.’

  ‘And that someone is me.’ Beatrice was pouring the coffee. ‘Black? Good. Sugar?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wise choice. If you’re worried about taking orders from a woman, why don’t you telephone London. Give them the day’s code for me and they’ll tell you.’ Her eyes met his again and this time they locked. For half a dozen heartbeats it seemed to be a battle of wills. Then Bond nodded curtly and crossed the room to the telephone. He could not speak in clear language, but there were enough double-talk phrases for him to get at the truth.

  They picked up on the third ring. ‘Predator for Sunray.’ His anger betrayed itself in his clipped tone. He took field orders from M; or, when necessary, Bill Tanner. For Beatrice to reveal that she, as his bodyguard, was in charge scraped at the nerve-ends of his considerable pride.

  A second later a voice – that of the Duty Officer – said, ‘Sunray. Yes?’

  ‘Contact with Boxcar.’ This last was an agreed running cipher for BAST.

  ‘Serious?’ the DO asked.

  ‘Serious enough. Also contact with Hellkin.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Request order of battle, Sunray.’

  ‘Hellkin leads. You follow, Predator.’

  ‘Thank you, Sunray.’ Bond’s face was stiff with anger, but turned away from Beatrice as he recradled the telephone. He shrugged, ‘It appears you’re right.’ He rearranged his face, ‘So, Beatrice Hellkin, what’re your orders?’

  She nodded toward the large mug placed on the table in front of him. ‘First, drink your coffee.’ She was sitting on one of the big chairs, her body stretched back and a pleasant, friendly smile playing around her lips. She was dressed in black jeans and roll-neck, an ensemble that was practical and accentuated her figure. The jeans were tight, clinging to her long legs, while the roll-neck showed off her breasts, small and firm against the cotton.

  ‘So, you don’t think they’ll have another go today?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not here. We should watch it when we go out.’

  ‘Go out?’

  ‘Weren’t you going to get food as a nice surprise for Christmas?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Natale, yes. What happened to the Italian accent, Beatrice?’ Almost sarcastically he pronounced it Beh-ah-Tree-che.

  ‘Is gone.’

  ‘I noticed. So what’re your orders?’

  ‘I think we should rest. Then go and do the shopping – behave normally. They might well try while we’re out and about, but I must make a telephone call to get those damned gates fixed. I also think we should bring in the dogs.’

  ‘Dogs?’

  ‘We’ve got two pairs of Rottweilers at our disposal. They’re as vicious as they come, and we can let them loose at night.’

  ‘You’re well-organised as a bodyguard. How long have you worked for La Signora?’

  She gave an amused little sniff. ‘Forty-eight hours. The Chief has some big pull with her. She’s a pretty well-connected lady, but she moved out for Christmas as a favour to M. She also moved her staff out. The couple of guys I mentioned – Franco and Umberto – are extra heavy help. They were around when we had that little brush with the BAST team, but they’re only for support if things get really tricky.’ Franco and Umberto were at the main villa, she said. ‘That’s why you can rest easy. I’ll alert them now. They can watch until we’re ready to go shopping.’

  She rose, in a series of very attractive moves, and walked slowly to the telephone. Her conversation was short, to the point and in Italian. The two men should take over the watch and the dogs should only be fed the minimum this morning. They would be let out tonight. In the meantime, would Franco go down and secure the main gates. New lock and, yes, ‘put a screamer on it’.

  She left the telephone and paused behind Bond’s chair. ‘See, I am efficient.’

  ‘Didn’t doubt it for a minute.’

  She slid forward and sat on the arm of the chair. Once again Bond smelled that mixture of dry summer and the scent he could not identify. ‘I still think you don’t like having a woman in charge.’

  ‘What’s your real name?’ He disregarded her observation.

  ‘Like I told you. Beatrice,’ she pronounced it the Italian way.

  ‘I believe you, but what else? I mean you’re not Dante’s angel, Beatrice. You have other names?’

  She giggled. ‘They told me you were just a blunt, well-trained instrument. A hunk. Now you’re talking literature and poetry. Full name, Beatrice Maria da Ricci. Italian father, English mother. Educated Benenden and Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford. Father in Italian Foreign Service. When their marriage broke up, I was handed over to Mama, who was a lush.’

  ‘You’re pretty luscious yourself.’

  ‘That’s not funny,’ she bridled. ‘Have you ever had to live with a lush? It just isn’t amusing.’

  ‘I apologise Ms da Ricci.’ There was no side-stepping her anger.

  ‘Okay, I’m touchy about it. I read modern languages, and took the Foreign Office examination . . .’

  ‘And failed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t tell me: a man comes around and says that perhaps they can offer you a job within the Foreign Office, and before you know it, you’re mixed up with all the paraphernalia of espionage.’

  She nodded, ‘More or less, but they wanted me for languages. I took another degree in computer sciences and found myself in Santa’s Gro
tto.’

  Bond nodded. In the basement, below the underground parking at that building overlooking Regent’s Park, there was a great sterile computer room they all called Santa’s Grotto. With the advent of the microchip the old Registry had been relegated to a smaller area and people were constantly transferring the paperwork onto a series of giant databases. Rumour had it that all the work would not be completed from past files until the year 2009, or thereabouts, as the crow flies. ‘Then they remembered you had languages,’ he filled in.

  ‘Partly. I got sinus trouble from the air-conditioning.’

  ‘Better than a touch of Legionnaires’ Disease.’

  ‘I asked for a transfer to the real world.’

  ‘No such thing in our business. We’re T S Eliot’s “Hollow Men”; we are also rust-stained dinosaurs. Our day has come, and gone. I give us a decade more. After that, well we could be sitting in front of computer terminals all day and most of the night. It’s known as the invasion of the killer tomatoes syndrome.’

  She nodded gravely. ‘Yes, the days of the Great Game are numbered.’

  ‘The years are numbered. We’re not down to days yet. But, Beatrice Maria da Ricci, which is a classy sort of name anyway, how did a nice girl like you end up in a sordid bullet-catcher’s job like this?’

  She leaned over him, her face a few inches from his. ‘Because I am very good at it, and part of my job, James Bond, is to keep you relaxed and happy.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Their mouths met. Not simply lips brushing, or doing all the things graphically described in romantic novels or those historical things known in the trade as ‘bodice rippers’. This was real mouth-to-mouth resuscitation of other emotions. After a minute their bodies and hands also moved, and five minutes later Beatrice said, with a husky dryness that matched the delightful smell of her, ‘Would you like to lie down with me, Mr Bond?’