Nobody Lives for Ever

by John Gardner

  ‘Department Eight of Directorate S: KGB,’ Bond snapped.

  Quinn went on as though he had not heard: ‘. . . Then practically every known terrorist organisation, from the old Red Brigade to the Puerto Rican FALN – the Armed Forces for National Liberation. With ten million Swiss francs as the star prize you’ve attracted a lot of attention.’

  ‘You mentioned the underworld.’

  ‘Of course – British, French, German, at least three Mafia Families and, I fear, the Union Corse. Since the demise of your ally, Marc-Ange Draco, they’ve been less than helpful . . .’

  ‘All right!’ Bond stopped him sharply.

  Steve Quinn lifted his large body from the chair. There was none of the visible effort that might be expected from a man of his size, just a fast movement, a second between his being seated and standing, with one large hand on Bond’s shoulder. ‘Yes. Yes, I know, this is going to be a bitch.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s one more thing you ought to know about Head Hunt . . .’

  Bond shook off the hand. Quinn had been tactless in reminding him of the special relationship he had once nurtured between the Service and the Union Corse, an organisation that could be even more deadly than the Mafia. Bond’s contacts with the Union Corse had led to his marriage, followed quickly by the death of his bride, Marc-Ange Draco’s daughter.

  ‘What other thing?’ he snapped. ‘You’ve made it plain I can’t trust anybody. Can I even trust you?’

  With a sense of disgust, Bond recognised the truth of the last remark. He could trust nobody, not even Steve Quinn, the Service’s man in Rome.

  ‘It’s to do with SPECTRE’S rules for Head Hunt.’ Quinn’s face was expressionless. ‘The contenders are restricted to putting one man in the field – one only. The latest information is that already four have died violently, within the past twenty-four hours – one of them only a few hundred metres from where we’re sitting.’

  ‘Tempel, Cordova and a couple of thugs on the Ostend ferry.’

  ‘Right. The ferry passengers were representatives from two London gangs – South London and the West End. Tempel had links with the Red Army Faction. He was an underworld-trained hood and a barroom politician trying for the rich pickings in the politics of terrorism. Paul Cordova you know about.’

  All four, Bond thought, had been very close indeed when they were murdered. What were the odds on that being a coincidence? Aloud, he asked Quinn what M’s orders were.

  ‘You’re to get back to London as quickly as you can. We haven’t the manpower available to look after you loose on the Continent. My own people will see you to the nearest airport and then take care of the car . . .’

  ‘No.’ Bond spat the word. ‘I’ll get the car back. Nobody else is going to take care of it for me – right?’

  Quinn shrugged. ‘Your funeral. You’re vulnerable in that car.’

  Bond was already moving about the room finishing his packing, yet all the time his senses were centred on Quinn. Trust nobody: right, he would not even trust this man.

  ‘Your boys?’ he said. ‘Give me a rundown.’

  ‘They’re out there. Look for yourself.’ Quinn nodded in the direction of the window. He crossed to the long shutters and peered through the louvred slats. Bond placed himself just behind the big man.

  ‘There,’ said Quinn, ‘the one standing by the rocks, in the blue shirt. The other’s in the silver Renault parked at the end of the row of cars.’

  It was a Renault 25 V6i, not Bond’s favourite kind of car. If he played his cards properly he could outrun that pair with ease.

  ‘I want information on one other person,’ he said as he stepped back into the centre of the room, ‘an English girl with an Italian title . . .’

  ‘Tempesta?’ There was a sneer on Quinn’s lips.

  Bond nodded.

  ‘M doesn’t think she’s part of the game, though she could be bait. He says you should take care. His words were “Exercise caution.” She’s around, I gather.’

  ‘Very much so. I’ve promised to give her a lift to Rome.’

  ‘Dump her!’

  ‘We’ll see. Okay, Quinn, if that’s all you have for me, I’ll sort out my route home. It could be scenic.’

  Quinn nodded and stuck out his hand, which Bond ignored. ‘Good luck. You’re going to need it.’

  ‘I don’t altogether believe in luck. Ultimately I believe in only one thing – myself.’

  Quinn frowned, nodded and left Bond to make his final preparations. Speed was essential, but his main concern at this moment was what he should do about Sukie Tempesta. She was there, an unknown quantity, yet he felt she could be used somehow. As a hostage, perhaps? The Principessa Tempesta would make an adequate hostage, a shield even, if he felt sufficiently ruthless. As though by telepathy, the telephone rang and Sukie’s mellow voice came on the line.

  ‘I was wondering what time you wanted to leave, James?’

  ‘Whenever it suits you. I’m almost ready.’

  She laughed, and the harshness seemed to have gone. ‘I’ve nearly finished packing. I’ll be fifteen minutes at the most. Do you want to eat here before we leave?’

  Bond said he’d prefer to stop somewhere on the way, if she did not mind. ‘Look, Sukie, I’ve got a small problem. It might involve a slight detour. May I come and talk to you before we go?’

  ‘In my room?’

  ‘It would be better.’

  ‘It could also cause a small scandal for a well brought up convent girl.’

  ‘I can promise you there’ll be no scandal. Shall we say ten minutes time?’

  ‘If you insist.’ She was not being unpleasant, just a little more formal than before.

  ‘It is rather important. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

  Hardly had he put down the telephone and snapped the locks on his case, when it rang again.

  ‘Mr Bond?’ He recognised the booming voice of Doktor Kirchtum, Direktor of the Klinik Mozart. He seemed to have lost some of his ebullience.

  ‘Herr Direktor?’ Bond heard the note of anxiety in his own tone.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bond. It is not good news . . .’

  ‘May!’

  ‘Your patient, Mr Bond. She is vanished. The police are here with me now. I’m sorry not to have made contact sooner. But she is vanished with the friend who visited yesterday, the Moneypenny lady. There has been a telephone call and the police wish to speak to you. She has been, how do you say it? Napped . . .’

  ‘Kidnapped? May kidnapped, and Moneypenny?’

  A thousand thoughts went through his head, but only one made sense. Someone had done his homework very well. May’s kidnapping could just possibly have been associated with Moneypenny’s, who was always a prime target. What was more probable, however, was that one of the Head Hunt contenders wanted Bond under close observation, and how better than to lead him in a search for May and Moneypenny?

  5

  NANNIE

  All things considered, Bond thought, Sukie Tempesta showed that she was an uncommonly cool lady. He dropped the Happi-coat on to the bed, ready to pack later, and caught sight of his naked body in the long mirror. What he saw pleased him, not in any vain way, but because of his obvious fitness: the taut muscles of his thighs and calves, and the bulge of his biceps.

  He had showered and shaved before Quinn’s arrival, and now he dressed as he worked out a viable plan to deal with Sukie. He put on casual slacks, his favourite soft leather moccasins and a Sea Island cotton shirt. To hide the 9mm ASP, he threw on a battledress-style grey Oscar Jacobson Alcantara jacket. He placed his case and the two briefcases near the door, checked the gun, and went quickly downstairs, where he settled both his own and Sukie’s accounts. He then went straight up to her room.

  Sukie’s Gucci luggage stood in a neat line near the door, which she opened to his knock. She was back in the Calvin Klein jeans, this time with a black silk shirt which looked to Bond like Christian Dior.

  Gently he pushed her back into t
he room. She did not protest, but said simply that she was ready to leave. Bond’s face was set in a serious mask, which made her ask, ‘James, what is it? Something’s really wrong, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sukie. Yes. Very serious for me, and it could be dangerous for you too.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘I have to do certain things you might not like. You see, I’ve been threatened . . .’

  ‘Threatened? How threatened?’ She continued to back away.

  ‘I can’t go into details now, but it’s clear to me – and – others that there’s a possibility you could be involved.’

  ‘Me? Involved with what, James? Threatening you?’

  ‘It is a serious business, Sukie. My life’s at risk, and we met in rather dubious circumstances . . .’

  ‘Oh? What was dubious about it? Except for those unpleasant young muggers?’

  ‘It seemed as though I came along at a fortunate moment, and that I saved you from some unpleasantness. Then your car breaks down, conveniently near where I’m staying. I offer you a lift to Rome. Some might see it as a set-up, with me as the target.’

  ‘But I don’t . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, I . . .’

  ‘You can’t take me to Rome?’ Her voice was level. ‘I understand, James. Don’t worry about it, I’ll find some way, but it does present me with a little problem of my own . . .’

  ‘Oh, you’re coming with me, maybe even to Rome eventually. I have no alternative. I have to take you, even if it’s as a hostage. I must have a little insurance with me. You’ll be my policy.’

  He paused, letting it sink in, then, to his surprise, she smiled and said, ‘Well, I’ve never been a hostage before. It’ll be a new experience.’

  She looked down and saw the gun in his hand.

  ‘Oh, James! Melodrama? You don’t need that. I’m on a kind of holiday anyway. I really don’t mind being your hostage, if it’s necessary.’ She paused, her face registering a fascinated pleasure. ‘It could even be exciting, and I’m all for excitement.’

  ‘The kind of people I’m up against are about as exciting as tarantulas, and lethal as sidewinders. I hope what’s going to happen now isn’t going to be too nasty for you, Sukie, but I have no other option. I promise you this is no game. You’re to do everything I say, and do it very slowly. I’m afraid I have to ask you to turn around – right around – with your hands on your head.’

  He was looking for both a makeshift weapon and one more cunningly concealed. Sukie wore a small cameo brooch at the neck of her shirt. He made her unpin the brooch and throw it gently on to the bed, where her shoulder bag lay. Then he told her to take off her shoes.

  He kept the cameo; it looked safe, but he knew technicians could do nasty things with brooch pins. He performed the entire examination deftly with one hand, while he held the ASP well back in the other. The shoes were clean, as was her belt. He apologised for the indignity, but her clothes, and person, were the first priorities. If she carried nothing suspicious he could deal with the luggage later, making sure it was kept out of harm’s way until they stopped somewhere. He emptied the shoulder bag on to the bed. The usual feminine paraphernalia spilled out over the white duvet – including a cheque book, diary, credit cards, cash, tissues, comb, a small bottle of pills, crumpled Amex and Visa receipts, a small Cacharel Anaïs Anaïs spray, lipstick and a gold compact.

  He kept the comb, some book matches, a small sewing kit from the Plaza Athénée, the scent spray, lipstick and compact. The comb, book matches and sewing kit were immediately adaptable weapons for close-quarter work. The spray, lipstick and compact needed further inspection. In his time Bond had known scent sprays to contain liquids more deadly than even the most repellent scent, lipsticks to house razor-sharp curved blades, propellants of one kind or another, even hypodermic syringes, and powder compacts that were miniature radios, or worse.

  Sukie was more embarrassed than angry about having to strip. Her body was the colour of rich creamed coffee, smooth and regular, the kind of tan you can get only through patience, the right lotions, a correct regimen of sun, and nudity. It was the sort of body that men dreamed of finding alive and wriggling in their beds.

  Bond went through the jeans and shirt, making sure there was nothing inserted into linings or stitching. When he was satisfied, he apologised again, told her to get dressed and then call the concierge. She was to use his exact words, saying that the luggage was ready in her room and in Mr Bond’s. It was to be taken straight to Mr Bond’s car.

  Sukie did as she was told. As she put down the receiver, she gave a little shake of the head. ‘I’ll do exactly what you tell me, James. You’re obviously desperate, and you’re also undoubtedly a professional of some kind. I’m not a fool. I like you. I’ll do anything, within reason, but I too have a problem.’ Her voice shook slightly, as though the whole experience had unnerved her.

  Bond nodded, indicating that she should tell him her problem.

  ‘I’ve an old school friend in Cannobio, just along the coast . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know Cannobio, a one-horse Italian holiday resort. Picturesque in a touristy kind of way. Not far.’

  ‘I’m afraid I told her we’d pick her up on our way through. I was meant to meet her last night. She’s waiting at that rather lovely church on the lakeside – the Madonna della Pietà. She’ll be there from noon onwards.’

  ‘Can we put her off? Telephone her?’

  Sukie shook her head. ‘After I arrived with the car problems, I telephoned the hotel where she was supposed to be staying. That was last night. She hadn’t arrived. I called her again after dinner, and she was waiting there. They were fully booked. She was going in search of somewhere else. You’d said we might be late setting off so I just told her to be at the Madonna della Pietà from twelve noon. I didn’t think of getting her to call back . . .’

  She was interrupted by the padrone himself, arriving to collect the luggage.

  Bond thanked him, said they would be down in a few minutes, and turned his mind to the problem. There was a big distance to cover, whatever he did. His aim was to get to the Klinik Mozart, where there would be a certain amount of police protection because of the search for May and Moneypenny. He had no wish to go into Italy at all, and from what he could recall of the centre of Cannobio, it was the perfect place for a set-up. The lakeside road and the front of the Madonna della Pietà were always busy, for Cannobio was a thriving industrial centre as well as holidaymakers’ paradise. The square in front of the church was ideal territory for one man, or a motorcycle team, to make a kill. Was Sukie, knowingly or not, putting him on the spot?

  ‘What’s her name, this old school friend?’ he asked, sharply.

  ‘Norrich.’ She spelled it out for him. ‘Nannette Norrich. Everyone calls her Nannie. Norrich Petrochemicals, that’s Daddy.’

  Bond nodded. He had already guessed. ‘We’ll pick her up but she’ll have to go along with my plans.’ He took her firmly by the elbow, to let her know he was in charge.

  Bond knew that the trip to Cannobio would hold him up for only an hour, thirty minutes there, and another thirty back, before he could head off towards the frontier, and Austria. If he took the risk, it would mean two hostages rather than one, and he could position them in the car to make a hit more difficult. There was also comfort in the thought that it was only his head that would gain the prize. Whoever struck would have to do it on a lonely stretch of road, or during a night stop. It was easy enough to sever a human head. You did not even have to be very strong. A flexi-saw – like a bladed garrotte – would do it in no time. What would be essential to accomplish the task was a certain amount of privacy. Nobody would have a go in front of the main church in Cannobio, beside Lake Maggiore.

  Outside, the padrone stood, at the rear of the British racing green Mulsanne Turbo, waiting patiently with the luggage. From the corner of his eye, Bond spotted Steve Quinn’s man, who had been standing above the rocks, begin to sa
unter casually back along the cars towards the Renault. He did not even look in Bond’s direction, but kept his head down, as though searching for something on the ground. He was tall, with the face of a Greek statue that had been exposed to much time and weather.

  Bond contrived to keep Sukie between himself and the car, reaching forward from behind her to unlock the boot. When the luggage was stowed, they shook hands with the padrone with due solemnity, and Bond escorted Sukie to the front passenger side.

  ‘I want you to fasten the seatbelt, then keep your hands in sight on the dashboard,’ he said with a smile.

  At the end of the line of cars the Renault’s engine started up. Bond settled in the driving seat of the Bentley.

  ‘Sukie, please don’t do anything stupid. I promise that I can act much faster than you. Don’t make me do anything I might regret.’

  She smiled coyly. ‘I’m the hostage. I know my place. Don’t worry.’

  They backed out, headed up the ramp and seven minutes later crossed the Italian frontier without incident.

  ‘If you haven’t noticed, there’s a car behind us.’ Sukie’s voice wavered slightly.

  ‘That’s right.’ Bond smiled grimly. ‘They’re babysitting us, but I don’t want that kind of protection. We’ll throw them off eventually.’

  She nodded.

  He had told her that Nannie would have to be handled carefully. She should not be told anything except that she could go on to Rome under her own steam. Plans had changed and they had to get to Salzburg in a hurry. ‘Leave it to her. Let her make up her own mind. Be apologetic, but try to put her off. Follow me?’

  There was a lot of activity going on around the Madonna della Pietà when they arrived. Standing by a small suitcase, looking supremely elegant, was a very tall young woman with hair the colour of a moonless night, pulled back into a severe bun. She wore a patterned cotton dress which the breeze caught for a second, blowing it against her body to reveal the outline of long, slim thighs, rounded belly and well-proportioned hips. She grinned as Sukie called her over to the passenger side of the car. ‘Oh, how super! A Bentley. I adore Bentleys.’