by John Gardner
‘I apologise for the deception, James.’ Quinn was now relaxed and leaning back in his seat with a drink. ‘You see, we thought you might just visit the Mozart, so we stayed prepared – even with the torture paraphernalia on show, and the Herr Doktor looking like an unwilling victim. I admit to one serious error: I should have ordered my outside team to move in after you entered. However, these things happen. The Doktor was excellent in his role of frightened captive, I thought.’
‘Oscar nominee.’ Bond’s expression did not alter. ‘I hope nothing nasty is going to happen to my two lady friends.’
‘I don’t think you need bother yourself about them,’ said Quinn, smiling happily. ‘We sent them a message that you would not be leaving tonight. They think you’re joining them at the Airport Hilton. I expect they’re waiting there for you now. If they do get suspicious, I’m afraid they won’t be able to do much about it. You have a date around lunchtime tomorrow with what the good old French revolutionaries called Madame La Guillotine. I shall not be there to witness it. As I told you, we have orders only to hand you over to SPECTRE. We take the money and see to the release of May and Moneypenny – you can trust me over that. They will be returned unopened. Even though it would have been useful to interrogate Moneypenny.’
‘And where is all this going to take place?’ Bond asked, his voice betraying no concern about his appointment with the guillotine.
‘Oh, quite near Key West. A few miles offshore. Outside the reef. Unfortunately our timing isn’t brilliant – we’ll have to hole up with you until dawn. The channel through the reef is not the easiest to navigate, and we don’t want to end up on a sandbar. But we’ll manage. I promised my superiors I would hand you over and I like to keep my promises.’
‘Especially to the kind of masters you serve,’ Bond replied. ‘Failure isn’t exactly appreciated in the Russian service. At best you’d be demoted, or end up running exercises for trainees; at worst it would be one of those nice hospitals where they inject you with Aminazin – such a pleasant drug. Turns you into a living vegetable. I reckon that’s exactly how you’ll end up.’ He turned to Kirchtum. ‘You too, Herr Doktor. How did they put the arm on you?’
The doctor shrugged.
‘The Klinik Mozart is my whole life, Mr Bond. My entire life. Some years ago we had – how do I put it? A financial embarrassment . . .’
‘You were broke,’ Bond said placidly.
‘So. Ja. Broke. No funds. Friends of Mr Quinn – the people he works for – made me a very good offer. I could carry on my work, which has always been in the interests of humanity, and they would see to the funds.’
‘I can guess the rest,’ Bond cut in. ‘The price was your cooperation. The odd visitor to be kept under sedation for a while. Sometimes a body. Occasionally some surgery.’
The doctor nodded sadly. ‘Yes, all those things. I admit that I did not expect to become involved in a situation like the present one. But Mr Quinn tells me I shall be able to return with no blot on my professional character. Officially I am away for two days. A rest.’
Bond laughed. ‘A rest? You believe that? It can only end up with arrest, Herr Doktor. Either arrest, or one of Mr Quinn’s bullets. Probably the latter.’
‘Stop that,’ Quinn said sharply. ‘The doctor has been a great help. He will be rewarded, and he knows it.’ He smiled at Kirchtum. ‘Mr Bond is using an old, old trick, trying to make you doubt our intentions, attempting to drive a wedge between us. You know how clever he can be. You’ve seen him in action.’
Again the doctor nodded. ‘Ja. The shooting of Vasili and Yuri was not funny. That I did not like.’
‘But you were also clever. You gave Mr Quinn some harmless injection . . .’
‘Saline.’
‘And then you must have followed me.’
‘We were on your track very quickly,’ Quinn said flatly as he glanced towards the window. Outside there was still darkness. ‘But you changed my plans. My people in Paris were supposed to deal with you. It took some very fast and fancy choreography to arrange this, James. But we managed.’
‘You did indeed.’
Bond swivelled his seat, leaning forward to see out of the window. He thought there were lights in the distance.
‘Ah.’ Quinn sounded pleased. ‘There we are. Lights – Stock Island and Key West. About ten minutes to go, I’d say.’
‘And what if I make a fuss when we land?’
‘You won’t make a fuss.’
‘You’re very confident.’
‘I have an insurance. Just as you had with me, because of Tabitha. I really do believe you will do as you’re told to secure the release of May and Moneypenny. It’s the one chink in your armour, James. Always has been. Yes, you’re a cold fish; ruthless. But you’re also an old-fashioned English gentleman at heart. You’d give your life to save a defenceless woman and this time we’re talking of two women – your own ageing housekeeper and your Chief’s Personal Assistant, who has been hopelessly devoted to you for years. People you care for most in the world. Of course you’ll give your life for them. Unhappily, it’s in your nature. Unhappily, did I say? I really meant happily – for us, happily.’
Bond swallowed. Deep down inside he knew that Steve Quinn had played the trump card. He was right. 007 would go to his own death to save the lives of people like May and Moneypenny.
‘There’s another reason why you won’t make a fuss.’ It was hard to detect Quinn’s smile under that bushy beard, and it did not show in his eyes. ‘Show him, Herr Doktor.’
Kirchtum lifted a small case which lay in the magazine rack between the seats. From it he drew out what looked like a child’s space gun made of clear plastic.
‘This is an injection pistol,’ Kirchtum explained. ‘Before we land I shall fill it. Look, you can see the action.’
He drew back a small plunger from the rear, lifted the barrel in front of Bond’s face and touched the tiny trigger. The instrument was no more than seven centimetres long, with about five for the butt. As he touched the trigger, a hypodermic needle appeared from the muzzle.
‘An injection is given in 2.5 seconds.’ The doctor nodded gravely. ‘Very quick. Also the needle is very long. Goes easily through cloth.’
‘You show the least sign of making a fuss, and you get the needle, right?’
‘Instant death.’
‘Oh, no. Instant facsimile heart attack. You’ll come back to us within half an hour, as good as new. SPECTRE want your head. In the final resort, we would kill you with a power tool. But we’d rather deliver your whole body alive and intact. We owe Rahani a few favours, and the poor man hasn’t long to live. Your head is his last request.’
A moment later the pilot came on the intercom system to ask for seatbelts to be fastened and cigarettes extinguished. He announced that they would be landing in about four minutes. Bond watched out of the window as they dropped towards the lights. He saw water and tropical vegetation interspersed with roads and low buildings coming up to meet them.
‘Interesting place, Key West,’ mused Quinn. ‘Hemingway once called it the poor man’s St Tropez. Tennessee Williams lived here too. President Truman established a little White House near what used to be the Naval Base and John F. Kennedy brought the British PM, Harold Macmillan, to visit it. Cuban boat people landed here, but long before that it was a pirates’ and wreckers’ paradise. I’m told it’s still a smugglers’ heaven, and the US Coastguard operates a tight schedule out of here.’
They swept in over the threshold and touched down with hardly a bump.
‘There’s history in this airport as well,’ Quinn continued. ‘First regular US mail flight started from here; and Key West is both the beginning and end of Highway Route One.’ They rolled to a halt, then began to taxi towards a shack-like hut with a veranda. Bond saw a low wall with faded lettering: ‘Welcome to Key West the Only Frost-Free City in the United States’.
‘And they have the most spectacular sunsets,’ Quinn added. ‘R
eally incredible. Pity you won’t be around to see one.’
The heat hit them like a furnace as they left the aircraft. Even the mild breeze felt as if it was blowing from an inferno.
The departure from the jet was as carefully organised as the boarding, with Kirchtum close enough to use his deadly little syringe at any moment, should Bond alert their suspicion.
‘Smile and pretend to talk,’ muttered Quinn, glancing towards the veranda where a dozen or so people were waiting to welcome passengers off a newly arrived PBA flight. Bond scanned the faces, but recognised nobody. They passed through a small gate in the wall beside the shack, Quinn and Kirchtum pushing him towards another sleek dark automobile. In a few moments, Bond was again seated between the two men. This time the driver was young, in an open-necked shirt and with long blond hair.
‘Y’awl okay?’
‘Just drive,’ Quinn snapped. ‘There’s a place arranged I understand.’
‘Sure thing. Git y’there in no time.’ He drew out on to the road, turning his head slightly. ‘Y’awl mind if’n I have some music playin’?’
‘Go ahead. As long as it doesn’t frighten the horses.’
Quinn was very relaxed and confident. If it had not been for Kirchtum, tense on the other side, Bond would have made a move. But the doctor was wound up like a hair trigger. He would have the hypo into 007 if he moved a muscle. A burst of sound filled the car, a rough voice singing, tired, cynical and sad:
There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm,
Where all the money goes . . .
‘Not that!’ cracked Quinn.
‘Ah’m sorry. I kinda like rock and roll. Rhythm and blues. Man, it’s good music.’
‘I said not that.’
The car went silent, the driver sullen. Bond watched the signs – South Roosevelt Boulevard, a restaurant alive with people eating, Martha’s. There were wooden, clapboard houses, white with fretted gingerbread decorations along the porches and verandas; lights flashing – Motel; No vacancy. Lush tropical foliage lined the road, with the ocean on their right. They appeared to be following a long bend taking them away from the Atlantic. Then they turned suddenly at a sign to Searstown. Bond saw they were in a large shopping area.
The car pulled up beside a supermarket alive with late shoppers and an optometrist’s. Between the two lay a narrow alley.
‘It’s up there. Door on the right. Up above the eye place, where they sell reading glasses. Guess y’awl want me to pick you up.’
‘Five o’clock,’ Quinn said quietly. ‘In time to get to Garrison Bight at dawn.’
‘Y’awl goin’ on a fishin’ trip, then?’
The driver turned round and Bond saw his face for the first time. He was not a young man, as Bond had thought, despite the long blond hair. Half his face was missing, sunken in and patched with skin grafts. He must have sensed Bond’s shock for he looked at him straight with his one good eye, and gave an ugly grimace.
‘Don’t you worry about me none. That’s why I work for these gentlemen here. I got this brand new face in Nam, so I thought I could put it to use. Frightens the hell outa some folks.’
‘Five o’clock,’ Quinn repeated, opening the door.
The routine did not vary. They had Bond out, along the alley, through a door and up one flight of stairs in a few seconds. They had brought him to a bare room. In it were only two chairs and two beds, flimsy curtains and a noisy air-conditioning unit. Again they used the handcuffs and shackles, and Kirchtum sat close to Bond, the hypodermic in his hand, while Quinn went out for food. They ate melon and some bread and ham, washing it down with mineral water. Then Quinn and Kirchtum took turns in guarding Bond, who, resigned, fell asleep with exhaustion.
It was still dark when Quinn shook him awake. He stood over Bond in the bare, functional little bathroom as he tried to fight off the grogginess of travel. After about ten minutes they led him downstairs to the car.
There were few signs of life so early in the morning. The sky looked hard and grey, but Quinn said it was going to be a beautiful day. They came to North Roosevelt Boulevard, then passed a marina on their left with yachts and big powered fishing boats moored. Water appeared on the right as well. Quinn pointed.
‘That’s where we’ll be heading. The Gulf of Mexico. The island’s out on the far side of the reef.’
At the Harbour Lights restaurant sign Bond was hustled out of the car, along the side of the sleeping restaurant and down on to the marina quayside. A tall, muscular man waited beside a large, powered fishing boat with a high laddered and skeletal superstructure above the cabin. The engines were idling.
Quinn and the captain exchanged nods, and they pushed Bond aboard and down into the narrow cabin. Once more the handcuffs and shackles were put on. The noise of the engine rose, and Bond could feel the swell as the craft started out from the quayside, cruising into the marina and under a bridge. As the boat picked up speed, Kirchtum grew calmer. He put away the hypodermic. Quinn joined the captain at the controls.
Five minutes out, they had really started to make way, the boat rolling slightly and bounding, slapping hard down into the water. Everyone appeared to be concentrating on the navigation, and Bond began to think seriously about his predicament. They had spoken of an island outside the reef, and he wondered how long it would take them to reach it. He then concentrated on the handcuffs realising that there was little he could do to get out of them. Unexpectedly, Quinn came down into the cabin.
‘I’m going to gag you and cover you up.’ Then he spoke to Kirchtum and Bond just made out what he was saying. ‘There’s another fishing boat to starboard . . . appears to be in some kind of trouble . . . The captain says we should offer to help . . . they could report us. I don’t want to raise suspicion.’
He pushed a handkerchief into Bond’s mouth and tied another around it, so that, for a moment he thought he would suffocate. Then, after checking the shackles, Quinn threw a blanket over him. In the darkness, Bond listened. They were slowing, rolling a little, but definitely slowing.
Above, he heard the captain shouting, ‘You in trouble?’ Then, a few seconds later, ‘Right, I’ll come aboard, but I have an RV. May have to pick you up on the way back.’
There was a sharp bump, as though they had made contact with the other boat, and then all hell broke loose. Bond lost count after the first dozen shots. There were the cracks of hand guns followed by the stutter of a machine pistol; then a cry, which sounded like Kirchtum, and thumps on the deck above. Then silence, until he heard the sound of bare feet descending into the cabin.
The blanket was hauled back roughly and Bond tried to turn his head, eyes widening as he saw the figure above him. Nannie Norrich had her small automatic in one hand.
‘Well, well, Master James, we do have to get you out of some scrapes, don’t we?’ She turned her head. ‘Sukie, it’s okay. He’s down here, trussed up and oven-ready by the look of it.’
Sukie appeared, also armed. She grinned appealingly.
‘Bondage, they call it, I believe.’
She began to laugh as Bond let off a stream of obscenities which were completely incomprehensible from behind the gag. Nannie wrenched at the handcuffs and shackles. Sukie went aloft again, returning with keys.
‘I hope those idiots weren’t friends of yours,’ said Nannie. ‘I’m afraid we had to deal with them.’
‘What do you mean, “deal”?’ Bond spluttered as the gag came away. She looked so innocent that his blood ran cold.
‘I’m afraid they’re dead, James. All three of them. Stone dead. But you must admit, we were clever to find you.’
15
THE PRICE FOR A LIFE
Bond felt an odd sense of shock that two relatively young women had brought about the carnage he saw on the deck, yet could remain buoyant, even elated, as though killing three men was like swatting flies in a kitchen. He also realised that he was suffering from a certain amount of resentment – he had taken the initiative, he had been duped by Quinn
and Kirchtum, he had fallen into their quickly devised trap. Yet he had not been able to effect his own escape. These mere women had rescued him, and he felt resentful – a peculiar reaction when he should have been grateful.
Another, almost identical powered fishing boat bearing the name Prospero lay alongside, rising, falling and gently bumping against their vessel. They were well outside the reef. In the far distance little low mounds of islands rose from the sea. The sky was turning from pearl to deep blue as the sun cleared the horizon. Quinn had been right. It was going to be a beautiful day.
‘Well?’
Nannie stood near him, looking around while Sukie appeared to be busying herself on the other boat.
‘Well what?’ Bond asked flatly.
‘Well, weren’t we clever to find you?’
‘Very.’ He sounded sharp, almost angry. ‘Was all this necessary?’
‘You mean blowing away your captors?’ The expression sounded strange coming from Nannie Norrich. She flushed with anger now. ‘Yes, very necessary. Can’t you even say thank you, James? We tried to deal with it peacefully, but they opened up with that damned Uzi. They gave us no option.’
She pointed towards their boat and the nasty jagged row of holes in the hull, abaft the high skeleton superstructure above the cabin.
Bond nodded, muttering his thanks.
‘You were, indeed, very clever to find me. I’d like to hear more about that.’
‘And so you shall,’ Nannie said waspishly, ‘but first we really have to do something about this mess.’
‘What weapons are you carrying?’
‘The two pistols from your case – your stuff’s back at the hotel in Key West. I had to force the locks, I’m afraid. I couldn’t work out the combinations, and we were fairly desperate by then.’
‘Any extra fuel around?’
She pointed past Kirchtum’s slumped corpse in the stern well. ‘A couple of cans there. We’ve got three aboard our boat.’
‘It’s got to look like a catastrophe,’ Bond said with a frown. ‘What’s more, they mustn’t find the bodies. An explosion would be best – preferably when we’re well out of the area. It’s easy enough to do, but we must have some kind of fuse, and that’s what we haven’t got.’
