Nobody Lives for Ever

by John Gardner

  ‘But we do have a signal pistol. We could use the flares.’

  Bond nodded. ‘Good. What’s the range – about a hundred metres? You go back with Sukie and get the pistol and flares ready. I’ll do what’s necessary here.’

  Nannie turned away, sprang lightly on to the guard rail, and jumped aboard their boat, calling cheerfully to Sukie.

  Bond then set about his grim task, still preoccupied with the recent turn of events. How did they manage to find him? How could they have been in the right place at the right time? Until he had answers that satisfied him, he could not trust either of the young women.

  He searched the boat carefully, assembling everything that might be useful on the deck – rope, wire and the strong lines used for bringing in sharks and swordfish. All the weapons he threw overboard, except for Quinn’s automatic, a prosaic Browning 9mm, and some spare clips.

  Then came the grisly job of moving the bodies into the stern well. Kirchtum, already there, only needed turning over, which Bond managed to do with his feet; the captain’s body stuck in the wheelhouse door, and he had to tug hard to get it free. Quinn was the most difficult to move, for the bloody decapitated remains had to be dragged along the narrow gap separating cabin from guard rail.

  He placed the corpses in a row directly over the fuel tanks and lashed them loosely together with fishing line. He then went forward again and gathered as much inflammable material as he could find – sheets and blankets off the four cabin bunks, cushions, pillows and even pieces of rag. These he piled up well forward, weighting them with life jackets and heavier equipment. One piece of coiled rope he left near the bodies.

  He transferred himself to the other boat, where he found Sukie standing in the wheelhouse with Nannie close behind her on the steps leading down to the cabin. Nannie was holding the bulbous flare projector by the muzzle.

  ‘There it is. One flare pistol.’

  ‘Plenty of flares?’

  She pointed to a metal box containing a dozen stumpy cartridges, each marked with its colour: red, green or illuminating. Bond picked out three of the illuminating flares.

  ‘These should do us.’

  He rapidly gave them instructions, and Sukie started the engines while Nannie cast off all but one rope amidships.

  Bond returned to the other boat to make the final preparations. He dragged the rope near the bodies to the pile of material, secured it underneath and gently played it out back to the stern wall, laying it alongside the inlets to the fuel tanks. He went forward again with one of the emergency fuel cans and saturated first the material, then, shuffling backwards towards the corpses, he ran plenty of the liquid over the rope.

  He opened the second can to dowse the human remains in fuel, unscrewed the main fuel cap and lowered the saturated rope into the tank.

  ‘Stand by!’ he yelled.

  He ran from the stern well, mounted the guard rail and was aboard the other boat just as Nannie let go of the rope amidships. Sukie slowly eased open the throttle and they pulled away, gently turning stern-on to the other boat.

  Bond positioned himself aft of the superstructure, slid a flare into the pistol, checked the wind and watched the gap slowly widen between the two craft. At around eighty metres he raised the pistol high and fired an illuminating flare in a low, flat trajectory. The flare hissed right across the bows of the other boat. Bond had already reloaded and taken up another position. This time, the fizzing white flare performed a perfect arc, leaving a thick stream of white smoke behind it, to land in the bows. There was a second’s pause before the material ignited with a small whumph. The flames were carried straight along the rope fuse towards the fuel tanks, and the bodies.

  ‘Give her full power and weave as much as possible!’ Bond shouted to Sukie.

  The engine note rose, bows lifting, almost before he had finished giving the order. Rapidly they bounced away from the blazing fishing boat.

  The corpses caught alight first, the stern well sending up a crimson flame and then a dense cloud of black smoke. They were a good two kilometres away when the fuel tanks went up – a great roaring explosion with a dark red centre, ripping the boat apart in a ferocious fireball. For a few moments there was the smoke and a rising cascade of debris, then nothing. The water appeared to boil around what little remained of the powerful fishing launch, then it settled, steamed for a few seconds, and flattened. The shock waves hit the rear of their boat a second or two after the explosion. There was a slight burn on the wind, which they felt on their cheeks.

  At five kilometres there was nothing to be seen, but Bond remained leaning against the superstructure, gazing in the direction of the small, violent inferno.

  ‘Coffee?’ Nannie asked.

  ‘Depends how long we’re staying at sea.’

  ‘We hired this boat for a day’s fishing,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we should raise suspicion.’

  ‘No, we’ll even have to try and fish. Is Sukie okay at the wheel?’

  Sukie Tempesta turned and nodded, smiling.

  ‘She’s sailed boats all her life.’ Nannie gestured towards the steps leading below. ‘There’s coffee on . . .’

  ‘And I want to hear how you managed to find me,’ Bond said, staring at her steadily.

  ‘I told you. I was minding you, James.’

  They were now seated on the bunks in the cramped cabin, facing each other. They nursed mugs of coffee as the boat rolled and the sea thudded against the hull. Sukie had reduced power and they seemed to be performing a series of gentle, wide circles.

  ‘When Norrich Universal Bodyguards take it upon themselves to look after you, you get looked after.’

  Nannie had her long legs tucked under her on the bunk, and had unpinned her hair so that it fell, dark and thick, to her shoulders, giving her face an almost elfin look, and somehow making the grey eyes softer and very interesting. Take care, Bond thought, this lady has to explain herself, and she had better be convincing.

  ‘So I got looked after.’ He did not smile.

  She explained that as soon as he had been paged at Miami International she had left Sukie with the luggage and followed him at a discreet distance.

  ‘I had plenty of cover – you know how crowded the place – was but I saw the routine. I’m experienced enough to know when a client is being pulled.’

  ‘But they took me away by car.’

  ‘Yes. I got its number and then made a quick call – my little NUB has a small branch here, and they put a trace on the limo. I said I’d call them back if I needed assistance. After that I called the flight planning office.’

  ‘Resourceful lady.’

  ‘James, in this game you have to be. Apart from the scheduled flights to Key West there was one private exec jet that had filed a flight plan. I took down the details . . .’

  ‘Which were?’

  ‘Company called Société pour la Promotion de l’Écologie et de la Civilisation . . .’

  SPEC, Bond thought, SPEC. SPECTRE.

  ‘We had about six minutes to catch the PBA flight to Key West, so I gambled that we’d make it just before the private flight.’

  ‘You also gambled on my being on board the SPEC jet.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, and you were. If you hadn’t been, I would have had egg on my face. As it happened, we were off the aircraft a good five minutes before you came along. I even had time to hire a car, send Sukie to book into the hotel and follow you to that shopping centre in Searstown.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I hung around.’ She paused, not looking at him. ‘To be honest, I didn’t really know what to do. Then, like a small miracle, the big bearded guy came out and went straight to the telephone booth. I was only a few paces away and I’ve got good eyesight. Don’t be fooled by the spectacles. I watched him punch out a number and talk for a while. When he went to the supermarket I slipped into the booth and dialled the number. He had called the Harbour Lights restaurant.’

  There was a street guide in
the little rented Volkswagen, and the Harbour Lights was easy enough to find. ‘As soon as I got inside I realised it was a fishing and sailing place, full of bronzed, muscular men renting boats, and themselves to sail them. I just asked around. One man – the one who went up in smoke just now – mentioned that he had been hired for an early start. He’d had a bit to drink and even told me what time he was leaving, and that he had three passengers.’

  ‘So you hired another powered fishing launch.’

  ‘That’s right. I told the captain I didn’t need help. Sukie can navigate the trickiest waters blindfold and with her hands tied. He took me down to this boat, made a pass and got the push. But he did show me the charts, and told me about the currents and channels, which are not easy. He talked about the reef, the islands and the drop-off into the Gulf of Mexico.’

  ‘So you went back to Sukie at the hotel . . .’

  ‘And pored over the charts half the night. We got down to Garrison Bight early and were outside the reef when your boat came out. We watched you on the radar. Then we positioned ourselves near enough to your course, stopped the engines and started firing distress flares. You know the rest.’

  ‘You tried the soft approach, but they opened up with the Uzi.’

  ‘To their cost.’ She cocked her head, and gave a sigh. ‘Lord, I’m tired.’

  ‘You’re not alone. And what about Sukie?’

  ‘She seems happy enough. She always is with boats.’ Nannie put down her empty coffee mug and started slowly to undo the buttons of her shirt. ‘I really think I’d like to lie down, James. Would you like to lie down with me?’

  ‘What if we hit a squall? We’ll be thrown all over the place.’ Bond leaned forward to kiss her gently on the mouth.

  ‘I’d rather meet a swell.’ Her arms came up around his neck, drawing him towards her.

  Later, she said that she’d rarely been thanked so well for saving somebody’s life.

  ‘You should do it again sometime.’

  Bond kissed her, running one hand over her naked body.

  ‘Why not now?’ asked Nannie with an implike grin. ‘It seems a fair price for a life.’

  16

  GOING DOWN TONIGHT

  ‘As far as I can tell, there are three islands outside the reef that are privately owned and have some kind of building on them.’ Sukie’s finger roamed around the chart of the Key West vicinity.

  It was early afternoon, and they were hove to with fishing lines out. Four large red snapper had come their way, but nothing big – no sharks or swordfish.

  ‘This one here,’ said Sukie, indicating an island just outside the reef, ‘is owned by the man who built the hotel where we’re staying. There’s another to the north, and this one,’ her finger circled a large patch of land, ‘just on the shelf, before you reach the drop-off. The continental shelf suddenly drops down from 270 metres to over 600. Great fishing water around the drop-off. There have been treasure seekers by the dozen in the area too.’ She prodded the island on the map. ‘Anyway, it looked very much as though that was where you were heading.’

  Bond peered closer to see the name. ‘Shark Island,’ he said. ‘How cosy.’

  ‘Someone seems to think so. I asked around the hotel last night. A couple of years ago a man who called himself Rainey, Tarquin Rainey, bought the place. The boy at the hotel is from an old Key West family and knows all the gossip. He says this fellow Rainey is a mystery man. He arrives by private jet and gets ferried out to Shark Island by helicopter, or by a launch which belongs to the place. He’s also a bit of a go-getter. People who build on the islands usually take a lot of time; it’s always difficult getting the materials taken out to them. Rainey had his place up in the space of one summer and the island landscaped in the second summer. He’s got tropical trees, gardens, the lot. They’re very impressed, the people in Key West, and it takes a great deal to impress them, particularly as they claim to be a republic. The Conch Republic.’

  She pronounced it ‘Konk’.

  ‘Nobody’s seen him?’ Bond asked, knowing that the alias Tarquin Rainey could not be a coincidence. The man had to be Tamil Rahani, which meant Shark Island was SPECTRE property.

  ‘I believe a few people have had glimpses of him – at a distance. Nobody’s encouraged to get near him, though. Apparently some people have approached Shark Island by boat and been warned away, politely, but very firmly, by large men in fast motor boats.’

  ‘Mmmmm.’ Bond thought for a few moments, then asked Sukie if she could navigate to within a couple of kilometres at night.

  ‘If the charts are accurate, yes. It’ll be slow going, but it’s possible. When did you want to go?’

  ‘I thought perhaps tonight. If that’s where I was being taken, it’s only common courtesy for me to call on Mr Rainey at the earliest possible opportunity.’

  Bond gazed steadily first at Sukie and then at Nannie, both of whom looked very dubious about the idea.

  ‘I think we should head back to Garrison Bight now,’ he went on. ‘See if you can keep the boat for a couple of days longer. I’ll get myself a few bits and pieces I’m going to need. We could have a look around Key West – see and be seen. We’ll set out for Shark Island at about two in the morning. I won’t put you in danger, that I promise. You simply wait offshore and if I don’t return by a certain time, you get the hell out and come back tomorrow night.’

  ‘Okay by me,’ said Sukie as she got to her feet.

  Nannie just nodded. She had been quiet since they had come back on deck. Occasionally she would shoot warm glances in Bond’s direction.

  ‘Right. Let’s get the lines hauled in,’ he said decisively. ‘We sail at two. In the meantime, there’s a great deal to be done.’

  The local police were at Garrison Bight when they returned, checking on the boat hired by Steve Quinn. There had been a report from another power boat which had seen a plume of smoke, and from a naval helicopter that had spotted wreckage. They had seen it themselves an hour or so after Quinn’s boat had exploded and had even waved to it, knowing they were well away from Quinn’s vessel.

  Nannie went ashore and talked to the police, while Sukie stayed in sight on deck and Bond remained in the cabin. After half an hour Nannie returned, saying she had charmed the pants off the cops and had hired the boat for a week.

  ‘I hope we’re not going to need it that long,’ Bond said with a grimace.

  ‘Better safe than sorry, as we nannies say.’ She poked her tongue out before adding, ‘Master James.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of that little joke, thank you.’ He sounded genuinely irritated. ‘Now, where are we staying?’

  ‘There’s only one place to stay in Key West,’ Sukie put in. ‘The Pier House Hotel. You get a wonderful view of the famous sunset from there.’

  ‘I’ve a lot to do before sunset,’ Bond said sharply. ‘The sooner we get to this – what’s it called? Pier House – the better.’

  As they set off in the hired Volkswagen, Bond suddenly felt very naked without a weapon of any kind. He sat next to Nannie, with Sukie, who had been here before, squeezed into the back giving an occasional commentary.

  To Bond, the place was an odd mixture of tourist resort garishness and pockets of great beauty, with areas of luxury which spelled money. It was hot, palm trees shimmered and moved in the light breeze, and they passed numerous clapboard gingerbread houses, which were bright and well painted, their yards and gardens filled with the colour of subtropical flowers. Yet well-kept houses could be adjacent to rubbish tips. The sidewalks were in fine order in one street, in the next cracked, broken or almost non-existent.

  At an intersection, they had to wait for an extraordinary-looking train – a kind of model railroad engine built on to a diesel-powered jeep, which pulled a series of cars full of people under striped awnings.

  ‘The Conch Train,’ Sukie informed them. ‘That’s the way tourists get to see Key West.’

  Bond could hear the driver, all done out in blu
e overalls and peaked cap, going through a litany of the sights and their history as the train wound its way around the island.

  They finally turned into a long street of wood and concrete buildings, which appeared to house nothing but jewellery, tourist junk and art shops, interspersed with prosperous-looking restaurants.

  ‘Duval,’ announced Sukie. ‘It goes right down to the ocean – to our hotel in fact. It’s great at night. There, that’s the famous Fast Buck Freddie’s Department Store. And there’s Antonia’s, a great Italian restaurant. Sloppy Joe’s Bar was Ernest Hemingway’s favourite haunt when he lived here.’

  Even if Bond had not read To Have and Have Not he could not now have escaped knowing that Hemingway had lived in Key West. There were souvenir T-shirts and drawings of him everywhere, and Sloppy Joe’s Bar proclaimed it loudly, not just from an inn sign but also on a tall painted legend on the wall.

  As they reached the bottom of Duval, Bond saw what he was looking for and noted that it was a very short walk from the hotel.

  ‘You’re already registered, and your luggage is in your suite,’ Nannie told him, as she parked the car. They hustled him through the light main reception area furnished in bamboo and through an enclosed courtyard where a fountain played on flowers and the tall wooden statue of a naked woman. Above, large fans revolved silently, sending a down draught of cool air.

  He followed them down a passage and out into the gardens, along twisting flower-bordered pathways, with a pool deck to the left. Beyond, a line of wood and bamboo bars and restaurants ran beside a small beach. The pier the hotel was named after stretched out over the water on big wooden piles.

  The building appeared to be U-shaped, with the gardens and pool in the centre of the U. They entered the main hotel again at the far side of the pool and took the elevator up one floor to two adjacent suites.

  ‘We’re sharing,’ said Sukie, inserting her key into one of the doors. ‘But you’re right next to us, James, in case there’s anything we can do for you.’