Nobody Lives for Ever

by John Gardner

  ‘I got him here, didn’t I? If he gives me any trouble I’ll take his legs off. The doctor can patch him up for the headectomy.’

  From the bed, where he was administering the injection, McConnell gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I like it, Mistress Norrich – headectomy, I like it verra much.’

  ‘Which is more than can be said for me.’ Bond sounded very cool. At the back of his mind he was already doing some calculations. The mathematics of escape.

  The doctor chuckled again. ‘If ye want tae get a head, get a Nannie, eh?’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Nannie came close to prodding Bond with the Uzi. ‘Hands above the head, fingers linked, arms straight. Go for the door. Move.’

  Bond walked through the door and into a curving passage with a deep pile carpet and walls of sky blue. The passage, he reckoned, ran around the entire storey, and was probably identical to others on the floors above. The great house on Shark Island, though externally constructed as a pyramid, seemed to have a circular core.

  At intervals along the passage were alcoves in Norman style, each containing an objet d’art or painting. Bond recognised at least two Picabias, a Duchamp, a Dali and a Jackson Pollock. Fitting, he thought, that SPECTRE should invest in surrealist artists.

  They came to elevator doors of brushed steel, curved to fit the shape of the passage. Nannie ordered him to lean back with his hands against the wall again, while she summoned the elevator. It arrived as soundlessly as the doors slid open. Everything appeared to have been constructed to ensure constant silence. She ushered him into the circular cage of the elevator. The doors closed and although he saw Nannie press the second floor button, Bond could hardly tell whether they were moving upwards or down. Seconds later the doors opened again, on to a very different kind of passage – bare, with walls which looked like plain brick, and a flagstone floor that absorbed the sound of every footstep. The curved passage was blocked off at either end.

  ‘The detention area,’ Nannie explained. ‘You want to see the hostages? Okay, move left.’

  She stopped him in front of a door that could have been part of a movie set, made of black metal, with a heavy lock and a tiny Judas squint. Nannie waved the Uzi.

  From what he could see, the interior appeared to be a comfortable but somewhat spartan bedroom. May lay asleep on the bed, her chest rising and falling and her face peaceful.

  ‘I understand they’ve been kept under mild sedation,’ Nannie said with just a glimmer of compassion in her voice. ‘They take only a second or two to be wakened for meals.’

  She ushered him on, to a similar room where he saw Moneypenny on a similar bed, relaxed and apparently sleeping, like May.

  Bond drew back and nodded.

  ‘I’ll take you to your final resting place, then, James.’

  Any compassion had disappeared. They went back the way they had come, this time stopping before not a door but an electronic dial pad set into the wall. Nannie again made him take up a safe position against the wall as she punched out a code on the numbered buttons. A section of wall slid back, and Bond was ordered forward.

  His stomach turned over as they entered a large, bare room with a row of deep comfortable chairs, like exclusive theatre seats, set along one wall. There was a clinical table and a hospital Gurney trolley, but the centrepiece, lit from above by enormous spots, was a very real guillotine.

  It looked smaller than Bond had expected, but that was probably due to the French Revolution movies filming the instrument from a low angle, with the blade sliding down between very high, grooved posts. This instrument stood barely two metres high, making it look like a model of all the Hollywood representations he had seen.

  There was no doubt that it would do the job. Everything was there, from the stocks for head and hands at the bottom, and an oblong plastic box to catch them once dismembered, to the slanting blade waiting at the top between the posts.

  A vegetable – a large cabbage, he thought – had been jammed into the hole for the head. Nannie stepped forward and touched one of the upright posts. He did not even see the blade fall, it came down so fast. The cabbage was sliced neatly in two and there was a heavy thud as the blade settled. It was a macabre and unnerving little episode.

  ‘In a couple of hours or so . . .’ Nannie said brightly.

  She allowed him to stand for a minute, to take in the scene. Then she pointed him towards a cell door at the far side of the chamber, similar to those in the passage. It was directly in line with the guillotine.

  ‘They’ve done it quite well, really,’ said Nannie, almost admiringly. ‘The first thing you’ll see when they bring you out will be Madame La Guillotine.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘And the last thing too. They’ll do you proud, James. I understand that Fin is to do the honours, and he’s been instructed to wear full evening dress. It’ll be an elegant occasion.’

  ‘How many have received invitations?’

  ‘Well, I suppose there are only about thirty-five people on the whole island. The communications people and guards will be working. Ten, possibly thirteen if you count me, and should the Colonel want the hostages present, which is unlikely . . .’

  She stopped abruptly, realising that she was giving away too much information. Quickly she regained her composure. It did not matter if he knew or not. In two hours the blade would come thudding down, separating Bond’s head from his body in a fraction of a second.

  ‘Into the cell,’ she said quietly. ‘Enough is enough.’ As he passed through the door she called, ‘I suppose I should ask if you have a last request.’

  Bond turned and smiled. ‘Oh, most certainly, Nannie, but you’re in no condition to supply it.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not, my dear James. You’ve had that already – and very pleasant it was. You might even be pleased to hear that Sukie was furious. She’s absolutely crazy about you. I should have brought her along. She would have been glad to comply.’

  ‘I was going to ask you about Sukie.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Why haven’t you killed her? You’re a pro. You know the form. I would never have left someone like Sukie lying around, even in a drugged stupor. I’d have made sure she was silenced for good and all.’

  ‘Maybe I have killed her. The dosage was near lethal.’ Nannie’s voice dropped, sounding slightly sad. ‘But you’re quite right, James. I should have made certain. There’s no room for sentiment in our business. But . . . well, I suppose I held back. We’ve been very close, and I’ve always managed to hide my darker side from her. You need someone to like you, when you do these kind of things: you need to be loved, or don’t you find that? You know, when I was at school with Sukie – before I discovered men – I was in love with her. She’s been good to me. But you’re right. When we’ve finished with you, I shall have to go back and finish her too.’

  ‘How did you manage to engineer that meeting between Sukie and me?’

  Nannie gave a tiny explosion of laughter. ‘That really was an accident. I was playing it very much by ear. I knew where you were because I’d stuck a homer on your Bentley. I had it done on the boat. Sukie really did insist on making that part of the journey alone, and you did save her. I was going to set up something, depending where you were staying, because I knew you were heading towards Rome, as she was. It’s funny, but the pair of you played right into my hands. Now, anything else?’

  ‘Last requests?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bond shrugged. ‘I have simple tastes, Nannie. I also know when I’m beaten. I’ll have a plate of scrambled eggs and a bottle of Taittinger – the ’73, if that’s possible.’

  ‘In my experience, anything’s possible with SPECTRE. I’ll see what I can do.’

  She was gone, the cell door slamming shut with a heavy thump. The cell was a small room, bare but for a metal bed covered with one blanket. Bond waited for a moment before going to the door. The flap over the Judas squint was closed, but he would have to be quick and careful. The si
lence of the place was against him; someone could be outside the door without his even knowing it.

  Slowly, Bond undid the waistband of his slacks. Very rarely did he leave things to chance these days. Nannie had removed his belt and found Q Branch’s Toolkit. The extra piece of equipment he had taken from his briefcase back at the Pier House had been the spare one he now needed. The black slacks were also made by Q Branch, and contained hidden compartments stitched into the waistband. They were well nigh undetectable. It took him just over a minute to remove the equipment from its secure hiding places. At least he knew there was a fair chance of his being able to release the cell door so that he could get as far as the execution chamber. After that, who knew?

  He reckoned he had half an hour before they brought the food. In that time he must establish whether he could open the cell door. For the second time in a matter of days he went to work with the picklocks.

  Unexpectedly, the cell lock was simple, a straightforward mortice that could be manipulated easily by two of the picks. He had it open and closed again in less than five minutes. Opening it the second time, he pushed at the cell door and walked out into the execution chamber. It was eerie, with the guillotine standing there in the centre of the room. He began a reconnaissance, and soon discovered he could find the main door only because he remembered roughly where it was located. It was operated electronically and fitted so well into the wall that it appeared to be part of it. If he placed the explosives correctly he might just do it, but the chances of finding the right position to blow the electronic locks would be more a matter of luck than judgment.

  He returned to the cell, locked the door behind him and pushed the Toolkit out of sight under the blanket. He realised that the chances of blowing the execution chamber door were remote.

  Bond racked his brains in an attempt to come to some resolution. He even considered destroying the guillotine itself. But he knew that this would be a hopeless act of folly, and a waste of good explosives. They would still have him, and there was more than one way of separating a man from his head.

  The food was brought to him by Nannie herself, with the balding guard in attendance, the knuckles of his hands white as he grasped the Uzi.

  ‘I said nothing was impossible for SPECTRE,’ Nannie said without smiling as she indicated the Taittinger.

  Bond simply nodded, and they left. As the cell door was closing, he felt he had been given one tiny morsel of hope. He heard the balding man mumble to Nannie,

  ‘The old man’s sleeping. We’re going to bring him through now.’

  Rahani was to be brought up in good time, so that he could wake from his medication already in position. As long as the nurse did not stay with him, Bond might just do it. The idea now formed in his mind as he ate the scrambled eggs and drank the champagne. He was glad he had asked for the ’73. It was an excellent year.

  He thought he could hear sounds from the other side of the door and he put his ear hard against the metal, straining to catch the slightest noise. Almost by intuition, he knew there was somebody approaching the door.

  Quickly Bond stretched himself on the bed, still alert for any sound, until he was sure that he heard the Judas squint move back and then into place again. He counted off five minutes, then took out the Toolkit, leaving the explosives and detonators hidden for the time being. For the second time, he went to work on the lock. When the door swung open he found the chamber in darkness but for the glow of a bedside lamp, by which he could just see Tamil Rahani’s electronically operated bed.

  He crossed the chamber swiftly. Rahani lay silent and sleeping. Bond touched the control pad for the bed, discovered that its wire came from below the mattress, and followed it under the bed. What he saw gave him hope, and he crossed back to the cell to fetch the Toolkit, explosives and pin-light torch.

  He slid quickly under the bed on his back, and in the darkness sought out the small electronic sensor box which moved the bedhead up and down to raise and lower Rahani. The cable ran to a switching box, bolted more or less centrally on to the underside of the bed. From it a power lead was laid to a mains plug in the wall. Wires ran from the switching box to the various sensors which adjusted each section to different angles. He was interested in the wires which connected the switching box to the bedhead sensor. Stretching forward cautiously, Bond turned off the power switch in the wall and then began to work on the slim bedhead sensor wires.

  First he cut them and trimmed off about a centimetre of their plastic coating. Then he collected together every piece of plastic explosive he had managed to bring in. This he moulded to the edge of the sensor, finally inserting an electronic detonator, its two wires hanging loose and short from the plastique.

  All that remained now was to plait together the wires as before, only this time adding a third wire to each pair – the wires from the detonator. In the Toolkit there was a minute roll of insulating tape no wider than a single book match. It took a little time, but he succeeded in insulating one set of wires from the others, thereby making sure that no bare wire could touch another by somebody moving the bed.

  Finally, he gathered up all the contents of the Toolkit, turned on the mains power again and returned to the cell. He locked the door with the picks and once more hid the Toolkit.

  The relatively small amount of explosives should be detonated the moment anyone pressed the control button to raise the bedhead. When – and he had to admit if – his device worked, he would have to move like lightning. Now he could only wait and hope.

  It seemed like an eternity before he heard, quite suddenly, the key in the cell door. The fair-haired guard called Fin stood there in full evening dress and white gloves. Behind and to his right the balding man – also in tails – carried a heavy silver dish. They were going to do this in style, Bond thought. His head would be presented to the dying Tamil Rahani on a silver charger, in imitation of the old legends and myths.

  Nannie Norrich appeared from behind the balding man and for the first time Bond saw her, under the glare of the lights, probably in her true persona. She wore a long dark dress, her hair loose and her face so heavily made up that it looked more like a tartish mask than the face of the charming woman he thought he had known. Her smile was a reflection of ugly perversity.

  ‘Madame La Guillotine awaits you, James Bond,’ she said.

  He squared his shoulders and stepped into the chamber, quickly taking in the entire scene. The sliding doors were open, and he saw something he had missed before – a small shutter in the wall next to them, now open and revealing a dial pad identical to the one in the passage.

  Two more big men had joined the party and were standing just inside the door, each with the familiar stony expression, one carrying a hand gun, the other an Uzi. Another pair, also with hand guns, were positioned near Rahani’s bed, as were Dr McConnell and his nurse.

  ‘She awaits you,’ Nannie prompted, and Bond took a further step into the room. It hasn’t worked, he thought. Then he heard Rahani’s voice, weak and thin from the bed.

  ‘See . . .’ he whined, ‘must see. Raise me up.’ And again, stronger, ‘Raise me up!’

  Bond’s eyes flickered round the group once more. The nurse reached for the control.

  He saw as if in close-up her finger press the button that would raise the bedhead. Then hell and confusion exploded in the room.

  19

  DEATH AND DESTRUCTION

  For a few seconds, Bond could not be certain that he had heard an explosion, though he was aware of a great blast of scorching air pushing him backwards. After the flash it was as though somebody had clapped cupped hands over his ears.

  Time stood still. Everything took on a dreamlike quality, the scene apparently enacted in slow motion. In reality, events were moving at high speed and two thoughts were repeated over and over in Bond’s mind – survive, and save May and Moneypenny.

  He saw the remains of Rahani’s bed blazing in the far corner to his right. There was nothing left of Rahani himself. P
ieces of him had been spattered over the doctor, the nurse and the two guards who had been standing close to the explosion. He was aware of the doctor suddenly pitching forward into the fire where the centre of the bed had been. The nurse stood petrified, her head back, clothes ripped from her burned body. From her mouth came a drawn-out, strangled scream before she too fell towards the fire.

  The two guards had been lifted up and hurled across the room, one towards the guillotine, the other with one arm half-severed and flapping, towards the man with the Uzi stationed by the door. He was knocked back against the door, his arm jerking forward so that the Uzi skated across the floor to land just in front of the guillotine, on the opposite side to Bond. The fourth guard appeared to be unhurt but dazed, his hand limp. He let go of his pistol and it slid, spinning towards Bond.

  Bond had stepped back into the cell as the nurse reached for the control. In spite of the ringing in his ears, and the dazzle in his eyes, he had been shielded from the blast. Now, still unable to see or hear properly, he stepped out automatically from the cell and stood like a man mesmerised, staring at the pistol sliding towards him. Then he flung himself at the weapon and was on his belly, hand grasping at the pistol, rolling and firing as he rolled, first at the remaining guard near the door, then at Fin and the balding man. Two rounds apiece, in the approved service fashion.

  He heard the shots as tiny pops in his ears and knew he had scored with each round. The guard by the door went spinning backwards. Fin’s white evening shirt was suddenly patterned with blood. The balding man sat splay-legged on the floor clutching his stomach, a surprised look on his face.

  Bond span round, looking for Nannie. She was making a dive for the Uzi on the far side of the guillotine. She took the shortest route, her body flat on the ground, arms reaching across the stocks. He saw her hands close on the weapon just as he flung himself towards the guillotine, his arm lifted, and struck the projecting lever.