Devil May Care

by Sebastian Faulks

  Bond twisted his right wrist within the burning constriction of the rope until he could feel the extent to which he had managed to fray the nylon cord. Sharp though the glass from the Jeep windscreen was, it had as yet made little impression.

  He had no idea when they might summon him to the controls. Presumably at some juncture they would have to untie his wrists to make it seem that he was in charge of the attack on Zlatoust-36, but by the time he was on the flight deck it would be far too late. He needed to make a move before then.

  Glancing at the man beside him, who stared blindly ahead, Bond increased the rate of friction. It was his only chance.

  When J. D. Silver had replaced the receiver on the telephone in room 234, he told Darius and Leiter that he had to go back to his car. ‘I won’t be five minutes,’ he said, ‘but we’re getting a call back from Langley, so don’t use the phone while I’m away, okay? We need to keep the line free.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Felix.

  ‘Good man,’ said Silver, as he went out and shut the door.

  ‘Well,’ said Darius, ‘I suppose we can expect a big wave in the Caspian some time in the next sixty minutes.’

  ‘Sure. Silver’s through to Langley. They get on to the Pentagon. USAF scramble … Goodbye, Ekranoplan.’

  ‘But what about this airliner?’ said Darius. ‘Do you think there’s nothing we can do?’

  ‘Well, we know it’s likely to attack at the same time as the Ekranoplan, so it must be up in the air right now. We also know that every USAF plane in range is sniffing round the edge of Soviet airspace. More than that, Darius …’

  ‘Nothing?’

  Felix spread his arms wide. ‘Three days ago I was doing a missing-persons in LA. I can’t work miracles. What I really need is breakfast. Do you do eggs easy over in your country, or is it just fruit?’

  ‘I’m sure they could do an egg,’ said Darius, ‘but we can’t phone down because we’re meant to keep the line free. For Langley to call back.’

  ‘Well, I guess I could go down to the kitchens and ask,’ said Felix. ‘Or I could fry it myself. A Texan doesn’t go to work on an empty stomach.’

  ‘It’s infuriating,’ said Darius. ‘I should call Babak so he can radio through to London. They should be updated. We need RAF planes as well in case your men don’t make it. Belt and braces.’ He sat on the end of the bed, shaking his heavy, handsome head in frustration.

  A few feet away, Felix sat on the little hardwood chair and scratched his cropped hair with his left hand.

  Three minutes passed as they stared into space, occasionally catching one another’s eye.

  Eventually, Leiter said, ‘Where the hell’s Silver? He said he’d be five minutes.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s ten already.’

  Darius looked hard at him. Felix stared back.

  Another minute passed in silence as Darius’s eyes gazed deep into Felix’s. It was almost as though two half-thoughts were becoming one in the air between them.

  ‘I’m getting a feeling,’ said Felix.

  ‘Yes,’ said Darius. ‘When did Langley ever use a telephone line to call back?’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  In the same instant, both men dived for the telephone. Darius was closer, and it was his hand that lifted up the disconnected cord.

  Felix swore loudly.

  Darius was already at the door. ‘Hamid!’ he yelled down the corridor. ‘Let’s go!’

  There was no time to wait for the lift. The three men went as fast as they could downstairs, Felix limping in the rear, and out to Hamid’s grey Cadillac.

  Darius was shouting in Farsi as they piled in and Hamid smacked the car into gear. As he let in the clutch and laid a long black streak of rubber down the Noshahr waterfront, Darius turned to Felix. ‘I’ve told him to get us back out of town to an isolated call box I saw. I’m going to get on to Tehran. Babak can radio through on a secure wavelength to London and they can scramble whatever the RAF can manage. I don’t think we can go via Langley.’

  Felix swore again. ‘That way is sure enough shot for the time being. I don’t know if Carmen’s doing what he’s told from Washington or if he’s at some rodeo all his own.’

  ‘At the moment,’ said Darius, ‘it doesn’t really matter. We just know we’re on our own. In any case, we may find out soon enough about Silver. There’s someone following.’

  As Hamid screeched round the corner into a palm-lined residential street of white villas, Felix looked through the back window. A dusty black Pontiac was closing in on them.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ said Felix. ‘I only got this.’ He took a Colt M-1911 from inside his jacket. ‘Accurate to seventy-five yards, but feeling its age.’

  ‘Give him a warning,’ said Darius.

  ‘Another thing,’ said Felix, holding up his hook. ‘This was my firing hand.’

  Darius took the gun, knocked out the rear window and fired a shot at the black Pontiac, which swerved wildly, ran up over the pavement, but then regained the road.

  ‘Allahu Akbar!’ said Hamid.

  ‘Just drive, pal,’ said Felix, ducking down below the open rear window. ‘Is it Carmen?’

  ‘I couldn’t see,’ said Darius. ‘Faster, Hamid! Go, go, go!’

  The Cadillac came to a small street market where its front wheel clipped an overflowing barrow, sending a cascade of oranges across the street. Hamid sank his right foot and the big car roared on, over an ungated railway crossing and up into the shallow hills behind the town.

  Darius raised his head and looked back through the rear window. Holding the Colt carefully in both hands, he let go another round.

  It shattered the windscreen of the Pontiac, but the stock of a handgun punched swiftly through the glass, revealing a pale, sweating face of terrier eagerness with reddish hair plastered to its forehead.

  ‘It’s Carmen,’ said Felix. ‘Let him have it.’

  Darius shot again, and the bullet whined off the bonnet of Silver’s car. ‘How many shots have you got?’ he said.

  ‘Seven plus one in the chamber,’ said Felix. ‘Five left.’

  ‘We’ll have to keep those in reserve,’ said Darius. ‘You’re going to have to cover me while I make that call.’

  ‘Better try and lose him, then.’

  Darius barked at Hamid, who dropped the wheel to the right so the car, as it drifted and screeched through a right-angle turn, laid a towering dustcloud behind it. Hamid shouted back at Darius over the noise.

  ‘We’re nearly at the call box,’ said Darius to Felix. ‘He’s trying to kick up more dust. Hold on tight.’

  They were off the tarmac and on to a dirt road, where Hamid swung the car from side to side, violently, so they could hear the steel frame groaning against the whipping G-forces and the tyres screaming as they tried to grip the surface. But the big sedan was built for cruising, not for stunts, and as Hamid tried to correct the heavy understeer he hit a white rock and the car flipped over on its side, slewing hard across the road on its doors.

  Darius, his head cut, climbed out of the upper rear door and pulled Felix up after him. Felix cursed as he dropped down on his good leg and Darius handed him the gun, then ran ahead to where the track rejoined the tarmac road and they could see the lonely call box.

  ‘Cover me,’ he shouted to Felix.

  Through the swirling dustcloud came a labouring-engine noise, then the black Pontiac appeared, and Felix, from behind the barrier of the steaming Cadillac, fired straight through the open windshield. The Pontiac braked, swerved and stopped. Silver, bleeding from the shoulder, threw himself out and rolled behind the vehicle.

  Felix knew he had only to keep him there long enough for Darius to get through to Tehran with the co-ordinates. But who knew how long that would take? How good was the Persian telephone system?

  In the box, Darius was talking to Babak. ‘Listen hard. Get on to London on fourteen megacycles. And there’s an airliner …’

  Felix, holding the gun in
his left hand, watched for any sign of movement from the Pontiac. He had four shots left and didn’t want to waste any. If Silver was playing some cat-and-mouse game, that was fine by him – though it was unlikely, since Silver would have guessed that he and Darius were rushing to make contact with London.

  From near his feet, he heard groaning. ‘Are you all right, Hamid?’

  ‘I think so. Cut hands. But all right.’

  ‘Keep down.’

  A bullet cracked off the side of the Cadillac. Hamid began to pray noisily. What alarmed Felix was that the bullet came from above them on the upper road, where the call box was. Somehow Silver had sneaked out from behind the Pontiac and climbed through the bushes above.

  Felix cursed noisily and began to run as fast as his artificial leg would let him.

  ‘Got that, Babak?’ Darius was saying into the mouthpiece. ‘And the VC-10. Good man, Babak. Now as fast as you –’

  But Darius Alizadeh could not complete the sentence as two rounds of pistol fire went through his heart. His big body crumpled at the knee and fell forward into the dust of his homeland.

  Felix came toiling up the hill, dragging his leg behind him. He was too late to see Silver replace the smoking gun in his waistband as he knelt down behind a bush.

  Felix let out a cry when he saw Darius and the telephone receiver swinging by its cord. He got down beside him and put his ear to his chest. He was still just breathing, and he opened his eyes. ‘I got through,’ he said. ‘To Babak. The whole lot. Everything we know.’

  He closed his eyes as Felix lifted his head and cradled him in his good arm.

  ‘J. D. Silver,’ said Darius weakly, and the glimmer of a smile passed over his face. ‘Not what my father called a “citizen of eternity”.’

  ‘Not like you, my friend,’ said Felix. ‘No. JD’s what my father called a sonofabitch.’

  As Darius’s body went limp, Felix heard a pistol being cocked.

  ‘Don’t move, Leiter.’

  Silver stepped out, both hands steady on the gun. ‘Put your hands up. You don’t have to die. You can go back to your matrimonials and your missing girls. Just do as I say. Put both hands on your head.’

  ‘Who are you working for?’ said Felix.

  ‘Same as you. I just got new orders. We want the Brits in Vietnam. We need some help. If this is what it takes. A little reminder from the Russians …’

  ‘You’re out of your mind,’ said Leiter.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Silver, beginning to frisk him, and stopping when he came to the Colt in Felix’s waistband.

  ‘Big old thing,’ he said, hauling it out and putting it into his jacket pocket. ‘Now get down on the ground. Face down.’

  Felix did as he was told. ‘Did you tell Langley about the goddam plane?’ he said. ‘The airliner full of explosive?’

  ‘I don’t know it’s full of explosive,’ said Silver. ‘Neither do you.’

  ‘What the hell you think it’s got on board? Kids’ toys?’

  ‘I tell them all I know,’ said Silver. ‘They decide what to do with it. When the chips are down, Leiter, it’s the man in the White House makes the call. He’s looking at the whole picture. Russia takes a hit, he can live with that. London takes a hit – that’s not so good. But if it gets the Brits off their backside and into Vietnam and makes them take this whole war seriously, then, hey, that’s tactical. Once in a while you take a punch. And if it helps you win the bout, it’s worth it.’

  Leiter levered himself up on to his elbow. ‘But if you’re not letting them have all the detail they need …’

  As he spoke, he saw a shadow on the dusty ground behind J. D. Silver’s black penny loafers. Felix’s CIA training, many years ago but wired deeply in his reflexes, stopped him reacting in any way.

  But he knew he needed to keep talking. ‘I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth, Carmen. Sure, we want the Brits in Vietnam, sure I think those guys in the State Department would absorb a small attack if they thought it would help us in the long run. But not this. This is a big one. A very big one. Know what I think, Carmen? I think someone told stories about you. You and your car men. I think you got turned. Blackmail. I think someone from the Soviet Union had a little word with you, my friend, and –’

  Silver screamed in anger and raised his gun to fire at Felix’s heart, but before he could pull the trigger, part of the contents of his head shot through his nose, as Hamid crashed a heavy white rock down on to his skull, with a crack that echoed round the foothills of Noshahr.

  Felix climbed shakily to his feet. He put his good arm round Hamid’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, Hamid.’

  ‘Allahu Akbar.’

  Felix took a moment to regain his breath. ‘Yes, I think he is. I think you may be right there, Hamid. Now let’s get Mr Alizadeh home.’

  ∗

  Bond calculated that they had been airborne for nearly three hours. He could see in the clear sunlight that they were over the Ural mountains.

  ‘Can I talk to the pilot?’ he said to the guard in the aisle seat. The man shook his head. He probably didn’t speak English, Bond thought.

  ‘Get Massoud,’ he said.

  The man shook his head again.

  ‘I need to know how this plane works,’ said Bond. ‘Get Massoud, will you?’

  The guard made guttural noises to the man in the seat in front of them, and this guard, who wore an American cap of the Chicago Bears, got reluctantly to his feet and went forward. A minute later, he returned – not with Massoud but with Ken Mitchell.

  ‘They want you up front now,’ said Mitchell. ‘Don’t try anything funny.’

  ‘Who’s flying this thing at the moment?’ said Bond.

  ‘It’s on autopilot. You don’t have to do a thing. Not until we get close. Then we have to lose height.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ said Bond.

  ‘No. Funnily enough, when I have a gun at my head I just do what I’m told.’

  ‘I think it’s time you knew,’ said Bond. ‘In the hold of this plane is a large cargo of explosive. We’re going to drop it on Zlatoust-36, Russia’s biggest nuclear stockpile.’

  ‘Dear God.’ Mitchell slumped forward against the seat in front of him.

  ‘Now, Ken,’ said Bond, ‘do you still want me not to try anything funny?’

  The guard next to Bond slapped him in the mouth with the back of his hand. ‘No talk.’

  ‘What going on?’ Massoud came down the aisle from the now empty flight deck.

  He withdrew a Colt .45 from his waistband. Big stopping power, thought Bond, but dangerous at this altitude.

  ‘Get up,’ said Massoud, pointing the gun at Bond’s head.

  ‘I’m not moving,’ said Bond.

  ‘Get up!’ screamed Massoud. He leaned over the guard and grabbed Bond by the throat. Bond could see how this ‘thick-neck’ had controlled the protection and racketeering of a whole bazaar. The guard undid Bond’s seat-belt and Bond kept his hands tight behind his back, holding the recently severed rope in them.

  He allowed Massoud to manhandle him over the guard in the aisle seat, but as his hand trailed over the man’s neck, Bond dropped the cut ropes and sliced down with all his strength into the jugular vein with the shard of glass. Blood spurted on to the seat in front as the man screamed. As he fell forward, Bond grabbed the gun from his holster, and, swivelling powerfully on his heel, smacked the butt of it into Massoud’s face. Massoud fell back across the empty row of seats opposite, momentarily stunned, while Bond threw himself to the floor of the aisle.

  At the same moment there was the magnified explosion of a Soviet pistol going off, and Bond saw the face of the guard in the seat in front of him blown away as the bullet entered his head below the eye socket. The Chicago Bears cap was blown ten rows up the aircraft.

  From the floor, Bond looked back down the aisle. Halfway up the economy section, her feet planted, and a Makarov nine-mm semi-automatic held at the apex of the triangle made by both hands joine
d, her long dark hair pinned neatly up beneath the cap, stood a woman in a brand new, pressed uniform of a BOAC hostess.

  The guard from the row behind Bond’s leaned out into the aisle and fired at Scarlett. As he did so, he presented a simple target to Bond, who fired up from the floor with the Luger he had taken from his neighbour. The man’s body fell back across the seats.

  Massoud, meanwhile, had gathered himself and struggled to his feet. Scarlett saw him coming and fired again with her Makarov as Bond threw himself at Massoud’s ankles. Bond was on top of him in the cramped space of the legroom in the row opposite. He got his hands round Massoud’s throat, but found himself thrown back across the gangway as Massoud’s big Colt went off once.

  The bullet went straight through the reinforced Perspex window next to the guard Bond had just shot. The immediate decompression sucked the man’s corpse towards the small jagged hole, where for the time being it made an effective plug.

  There was a shout from Mitchell. ‘Stop shooting! Something’s screwed up the bloody autopilot!’

  The big new aircraft, so powerful and smooth on its flight thus far, suddenly lurched, fell about a hundred feet, stopped as though it had hit a solid floor, sending a shudder through every rivet of the airframe, then howled and began to dive.

  Bond, Massoud and Scarlett were all thrown to the floor.

  ‘Get to the flight deck, Ken,’ Bond shouted. ‘For God’s sake, we’re going down.’

  Bond’s face was drenched in the blood from the jugular of the man he had stabbed, while all around them the first-class seats were spattered with the red brain and muscle of the other two thugs. Bond was shouting and swearing at Ken Mitchell, but Mitchell seemed paralysed by panic as he merely gripped the edge of one of the seats. Bond crawled over and shoved the muzzle of his gun into Mitchell’s ear.

  ‘If you don’t get on that flight deck right now I’m going to blow your brains out. Go! Go!’

  Mitchell began to slither and slide down the bloody, plummeting aisle. Bond could see his face screwed up in tears.