Death Is Forever

by John Gardner

  Quickly he tapped out the six digits – 60–38–30 – dredging the number from his memory bank of telephone numbers.

  The operator passed him to the front office who, in the person of a young woman with a starched voice, said certainly, they would page M. Charpentier. Within two minutes Harry was on the line.

  ‘James, where are you?’

  ‘Never mind where I am. I want you to move, and move damned fast.’

  ‘Why? What’s . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t talk, just listen.’ Bond was suddenly aware that the man in the next booth was speaking softly into the telephone and doing the impossible, for the fingers of his right hand pushed down on the receiver rest. Somewhere along the road, he had collected a Shadow of his own.

  ‘You there? James . . . ?’ Harry sounded agitated.

  ‘Yes. Leave immediately. You’re not safe. Neither am I.’

  ‘Where do I go?’

  ‘Get a cab. Drive around a little, then go to the Crillon. I’ll call you there in about half an hour.’ It would take around twenty minutes to walk to the Crillon Hotel, nearby in the Place de la Concorde. Almost superstitiously, Bond crossed his fingers for good luck, then he left the booth and walked quickly back towards the Rue St Hyacinthe. This time it was his turn to try and lose a tail.

  He paused for a moment to look at the diamonds displayed in a jeweller’s window. Added together their cost would probably go a long way towards wiping out the American budget deficit. The Shadow passed him, and must have known that he had been made. In the window reflection, Bond saw him glance quickly in his direction: a tall man, middle-aged, in a tailored grey double-breasted topcoat and an old-fashioned, but smart, grey Homburg.

  He followed, as the Shadow strolled quite lazily up the Rue St Hyacinthe, then turned into the St Honoré. Bond quickened his pace and, rounding the corner, cannoned into his Shadow.

  As he began to apologise, he felt the hard prod of a pistol barrel in his ribs. The Shadow smiled, touching his Homburg with his free hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He spoke immaculate English. ‘Captain Bond, I fear I have to detain you. It’s a formality only, but I’m sure you’ll understand.’

  ‘If it’s a formality, why the hell’re you sticking a gun in my ribs?’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s not a formality. That’s genuine. Really a kind of death threat, I’d say.’ The Shadow had a slim grey moustache, and looked very military as he prodded Bond towards the edge of the pavement, raising his hand to signal.

  The car was a black, well-polished Honda, which only went to show that the Japanese get everywhere.

  ‘Mind your head,’ said a voice from the rear as the Shadow opened the door. ‘Do get in, Captain Bond. I’ve been waiting to meet you.’

  He glimpsed a mane of dark hair and an oval face. The Shadow gave him another little jab with the pistol and said, ‘Please hurry, we’re holding up the traffic.’

  Bond’s nose twitched at the hint of a very expensive scent and he found himself sitting next to the girl, who looked at him and smiled. ‘How do you do? My name’s Praxi Simeon.’

  The Shadow pushed against him, making him the middle of an interesting human sandwich.

  8

  DEATH IN PROXIMITY

  The car pulled out into the traffic. It was one of those expertly timed moves: fast, smooth and confident. The driver certainly knew his stuff. Obviously he did this for a living. From Bond’s viewpoint the driver seemed to be sharp-faced with a short, pudding-basin haircut. Military, he guessed. Or, given the facts of life, a man who wanted to look military.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?’ If this woman was Praxi Simeon, Bond considered, then he must be the result of a liaison between King Kong and Fay Wray.

  ‘Come on, Captain Bond, you’re visiting Paris in order to see me – Praxi Simeon.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘May I call you James?’

  ‘I’m a firm believer in formality, Ms . . . what was it? Simon?’

  ‘Simeon,’ she enunciated. ‘Praxi Simeon?’ A query phonated with slow care, as though she spoke to a retarded child.

  Some people would call her a ‘big girl’. Not unattractive, but heavily built, with a plump face which probably took around ninety minutes to put on. The hair was very dark: a lot of it. Long curly locks kept falling in front of her face. She was constantly pushing them away with splayed fingers heavy with rings. A wig, possibly. This was the kind of woman who, in a clinch, might well suffocate a man with the pneumatic beauty of her breasts. Squeezed between her and the Shadow, he could feel what he thought of as voluptuous curves against his flesh. While her fingers carried a lot of rings, she also wore a silver bracelet on her right wrist: a pattern of twisted shapes; animals entwined. Quietly, he murmured:

  ‘A bracelet invisible

  For your busy wrist,

  Twisted from silver.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Her voice was pure affected English. Jolly hockey sticks, outmoded schoolgirl Home Counties, larded with elongated vowels.

  ‘Nothing. I was admiring the bracelet.’ He had quoted Robert Graves: the three-line answerback to Praxi Simeon’s IFF code. Better to be safe than dead.

  ‘Well, now we’re together, let’s talk.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know what to talk about, unless it’s your first name. Praxi doesn’t sound either English or French.’

  ‘Bulgarian originally. My people go back a couple of generations to pure Bulgarian.’

  ‘Lucky Bulgars.’

  ‘You’re still saying you don’t know me?’

  ‘I’m sorry. The name just doesn’t ring a bell, and, by the way, if you’re Ms Simeon, could you introduce me to Dandy Jim here?’ He nodded towards the Shadow.

  ‘He is a friend of ours. Quite safe.’

  ‘No friend of mine. Friends don’t stick pistols in your ribs.’

  ‘My dear Bond, I had to get your attention.’

  Close up, the Shadow seemed a grey man, though this could have been his clothes. ‘Dangerous times. Had to get you into the car and next to Praxi as quickly as possible. There was only one sure way I could do that. You want an apology?’ He also spoke in that kind of over-perfect, almost yuppie English, which is a travesty of the language. Old-school military with no trace of any original accent – French, German, Italian or even Hindi. He would certainly say ‘gels’ instead of ‘girls’, ‘ra-there’ instead of ‘rather’ and ‘ja’ in place of ‘yes’.

  ‘No apology necessary, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Call me Sprat.’

  ‘As in Jack who could eat no fat?’

  ‘Very droll, Captain Bond.’

  ‘There’s no need to be cagey.’ The girl edged nearer, and Bond felt the hard button of a suspender dig into his thigh. The button was surrounded by a large amount of flesh. Under different circumstances it could have been quite sexy.

  ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The driver, he noticed, was taking them nowhere fast. He was either driving a random pattern or doing a counter-surveillance routine. ‘Where’re we going, by the way?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular.’ She leaned even closer. ‘It’s just safer to talk in the car.’

  ‘Really. You have the vehicle wired?’

  She gave a disgusted little sound. ‘You’re the giddy limit, Captain Bond. Truly the giddy limit.’ It was an expression that even well-brought-up girls, from high-class English backgrounds would not use these days. Maybe, Bond considered, these two were old KGB. A pair of Moscow squirrels. He thought about it, then rejected the notion. Ks would only talk in the open, even if they did have the car wired: especially in these days of change, when they would not want to incur wrath from their new boss. The new Chairman of the KGB had most recently cleaned out their colleagues in the MVD – Internal Affairs cops.

  ‘You would prefer to get out in the open?’ Sprat asked.

  ‘I’d simply prefer to get out. As far as I can see, we have nothing in common.’
/>
  In the short silence which followed, a spark seemed to leap across the car: a small lightning bolt, arcing between the girl and Sprat.

  ‘You came in on the Ost-West Express from Berlin. You don’t deny that?’

  ‘Of course not, though I could’ve joined the train in Moscow.’

  ‘No, it was Berlin. The Zoo.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And two dead people were removed from that train at Aachen?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘You’re saying you have no knowledge of two murdered men taken by local ambulances from Aachen station?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘Really? You travelled with a woman, yes?’

  ‘No, I travelled alone. There were women on the train, but I did not actually travel with one. Chance, as they say, would be a fine thing.’

  ‘You still travelled with a woman. Who was she, Captain Bond?’

  ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You came to Paris,’ snapped Sprat, or whatever his name was, ‘to meet Praxi. You flew from England to Berlin. Then by train to Paris. The object was to meet with Praxi.’

  ‘You’re way out, Jack. Don’t know a Praxi. You got the bit about London-Berlin-Paris right.’

  ‘Okay, if you didn’t come to Paris to meet Praxi . . .’ She realised, too late, that she had sprung a leak in her cover. ‘To meet me. Why did you come to Paris?’

  ‘Truth or dare?’

  ‘Truth.’

  ‘Okay. I went to Berlin to see a couple of old friends. I’ve come to Paris strictly for the fun.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Look, I don’t particularly care for this inquisition. I don’t even know what it’s about.’

  Sprat gave an unpleasant little laugh. ‘You don’t have any option. Why did you come to Paris?’

  ‘Look, I have a few days’ leave. I planned to do the rounds. I’ve got friends here, also I thought I’d go to the Louvre and, possibly, the Lido. Just for old times’ sake.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Maybe lunch at Fouquet’s. Possibly a trip to Maxim’s.’

  ‘You’re saying that you’re not here on business?’

  ‘What business could I possibly have in Paris?’

  ‘You deny that you’re a British Intelligence officer?’ The girl took over. They were a quick-fire team of interrogators.

  ‘I don’t know what it’s got to do with you, Ms Simon . . .’

  ‘. . . Simeon.’

  ‘. . . but I’m a Royal Navy officer, on detachment to the Foreign Office. You want to see my credentials?’

  ‘We know who you are, Captain Bond.’ This from Sprat.

  He had them now, almost for certain, and they were not really very good. DGSE. The French Foreign Intelligence Service. In fact, he realised why Sprat was familiar. The man had worked out of the French Embassy in London for a season. The French are notoriously touchy about any other country’s intelligence service operating on their turf. So, given the recent history, they were either working on direct orders from French Intelligence, or – just possibly – from Wolfgang Weisen. The man was supposed to have contacts everywhere, so why not in French Intelligence?

  ‘Look . . .’ the girl began.

  ‘No,’ Bond turned to her with a smile. Then he glanced at Sprat, sharing a small amount of the smile with him. ‘No, you look. I don’t know what you think. Or even why you think it. I am here, in Paris, to enjoy myself. Plain and simple. If you really have problems with that, why don’t we all go straight to la Piscene and play with the grown-ups – the people I usually gamble with when I’m here on business.’

  There was a slight jolt as the driver hit the brakes a little too hard. The Piscene was the name everyone gave to the cheerless, ten-storey headquarters of the DGSE at 128 Boulevard Mortier in north-east Paris. It was situated next door to the large municipal swimming pool on the Rue de Tourelle. Hence la Piscene.

  After a count of around ten, the girl spoke again. This time the friendliness had gone from her voice. ‘There’s no need. We’ll put you off wherever you want to go. However, I’m serving notice on you, Captain Bond. You have twenty-four hours. One day. If you’re not out of Paris – out of France – by this time tomorrow, you will be picked up, put on a plane and sent back to London with a flea in your ear. Also a formal note of protest to your government.’

  ‘I would prefer to stay on for a couple of days.’

  ‘We would rather you didn’t stay in the country any longer. I would prefer you to be out by tonight, but I have an unfortunate tendency to be soft-hearted.’ She did not even look at him.

  ‘Particularly with Misanthrope coming . . .’ Sprat bit off the sentence.

  ‘Enough! Twenty-four hours,’ the girl intervened crossly, as though Sprat had somehow overstepped a hidden boundary.

  The car pulled up to the roadside, a symphony of angry motor horns in its wake. They were on the Quai des Tuileries in a no stopping area.

  ‘There’s still time for you to take in the Louvre,’ said Sprat maliciously. ‘Only ten minutes walk, if that. Please take us seriously, Captain Bond.’

  He took them seriously. He always took the French seriously. Hotel guests still had to fill in a little card, with details and passport number, when they checked in. The local cops picked up the cards during the night and ran them through a central computer. They knew where every visitor was staying in France, and it was information which had led to many an arrest. In spite of the European Community, which was not truly off the ground yet, the French were even more suspicious about visitors than the Brits. In the United Kingdom hard liners were forever suggesting the government should use the French method, which kept tabs on everyone. French citizens were forced to carry identity cards which, in Bond’s book, was no bad thing given the criminal and terrorist rate.

  ‘Thanks for the ride,’ he said as the door slammed shut and the car drew away.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he realised another car had also stopped and was just rejoining the traffic. Its licence plate was familiar. During the ride with the French Intelligence people – if that was what they were – part of Bond’s mind had been taking in the surroundings. In particular he had noted car licence plates as they passed, or drew alongside. It was a tradecraft reflex. If the plate appeared more than once, then someone was probably accompanying them. Such was the car now heading after Sprat and the girl.

  He glanced behind him, as though getting his bearings. Several people were in view, on the edge of the Tuileries Gardens, and he had one of them marked immediately. A woman wearing a raincoat, which was probably reversible. She also had a Hermès scarf on her head, and did not carry a handbag, or even a shoulder bag, which is unusual in women; yet usual in watchers, who carry accessories in their pockets. Handbags, large purses and shoulder bags – like shoes – are difficult to change.

  He set off to cross the Tuileries Gardens, seemingly oblivious to little Ms Hermès who gave the impression that she was not going in his direction. How many more pairs of eyes would be watching? He had no idea, and they would be difficult to flush out in an open space like the Tuileries. If he walked with some purpose, he could be back on the Rue de Rivoli – into the Metro station – in a matter of minutes. Though he needed speed, Bond did not want to hurry. It would be out of keeping, even in late afternoon with the light just starting to fade.

  The Tuileries Gardens was one of his favourite places in Paris, with its wonderful formal layout, and the beauty of its trees, pools and statuary. The Gardens were a place to linger, though the ghosts of historic violence remained in this otherwise peaceful place. Massacre, riot, romantic escape had all happened here, in this spot, where Queen Catherine de’ Medici had built the now vanished Tuileries Palace.

  The Palace had once stood between the two great projecting western pavilions of the Louvre, visible to his right. Only the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel remained. Strangely, he always felt
a merge of past and present here, as though phantoms from another life were able to dodge seamlessly through the mirror of time to mingle with the present. Queen Catherine had never lived in the palace, because of a warning from her astrologer, who, it seemed, had been correct. The history was a long tale of death and destruction, ending with the sacking and burning of the place in the 1870s.

  Now the Gardens appeared peaceful on the surface: a place for strolling lovers and nannies with their charges. Bond had known other, more sinister, times when the past seemed very close.

  As he glanced at the archway to his right, his memory was assaulted by other incidents, other dangers. He recalled several meetings here, among the flowers and serene statues. That was one summer, years before, and the meetings were with an agent they were running out of the Russian Embassy. There was an even worse day, at the height of the Cold War, when the tourists, lovers and pram-pushing nannies turned out to be a team from his old adversary, SMERSH. On that occasion they were out for his life.

  The past almost became the present for him now. He quickened his pace, and felt the danger, his throat dry with the knowledge of death stalking close behind him; the old sense of urgency, and the thought that he might be outgunned and outnumbered. The fear returned, and with it the instinct that his life could be forfeit this time. On that former occasion, he had headed through the Arch and across to the Louvre, where he ran them a melancholy dance through the many floors and galleries. He had even killed two of the SMERSH death squad: right there among the Egyptian Antiquities on the ground floor. He smelled the blood again, and saw the bodies – one of them a Russian woman who looked as though she was an ordinary wife and mother. He had killed her, silently with a knife, and dispatched her partner by breaking his neck from behind. With the woman there had been a lot of blood and he had never quite forgotten it. The vivid mental picture brought bile into his mouth.

  Now, he did not have time to do the same diversion into the Louvre. He did not even know how many pairs of eyes were on him. But he did sense the proximity of death; the whiff of a violent end in the autumn evening.