Death Is Forever

by John Gardner

  That was true enough. Almost at the last minute, M had given both of them a single password and ID. ‘It’ll be used in an emergency only,’ The Old Man had told them. Then he had banished Bond from his office while he went through the final safeguard with Easy. She was removed while he gave the words to Bond.

  ‘And?’ he now asked.

  ‘Vainglorious,’ Praxi said firmly. The word could only have come directly from M. Nobody else was privy to it.

  ‘Systematic arch.’ These were the words given to him alone.

  ‘Correct. You should be Vanya.’

  ‘I am Vanya.’ But he could still read doubt in her eyes, possibly reflected from his own.

  He turned to Tester, or whoever he was, and asked him to give his IFF, ‘Even though you think you already spoke with me.’

  The man shrugged, then recited:

  ‘Of modern methods of communication;

  New roads, new rails, new contacts, as we know

  From documentaries by the GPO.’

  Bond nodded and, for the sake of things, repeated the answerback, just as he had done at the Kempi with the other Harry Spraker.

  ‘May, with its light behaving

  Stirs vessel, eye and limb

  The singular and sad.’

  ‘Correct,’ the possible pretender nodded. ‘Now we all know who we are.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ The ASP was out and in his hand, moving in a manner that could not be mistaken. The pistol ordered this Tester to go and stand next to Praxi Simeon. ‘Now sit down, both of you. On the couch.’

  ‘Shit,’ Praxi’s eyes flared. ‘I knew it was all wrong. This damned . . . You’re straight from little Wolfie, I suppose.’

  ‘Just sit. And, no. No, I’m not from Weisen.’

  In spite of the apartment being in a de luxe building, it was strangely utilitarian. There were no pictures on the walls, only those dull squares and oblongs, outlined with dust showing where pictures had once hung. The furniture was also on the light side – two tables: the small one by the door, on which the Browning Compact now lay; and another low, glass-topped, standing as a kind of centrepiece in front of a black leather couch. Two chairs, in similar black leather, made up the furnishings. On the table there was one white telephone and a big glass ashtray. Underfoot, an off-white deep-pile carpet. Matching curtains hung at the three long windows which ran across one wall. The centre one was a sliding glass door which led to some kind of balcony. The city’s lights spread out behind it, twinkling and deceptively peaceful. There were also three doors leading off this main room. A pair of bedrooms and a kitchen, he thought.

  ‘So where do we go from here?’ Praxi’s musical voice now contained a note of bitterness. ‘You people have all of us but one – unless you’ve already wasted Ariel?’

  ‘If he’s a little fellow, looks like a jockey, he’s gone, but it wasn’t done by friends of mine.’

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ Praxi was praying, not indulging in blasphemy. From the back of his mind Bond again heard the original Harry Spraker say, ‘I believe Praxi, the one called Ariel, and myself are the only three left.’

  ‘The jockey was Ariel?’ Bond asked, though he knew this could not be. The files he had read in London described Ariel as a big bruiser of a man: formerly on the bodyguard detail at Karlshorst, tending to visiting Soviet bigwigs or baby-sitting high-ranking KGB or HVA officers. Ariel was what the old secret jargon of the Cold War called a Lion Tamer.

  Praxi shook her head, confirming Bond’s thoughts. ‘No, Ariel’s very large. He was the real muscle employed by Cabal. It’s one of the reasons you haven’t got him yet.’ She gave a short laugh. You could almost taste the sharp wormwood and gall on the air behind the sound. ‘A man who looks like a jockey?’ She turned to the man who claimed to be Tester.

  ‘Could be Dmitri. You know him. Axel’s friend. I told you Axel was hanging around Tegel when we fingered this one and the woman coming in from London.’

  ‘And who is Axel?’ There was a new tension in the air. It was as though a further dimension of uncertainty had been added to a situation already faced by both Praxi and the man.

  It was Praxi who answered. ‘Axel Ritter. One of the Poison Dwarf’s top operators.’

  ‘By the Poison Dwarf, you presumably mean Wolfgang Weisen . . . ?’

  She nodded, and her companion spoke. ‘He worked very closely with both Weisen and the Haardt woman. You do realise that Cabal’s been well and truly penetrated by those two?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind, but I honestly have to tell the pair of you that there is an entire encyclopaedia of questions you’re going to answer. You’re both prime suspects . . .’

  ‘You’re joking . . .’ from Praxi.

  ‘This is crazy!’ The new Tester looked bewildered. ‘Us? With Ariel we’re about the only ones who can be trusted. Apart from the others who’ve already died.’

  ‘The problem is that you’re the ones left alive. If Cabal was penetrated – and we all know it was – the persons responsible wouldn’t be dead. As far as any mole’s concerned, death would take some well-earned leave. A vacation . . .’

  He was cut short by the sound of a telephone ringing from behind one of the other doors. It rang three times and then stopped.

  ‘That the emergency number? The 800?’ Bond asked.

  Praxi nodded, she had gone as white as the silk shirt she wore, and looked thoroughly shaken. ‘London provided it, through Vanya – that is, the original Vanya. It has an interface box which means I can plug it into any modular jack, anywhere in the world, and it will be live, secure, scrambled and have its own number. That’s what he said, anyway.’

  Bond knew what she was talking about. Major Boothroyd and his assistant, in Q Branch, had demonstrated the package of electronics a couple of years ago. Everyone had been very pleased, for it now meant anyone in the field could have a constant unique number: anywhere, even in an hotel bedroom. It would be a boon of great proportions to those members of the intelligence community who actively fought terrorism.

  ‘We’ve been without it for quite a while.’ Praxi seemed to be explaining something important, and it now struck Bond that they were outstaying their welcome in this apartment. If the man he had known as Harry Spraker had talked, down on the Rue des Saussaies, they could be having visitors any time now. London station did not have the monopoly on reverse telephone directories.

  He backed towards the door, lifted the Browning Compact from the table, slammed the magazine home, and slipped it into the pocket of his slacks. After all, that was what it had been designed for: a pocket pistol. ‘I have to make a telephone call,’ he said. ‘I also think we should see what’s come in on the 800 number. Before we do any of that, I should warn you of two things. First, any little tricks and I’ll kill you: whether you’re real or fake. I can’t take chances. If you happen to be the real thing, then I’ve been blown out of the water because I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours or so with another Harry Spraker . . .’

  The sound of a sharp intake of breath came from Praxi Simeon, while the other Tester cursed.

  ‘Second,’ Bond continued, ‘if you do happen to be the genuine article, I don’t think it’ll be long before we have visitors. The man I knew as Harry Spraker gave me this telephone number, and he’s now probably handed it on to others who are less scrupulous than myself. I’m talking DST, and they can be vicious. When they throw you into their interrogation rooms down at 11 Rue des Saussaies, they rarely inform your embassy.’

  He told Praxi to go and get the 800 telephone. He knew the thing came as one complete and portable unit which would fit into a briefcase leaving room to spare. Her companion should go with her, he said, and they would both move very slowly, keeping well apart and with their hands firmly on top of their heads, fingers laced. ‘Except, that is, for the time Praxi needs to unhook the machine. And please don’t do anything stupid because I’m not joking. I will shoot first and ask questions later. If you’re survivors, you’ll do as I as
k.’

  They did exactly as they were told. Neither of them seemed inclined to take any actions that might nudge Bond into violence. Praxi unplugged the slim black console and carried it, as though it were a live bomb, into the main room where Bond told her to plug the electrics into a wall socket, so that the recorder would have the necessary power.

  After she had rewound the tape, she pressed the play button, and the usual subdued background crackle came through the built-in speaker. Then the beep, followed by—

  ‘Phantom, this is Ghoul . . .’ in German.

  ‘Ariel,’ Praxi whispered as the voice continued—

  ‘. . . There are problems with Vanya and Eagle. They came off the Berlin train separately, and with an old friend shepherding them. Axel Ritter was on the same train, and I don’t know if they were aware or not. Axel has made some major changes to his appearance which’ll interest Tester. He’s never had sight of me, so I got close enough to see he wore contact lenses to change his eye colour, and he had a little fake scar just where Tester has one. If you see Tester, tell him that it looked like a pinprick compared to his. He hung around the station for a while, and Vanya went across the road for lunch at the Terminus Nord. But Axel had another old friend in tow: Dmitri. I don’t know his proper name. Little fellow. Looks like a jockey: worked the streets for Weisen before the Wall came down.

  ‘They did a kind of brush pass, exchanging a few words, then Axel went out of the station again. I followed Vanya. Not close enough, but he was picked up by a couple of other people in the Faubourg St Honoré. I think he had been in the Place Vendôme. A tall guy jumped him in the St Honoré. The guy was well-dressed. Grey topcoat and a Homburg. A bit of a macaroni. I think he had a gun on Vanya, but I couldn’t be certain. All I know is that they both got into a car. There was a woman in the back, and they drove away pretty fast. I didn’t get close enough for a proper identity, but the car was one of those Hondas the DST use. There’s more . . .’ He paused, as though collecting his thoughts. German was obviously his first language, and he spoke intelligently, occasionally sounding amused by what he was saying.

  ‘I would’ve called sooner, only I’ve been monitoring the police frequency. There was a stabbing outside the Crillon, and from the stuff I heard, it sounded as though Axel and Dmitri were involved so I went over there to take a look.

  ‘Dmitri’s dead, and the cops’ve taken Axel down town, only they don’t sound like ordinary cops. I did my usual interested crime reporter on vacation act with the doorman there. He’s got a runaway mouth, and told me the cops sounded like DST – you know them, equivalent of the old Stasi, leaning towards MI5, but not very much. They snoop. Very strong on wiretaps so I would be careful. I’ve no idea where Vanya or Eagle have gone. For all I know Vanya’s down at the Rue des Saussaies with Axel, or even out at la Piscene. The people in the car could just as well have been DGSE. I’ll be in my usual place at midnight if you want to make contact. Good luck.’

  The tape went dead.

  ‘Where’s his usual place?’ Bond asked.

  ‘A bistro in Montmartre.’ Praxi was blinking back tears. ‘He’s known there, but it looks like we’re all in trouble.’

  ‘And some.’ Bond picked up his briefcase. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to search both of you. I don’t want you going off like loose cannons. Now, you’ll both have to assume the position – as they say in the US of A – against the wall.’

  They knew what he meant, and, leaning against the wall, palms flat and legs spread, they submitted to Bond’s careful frisking. He apologised again, particularly to Praxi. They were clean.

  ‘Now, is this the only safe house you have in Paris?’

  Tester said ‘Yes,’ and Praxi nodded. ‘I have a case packed for emergencies,’ she added.

  ‘Let’s get it, then. What about you?’ to Tester.

  ‘Just what I’m standing up in. I’ve got a case with spare clothes in a locker at the Gare de Lyon. It can wait.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait.’ Bond indicated they should both follow Praxi as she got her case, which turned out to be a small airline carry-on. She also brought out a briefcase into which she put the 800 telephone. Then, after shrugging herself into a heavy, military-style street coat, in burgundy suede, they all headed out of the door.

  ‘Your phone call?’ she queried as they waited at the elevator.

  ‘Downstairs, or even further away. If your friend Axel has been performing arias to the DST, their people at Les Invalides could’ve been activated, which means the telephone up here might now have ears.’ He felt the anxiety rise again, almost out of control. Experience jabbed at his mind. Maybe they were already too late. The feeling was very strong, and he told the others to make straight for the door. ‘Tip the security people as well, you have money?’

  ‘Some.’ Tester dug into his pockets.

  ‘Give it to Praxi. Pass out very large helpings. You might also suggest to them that if people come looking for us, they should all suffer sudden amnesia.’

  Down in the foyer nothing stirred, except for the security guards and the pugilistic doorman. Praxi spread largesse around as though she had just won the lottery. She also had muttered conversations with both of the guards and the doorman. As they left everyone was very polite, in that manner which suggests that money does not only talk, but can also buy silence.

  It was much colder outside now, and Bond hunched against the brisk east wind which had started to slice through the streets.

  They walked quickly, taking side roads rather than staying on the major arteries. He did not tell them where they were going, but he was heading in the general direction of the Hotel Amber, taking the scenic route, and looking for public telephones on the way. Finally, having accepted Praxi and Tester as at best genuine, at worst too frightened to try anything, he made them duck into the Victor Hugo Metro station, where there is a large bank of public telephones.

  He told them to stand where they were visible to him, and let them know he was still in earnest about shooting first. With one hand on the Browning in his pocket, he used the other to lodge the receiver under his chin, insert coins and dial the Hotel Amber.

  Antoine picked up on the fourth ring.

  ‘It’s one of your guests, Jim Bates,’ Bond told him in French. ‘Any messages for me?’

  ‘Your package has arrived.’ Antoine meant that Easy had checked in.

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing I can see.’

  ‘Would you like to take a look? In the street. Perhaps other people are waiting for me. They might even have a car parked illegally, or be on foot.’

  ‘Just give me a moment, sir.’

  He waited for a good ninety seconds.

  ‘Nobody. Rien. All clear.’

  ‘I’ll be bringing a couple of friends, and we’d like dinner in my room.’

  ‘It can be arranged. Don’t worry.’

  Bond led them down Rue Copernic, past the Liberal Synagogue, and onto the Avenue Kléber once more.

  ‘You are starting to trust us a little, I think.’ Praxi’s voice had become more normal: the cello notes as pleasing to Bond as when he first heard them on the telephone.

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions. I need an awful lot of answers. It’s going to be a long night.’

  ‘You’ll get all your answers.’

  They rounded the comer, with the Hotel Amber’s entrance in sight. None of them even heard the van until it passed them, pulling sharply in, over the kerb, blocking their progress. It was a maroon Toyota Previa: the one with the streamlined nose, large enough to carry two families, a dog and a couple of spare Geishas.

  The driver’s and front passenger’s doors opened, and the panel behind the driver’s seat slid back. A familiar voice shouted in sharp, commanding English. ‘Stand still! Police! Stay where you are!’

  Bond turned to see Jack Sprat, Dandy Jim, the Shadow, whatever, coming around the back of the van. He had discarded the Homburg, but still wore the sma
rt long grey overcoat. Two burly men followed in his wake, and a short little tough had climbed out of the driver’s seat.

  Looking past the nose of the Toyota, he saw Easy being led from the Amber’s entrance, a thuggish stocky man almost dragging her, with one hand clamped tightly on her upper left arm.

  ‘Just stand still!’ Sprat barked. He then repeated the command in French and German.

  ‘He’s Weisen’s man. Owned and paid for,’ Praxi whispered as the posse descended on them.

  Bond turned to face the man who was dragging Easy. He looked at Praxi, ‘You haven’t met,’ he said calmly, flapping a hand between the two women. ‘My dear, this is my old friend Souxi Banshee.’

  As his hand flapped towards Easy, so he turned on the balls of his feet, making a fist, his arm whipping through the air, the fist colliding heavily with Sprat’s jaw, lifting him from the pavement.

  Sprat went backwards at an angle, the long coat flapping as his head hit the Toyota with a crunch.

  One of the two men behind him sprang forward, but Bond swung his briefcase hard, with all his weight behind it. The case caught the tough straight in the conjunction of his thighs. He doubled up, curling into a ball and rolled onto the pavement, moaning and shrieking in an agony known only to men. Bond kicked him hard in the face and the screaming stopped.

  Sprat was out for the count – maybe forever – his pallor would have worried any passing doctor. Bond realised that the man might not make it. ‘What a waste of good clothes,’ he muttered.

  He was aware of other things going on around him. Praxi had dropped her case and briefcase, springing at the second of Sprat’s men, going for his face, her fingers clawing at his eyes as he desperately tried to reach for a weapon under his jacket.

  Tester had gone in the opposite direction, heading around the van and making for the driver’s door. The squat driver, who sported a shaved bull head, had reached the front of the van when he saw where Tester was heading. He turned in mid-stride, heading back for the driver’s seat, and was ducking to climb into the van when Tester came at him from behind. The driver began to turn, as Tester reached over his shoulder, throwing out an arm for the door which he flipped back with intense force. The door connected with the driver’s face, which had half completed the turn. It slammed into him, head on, so that the wretched man reeled back, doubling up, blood streaming from a broken nose, and his hands covering his eyes. Tester finished him off with a knee to the face and a couple of heavy blows to the back of the neck.