Death Is Forever

by John Gardner

  There was a car waiting to transport him to Terminal One, from where the British Airways Airbus would leave for Venice. On the way over he almost captured the elusive piece of conversation he had tried to remember. Words said when he had been in the Honda with Cold Claude and Big Michelle. The thing was there for a second, then gone.

  Half an hour later he boarded, and was shown to a window seat in Executive Class. Dumping the case in the overhead bin, he fastened his seat belt, accepted a copy of the Standard from the flight attendant, and became engrossed in an article on the season’s new plays.

  He did not even glance up when his travelling companion settled next to him. Only as they began the pushback from the gate did he recognise the voice.

  ‘How nice to see you, James. A pleasant surprise.’

  Bond slowly raised his head. Axel Ritter sat in the next seat, his mouth hard and his eyes mocking.

  12

  KEEPS DEATH HIS COURT

  Bond slowly folded his newspaper and tucked it into the seat pocket in front of him.

  ‘Well, what a pleasant surprise.’ He smiled warmly at Axel Ritter’s stone face. ‘I thought this was going to be the usual boring flight: sitting looking at clouds and listening to the Captain telling us about the problems he was having with Air Traffic Control.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too happy if I were you, Mr Bond. You’ve caused enough trouble already.’ He spoke softly, leaning in towards Bond’s ear.

  ‘Oh, they say it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive.’

  Ritter nodded. ‘So I’ve heard, but the arrival will be more interesting than usual.’

  ‘I dare say.’

  They were taxiing out, and the flight attendants were going through their dance of death, arms and hands moving to the accompaniment of a tape – pointing out the exits in case of an unlikely emergency, and telling passengers what would happen should they suffer a severe decompression: they stressed that this was most unlikely. This routine rarely varied, and gave Bond little comfort. He knew what would almost certainly happen if they suffered one of those ‘unlikely’ severe decompressions. You would probably not have need of dangling oxygen masks if the worst happened.

  ‘I hear some mugger offed your little jockey friend.’ He retained the friendly smile. ‘Dmitri, wasn’t it?’

  A storm cloud crossed Ritter’s face. ‘It was no mugger,’ he all but snarled, then the Captain blotted him out, coming through on the communications system to say they were seventh in line for take-off.

  ‘Oh, I was told some crack-head with a knife . . .’

  ‘Then you were told wrong, and I suspect you know exactly who pulled that stunt.’

  For a few seconds Bond was thrown. He glanced away, looking out of the window. An El Al 747 was piling on the thrust and rumbling away on take-off. He felt their aircraft shake from the reverberation. London had told him that the stabbing of Dmitri had been a genuine, common or garden mugging, nothing to do with Cabal, or what was going on with those members who still lived. Presumably London had got its information directly from the police in Paris. Somewhere along the line either the tale had been garbled, or something was wrong with the story to begin with.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it. Nor do I regard death as a stunt.’

  ‘You didn’t appear to have any problems with it on the Ost-West Express.’

  ‘I thought I was saving our lives then, Axel, remember? That was when I used to call you Harry, and you know that I’m not proud of the incident. Killing people is an unpleasant occupation.’

  ‘But someone has to do it, eh?’

  ‘It appears to be constantly inevitable. That doesn’t change the basic immorality. There’s enough death and destruction in the world as it is.’

  Ritter laughed. A shade too loud. ‘You’re getting scruples, then, James Bond?’

  ‘Not really. When I have to do my country’s dirty work I regard it as pest control.’ He turned away from Ritter and stared out of the window again.

  The Captain ordered all doors to automatic, and asked the flight attendants to take their seats. A warning bell clanged twice, to let the cabin crew know the aircraft was about to get under way. Bond reflected that the orders given from the flight deck nowadays appeared to have been filched from science fiction. The Airbus trembled, turning onto the threshold, then the engines wound up to full thrust and they were bowling off, bumping down the runway.

  Seconds later, Bond was looking at the model buildings and toy cars that were the outskirts of London far below. He thought the one thing about which any passenger could be certain was that, after take-off, the aircraft would eventually return to earth. He remained with his head turned away from Axel Ritter. The man posed a problem that he could do without. The question was had Ritter boarded the aircraft knowing that he – Bond – would be there, or was this just an unhappy accident?

  Certainly Ann Reilly had been at Heathrow to meet him, so logic told him that members of his Service would have automatically checked out the passenger list, or at least monitored people going on board. Yet he had not seen Ritter in the departure lounge, which pointed to a last minute decision: or, at worst, a decision that looked like an unfortunate coincidence.

  He wished he could turn on the credit card transceiver, but it had been stressed that the things had to be deactivated when flying on a commercial aircraft: something to do with interfering with communications and navigational equipment. The current situation was one of the few he would prefer to be monitored by Moonshine at the base in Oxfordshire.

  In the end, after they had climbed through heavy rain-bearing cloud, he decided that this was no accident. Axel Ritter somehow knew Bond would be on board, and had managed to organise matters so that he was seated next to him. In turn, this meant those who controlled Ritter would also be expecting Bond to arrive at Marco Polo airport. So, if Praxi and the others were correct, Ritter would be delivering him into the arms of his superiors – Weisen and Haardt.

  He accepted a complimentary glass of champagne from the flight attendant, as did Ritter. How, he wondered, could he give Weisen’s agent the slip? Ritter was the sheep dog sent to drive Bond into the pen, where the Poison Dwarf of the former East German Intelligence Service would be waiting.

  Bond thought of the pair of pens given to him by Ann Reilly at Heathrow. The gold one was lethal, but the silver would do the job without adding another death to his conscience. There were two problems. How could he possibly use either of them in the restricted space of an aircraft without giving himself away? Certainly Ritter would be watching every move he made. Secondly, did Axel Ritter deserve to live or die?

  If Praxi and Harry had got it right, Comrade Ritter was an accomplished killer under the now defunct regime: but that was in another life, and another time. He decided that doing something to the man in the close confinement of the aircraft would be more likely to cause problems than dealing with him once they had landed.

  Even with Ritter sitting next to him, the flight turned out to be just as dull as any other. The food was usual airline: plastic and all but inedible. Ritter did not try either to talk or even threaten him – except to block his way when he stood in an attempt to head for the lavatory.

  ‘Oh, no, James. You stay just where you are.’

  ‘What d’you think I’m going to do, jump out?’

  ‘My instructions call for me to stay with you: not to let you out of my sight.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to trust me, Axel.’

  A few seconds pause, after which Ritter reluctantly let him go. Alone, Bond made his decision. He would act once they reached Venice, and before going through Immigration. Provided the opportunity presented itself, he might even be able to evade any of Weisen’s people who would certainly be waiting for them on the other side of the customs hall.

  An hour or so later, the Airbus began its descent through dense cloud. Bond’s eyes strained to catch a glimpse of the unique city of Venice from the air,
but all he saw were the approach lighting system and runway threshold pass beneath the aircraft before it touched down gently, the engines howling into reverse thrust. The magic of navigation and electronic approach systems had brought them into Venice, which was now shrouded in a late afternoon mist. While the weather conditions would slow any transfer from Marco Polo to Venice itself, it might just be ideal for Bond’s purposes.

  Ritter was out of his seat belt and on his feet as soon as the aircraft came to a halt at the gate. He opened the overhead bin and grabbed at Bond’s briefcase. ‘Let me carry this for you.’ He looked down, unsmiling. ‘I’m travelling even lighter than you, Mr Bond. I have everything I need here in Venice. There should be a launch ready to meet us. So if you would go first, please.’

  He had no option but to move in front of the German, though a couple of passengers did get out between them. It gave him just enough time to make for the nearest rest room, knowing Ritter would follow. Possibly this was the only way he might alter the odds. Now he prayed that no other deplaning passenger required the facilities. As he entered the rest room, so he moved his hand over the transceiver in his pocket, reactivating it. At least from now on the monitors in Oxfordshire would be receiving conversation and noises.

  There were two men already standing at the urinals when Bond entered, and three more, including Ritter, came in after him. Bond whistled quietly as he stood in front of the urinal, hoping that nobody else from the incoming flight would enter the rest room. The two men who had been there on his arrival had washed their hands and left. Ritter, his eyes constantly flicking towards Bond, occupied a position three porcelain receptacles to his left. Nobody else came in, and eventually one, then both, of the passengers who had entered with Ritter finished and left.

  Ritter stepped back. ‘Come on, Mr Bond, you’re just wasting time.’ He still clutched the briefcase.

  Bond made a great show of adjusting his fly and going to wash his hands. Ritter stayed with him, not more than a foot away, his hand clamping on Bond’s arm as he reached inside his blazer. ‘Axel, just relax. I’m not going anywhere without you. D’you think I’ve got a gun in here?’ Bond withdrew his comb, gave Ritter a quizzical look, and slowly ran it through his hair. ‘If we’re going to meet your boss, I’d prefer to look my best.’ Replacing the comb, he turned, his hand removing the silver pen from his inside pocket.

  ‘If you want to write with it, just twist the two halves,’ Ann Reilly had told him. ‘Pressing the plunger does the other thing, so don’t make any mistakes. Pressing when you mean to write could cause grave embarrassment.’

  His hand came up, and he pressed the pen’s plunger as it came level with Ritter’s face. A thick cloud of a MACE-like substance filled the air around Ritter’s head. The irritant, inherent in MACE, was beefed up with a small quantity of CS gas, and the result was immediate. Ritter dropped the briefcase, hands flying to his face as he staggered back, making little grunting noises. He did not have the time to shout, for Bond stepped in and stiff armed him on the side of the jaw, hearing the click as either a bone broke or the jaw was dislocated.

  Ritter staggered backwards, half-turning to bump against the door of one of the toilets. Bond moved in close now, for the cloud of unpleasant chemical had quickly dissolved in the air, the bulk of it clinging to the German’s head.

  With his hands outstretched and flat, thumbs bent backwards to strengthen the cutting edge of each, Bond chopped Ritter on both sides of the neck, following up with a vicious one-hand cut to the bridge of the nose.

  The German sprawled backwards, arms and legs flying as though he had lost all control. He spun once, then collapsed hard onto the lavatory seat, his head lolling, his face covered in blood. Ritter would stay silent for some time, Bond thought, closing the door on him, snatching up his briefcase and retiring to one of the other stalls to retrieve his automatic from the case. Less than two minutes later he strolled out of the rest room and walked unhurriedly to one of the little passport control booths. The officer merely glanced at the British passport in the name of John E. Bunyan – a small jest perpetrated by the scrivener, Brian Cogger, who dealt with all extra identity documents. The passport control officer looked bored, and waved him through towards the baggage claim and customs area.

  The baggage area at Marco Polo resembles a very large Victorian waiting room: a lot of wood and big old-fashioned windows, the whole leading off towards the dock area where launches from hotels, and for private hire wait, together with a group of optimistic porters and hotel representatives.

  Usually the trip, by launch, to the Cipriani, took half an hour, but, as he came into the baggage claim, Bond realised that today’s weather would mean considerable delay. The mist was thickening across the water, and with the amount of traffic which plied to and fro over the lagoon, the going would be necessarily cautious.

  He walked straight through the crush of passengers claiming their luggage, using his own techniques – giving the impression that he looked into the far distance, yet taking in everything, and everyone, within his peripheral vision. During the couple of hundred yards he saw at least six people whom normally he would have marked for closer scrutiny. As he emerged onto the wooden jetty where the launches were tied, there were two men who gave off vibrations which said either cop or hoodlum. They both wore grey suits and unneeded Rayban sunglasses.

  October often provides pleasant, balmy weather in Venice. The holiday season is over, and the one-week package deals have almost ceased. Autumn brings musical aficionados, for it is the time for the opera and concert hall, just as late winter brings a special kind of visitor for the Carnival. This year the weather was not cooperating. Once out in the open, Bond felt the damp chill which is associated more with winter than the autumn.

  He tried to look unhurried, sauntering towards the launches until he saw a dark-suited, small man wearing a cap with Cipriani embroidered above the bill.

  ‘Bunyan,’ he introduced himself. ‘I have a reservation.’

  ‘Mistair Bunyan, yes. Of course. Yes, we were awaiting you.’ The English was very good. ‘You have no other luggage?’

  Bond shook his head, lifting the briefcase as though it were enough.

  The Cipriani representative shrugged, the porters looked dejected, then brightened as he said something about one more passenger, and showed Bond to a sleek launch tied up nearby. He climbed down into the stern well, ducked his head, entering the enclosed area, open at both ends. There was a man at the wheel for’ard, wearing a heavy black slicker over his white uniform. He nodded and smiled, welcoming his passenger in English.

  They waited for ten minutes, Bond expecting to hear shouts and the activity of police any moment. It would not be long before someone discovered the comatose Ritter. Then, with a sudden flurry of activity, the Cipriani rep appeared again, on the jetty aft. ‘He is here,’ he smiled at Bond, while a porter who had got lucky heaved a big suitcase into the baggage compartment.

  A few seconds later, an actorish-looking man arrived with the hotel guide. The newcomer looked as if he was doing everyone a favour by being there at all, and stood for a moment as though waiting for his photograph to be taken. He was a little under six feet tall – somewhere around five-nine – wearing highly glossed Gucci loafers: the first part of him that Bond could see. When he descended into the aft well, there was a better view: an immaculate Armani silk suit; a cream silk shirt and a Sulka tie. He had a waisted camel-hair topcoat slung across his shoulders, suggesting the casual ensemble men were wearing this autumn.

  His iron grey hair was thick and swept back above an undoubtedly good-looking, weathered and tanned face which reminded Bond of somebody. He recalled Axel Ritter on the Ost-West Express. It was when he had been doubling as Harry, and reading a thriller, complaining about writers who did not bother to describe characters, but simply depicted them as looking like a household personality, usually from the movies. The newcomer had the distinct appearance of an actor Bond had seen in many movies – An
thony Quinn. Zorba the Greek came readily to mind, though the man was a shade younger than Mr Quinn, not quite as tall, and almost certainly did not have the charisma of the actor. As he ducked into the cabin, the Quinn look-alike flashed a smile, as though he knew Bond very well. Indeed, there was more than just a passing resemblance to the actor that struck Bond as familiar. Something else began to emerge as he searched his memory.

  The motor roared, the screw churning the water into foam, and the launch began to move away from the jetty. The Cipriani representative jumped into the for’ard section and began a conversation with the pilot, their words almost drowned by the clamour of the engine.

  The newcomer, gathering the camel-hair topcoat around him, gently sat down next to Bond and said loudly, ‘How are you? Have a good flight from London?’

  ‘How d’you know I was on the London flight?’ He continued to rack his brain. He knew the face and the description, but . . .

  ‘I was on it also, actually. You had that imbecile Axel Ritter with you. Drop him off somewhere?’

  ‘He was unavoidably delayed.’ Alarm bells clanged in Bond’s head.

  ‘Mmmm.’ Anthony Quinn the Second nodded and gave him a smile which showed perfect teeth. ‘I fear he’s not going to make it at all now, actually.’

  ‘Really?’

  He shook his head sadly, giving Bond another view of the perfect teeth. ‘You didn’t quite finish the job. So I did it for you. Let some air into his head. He didn’t look any worse for it, and it’s a distinct improvement for the world as a whole.’

  ‘Have we met?’ Bond’s brow creased and he felt there was a name, just out of reach, in his mind. He had a picture of his hand straining towards a card index and not quite making it.

  ‘No, we haven’t, actually. But we’ve met now. How are you?’ The proffered hand had a large signet ring on the middle finger. ‘You’re so highly spoken of that I thought you’d know me immediately. How about: