Death Is Forever

by John Gardner

  They went through to the dining room, which had about it the air of a cathedral dedicated to food. In fact this sense of a religious aura was heightened by the waiters who moved among the tables like acolytes, speaking in hushed voices and rarely smiling. Food at the Cipriani is a very serious business.

  There were only two other couples dining in the room: a bored, fragile-looking Italian girl with black hair and dark languid eyes, accompanied by a man old enough to be her grandfather. From the way in which he constantly reached across the table to fondle her hand, he was unlikely to be any permanent relation. The other pair were elderly Americans who hardly exchanged a word. It was either a case of long-term monotony, or companionable silence.

  Wimper and Bond chose a table far away from the two other couples, ordering lobster followed by boeuf en croûte, drinking an ’85 Cortese di Gavi with the lobster, and a splendidly elegant Gattinara – the ’83 – with the meat. The lobster was a spectacular gift from Neptune, and you could cut the succulent beef with a fork. The food was, Bond thought, in line with the atmosphere, worthy of beatification.

  They left business until coffee, which followed a splendidly light chocolate mousse, laced with brandy.

  ‘My Chairman bears out his letter,’ Bond began. Before leaving his room he had decided that, if he had to trust someone, Wimper was now his best bet. ‘In fact, he tells me that your credit rating is stratospheric.’

  Wimper looked a little hurt. ‘You doubted me?’

  ‘I doubt everyone now. You already know the others have gone out. They’re supposed to be having dinner at La Caravella, on San Marco.’

  Wimper gave a little nod. ‘I know it well. Place is done up like a caravel: a little over the top. They have menus on parchment, but the food is good, particularly if you like service with a lot of bowing and scraping. I’m told Americans are usually impressed by it.’ He paused, pursing his lips into a little, rather prissy, smile. ‘You don’t really believe they’ve gone there?’

  ‘I have my doubts now.’

  ‘So where do you think they’ve gone?’

  ‘I hoped you’d have the answer to that, but I need another answer first.’

  ‘The question?’

  ‘How did you manage to become the prime suspect as Cabal’s main traitor?’

  The prissy smile turned into one of more broad pleasure. ‘Liz knew – Eagle, that is. I played at being a double. Liz kept it very close to her chest. Under her bra, actually. We worked very closely . . .’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Oh, yes. That also. We broke the rules and she paid for it.’ His eyes flared with anger. ‘Every day I curse myself that I wasn’t able to save her.’

  ‘You were running on both sides of the street?’

  ‘That was the impression we wished to achieve. I became very close to Weisen, but it didn’t quite work. I rather think Comrade Wolfgang, and that dark, warped woman who ruts with him, are wise to me now. The object of my personal operation was to flush out the real penetration, if there was one. We certainly did that, and it cost Liz her life.’

  ‘You want to talk about it?’

  He gave a little shrug. ‘I fancy you’ve already guessed. In the end, little Wolfie was too clever for me. He did have someone else in Cabal. Or, I should say, he finally suborned someone else.’

  ‘Tester? Harry Spraker?’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘What about Praxi?’

  ‘Spraker has a lot of influence with her, but I’d say she’s safe. He could, of course, be using her as an unwitting agent. The old guard at Karlshorst were very good at that.’

  ‘But Harry definitely.’

  Wimper nodded. ‘Yes, though I don’t know how long he’s been on the team.’

  ‘Can you guess?’

  ‘I’d say it was reasonably recent. By which I mean just before the Poison Dwarf sent out the infamous Nacht und Nebel signal. He was a very good clandestine communications expert when he was at Karlshorst, Tester, I mean. He really did know all the KGB tricks, and most of the East German Service’s gambits.’

  ‘So, he could’ve activated the Nacht und Nebel, you mean?’

  He paused for a moment, his eyes sliding away. ‘You might not like me that much when you hear all of it.’

  ‘Liz Cearns liked you, and she was running you as double. You’ve said as much.’

  He nodded, silent for thirty seconds. ‘You know how it goes, James? Being a double?’

  ‘I’ve worked for my firm for a very long time. I know exactly how it works.’

  ‘Then do you know how to get rid of the guilt?’ For the first time there was a harsh anguish in his face and eyes.

  ‘To gain entrance to Weisen’s club you couldn’t go empty-handed. I presume you gave a little truth here and there.’

  ‘Ja, yes. Yes, I gave them the Nacht und Nebel signal for one. It seemed safe enough. We didn’t think it would ever be used. Also, I passed a few real names. Three, if you’re counting. They were the first to die.’

  ‘It happens.’ Bond did not want Wimper getting maudlin on him. In any war there are casualties, and in war some of the KIAs die by friendly fire. It was also true in his own world, and it had been a cross borne by all intelligence services during the Cold War, of which Weisen was simply an extension.

  ‘What’s he really after? Wolfie, I mean. Not simply vengeance surely. Not just the genocide of Cabal?’

  ‘Oh, no. How much did they give you on Wolfie?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Then you know about his childhood?’

  ‘Brought up with Joe Stalin . . .’

  ‘Brought up!’ Wimper’s voice rose to an unacceptable level in the cloistered temple to the goddess of food. A waiter froze in the act of serving the Americans, and the dark Italian girl shifted in her chair, turning lazy eyes on Wimper in a look of contempt she had so far reserved only for the man with whom she was dining.

  ‘Brought up,’ he repeated, lowering the voice to almost a whisper. ‘He actually called Stalin “Uncle”. Uncle Joe. He called him that. He thinks of him as a father. Still. He imagines that he’s the one true and holy receptacle of that monster’s political faith, and he’ll wage war by all the means at his disposal. Wolfgang Weisen hated everyone who came after Stalin, because he regarded them as a bunch of Judases who sold out on the old man. He’s pledged to return not just Communism, but Stalinism to Europe.’

  ‘A leftist fruitcake.’

  ‘Maybe, my friend. Maybe. But please don’t underestimate the man. He has a small army at his disposal, actually. If he can crack his way into a disrupted Europe, then there is a chance – slim, I admit – that he might just bring back the ice age. He believes the time will come when the true believers’ll rise up again in the old Soviet Empire. Things are so shaky there that, should Europe begin to tilt, Weisen might get his toe in the door.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  Wimper gave him a little smile meant to denigrate. ‘You haven’t met him. He has all the good characteristics of a dictator. He can be charming, make you believe black is white. He’s a magician in many ways, and he seems absolutely open and dedicated to his people. He regards the Russians as his people. Behind a colourful, enchanting façade, the man’s a walking nightmare.’

  ‘And you think he’s on to you?’

  ‘I’d put money on it. I’ve been, supposedly, doing a couple of things for him in Europe. Passing incomprehensible instructions to some of his agents . . .’

  ‘What kind of instructions?’

  ‘Oh, World War II stuff. You know the kind of thing. I call a number and say, “Anastasia is not dead”. Or “The grey goose will be at the windmill”.’

  ‘So, something’s up?’

  ‘Meaning Weisen has some kind of an operation running. My dear fellow, Wolfie always has some kind of an operation running. Come to think of it, though, the messages this time seemed more urgent. Yes, he just might have something going down, and if that’s t
he case it might be very big.’

  For a second, Bond’s mind slid back to Paris. He was in the car with Cold Charlie and Big Michelle. Once more his mental fingers almost touched something: a word, a phrase? Then it was gone. Put it away. It will return soon enough. He looked at Wimper. ‘And he’s called you back here?’

  ‘I’m supposed to arrive tomorrow afternoon, so I thought I’d slip in a day early. I didn’t expect a reception committee at Marco Polo today.’

  ‘There was one?’

  ‘For you, I suspect. That was why I kept you hanging around in the launch. It’s okay. His hired guns didn’t see me. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know I’m here yet.’

  ‘But he does know about me.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Probably knows everything about you. Even when you go to the bathroom, actually. Especially if the others’ve walked into his ambush. Harry Spraker, I suspect, was the drover. Got them all penned down nicely. Someone’ll probably turn up for you later, that’s why I suggest we get in first.’

  Bond raised a hand, ‘Hang on a minute . . .’ A waiter approached to serve more coffee and ask, in the tones of a celebrant, if everything was satisfactory. They told him more than satisfactory, but he did not go away looking happy. It was too serious a matter.

  ‘You’ve already got some kind of plan up your sleeve,’ Bond continued, ‘but I’ve a couple more questions to ask you.’

  Wimper leaned back in his chair, placing the tips of his fingers on the edge of the table, as if to say ‘Go ahead. Shoot.’

  ‘You know any Weisen men called Dominic Jellineck and Dorian Crone?’

  Wimper chuckled. ‘They here?’

  ‘Yes. You know them?’

  ‘Did Fred Astaire dance? Of course I know Dominic and Dorian. A pair of, how do you say it in English? Likely lads?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘I shouldn’t laugh, actually. They’re unpleasant, and that’s complimenting them. They’re what you might call Champagne Stalinists. They work with money, and they also have a penchant for hurting people. The kind of Stalinists who think it’s okay as long as you’re well in with the boss. They’ve made money for Weisen, and for themselves. If his uncle had been Hitler, they would have been Nazis, I think, actually.’

  ‘They make money and pain?’

  ‘In equal proportions. I hope Wolfie hasn’t set them on our friends because the bastards’re sadists. I believe they have delusions of grandeur. They imagine he’s going to appoint them as joint heads of his secret police on the day of his second coming: a day of wrath and doom if it arrives. A day of death and destruction also.’

  ‘You’ve worked Weisen’s side of the street for how long now?’

  ‘ ’87; ’88.’

  ‘And how do you get orders, report to him, all that kind of thing?’

  ‘The usual complex arcane ways. Dead-drops, telephone codes. The occasional face-to-face. The stuff of spy novels, but it is the stuff, actually. As well you know.’

  ‘The last time you saw him was . . . ?’

  ‘Paris, nine weeks ago. Wolfie has a tendency to appear, in a puff of smoke, when you least expect him. Before Paris, I saw him in London during the summer. I have spoken to him a number of times since then. Silly little telephone codes. You know.’

  He knew all right. ‘And he’s called you in?’

  Wimper gave a small sinister laugh. ‘I suspect it’s like his Uncle Stalin all over again. Old Joe used to call people back to Moscow to give them the bullet, actually, but you know that. Yes, Wolfie’s ordered me to meet him here, yes.’

  ‘Here? Where exactly?’

  ‘In his small, private palazzo, actually.’

  ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘You mean to the Palazzo Weisen? Of course. That’s why I thought we’d pay him a private visit tonight, actually. Maybe catch him off guard. Maybe not.’

  ‘The two of us?’

  ‘Well I wasn’t thinking of calling in the carabinieri. We don’t know who he might have on the payroll.’

  ‘And you have a way in? A way to get round his security at this Palazzo Weisen?’

  ‘Oh, my dear fellow, it’s not really the Palazzo Weisen, actually. That was a joke. But it is a small palazzo. Fronts onto the Grand Canal just below the Rialto – Rialto di là, actually.’

  ‘Di là?’

  ‘How well do you know Venice, James?’

  ‘On the surface. I’ve been in and out several times. Seen the sights: Doge’s Palace, St Mark’s Square – Piazza San Marco, as you’d say. Done the Bridge of Sighs and the Rialto . . .’

  ‘Let me explain, then, the Rialto . . .’

  ‘I know, was once the great centre of commerce.’

  ‘Yes, and the Ponte di Rialto is a somewhat ugly, clumsy bridge, with a lot of shops built into it, and a market running riot. The whole area is the Rialto. The San Marco side of the Grand Canal, as it runs through the Rialto is always known as Rialto di qua. The far side is Rialto di là. “This side” and “that side”. Weisen’s little palazzo is on “that side”.’

  ‘Is this going to help us?’

  ‘In a way, yes. I don’t advise that we try and tackle it from the canal, actually. That would be like assaulting a fortress, I think. But, if we cross the Rialto Bridge, take a left through the labyrinth of streets, we come to the Campo San Silvestro. A small piazza, in front of St Silvestro – since the success of Mr Stallone, I suppose St Silvestro is the patron saint of boxers.’ He thought that was no end of a joke, but Bond did not even smile.

  ‘And how does this help us, Gus? You’re giving me a geography lesson.’

  ‘That church, San Silvestro, contains a beautiful Tintoretto. Very dramatic, actually.’

  ‘For crying out loud, does it help us?’

  ‘Very much so. The rear of Wolfie’s Venetian lair forms part of one side of the square. How are you on climbing buildings?’

  ‘With the right equipment I can hold my own.’

  ‘I’m rather good at it. If we leave here around one in the morning, we should make the roof of Wolfie’s mini-palazzo by about three. It’ll be all downhill from there. I know the interior well.’

  ‘And how exactly do we get over there?’

  ‘We steal one of this hotel’s nice launches. I also know a man from whom we can get ropes and the like. He owes me a favour. What weapons have you got, actually, James?’

  Bond told him.

  ‘I can lay my hands on an Uzi, so we should be well set up.’

  ‘And if we’re not?’

  ‘Oh, I think there’ll be death and destruction, actually. Not just here, but through Europe as a whole, now I’ve had time to reflect on the messages I’ve been passing out. Yes, very much death and destruction.’

  In spite of Wimper’s grave and serious face, Bond smiled. He had remembered two lines of poetry:

  This is the way the world ends.

  Not with a bang but a whimper.

  14

  SIGNING A DEATH WARRANT

  Bond waited, silent, in the darkness.

  They had lingered over their coffee and brandy for a good half an hour as Wimper gave a floor by floor description of Weisen’s house on the Grand Canal. Again he stressed the difficult climb they would have to make from the Campo San Silvestro, and Bond recalled that in Venice all the squares but one are called campi – literally translated, fields. The only square in Venice is the Piazza San Marco.

  ‘Let me draw you a diagram,’ Wimper said, then realised, grabbing a napkin, that here in the Cipriani, the napkins are the real thing. ‘Second thoughts, I just sketch it in words.’ He looked sheepishly at the linen and put away his pen.

  ‘The roof’s flat, and there’s a large skylight right over the top storey landing,’ he said, copying the soft tones the waiters used to talk of food.

  ‘The hired help have their quarters up there, so we have to get the thing open quietly and drop down, silent like ghosts. Weisen seldom has less than six heavies in residence
, sometimes more. We can count on four at the top of the house, and a couple roaming around the place. The Dwarf likes someone awake at all times. Oh, and they have one bathroom up there. When Dominic and Dorian are around, they’re always fighting over the damned bathroom.’

  The second storey was used as Weisen’s personal quarters: a large bedroom usually shared with Monika Haardt; a room they used for relaxation; a conference room; two small bathrooms and another spare bedroom – ‘He uses it when he gets fed up with Monika. Me? I’d use it all the time if I lived with that bitch.’

  At ground and water level there were two reception rooms – ‘They’re like a slum,’ Wimper declared – a big kitchen and the front hall. ‘The furnishings look as if they were stolen from a city dump.

  ‘I suspect he’ll be holding everyone in the cellar. The place used to belong to a bishop, several centuries ago, and for a man of the cloth he had a big wine cellar. Also he had some kind of lock-up down there. I think this bishop did a little torture and bondage on the side – no pun intended, James. It’s like a big cell with one wall made up entirely of bars, and a padlocked gate. There’re no windows and it’s as damp as a jogging yuppie: way below the water level. But that’s where we’ll head for. If we can make it with luck and a following wind, we take them back the same way as we get in. Okay?’

  Bond said it was okay by him, but secretly wondered if they could get through the house and back again with three prisoners, without waking anyone. He did not like the thought of a firefight. Long experience had taught him that weapons used within the confines of a relatively small building are even more dangerous than when you use them out in the open. Luck and low cunning would be their only allies tonight.

  They had two more brandies, then Wimper came back to the junior suite. ‘You got some pull with this hotel?’ he asked with a grin.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You got a better room than I have, actually.’