Death Is Forever

by John Gardner

  They were now certain the skylight could be lifted off, so Bond began to remove the hilt of the Buckmaster knife. When it came off, a pair of curved and pointed anchor arms were revealed along each side of the flat skeletal handle lined with finger holes to double as a knuckleduster. The two anchors moved easily, and Bond pressed down on them, feeling the welcome click as they locked into place, splaying out on either side of the handle.

  Unzipping the nylon jacket, he removed his section of climbing rope – thinner than the one they had used to get onto the roof – and clipped it onto what would have been the thumb hold in the knuckleduster skeleton framework. He looked up, raising his eyes questioningly to Wimper who nodded. ‘Yes’, he was saying, ‘Let’s go. Let’s go down and get them out.’

  Together they began to lift the skylight. The framework squealed in protest, and at the first noise they both froze, waiting for any movement below. Silence. Nothing. Again they lifted and the skylight came off easily.

  Bond dropped the rope through the open well, securing the Buckmaster knife against the surround so that the pair of splayed arms bit into the wood. He took the Sykes-Fairbairn dagger in his left hand, swung himself into the well, and went arm over arm to the floor below, followed a second later by Wimper. As soon as he hit the floor, Bond drew the ASP and took the safety off. The next minutes were crucial, their aim was silence, but, should they be detected, he was ready to use the gun to get out in one piece.

  The landing, and stairs beyond, were covered with a thin, utilitarian carpet which helped silence their footsteps. Nobody stirred; no movement or noise came from below. They reached the second floor, where Weisen had his quarters. The house still slept, but, as they reached the top of the stairs leading down to the ground floor, Bond saw a figure in the large, marble flagged hall, his back to them as he sat dozing in a chair about six paces from the bottom of the stairs.

  Wimper nodded, slipped past him, and began to make his way stealthily down. The man in the chair was big, broad shouldered, and dressed in jeans and a sweater. From where he stood, covering the rear, Bond could see a pump action shotgun lying on the floor beside the chair.

  He waited, palms damp with sweat, as Wimper inched downwards, the garrotte dangling from his right hand. Two paces from the chair, the German took the taped ends of the wire in each hand, then crossed his wrists so that the garrotte flexed, forming a loop. One more step and the noose went over the man’s head.

  Bond thought he had never seen it done so well. The guard was well-built, and had obviously been half asleep in the chair. As the wire bit into his neck he arched his back, arms flailing as he struggled to get out of the seat. Wimper simply went on applying pressure. The first pull on the noose had been enough to crush the victim’s windpipe. He did not even have a chance to cry out or gasp. It took less than thirty seconds for the body to sag, lifeless, back into the chair.

  Wimper gently kicked the shotgun away, signalling Bond to come down. Mouthing that there would be another guard somewhere, he indicated a passage which ran alongside the stairs, leading to the kitchens and, presumably, down to the cellars.

  They were halfway along the passage when they saw the other guard. The kitchen door stood open, and the man sat on the edge of a scrubbed wooden table, eating some kind of sandwich with his right hand, and holding a mug of coffee in his left.

  Once more, Wimper tapped Bond’s shoulder and brushed past him. This time the Baby Beretta was out and in his right hand. He reached the kitchen door, then increased speed, coming up behind the figure who was munching on his night snack. The guard sensed Wimper’s presence a fraction of a second before the former cop jammed the little pistol into his right ear and said, ‘Good morning, Giorgio. Please don’t do anything silly because I hate violence, and don’t want to kill you.’ He used his Germanic Italian, but it appeared to serve the purpose.

  The man stiffened, dropping the cheese roll and lowering the mug of coffee almost to the table. ‘Hand off that mug, Giorgio,’ Wimper commanded. You could tell by the tensed muscles of his back that he was seriously thinking of doing something about the predicament, so Bond moved into the kitchen, went around Wimper and stuck the ASP into Giorgio’s mouth.

  ‘Nod if you understand,’ Bond hissed. ‘Take us down to the prisoners and you’ll be fine. Nothing’s going to happen to you. But, if you’re stupid, your brains’ll be all over the wall. Okay?’

  Giorgio nodded convincingly. His face came from a nightmare: strange high cheekbones, a broken nose, bulging eyes, one of which was set lower than the other, and a mouth which needed the work of a good orthodontist. He also seemed to have no neck, and all the hair was shaved from his head.

  ‘Whisper when you answer,’ Wimper said. ‘Are there keys we need?’

  ‘Si!’ The voice was throatily reminiscent of Marlon Brando’s Godfather.

  ‘Where are the keys?’

  ‘Left pocket. My jeans.’

  Wimper leaned over and removed a key ring the size of a beer coaster. There were six large deadlock keys, old and solid, hanging from the ring.

  ‘Now, just walk very slowly and show us how to get to our friends. Understand?’

  Giorgio nodded, then paused. ‘You got past Carlo?’ he grunted.

  ‘If we didn’t get past Carlo, we wouldn’t be here, dummy.’

  ‘Carlo okay?’

  ‘Sorry, Giorgio.’ Wimper shook his head. ‘Come on, stop wasting my time.’

  The kitchen had a second door, set in the wall some six feet from the entrance they had used. Giorgio indicated they should go in that direction, so they shuffled him across the room and Wimper tried the handle. The door opened to reveal a heavy second door. It looked as though it was made of steel and should really be in a bank vault. There was a spoked wheel in the centre, a combination lock and a keyhole.

  ‘Just tell us how?’ Bond whispered.

  ‘Combination’s 6963. Then you turn the key. Then the wheel.’

  ‘Tell you what, you do it for us, except for the key. Set off an alarm and you’ve pulled the legs off your last fly, okay?’

  Giorgio nodded slowly, as though he had to use considerable concentration, but everything worked. Behind the door they could just make out a long flight of wooden stairs. ‘Lights.’ He nodded towards an old brass switch set in what looked like a small brass jelly mould.

  Bond thought he had not seen a switch like this for a long time. He remembered them from his childhood, and for a moment a host of memories floated into his head. A naked bulb flashed on just above the stairs showing the flight going down to a stone floor.

  ‘After you, Giorgio.’ Bond gave a mock bow and they began the descent.

  Another switch at the bottom of the stairs illuminated a cold damp chamber which looked like a set straight out of a Verdi opera. To the right a huge stone archway was completely barred off: great thick iron rails, with heavy crosspieces and a gate section with a big, flat, metal lock.

  Behind the bars something stirred. Then Bruin’s voice. ‘It’s the middle of the night. What the hell’s . . . You brought Harry back?’

  Another figure moved from the shadows of the cell. ‘James! Oh, thank heaven. James!’ Easy St John clung to the bars, her clothes tattered, hair matted and her face dirty and stained.

  ‘James and Orphan. You were supposed to be dead.’ Praxi had rolled into view from a pile of old blankets. ‘You’re alive?’

  ‘I’m not a ghost, Praxi. Neither am I what you’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘Unlock the damned thing.’ Bond rammed his gun into Giorgio’s head. ‘Which key’ll get them out of there?’ Then, to Praxi, ‘Gus is okay. Trust us.’ It was more of an order than a statement.

  Giorgio indicated the key they should use, and the gate swung back, the mechanism well oiled.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Praxi was still open-mouthed, looking at Wimper.

  ‘Takes more than water to get rid of me. I presume you now know about your friend
Spraker.’

  ‘They took him away earlier tonight. Has that bastard Weisen killed him?’

  ‘Harry’s probably on his way to killing you,’ Bond said softly. ‘We’ll tell you all about it later, we really have to get a move on.’ He stood back as they came out of the cell, and Gus Wimper began to instruct them on what they would have to do. ‘This has got to be quick and very quiet.’

  Bond pushed Giorgio through the gateway, and the ASP caught him on the back of the neck sending him to his knees. A second blow had him flat on his face.

  ‘You should kill him,’ Wimper snarled.

  ‘Too noisy.’

  ‘You’ve got a damned dagger.’

  ‘Leave it.’ He closed the gate and turned the key. ‘Do they know what’s expected of them?’

  Wimper nodded, and Bond threw the keys into the far corner of the chamber, well away from the cell.

  Gus led the way, with Bond at the rear to cover their retreat. As they reached the top of the stairs to the kitchen, Praxi began to protest again, saying she needed to know what had happened to Harry Spraker, and did Bond not realise that Wimper was almost certainly a traitor?

  ‘Spheroids, Praxi.’ Bond smiled. ‘Just do as you’re told, we haven’t much time. Trust me.’

  The house remained still and quiet. By the time they reached the top floor Bond could hardly believe their luck. Now they were within an ace of pulling off the rescue.

  They sent Bruin up first, then Praxi and Easy. Wimper followed, and Bond, putting the dagger back in its scabbard, but still holding on to the ASP, swarmed up the rope into the chill of the night.

  They removed the Buckmaster, and put the skylight back in place. The trio of prisoners were stretching their limbs, paying little attention to the cold night as they savoured freedom.

  ‘James, I was so worried . . .’ Easy began.

  ‘You were also a shameless hussy. Booking a suite for yourself and your husband.’

  ‘Well . . .’ She grinned in the darkness.

  Bond had just replaced the Buckmaster and was leading them across to the rope which would get them from the roof, when he became suddenly aware of engine noise from the direction of the Grand Canal.

  At first he thought it was some heavy water craft starting up, but as they reached the grapple, he glanced to the left.

  From behind the Rialto Bridge the squat black shape of a helicopter rose, hovering like some terrible, dangerous insect. A searchlight slashed the night. Then bullets began to hail down onto the roof around them.

  16

  DEATH IN VENICE

  There was no cover. It was a case of being out on the roof with the metal beast chopping away above them, the bullets sharding the stone work. They had nowhere to run and no place to hide. All five of them instinctively threw themselves to the ground, and it took Bond a few seconds to realise that whoever was firing at them from the helicopter was not shooting to kill or wound.

  ‘Get down the rope!’ he yelled. ‘They’re trying to frighten not kill. Get down the bloody rope. Give yourselves up to the police. They’re bound to be here soon.’

  He saw Easy make it to the grapple and go over the side. The helicopter continued to move only a hundred feet or so above them, its searchlight picking them out one by one. Now, only an occasional burst of fire came from the chopper’s doorway, and there was not much noise apart from the engine and rotor blades. Bond guessed they were using something like an Uzi with a silencer, or even a Swiss SIG which lent itself more easily to a noise reduction system.

  He saw Praxi go over the coping, with Bruin hunched, kneeling and waiting to follow her down. Strangely he did not even return the fire. A lucky shot might easily take out the gunner or pilot at this range, yet his instinct told him to hold back. If he, or Gus Wimper, began shooting, the gunner might well start aiming to kill. As it was, he had just put a couple of short bursts quite near to where Bruin had climbed over, following Praxi: little splinters of stone flew away as the bullets chipped at the coping.

  ‘Get over, Gus. Leave me to follow!’

  Wimper was not going to argue, he disappeared before the final words were out of Bond’s mouth.

  The helicopter seemed to be moving closer, its searchlight holding Bond in a pool of dazzling white light as he ran, crouching, towards the rope. He could just about see the grapple, and the top of the rope, which he grabbed, pulling to be certain Gus was already down. He tried to peer into the Campo San Silvestro but the brightness of the light had played havoc with his night vision. The rope was free of strain so he slid down for ten feet or so then abseiled the rest of the way.

  Still blinded by the light, Bond reached the ground. For a moment he was baffled. The helicopter was turning away, its engine noise receding. Why in hell, he thought, were they all just standing there looking at him? Easy, Praxi, Bruin and Gus, together, in a half-circle.

  Then a hand caught him by the shoulder.

  ‘Stand quite still, James.’ Harry Spraker’s voice was not a welcome sound. Other hands began to frisk him expertly and, one by one, his weapons were removed.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Spraker ordered. ‘Do the rest inside. Go.’ He found himself being hustled, with the others, through a small door near the church.

  ‘We have a direct way in and out on this side of the house,’ Spraker chuckled. ‘It would’ve saved you a great deal of time and energy if you’d known about it.’ Then, with a sharpness in his voice, ‘Dorian, the police’ll be here any minute. Go out and say some damned helicopter was letting off fireworks. Complain in your best bad Italian, and tell them the Man is very angry. They know this address, and shouldn’t cause any problems. The Man gives regularly to the police charities. Well known for it.’

  ‘Anything you say, Harry.’ Dorian was very definitely English. You could cut the affected accent with a blunt letter opener.

  They were huddled together in some kind of reception room on the ground floor, and the furnishings, as Gus Wimper had already maintained, could well have been collected by a posse of bag ladies. An old settee, ragged at the arms and with a spring trying to force its way out of the seat, was pushed against one corner; there was another chair nearby, with a small table. Both had long passed the stage when they could have reasonably been called antiques – or even usable items. Paper peeled from the walls, and a rusty music stand was propped up, incongruously, near the window which was covered by old and mould-mottled velvet drapes.

  They could hear a commotion going on in the little square, and the sound of a police klaxon coming from the Grand Canal.

  ‘Stay quite still, and don’t make any noise,’ Spraker ordered. He carried an Uzi, as did the other young man with him. This one, Bond considered, must be Dominic Jellineck: a strapping figure in a smooth grey suit, his blond hair silky and just a shade long to be fashionable. He had the face of an innocent and the eyes of a dangerous sadist. His smile was so evil that the hairs on the back of Bond’s neck stiffened, hard as porcupine quills.

  As they waited there was an opportunity to study the others properly. Already, as he had helped them from the cellar, he had felt a little shocked at their dishevelled appearance; now in the bright light, they looked even worse. The girls had been wearing dresses for the dinner party with Spraker. Once upon a time – last night – Praxi’s had been a white number with a little jacket. Now the dress was stained and torn at the hem. Easy was wearing what had been a blue and white top and matching full skirt, in a silky material, with a white belt studded with brass diamond shapes and a large elaborate buckle. It too was torn and dirty. There were oil stains and a big discoloured patch as though someone had thrown a glass of red wine at her. Bruin, never a contestant for the best-dressed man of the year award, had gone to the party in a suit which by now would be rejected by Oxfam.

  Worse was the appearance of their faces. All of them looked tired and strained. There were dark smudges under Easy’s eyes; Bruin had obviously been roughed up, and Praxi sported a black eye, a swo
llen jaw and a long cut down the side of her cheek. The blood was dry and crusted, indicating she had not even been given rudimentary first aid.

  ‘These bastards do that to you, Praxi?’ he asked.

  Spraker immediately rapped out, ‘Keep quiet, I won’t have you talking to one another.’

  ‘What’re you going to do, Harry? Kill me?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, good for you. Who did it, Praxi?’

  ‘That pair of strong-arm thugs, Dominic and Dorian. And the Dwarf, of course. He called it an interrogation . . .’

  Bruin muttered something untranslatable in German which had a great deal to do with the sexual preferences of Dominic’s and Dorian’s parents.

  ‘I should be careful what you say about me.’ Dorian was back, standing in the doorway. ‘I get uncontrollable rages, as you well know, Herr Bruin.’

  Turning his head, Bond saw that he was almost a twin to Dominic: an inch shorter possibly, with features a shade more patrician, but he had the same weak chin and silky blond hair. There was also an evil smile: unnerving and spine-chilling.

  ‘You take care of those idiot cops?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Slice of gateau, Harry. As soon as I mentioned their benefactor, they started to bow and scrape like courtiers.’

  The conversation went on for the best part of a minute, and it was time, Bond knew, to try and salvage something from his store of assets. They would possibly resort to a more detailed search at any minute and, while he did have one or two small surprises – which, in all probability, would be missed in close examination – he required other things if they were ever going to attempt an escape.

  Casually he turned towards Bruin, shielding the right side of his body from his captors, and slipping one of the cartridge-sized ‘flash-bangs’ from their container on his belt. Withdrawing his hand, he palmed the small stun grenade, neatly holding it between the soft base of his thumb and the middle knuckles of his first three fingers.