Death Is Forever

by John Gardner

  Years ago, he had taken instruction from an eminent stage magician and learned the rudiments of sleight of hand. Provided they did not ask him to turn his hands over for inspection, he should be able to keep the four-inch tube out of sight, yet still appear to use his hands normally.

  Harry Spraker abruptly concluded his conversation, and moved, looking at each of his prisoners in disgust before he ordered Dominic to take them back to the cellar. ‘Oh, no, James Bond, you stay here; and you, Wimper.’ Then, to Dominic again, ‘Make sure that walking carrot, Giorgio, has fully recovered. We’re a man short, and I’m damned if I’ll see all the plans go up in smoke because some English spook has been meddling.’

  ‘British spook please, Harry.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Spraker sideswiped Bond’s face with the back of his hand.

  ‘What a witty retort, Harry. You really ought to do a cross-talk act with Giorgio. You could call yourselves “The Two Sophisticates”.’

  Spraker pushed his face close to Bond. ‘I’ve just about had enough from you. If Herr Weisen was not set on having a long talk with you, I’d flush you down the tubes myself.’

  ‘Harry, we’ll have plenty of time to make him suffer.’ Dorian shifted his feet, the Uzi at the ready. He looked at Bond. ‘You haven’t seen anything until you’ve taken a look at Herr Weisen’s interrogation methods.’ He grinned, and a dark shadow of malevolence crossed his face.

  Bond shrugged. ‘I have nothing to tell Herr Weisen. I wouldn’t know what he’d want to interrogate me for.’

  ‘He’ll think of something.’ Spraker took a step back. ‘But first we’d like you two gentlemen to strip. I’m certainly not going to risk having you in this house without personally searching every inch of you, and your clothing.’

  They found just about everything during the next fifteen minutes, making a little pile of the odds and ends on the junk settee – the two Haley & Waller Dartcord systems, the other stun grenade, the bits and pieces in their leather holsters attached to his belt. Finally Spraker told them to get dressed again. ‘Interesting pocket litter, Bond.’ He threw the various passports and credit cards into the pile. ‘These might come in useful. Ingenious.’

  ‘Could I possibly trouble you for my belt, Harry?’ Bond asked. ‘If I’m to suffer indignities, I’d rather suffer with something to hold up my trousers.’

  Spraker examined the broad leather belt with its large solid buckle, then handed it to Bond. They had removed all the pouches and leather holders, but getting the belt back was a small consolation, for it still contained a couple of things that had proved impossible to detect. As he dressed, he slipped the small grenade back into his trousers pocket. Now, if he and Gus survived, and were given even a little time with the others in the cellar, there was a tiny chance of escape.

  Dominic had returned.

  ‘You tell them to say their prayers?’ Harry said bleakly.

  ‘I told them to concentrate their minds.’ Dominic had a grim laugh, which reminded Bond of the kind of cackle you heard in the haunted mansion at Disney World.

  ‘Come along, then, gentlemen.’ Spraker prodded at Wimper with a pistol. ‘You’re about to have the singular honour of meeting the man who’s destined to be the greatest power in Europe.’

  ‘That’ll be the day.’ Wimper received a heavy clout with the butt of Spraker’s pistol.

  ‘Yes, it will,’ muttered Dorian.

  ‘Sooner than you imagine.’ The gallows laugh again from Dominic.

  They were led into the hall where the unfortunate Carlo had died, then up the stairs to the landing of the floor where, according to Wimper, Wolfgang Weisen had his suite of rooms.

  Spraker tapped on one of the three doors which led off the landing, and a soft voice from within called, ‘Come.’

  Harry opened the door and they were pushed into the presence of the man who had systematically wiped out the entire Cabal network and, it appeared, had pretensions to greatness.

  Bond had never seen a photograph of the Poison Dwarf – once a high officer in the former East German Intelligence Service – but he had already formed an image in his mind. In the darkest moments of the past few days he had seen Weisen as a midget, deformed, his face peppered with warts: a kind of cartoon horror.

  Weisen was not a dwarf. Certainly the man was not tall, around five-one, but you could not classify him as dwarf-like. He sat in a large leather-padded, high-backed wooden chair – the arm rests carved with gargoyles, mouths open showing sharp fangs, while the intricate work at the top of the tall back represented a boar, entwined with brambles. The studded leather padding was polished to a high gloss which seemed to complement the sheen of the man himself.

  He wore a burgundy velvet smoking-jacket, which looked almost Victorian, dark trousers and a silk shirt, with a white cravat neatly tied at the throat. Everything about him was smooth, for he appeared to have no hair on either his head or face, which was moon-like, pink with rosy cheeks. Weisen could easily be the model for some Dickensian character, and the comfortable, even pleasant, benign look of the man belied everything Bond had heard about him. The evil, ruthless, uncompromising dwarf who had been brought up at Stalin’s knee seemed to have shrunk from diabolical malevolence to chubby, cherubic benevolence.

  ‘Come in, gentlemen. Come in.’ The voice was soft, almost soothing, containing nothing of the repellent depravity suggested by his reputation.

  ‘You’ll want us to stay?’ Spraker asked.

  ‘Oh, no, Harry. Just wait outside for a short time. I’ll call if I need you.’

  As Spraker left the room, in the company of Dominic and Dorian, Weisen beamed. ‘Gus,’ he continued, friendly and welcoming. ‘It’s so good to see you again, though I have to admit I’m a little cross with you. I ordered you back to Venice today, not yesterday. Did you misinterpret my instructions? Or were you simply trying to aggravate me?’ For Bond’s benefit, he spoke English, perfectly and with no trace of an accent.

  Wimper gave a nervous laugh. ‘I knew why you had summoned me. You think I’m a fool, Wolfie?’

  ‘No,’ the smooth ball of a head shook slightly. ‘No, I would never take you for a fool, Gus. Treacherous? Yes. Foolish? . . . Well, perhaps foolhardy, but never foolish.’ His gaze shifted to Bond, the eyes a strange, almost violet colour. They twinkled as merrily as some delightful character in a cheerful Christmas tale – joy to the world, with all the trappings of unctuous righteousness. ‘And Commander Bond, also. It’s a . . .’

  ‘Captain Bond, if we’re using ranks.’

  ‘Really? I hadn’t heard you had been promoted. My congratulations, sir. But welcome. Welcome to my humble home, Captain Bond.’ He turned back to Gus Wimper. ‘Gus, why did you disobey me? And why, in heaven’s name, did you see fit to tamper with things that you must know are inevitable?’

  ‘Because I was certain what you’d do. Your damned Uncle Joe used the same techniques.’

  Weisen nodded, still with his cheery smile. ‘Yes. Yes, he did, didn’t he? I can remember sitting with him as we watched movies. He was very fond of Charlie Chaplin, and, particularly, he liked the Tarzan films. He would tell me exactly what was going on. “Look,” he would say. “Wolfie, look, he’s calling to the animals. I think I must call to a pair of animals myself.” Then he would say a couple of names. “Wolfie, I’m certain those two are plotting behind my back.” He would summon them to Kuntsevo – the villa he used there. The message would be friendly. Come to dinner. Come for drinks. Something like that. But he would touch his nose and tell me he was certain they were traitors. He was always right, Uncle Joe. Always, the people he called to him finally confessed their infidelity. His rule was always to be understanding. Give them the benefit of the doubt – until you knew for certain. He would welcome them in, but, once they confessed . . . Ah, that was a different story.’

  ‘And mine would’ve been a different story, as well. I presume you would have simply given me over to your hired thugs, Dominic and Dorian?’

&
nbsp; ‘No, Gus. It would’ve been Carlo and Giorgio. You see, you’ve only just caught me. I leave later today. You must know how I hate violence. I just didn’t want to be around when they . . . Well, you know what they would do.’ He gave a sad little smile. ‘Too bad one of you did away with Carlo. Those two were not the brightest of men, but they were thorough. Also faithful to the cause. To the party. Unlike some I could mention, eh Gus?’

  Wimper did not answer. ‘Gus, Gus, Gus,’ Weisen tutted. ‘You had so much to gain. When I discovered that you were playing a double game – that foolish business of pretending you had drowned, for instance – I was very sad. Yes, Gus, you saddened me. For some time I really believed you were made of the right stuff.’

  ‘What is the right stuff?’ Bond asked. Weisen’s soft voice and innocent appearance had suddenly begun to chill him. This was a devil in cherub’s skin, and being in the presence of the man turned his spine to ice.

  ‘Well, it’s certainly not the stuff those buffoons Gorbachev and Yeltsin are made of. They are also traitors, and will suffer before we’re through. All that great work done in the name of mankind’s progress has crumbled to dust in the hands of cretins. To gainsay the party, and the vision of men like Lenin, my Uncle Joe, and dear Lavrenti Beria . . . It’s unforgivable.’ He started to murmur to himself, and it was at this moment Bond knew – as he must have known from the start – that the smooth, comfortable man was a raving lunatic.

  He glanced around the room to see it was decorated in a spartan, but clean and more pleasant manner than the desolate dump of a place downstairs. There were crimson drapes at the windows, and the furnishings – tables, chairs, a sideboard along one wall – all looked Victorian. Heavy, but utilitarian and with few frills, except for the magnificent carving on the chair in which Weisen sat. As well as the door behind them, Bond saw a second door, in the centre of the wall to his left. Weisen’s sleeping quarters, he wondered. Again the chill went through him as he saw, beside the door, a large, icon-like painting of Joseph Stalin.

  ‘No, Gus,’ Weisen stopped muttering. ‘Gus, you betrayed me, so you will, like the others, suffer the penalty. Don’t feel too badly, for you are not alone. Many hundreds of traitors will pay the same price in the next weeks and months.’ There was no malice in the way he spoke, and he hardly raised his voice to call Harry Spraker.

  ‘Take Gus down and put him with the others, Harry. Goodbye, Gus. I trust you will at least die like a man, with dignity.’

  He waited for Wimper to leave, Spraker pushing him towards Dominic and Dorian. When the door closed, he turned to Bond. ‘Please, sit down, my dear sir. We must talk, though there is much I have to do before tonight when I leave.’ As he spoke, so the door on the left opened.

  ‘Ah, my darling. You’ve come to say farewell. Good, you can meet Captain Bond before you leave.’

  ‘Captain Bond, it’s a pleasure.’ She was much younger than he had expected. Tall, slim with a fall of blonde hair which bounced on her shoulders as she walked.

  ‘My companion, Captain Bond. My companion and my inspiration, Monika Haardt.’ A small, plump pink hand lifted from the chair arm for a second.

  She was not beautiful in any accepted sense: the mouth, slashed with bright lipstick, seemed too wide, and the nose too small. It was a face which seemed to have been fashioned out of proportion, but the slender body looked just about perfect as it moved under the black slacks and gold-faced Cossack jacket. She extended a hand, the fingernails scarlet, matching the lipstick. Automatically Bond shook the hand and felt an unpleasant dryness. It was like touching a snake, he thought.

  ‘I’m sorry we won’t have time to talk.’ She flashed him a neon smile, on and off like a coloured sign. Bond had a sudden vivid picture in his head: Norman Bates’s motel in Hitchcock’s Psycho.

  ‘You see,’ she continued, ‘I must go ahead and see all things are ready for dear Wolfie. The days ahead will be hard, but we have virtually won. What a pity you won’t be here to see the glory.’

  There was a movement near the door through which Monika had come, and Bond turned his head. Standing just inside the room was the dark-haired, plump Michelle whom he had last seen in Paris.

  ‘You know Michelle, I believe,’ Monika gestured.

  ‘Yes, I took a car ride with her.’

  ‘Indeed you did, Mr Bond.’ Michelle did not sound as temptingly seductive as she had when imitating Praxi Simeon in the car, with old Cold Claude Gaspard, in Paris. ‘You also inflicted great suffering on a particular friend of mine. M. Gaspard.’

  ‘Cold Claude, eh, Michelle? He simply got what he was asking for.’

  Michelle mouthed an oath at him, and Weisen made a little hushing noise. ‘My dear Michelle. Claude will recover. Mr Bond here will not. It couldn’t be more fair. But I must not detain either of you. Tomorrow we’ll all be together again, eh?’

  Monika bent over and kissed Weisen, on his mouth, then his cheeks. ‘Tomorrow,’ she whispered.

  The smooth bald head nodded, and Weisen gave his cherubic beam. It made him look like some happy choirboy who had just won an award for the best solo. Then he gave a delighted little chuckle. ‘Just remember, dear Monika, that, like Mary Tudor, you shall find Calais lying in my heart.’

  Monika gave an unexpectedly musical laugh, and Big Michelle giggled.

  ‘Very good, Wolfie. Tomorrow.’

  As the door closed behind them Bond once more had the strange feeling that he had missed something. He was back in the car, on the Faubourg St Honoré in Paris with Claude Gaspard and Michelle, grasping at what had passed between them. A word, a sentence, flashed through his head, then eluded him again, dancing and thumbing its nose at him from the darkness on the edge of his memory.

  ‘Now, Mr Bond, we must talk. You’ll understand that my time is limited. There is much to do before I leave tonight.’

  ‘So, what do we talk about, Herr Weisen?’

  ‘Oh, please call me Wolfgang; and I must call you James, I think.’

  ‘As you will, but what do we talk about?’

  Weisen seemed to sparkle, as though his face and head had been immersed in glitter dust. ‘Well, I must tease certain things from you, such as how much your excellent Secret Intelligence Service knows of me. Also, I am certain you will want to ask questions of me. A great deal has happened in the last days – your last days – and I am really not such a monster. I would hate you to go to your grave without me filling in some of the blank spaces. The Fiddleback spiders, for instance – oh, I want to know about that. Did you actually consume any?’ The word ‘consume’ came out with the accent on the second syllable – ‘consooom’ – his eyes wide open with a childish look of intense interest.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, pity.’

  ‘When we finish talking about the gaps we both wish to fill in, Wolfie, what do we talk about then?’

  ‘I suppose we have a few words about death. I’ll give you plenty of time to compose yourself. If you believe in such things, you might even like to lead your friends in prayer, or hymns, for a while. Or simply meditate on the irony of things. Yes, we can talk about death. Your death, and the deaths of others. Death in Venice, perhaps. What a wonderful book that is, and what an irony it is that you will face your destiny here, in Venice of all places. Come, ask away. You go first. I want to hear your questions.’

  17

  DEATH SQUAD

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose there are one or two things I don’t understand.’ Half of Bond’s mind was on how to slip Weisen’s noose, and get all of them out of the house and away, before this lunatic fanatic could do any real harm. True, there were some unanswered questions, but his main concern was staying alive, followed closely by neutralising Weisen. Heaven only knew what horror the man was planning.

  ‘Go on then. Ask.’ Weisen pulled himself back in the chair so that his feet only just touched the floor. He began drumming his heels on the carpet, like a well-fed child being knowingly annoying.

  ‘Why C
abal, Wolfgang? Why go to the considerable trouble of writing off a network that would have been broken up anyway?’

  ‘Ah! Good question, James. Very good question. You see, when things began to change for us, I knew that only one group of people could cause me a great deal of trouble. I suppose there was an element of revenge, but Cabal was a successful network. So successful that they were still able to cause me embarrassment even though I knew most of their operational technicalities – and most of their names. After all, I had Harry Spraker, and, for a time, I thought I had Gus Wimper as well.’

  ‘And, of course, you couldn’t just accept the fact that, in the end, Communism has failed?’

  ‘Why should I? Those who talk of failure are heretics.’

  ‘What about your former colleague, Mischa Wolf?’

  For the first time, a small cloud of anger crossed his face. ‘He was never my colleague. We worked on different sides of the street. I hardly knew him.’

  ‘But, even though you had penetrated Cabal, you still feared them?’

  ‘Look, James. I couldn’t afford to let any of them pass information to either you Brits, or the Americans. Some of those people knew exactly where my bolt holes were – Venice was only one of them. In any case, they didn’t deserve to live.’

  ‘So it was vengeance?’

  Weisen gave a sneaky, sly little smile. ‘Now that you mention it, I suppose it was.’ Then, as though realising the implications, he quickly added, ‘But I still thought they could damage me. They all certainly knew I wouldn’t give in easily. They knew I would not – I will not – accept the demise of the greatest political ideology ever known to man. I should imagine they told you that I would rather die than give up my beliefs, and that I shall continue to fight – and win – to see the restoration of International Communism. It’s been my life, and the lives of many others. Members of Cabal knew this.’

  Bond nodded, ‘So you began to kill them off?’

  ‘Mmmmm.’ A gleeful grin, the feet drumming on the carpet in pleasure.