‘Mr Scipio says he will kill your friend if you try to resist,’ the translator said.
‘You’ve already told me that,’ Bond said. ‘But you seem to have forgotten that the man you work for wants her alive.’
The words were translated.
‘I do not work for Irwin Wolfe,’ Scipio muttered. He took a step forward so that he was close to Bond. The eyes beneath the gossamer eyebrows examined him minutely. Then Scipio reached out with two fingers and stroked the side of Bond’s face. Bond recoiled in disgust. He could feel all his muscles tensing, preparing to strike out. He forced himself not to move. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sixtine sitting in the oversized velvet chair, strained and afraid. One of the guns was trained on her. The other was on Bond.
The fingers continued their obscene journey over Bond’s lips, under his chin. Now they were resting on his chest. Bond felt the nausea rising in him. The hand was a pink, alien animal, probing him, looking for where to bite.
But then Scipio smiled and stepped back.
‘Let me tell you what I am going to do to you, Mr Bond.’ Scipio’s voice was thick with pleasure, with the knowledge of his absolute power. The translator was indifferent. ‘I am going to change you. I am going to make you into my creature. We have almost a month together on this boat, more than enough time to break you completely. And as you have heard from Mr Wolfe, the method … the way in which I shall achieve this is all around us. When I leave the ship … the Mirabelle … at New York, you will follow me obediently as a dog follows his master. You will be a heroin addict, Mr Bond. Given the purity of my product, this will happen more quickly than you can believe. Even one week from now, there will be no need to secure you. You will spend every minute waiting for your next injection. Your body and your mind will demand it, and everything else – Madame 16, your former life, your precious secret service – you will have forgotten. A week after that, you will come to me on your knees and beg me to give you what you need. And maybe, in return for your complete … for your total submission, I will.
‘But this is what you must understand. This is what will destroy you and in the final … ultimately make you mine. You will not know what I am going to do, whether I will provide you with pleasure … or pain.’
Bond was so gripped by what he was hearing that he was not prepared for what came next. Almost lazily, and yet with a speed that took him by surprise, the fat man swung his fist through the air, crashing it into the side of Bond’s head. It was like being hit by a battering ram. Bond was almost thrown off the bar stool. He would have fallen except that Scipio had caught him with his other hand, held him for a moment and then punched him again, this time in the stomach. Again, Bond was blasted backwards, the breath exploding out of his lungs and his own blood dancing behind his eyes. He had never been hit so hard. Scipio let go of him, leaving him gasping for air. Bond saw him clasp his hands, bringing the various jewels together as if in a gesture of celebration. Then the bullets of flesh and bone became a blur as they came pounding once again into the side of his head. There was a brilliant burst of light and he was propelled sideways, this time falling onto the floor.
It wasn’t over. Taking his time, Scipio kicked him again and again, the leather toecaps carrying all the weight of the gigantic legs, pounding into his flesh. And all the time, the translator watched, silent, with nothing to do. Bond glimpsed the other men. They seemed to have multiplied but it was more likely that it was his vision which had fractured. Unable to stop himself, he let out a groan and rolled onto his side, bringing in his knees to protect himself. Scipio stood over him and stamped down. Bond not only felt his rib crack – he heard it.
‘Stop it!’ Sixtine called out. Her voice was far away. Bond’s heart was beating in his ears, blocking the sound. ‘That’s enough! You’re going to kill him!’
Silence. Bond lay floating in a pool of agony.
He heard words but did not understand them. Scipio was talking, not to him but to his men, giving orders.
The translator crouched beside him and explained. ‘You are to be taken now to your cabin. Your friend will come with you also. The pain is over for the present. Mr Scipio is sure that it will have been familiar to you. But he is going to introduce you to a type of pleasure which … he is sure it will be new to you and which you will never forget. Do you have anything to say?’
Bond swore. He could taste blood in his mouth.
Carlo and Simone closed in and jerked him to his feet. Bond wanted to fight back but he was exhausted by the beating. One side of his chest, where the rib had been broken, was on fire. He knew that his face was badly bruised. One of his eyes was partly closed. There had to be a way out of this. He thought back to the forest outside Wolfe Europe. Any minute now, Sixtine’s people were going to burst in. They would explain that they had been on board the Mirabelle from the very start. Bond looked round, half expecting to see the stiletto knives spinning through the air. There was nothing. No last-minute cavalry.
The two men dragged him across the floor. He had one last sight of Scipio walking back to the bar. The barman slid a drink towards him … another brandy Alexander. ‘I’d watch those calories if I were you,’ Bond said but the words were muttered through swollen lips and nobody heard. And then he was gone, back through the ballroom and the dining room with all its glitter and pomp, out onto the deck and finally downstairs to the cabin. He was thrown onto the bed and at once Sixtine was with him, holding his head in her hands.
‘James!’ She was trying to hide it but he knew she was afraid.
‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll find a way out …’
A third man came into the cabin carrying a small Gladstone bag, which he set down on a table. Bond recognised the oily hair, the bad skin, the shabby little moustache. It was Dr Borghetti, the man Wolfe had introduced as the ship’s medic. This time he didn’t even pretend to be friendly. He opened the bag and took out various items, laying them neatly on the table. First there was a syringe, an ugly-looking thing, slender and about four inches long, made of stainless steel encasing a glass cylinder beneath the plunger. Next to it he placed a spoon, a candle, a ball of cotton wool and a glass, which he filled with water from the sink. Finally, he removed a packet of waxed paper that he carefully unfolded. It contained a small heap of white powder.
‘Could you get him ready, please,’ he said, speaking in English.
Bond could feel his strength returning and wondered if he could fight back. It was surely now or never. But as two of the men moved into the room, two more took their place at the door and he knew that, in the confined space, any resistance was hopeless.
As if reading his thoughts, Borghetti added: ‘I am sure you will not try anything stupid, Mr Bond. Not if you care about the well-being of the lady. You must accept what is being done to you. It is the beginning of a life-changing journey. Your first experience of heroin. Soon your life will be unimaginable without it.’
‘One day I will kill you,’ Bond said, matter-of-factly.
‘I don’t think so.’
Bond was gripped on both sides. One of the men took his shirtsleeve and ripped it apart so that it hung in two strands on either side of his arm. At the same time, Borghetti lit the candle. He tipped the powder into the spoon, then added some water, using the syringe to suck it out of the cup. He took great care in ensuring he had the right amount. Bond could only watch with a grim fascination as he continued the process. He held the spoon over the flame, stirring the mixture with the needle until it had dissolved. Finally, he dropped a ball of cotton wool into the preparation and sucked it back into the syringe. He nodded at the two men. He was ready.
‘You are about to leave the real world and find yourself in a very different one. Having Madame 16 with you will, I am sure, only add to the pleasure. Please do not attempt to struggle. It will do no good.’
It was impossible anyway. The first man had clasped his arm, forcing it forward so that the bare wrist was exposed.
Borghetti came over to the bed.
Sixtine started to rise but the man with the broken nose brutally pushed her back, bringing his gun round so that it aimed at her stomach.
‘Don’t!’ Bond said. He was speaking to her, not to Borghetti.
He looked down and saw the syringe with its hideous load drawing closer. He saw the needle touch his wrist and felt the prick as it penetrated the skin. Borghetti pushed further, finding the vein. He pressed the plunger. The heroin swirled downwards, entering his bloodstream. The syringe was empty. Borghetti removed it. Bond saw a bead of bright red blood on the puncture wound. Sixtine cried out as if she was on the edge of tears and, ignoring the gun that was being aimed at her, rushed forward and grabbed hold of him.
‘It’s done,’ Borghetti said. He blew out the candle and placed it, along with the syringe, back in his case. He left the rest. ‘He will be helpless for the next eight or nine hours,’ he said. ‘Even so, one of you should remain outside all night.’ To Bond, he added: ‘I will be back tomorrow.’
The two men released Bond, who fell back into Sixtine’s arms.
Borghetti was the first out of the cabin. Smirking, the others followed. The door slammed shut. The key was turned on the other side.
Bond and Sixtine were alone.
20
Bad Medicine
Sixtine had worked out what she was going to do. Long before the door had closed, she had set about her work.
To the men who were watching, it appeared that she had grabbed hold of Bond; a frightened woman who thought she was going to lose her man. In reality she had done more than that. The torn sleeve of his shirt was hanging loose and even as Dr Borghetti was collecting his things, she had grabbed hold of it, wrapping it around his upper arm, effectively turning it into a tourniquet. Now she tightened it further and tied a knot. Bond was in shock, still dazed from the violence done to him. He was only half aware of what was happening.
‘Don’t move,’ she whispered. She touched her hand against his head, trying to reassure him. ‘I’m going to have to hurt you. It’s the only way.’
Borghetti had left his glass behind. Sixtine picked it up and, holding it carefully in her palm, smashed it against the wall. The piece that remained was jagged, shaped like a knife. Without hesitating, she picked up Bond’s hand and stabbed the point into his wrist, exactly where the syringe had entered moments before. Bond cried out, but there was a part of him that seemed to understand what she was doing and he didn’t move as a jet of crimson blood spurted out. Sixtine was cradling him, holding his arm, trying to keep the flow out of his sight. She watched, trying to damp down her fear as the blood formed a gleaming pool on the floor.
She had worked out what she had to do but there was no way of calculating it precisely. It would have taken fifteen seconds for the heroin that had been injected into Bond to reach his heart and after that there would have been nothing to stop it disseminating through his system and entering his brain. The makeshift tourniquet had prevented that happening and the deliberately inflicted wound – what medieval doctors would have called bloodletting – would hopefully remove much of the poison from his veins. The trouble was that if she let him bleed too much, she might kill him. Too little and the whole exercise would be pointless. It was also impossible to quantify how much blood had actually been drawn. Looking down, Sixtine felt sickened. Bond was a healthy man in prime condition and his heart was pumping furiously. Already the cabin looked like a slaughterhouse. But she knew the appearance was deceptive. Even the smallest cut will look worse than it really is and in her time she had treated gun wounds that looked lethal but that had turned out to be fairly minor. She felt revolted by what she had been forced to do – cutting him. But the truth was that he could easily lose a whole pint without coming to any harm. Blood donors did it every day.
All she wanted was the contents of one arm.
‘Try to relax, James,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to take off the tourniquet.’
The blood flow had dwindled, the last drops falling like evil rain onto the puddle below. This was the moment of truth. Sixtine untied the shirtsleeve then tore the fabric free, bunching it up and pressing it down on the wound that she herself had inflicted. As blood flowed back into the arm, she kept the pressure firm and constant. Her aim now was to stop the bleeding. How much of the heroin might she have removed? Half of it? More? There was no way of knowing. All she could do was wait.
Meanwhile, the invisible army stormed the fortress of Bond’s consciousness.
Although Bond wouldn’t have known it, his brain was already in overdrive, combatting the effects of the beating he had received at Scipio’s hands. It had its own pain-relief mechanism and was furiously sending out messages to the bruised flesh and the broken bone, using his entire central nervous system as a conduit, trying to calm things down. Gleefully, the heroin took over. It was ten times more powerful than the brain, ten times more effective. Pain? What pain? It was as if a heavenly chorus had exploded inside him. Everything Scipio had done to him was wiped away. Just a few moments ago he had felt Sixtine tying something round his arm and there had been another bolt of pain as the glass had cut into his wrist. Why had she done that to him? He had forgotten. But it didn’t matter any more. The wrist was no longer connected to his arm. The arm was no longer connected to his shoulder. His entire body had fragmented and he could feel each and every one of his molecules spinning gloriously in the ether.
‘I will provide you with pleasure …’
That was what Scipio had said, but it wasn’t even close. What Bond was experiencing went far beyond any pleasure he had ever known, more gratifying than any food or wine he had ever tasted, more pleasurable than all the women he had ever slept with. It was like the rush that came with the first cigarette he smoked every morning, only a thousand times more powerful and longer-lasting. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to be himself – and it was clearer, simpler, more certain than anything he could have imagined or been told. He was the greatest spy who had ever lived. He was the world’s most successful killer. Why should he have had a moment of doubt creeping into Rolf Larsen’s bedroom in Stockholm and sticking a knife into his throat? It was what he had been born for.
He was James Bond, a boy standing on the icy slopes above Chamonix, breathing in the ice-cold air – and no matter that this was where his parents would die. They had left him this dazzling white world and it was his to command. He was Commander Bond, a war hero, feeling the rush as he parachuted into the Massif Central – and he actually saw it again, the curve of the Earth, the perfect blue sky … all of it his. He was the man every woman wanted to sleep with, starting with that first conquest when he was just sixteen years old and still at school. Every time was perfect, no one better. He was James Bond 007, rewarded with the number that placed him above the law and turned him into someone people would fear and respect in equal measure.
His entire life had become a kaleidoscope, shifting and disintegrating with every turn. He skied. He swam. He drove the fastest cars. He was invulnerable. He would live forever. He did not consider these things. They were not thoughts so much as raw emotions. All he knew was that he was happier than he had ever been. Indeed, he was discovering real happiness for the first time.
The first effects of the heroin injection lasted only five or ten minutes but to Bond it was a celebration that went on for eternity. After that he settled into a warm sense of comfort and well-being, aware now that Sixtine was holding him and knowing, also, that the two of them were prisoners on a steamship that was heading to America and that he was going to be killed. But even that didn’t matter. It had been threatened before and somehow it never happened. He would find a way out! He drew Sixtine closer to him, revelling in her softness and the scent of her skin. He wanted to make love to her right now but at the same time holding her was enough. It wouldn’t bother him if he never moved again.
Or again.
Or agai
n.
Hours, days, weeks went by and then, quite suddenly, he felt himself sliding back down the hillside to normality with all its doubts and uncertainties and although he didn’t want to go there, he couldn’t stop himself. He had thought he would never feel pain again but now an unwelcome visitor, it began to insinuate itself, starting in his wrist, first throbbing then hammering all the way up his arm. There was something wrong with his chest. He turned sideways and cried out as the broken rib made itself known. His vision, which had been perfect, darkened at the edges and he remembered the blows to his head, which must have caused all the swelling he could feel around his face. His lips were cracked. His mouth was completely dry. And someone was talking to him.
‘You’re coming out of it. It’s all right, James. You’re with me again. I’m looking after you.’
It was Sixtine, speaking softly, close to his ear. Bond had no idea how long he had been here but remembering what had happened and the danger he was in, he felt his senses locking together.
‘How long?’ It was all he could do to bring the two words together in a question that made sense. Already he knew that both their lives depended on the answer.
‘I managed to get some of the heroin out of you, James. I had to hurt you but there was no other way. And it’s worked. I’ve bought us time. They said it would be eight or nine hours but it’s been less than three. Just don’t try to move for a minute. What you’ve been through … it’s been horrible. But you’re going to get back your strength.’
‘I’m OK.’ But he wasn’t. He turned his head and saw the blood, now dark and sticky, on the floor. He was hit at once by a hammer blow of nausea. ‘Going to be sick …’
He couldn’t stand up on his own. Sixtine helped him to his feet and supported him as he stumbled over to the sink where he stood for a minute, resting with his hands on the porcelain, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. When he had recovered a little, she ran the tap and splashed water over his head, using her cupped hand to allow him to drink just a few sips. Bond was feeling atrocious. He was finding it hard to breathe. He was sweating. The muscles in his chest and stomach were in spasm, made more painful by his broken rib. Part of him was astonished by the speed of his descent from the heroin-induced euphoria he had been feeling just moments ago to this abyss. What person in their right mind would want to make this journey if they knew that it would always lead to this destination? But that was just the point, of course. A second injection was the easiest way out, then a third and a fourth until the demand was continuous. Bond had been addicted to many things for as long as he could remember but he had always considered addiction to be one of life’s pleasures, whether it was alcohol, cigarettes or women. This was different. He had felt himself being torn apart. It was a lesson he swore he would never repeat.
Forever and a Day Page 21
