Forever and a Day

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘You do know where you’re going?’ Sixtine whispered. It was as if she had read his thoughts.

  ‘Of course …’

  He broke off as a mechanic brushed past them, carrying a bucket full of rags. For a fraction of a second, Bond was tempted to ask him for directions – at gunpoint, if need be. But then he saw it. Luck was with him after all. The inlet valve was stuck between two platforms in the bilge area, tucked away against the curving sheet of metal that was the outer wall. Was it possible that the makeshift bomb would be strong enough to blast out the rivets and welding that held it all together? Bond doubted it, but it didn’t matter. The valve was thirty feet below sea level. Roughly translated, that meant it was taking in water at thirty pounds per square inch. Break the pipe and it would be the start of a deluge that would sink the ship fairly quickly unless the hydraulic doors were closed immediately. And Bond had ideas about that, too.

  The mechanic who’d just passed them had stopped. He turned round and examined them, a puzzled look on his face. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

  Sixtine took out her gun and shot him in the leg. The sound of gunfire was almost drowned out by the noise of the engines … but not quite. Pandemonium broke out all around them with engineers and crewmen running in different directions above their heads. Nobody knew where the shot had come from. That there had been a shot was enough.

  Bond knew he had to act fast. He swung the fire extinguisher down and rested it between the hull and the inlet valve with the fuse trailing towards him. Sixtine handed him her lighter.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘We have one minute.’

  ‘To go where?’

  ‘The generator room.’ He lit the fuse.

  Another man appeared. Bond looked up and was surprised to see Dr Borghetti walking towards them, still dressed in his whites. What was he doing down here in the middle of the night? Perhaps one of the engineers had been taken sick, or he could have been on his way to check on Bond. Either way, it didn’t matter. Sixtine shot him, quite deliberately, aiming for his stomach. She stood and watched as he crashed down in front of them, then began to writhe on the unforgiving metal. Bond knew that she wanted him to suffer. There was an icy anger in her eyes.

  ‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ she muttered quietly.

  They had wasted precious seconds. As the fuse sparked and hissed, Bond and Sixtine backed away, making for the nearest ladder leading to a hatchway on the deck above. It was the fastest route to where Bond needed to go next. He had seen the generators when they had first entered the engine room. There was a fire axe on a wall and he snatched it. That would come in useful too.

  They reached the ladder and climbed it. By the time they had made it to the next level, climbing through the circular hatchway, Bond was seriously worried. Surely sixty seconds had passed by now? What would he do if the bomb failed to go off? He cursed himself for not having thought to bring a second fuse. Well, no matter. A torn strip of rag would do it, perhaps soaked in oil. And if he blew himself up in the process, at least he would have the knowledge that he had sunk Wolfe, Scipio and 12,000 pounds of heroin. The boy stood on the burning deck and all that.

  Beneath them, the bomb exploded. The blast was incredibly loud, echoing off so much metal. Looking down through the gantry, Bond saw the bright red fireball as it erupted. Bizarrely, it was also coloured with brilliant streaks of blue, green and silver, and sparks danced in the air as the various compounds contained in the fireworks were ignited. It was, he thought, the most beautiful explosion in the world. But had it done its job? He saw the answer almost at once. The inlet valve had been shattered. A huge snake of water was bursting out of the pipe, leaping ferociously into the engine room. A klaxon had begun to sound and a series of red lights, set high up on the walls, were suddenly flashing.

  Bond was still gripping the axe. He and Sixtine came to a complicated wall of electrical machinery with dozens of switches, valves and gauges. There had been a man in white overalls sitting on a stool in front of it, but he took one look at them and ran. Bond knew that this was the main switchboard. He would have to be careful. He wanted to knock out the breakers and destroy it – but ideally without electrocuting himself in the process. There were half a dozen master switches, each presumably controlling a different area of the Mirabelle. Using the blunt end of the axe, he carefully demolished every one of them. Then, for good measure, he swung the axe into the largest glass panel. There was a satisfying starburst of white and yellow sparks. Half the lights in the engine room went out. The ventilators stopped working. All the dials on the switchboard swung to zero.

  He had done what he could. It was time to go. His entire body – his head, his stomach, his throat – felt like hell. His broken rib was on fire. The cut that Sixtine had made in his wrist had opened and he was bleeding again. God knows what he must look like. He just hoped he had the strength for what would be the most difficult part. Scipio and his men must have realised what was happening by now. He and Sixtine had managed to creep in. They would have to fight every inch of the way out.

  Still holding the axe, he ran back the way they had come, making for the bow of the ship. Once again the corridors yawned emptily ahead of them, this time shrouded in the dull glow of the emergency lighting. It was the semi-darkness that saved them. They were about halfway down when three of Scipio’s men appeared, heading for the engine room. The men didn’t recognise Bond or Sixtine until it was too late. Bond’s gun-hand spoke and two of the men went down. But they were replaced a moment later by more men behind them. The corridor was blocked. There was no way forward.

  ‘Help me!’ Sixtine had grabbed hold of a heavy fire door, which she was struggling to close across the corridor. Bond seized hold of it and together they swung it shut. There was no lock but Bond slid the axe between the handles, effectively bolting it. Scipio’s men were on one side. They were on the other. They had wasted time and there was no choice but to go back the way they had come.

  Something strange was happening. The Mirabelle was beginning to tilt. It was only very slight but Bond already had the sensation of leaning sideways and he realised with disbelief that his improvised bomb must have done more damage than he had thought. Perhaps it had blown a hole in the side after all. And with the electricity cut and all the safety devices neutralised, there was nothing to stop the ship filling with water and capsizing. How long would it take? The Titanic had gone down in two hours and forty minutes but at least it had been able to close the bulkheads between its sixteen compartments and the pumps had actually worked. Thanks to Bond, that wasn’t the case here. The Mirabelle might sink much faster. Either way, he and Sixtine had to find a way out of this gigantic metal coffin, which meant getting onto the deck – and fast.

  And they still had to take care. There could be fifty men looking for them. They had no real idea where they were going. Bond was exhausted. They only had half a dozen bullets between them.

  Quite suddenly, beneath them, there was an explosion, much louder and more ominous than the one Bond had caused. It was immediately followed by a shaking so violent that Bond and Sixtine were thrown against the walls and then to the ground. The emergency lights flickered. The klaxon stopped. Bond was dazed and his injuries were screaming at him but he managed to work out what must have happened. Gallons of cold water had poured into the engine room, hitting the boilers filled with high-pressure steam, and this had caused the second, much larger explosion. Now the passageway was tilting more seriously. Bond could hear a mournful grinding. It was the sound of Irwin Wolfe’s $2 million steamship tearing itself apart.

  Bond and Sixtine got to their feet and clung to each other for a moment.

  ‘Up,’ Bond said.

  ‘And out,’ Sixtine agreed.

  There was nothing more to say. But their progress was more difficult now. Bond continued forward like a drunkard, about to collapse on his side. He had to lean on Sixtine for support. They came
to the end of a corridor and turned a corner in time to see a horrendous sight. At the far end, about thirty yards away, a torrent of black water almost floor to ceiling was rushing towards them like a living thing, hunting them down. It was impossible to see where it had come from. A whole section of the Mirabelle had disappeared behind it. They could only turn and run the way they had come, aware of the flood that must be inches behind them and that would crash down and devour them if they so much as paused for breath.

  Somehow, they found another staircase and clambered up – but it still didn’t take them to an outside deck. Another corridor, more doors. But no portholes, no way out. And somehow the water had already reached them. It was around their feet, licking their heels, rising incredibly quickly. Another corner. They hurried round and even though their every instinct was to keep moving, they stopped dead in their tracks. It was the most bizarre thing Bond had ever seen.

  Jean-Paul Scipio.

  It was impossible to be sure how he had got there but Bond suspected that, after the first explosion, he must have hurried down to the engine room with his translator to see the damage for himself. The ship would have already been flooding at that point, the seawater rushing in through the broken valve. But then there had been a second explosion, perhaps cutting off the main staircase. He and the translator had been forced to take the ladder and Scipio had got stuck. It was the only possible explanation.

  That was what Bond and Sixtine were seeing now. The great bald head was missing its wig, which had floated away on the water that now coursed over the carpet. His shoulders and part of his chest had made it through. His arms were on either side of him, his palms under the water, straining to free the rest of him. But that was all there was. It was like a magic trick that had gone horribly wrong, a man cut in half. He couldn’t go up. Nor could he go down. And very soon he would drown. The water was all around him. It was already lapping at the pink scar across his throat. Inch by inch, it was rising over his several chins. In less than a minute it would cover his mouth, then finally his nose. He was actually watching himself drown.

  Now he stared at Bond, his face distorted with fear.

  ‘Aiutatemi!’ he gasped.

  ‘Help me,’ the translator translated.

  Sixtine took out her gun and fired a single shot. One of the lenses in the translator’s glasses shattered and blood streamed out of what had once been his eye. She aimed at Scipio and pulled the trigger a second time but the gun was empty.

  ‘Leave him,’ Bond said.

  They turned. The water reached Scipio’s lower lip. He screamed at them. Gleefully, the water poured into his mouth.

  Finally, the next staircase brought them out to the main deck. By now the Mirabelle was listing badly, and they had to fight to stop themselves from sliding into the sea. Behind them they saw lifeboats being clumsily lowered in a tangle of ropes. It was the middle of the night but the moon was out, giving everything the silver nitrate sheen of an old film. Bond wondered what had happened to Irwin Wolfe. Was the millionaire still in his cabin? Had he drowned in his bed? Or perhaps, seeing the sinking of his ship and the end of all his plans, he had simply jumped overboard. Bond was still tempted to find him. After what had been done to him, there was a part of him that didn’t want to leave a single one of them alive.

  Somebody shouted. Even in the darkness, with all the mayhem around them, he and Sixtine had been seen. Black shadows without faces were making their way towards them along the sloping deck. He saw the white pinpricks of gunfire and seized Sixtine. Bullets ricocheted around them, splintering the wood and hammering into the railings as they ran forward and jumped. The sea was still a long way beneath them. Time seemed to have suspended itself. They were next to each other, trapped in mid-air, an easy target for the people firing at them. There was more gunfire. Then, finally, their feet broke through the water. Bond felt a fresh bolt of pain in his chest as the broken rib was jarred once again. He screamed and almost blacked out but the water revived him. It was swirling all around, driving him upwards. He let it carry him to the surface and broke through, gasping for air. Already he was searching for Sixtine and saw her close by, the moonlight reflecting in her hair. They had done it! They had actually got away with it!

  ‘Are you OK?’ He swam over to her. Every movement hurt but he no longer cared.

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded weak. Bond guessed she had been winded when she hit the sea.

  ‘We have to move. The ship’s going down. We don’t want to be caught in the suction.’

  Together they swam – twenty, thirty strokes – knowing that the further they went, retreating into the darkness, the more invisible they became. Scipio was dead. His men would be fighting for a place in the lifeboats. Surely no one would care about them any more. But it was only when they were a safe distance away that they turned and looked at the Mirabelle, silhouetted against the night sky. It was already low in the water, slanting at an impossible angle. A few pinpricks of light blinked behind the windows and the portholes but otherwise it was a great, dying beast, sinking into its grave. There were more lights on the lifeboats that surrounded it and they could hear men shouting uselessly at each other, planning their evacuation. The two funnels were no longer steaming. The boilers were drenched, any fire extinguished. There was a part of Bond, perhaps the naval commander in him, that felt a touch of sadness for the stricken cruiser. She had been beautiful. She wasn’t to blame for the way she had been used.

  They were still too close. Bond knew that when the ship finally disappeared, everything around her would be sucked down with her – even the lifeboats if they didn’t get away soon. And there was another, more pressing question. Where were they? If they were in the middle of the Mediterranean, then all of this would have been for nothing. They would still drown.

  He twisted round and saw the lights of buildings along the coast. In the darkness, it was impossible to tell exactly how far away they were but Bond figured that the distance couldn’t be more than a mile. He was in bad shape. His breath was coming in dagger thrusts. The salt in the water was attacking the open wound in his wrist. It was going to be touch and go. But with Sixtine’s help, he was sure he could make it.

  And what of her?

  She was close to him, still and silent. ‘We can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘It may take us an hour or two to reach the coast but if we take it slowly, we should be OK. Stop for rests. Let the tide take us in.’

  ‘James …’

  She was going to tell him something that he didn’t want to hear. Instinctively, he knew it.

  ‘If you feel tired, you can hold onto me,’ he insisted.

  ‘I can’t come with you, James.’

  The sea was suddenly icy cold. He put his arms around her and drew her against him. She didn’t resist but now he saw the pain in her eyes. When he took his hand out of the water, he saw that it was covered in something black. It was the colour of blood in the moonlight.

  ‘You can do it,’ he whispered. His voice caught in his throat. ‘You have to.’

  She was strangely calm. ‘We beat them,’ she said. ‘There were so many of them and just the two of us but we got away with it.’ She shuddered. ‘Something hit me when we went over the side …’

  ‘I can get you back. I can swim with you.’

  ‘No. You’re going to have to finish this on your own.’ They were still clinging onto each other, hanging in the water like lovers. Her voice was beginning to drift away. ‘I’m sorry, James. Don’t be angry with me.’

  ‘I could never be angry with you.’

  She smiled. ‘It wasn’t meant to be forever. But at least we had our day.’

  ‘Sixtine …’

  ‘You must go now. You mustn’t …’

  She died.

  He saw the moment when the life slipped out of her eyes. Still he held her, refusing to accept that she had gone. Behind him, he heard a great cracking sound as unimaginable forces seized hold of what was left of the Mirabelle and broke
it apart. The bow was almost vertical now. It was beginning the final plunge. He knew he had to let Sixtine go with it.

  He released her and watched her slide away from him, gently carried beneath the surface of the dark blue sea. The water washed over her face as if erasing her. Her hair was billowing around her and she looked serene, as beautiful in death as she had been when they were together. Finally, she disappeared from sight.

  Bond uttered a single sound, something between a snarl and a sob. Then he turned and began to swim towards the shore.

  22

  Death at Sunset

  Like some gigantic bird of prey, the Boeing 377 Stratocruiser came dropping out of the sky over Los Angeles, its wings stretching out and its wheels searching for the two-mile strip of concrete runway. The palm trees on either side bowed briefly in obeisance as it roared past, disappearing into the heat haze. It was midday and the sun was at its most intense, the air thick with the fumes of oil and methanol. The wheels made contact. The pilot slammed the engines into reverse thrust and with a howl of rage the great beast allowed itself to be steered back into captivity. As it reached Hangar Number One, an armada of little vehicles congregated from every direction: baggage tractors, container loaders, dollies and service stairs. By the time the plane had reached its destination, it was surrounded. The twenty-eight-cylinder engines were switched off. The four propellers slowed down and shuddered to a halt.