Reade Griffith frowned but made no attempt to deny the accusation. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite that way,’ he said. ‘I was working for the CIA. But that meant cooperating with Scipio. Yes. How did you know?’
Bond had been warned from the start. The report he had read in London had made it clear that the CIA had chosen to support the Corsican crime syndicates in return for their help combatting the communists in the Marseilles docks – even if it had been something that Reade Griffith had denied. But it had still taken him a while to work it out.
‘When I first met Sixtine, she knew who I was. My name, my number, my recent history – everything. I assumed she must have got the information from her own network, and that of course was very disturbing. But later on, she told me that it was actually Irwin Wolfe who had warned her about me. So the question was, who had told him?’
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘No. But he was working with Scipio. So someone must have told Scipio, who had then passed the information across. And that person could only have been you. Nobody else knew I was there.’
‘I hope we’re not going to fall out over this, James.’
‘Not at all. You were doing your job. I understand that. And the truth is, I should have seen it. When you and I drove to the dock at La Joliette, the man sitting at security asked to see my ID. He checked me out but he ignored you. There had to be a reason for that and the reason was simply that he knew who you were. He had seen you before.’ Bond paused and blew out smoke. ‘We lost a man at La Joliette. I’m going to assume you were there when it happened.’
‘I didn’t have anything to do with his death and I’m sorry that it occurred.’ Reade Griffith shook his head, remembering. ‘The thing was, he’d worked out something of what was going on. The connection with Ferrix Chimiques, for example …’
‘That was why he had the invoice,’ Bond said. ‘I have to congratulate you. You completely blindsided me on that.’
‘Did I?’
‘It was an invoice for thirty gallons of acetic anhydride. You told me it was the principal component of photographic film.’
‘It is.’
‘I know. But as it happens, it’s also used in the production of heroin. At the start of the process an equal amount of morphine and acetic anhydride are heated together. The chemical is known as a heroin precursor.’ Bond had checked it out when he got back to London. He was annoyed with himself for not having done so before. He had allowed Griffith to spoon-feed him the lie.
‘Your guy was smart but he still got it all wrong,’ Griffith continued. ‘He decided that Sixtine must be working with Wolfe. It made sense. She was a major operator and they were practically living together. He needed information and he decided he could get it from Scipio. After all, he’d seen the two of them sitting together in that café in Marseilles. He’d even taken photographs. He figured he could persuade Scipio to tell him what she was up to.
‘For what it’s worth, I warned him against it but he asked me to set up a meeting on neutral ground. I said I’d come along just to make sure that everyone played fair and that’s why he wasn’t packing a gun. I arranged the meeting at La Joliette … white flag and all the rest of it. I was genuinely trying to help. The only trouble was, Scipio hadn’t read the rules. When he realised your guy knew too much, he took out a gun and shot him three times in the chest. It all happened so fast, there was nothing I could do. It’s like I told you the first time we met: you can’t trust these people.’
‘Scipio knew I was coming to Ferrix Chimiques. You told him.’
‘I also told him not to hurt you, buddy. That’s why it was water and not acid in that flask they threw in your face.’
Bond had worked that out too. Scipio had almost admitted as much when they had met that second time, on the Mirabelle. He had said that he wanted to deal with Bond – ‘without restraint’. Those two words had told Bond someone must have been protecting him when he was at the chemical factory.
‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ Bond said. ‘Irwin Wolfe was planning a lethal strike on your own country. American gangs sell about 600 pounds of heroin every month across the United States. Wolfe was delivering twenty times that amount and he was giving it away almost free. Was Scipio so important to you that you were prepared to go along with the consequences? Or were you planning to stop the Mirabelle when it arrived?’
‘I knew nothing about the Mirabelle,’ Griffith said. ‘I didn’t know what was going on in Wolfe’s head. Scipio didn’t tell me. But why would he? For him it was a whole new business opportunity. I have to say, my government is very grateful to you, James. You saved us from a whole load of trouble. I hear you’re being recommended for a Medal of Honor. You certainly get my vote.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Griffith glanced at the dead body that had been a silent witness to the entire conversation. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here, James. And make sure you take that cigarette butt with you. We want to leave things nice and clean for the police and the paramedics.’
Bond didn’t move.
‘You’re not sore with me?’ Griffith asked.
‘There is just one other thing I want to know,’ Bond said. ‘Did you know that Sixtine and I were on the Mirabelle at the very end, when it went down?’
‘No. I didn’t. What happened to her?’
‘She died.’
‘That’s too bad.’
‘Yes. It is.’
Bond’s hand had slipped, casually, into his pocket. When he took it out, it was holding the Beretta. In a single movement, without hesitation, he turned and shot Reade Griffith in the middle of the forehead. The CIA agent stared at him as if in disbelief, blood trickling down between his eyes. Then he pitched forward.
Bond moved quickly. Lifting him up by the armpits, he dragged the dead man closer to the bed and left him there. He took the gun out of Irwin Wolfe’s hand, noticing that it was a Webley & Scott .45. He wondered, vaguely, why that weapon had been chosen. But it didn’t matter now. Using a handkerchief, he wiped it clean, then pressed it into Reade Griffith’s hand. He removed the CIA agent’s gun and slid it into his pocket. Finally, he wiped his own gun with the handkerchief and placed it in Irwin Wolfe’s hand, closing the dead man’s fingers around the trigger.
When he had come into the room, he had been presented with the scene of a fake suicide but he had transformed it into something else. Reade Griffith had been sent here to kill Irwin Wolfe. He hadn’t realised that the older man was armed. In the end, the two of them had shot each other. That was what it would look like. Of course, the CIA would be suspicious but they wouldn’t be able to ask too many questions, not without admitting why he had been there in the first place. Nobody knew anything about Bond. He was travelling under a false name. They didn’t even know he was in America.
He finished the cigarette he had been smoking and pinched it out. He slipped the butt into his top pocket, then wiped the ashtray clean. He hadn’t touched anything in the room. He had left no fingerprints. He took one last look around, then left, walking out of the silent house. The police and paramedics would arrive eventually but by then Bond would be long gone.
He climbed back into the car, thinking about the man he had just killed. Reade Griffith had lied to him from the very start and had been lying all along. He had been hopelessly compromised by his relationship with Scipio and had been blind to the consequences. Whatever he might say, he had been responsible for the death of a British secret agent. He had almost certainly told Scipio about Monique de Troyes, the girl who worked at Ferrix Chimiques, and had caused her death too.
And it had been thanks to him that Sixtine had died.
Once again Bond saw her, one last time, slipping away from him into the blue.
Slowly, he drove back through the overcrowded garden, heading for the gate. He knew that although he had been given a licence to kill, it hadn’t extended to this. There would be no official report. He would never speak
of it again. He had committed murder. Pure and simple.
Ahead of him, a sensor picked up the movement of the car and the electric door swung open, revealing Sunset Boulevard on the other side. Bond drove out, leaving behind him the memory of what he had just done.
He felt nothing.
Acknowledgements
I am enormously grateful to Ian Fleming Publications Ltd and the Ian Fleming Estate for inviting me back a second time. As someone who grew up with James Bond – the books before the films – it’s a dream come true to write about the world’s most enduring spy, though a huge challenge to come anywhere near to the brilliance of Fleming’s writing.
As ever, though, I have been helped – firstly by Fleming himself. Much of the chapter ‘Russian Roulette’ is based on one of the outlines he wrote for an American television series which in the end never happened. (Another of these outlines, ‘Murder on Wheels’, appeared in my first Bond novel, Trigger Mortis.) Curiously, Fleming also refers to the story of the Aleksandr Kolchak, which he claims is based on fact, in his collection of travel journalism which was published as Thrilling Cities in 1963. I’m afraid I rather brazenly raided the book for my description of the casino at Monte Carlo in the same chapter. It follows that many of the attitudes expressed are Fleming’s, not mine.
Once again I have to single out Corinne Turner, who has been a constant supporter and friend at IFE, as well as Jonny Geller at Curtis Brown (who represents Ian Fleming) and my own agent Jonathan Lloyd, who helped steer me through moments of doubt. It’s been a pleasure working with Jonathan Cape and I particularly want to acknowledge the work of Ana Fletcher and David Milner, who separately edited the text, each with an eagle eye, and saved me – many times – from myself. It might be unusual for an author to thank his cover designer but, along with the title, there is nothing more important to the success of a James Bond novel and I think Kris Potter got it exactly right.
Forever and a Day required a great deal of research that the internet could not supply and I am particularly grateful to Joe Forrest, who came up with sensible answers to some impossible questions and convinced me that some of the more daring escapes in this story might work. To get a working knowledge of the Mirabelle, I went to Southampton and visited the SS Shieldhall – the largest working steam ship in Britain – and I want to thank Nigel Philpott and Graham Mackenzie for giving me so much of their time and expertise.
There were many books that helped me. I’ve mentioned James Bond: The Man and His World by Henry Chancellor before. It’s a great resource, as is the website ‘literary007.com’. I acquainted myself with blackjack by reading Edward O. Thorp’s Beat the Dealer, and Alfred W. McCoy’s The Politics of Heroin and Meyer & Parssinen’s Webs of Smoke provided all the background I needed to describe Scipio’s activities. A special thank you to Andrew Lycett, who drew my attention to Shame Lady, a name that Fleming flirted with for his home in Jamaica. He eventually chose Goldeneye.
Last year, I offered the opportunity to appear as a character in the book at an auction to support the Old Vic (a charity which receives no Arts Council funding) and I would like to acknowledge the extraordinary generosity of two bidders. The auction was won by Reade Griffith, who appears under his own name in Chapter Five onwards. Joann McPike also made a substantial donation and the character of Joanne Brochet, Madame 16, is inspired by her. Brochet is the French for pike.
Finally, I might have been able to write this book without the help of my assistant, Alice Edmondson – but certainly not on time. The manuscript was read by my brilliant wife, Jill Green, and my two sons, Nicholas and Cassian. As usual, their suggestions were vicious but invaluable.
Ian Fleming has played a huge role in my life. He wrote the first adult books that I ever loved and the films saved me from some of the darker corners of my childhood. I dedicate this book to his memory … not, of course, that he has any chance of being forgotten.
Ian Fleming
Ian Lancaster Fleming was born in London on 28 May 1908 and was educated at Eton College before spending a formative period studying languages in Europe. His first job was with Reuters news agency, followed by a brief spell as a stockbroker. On the outbreak of the Second World War he was appointed assistant to the Director of Naval Intelligence, Admiral Godfrey, where he played a key part in British and Allied espionage operations.
After the war he joined Kemsley Newspapers as Foreign Manager of the Sunday Times, running a network of correspondents who were intimately involved in the Cold War. His first novel, Casino Royale, was published in 1953 and introduced James Bond, Special Agent 007, to the world. The first print run sold out within a month. Following this initial success, he published a Bond title every year until his death. His own travels, interests and wartime experience gave authority to everything he wrote. Raymond Chandler hailed him as ‘the most forceful and driving writer of thrillers in England.’ The fifth title, From Russia, With Love, was particularly well received and sales soared when President Kennedy named it as one of his favourite books. The Bond novels have sold more than sixty million copies and inspired a hugely successful film franchise which began in 1962 with the release of Dr No starring Sean Connery as 007.
The Bond books were written in Jamaica, a country Fleming fell in love with during the war and where he built a house, ‘Goldeneye’. He married Ann Rothermere in 1952. His story about a magical car, written in 1961 for their only child Caspar, went on to become the well-loved novel and film, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Fleming died of heart failure on 12 August 1964.
www.ianfleming.com
The James Bond Books
Casino Royale
Live and Let Die
Moonraker
Diamonds are Forever
From Russia, With Love
Dr No
Goldfinger
For Your Eyes Only
Thunderball
The Spy Who Loved Me
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
You Only Live Twice
The Man with the Golden Gun
Octopussy and The Living Daylights
Non-fiction
The Diamond Smugglers
Thrilling Cities
Children’s
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
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