“N-n-no, lemme go!” Evans cried in terror.
Bond released the man and he fell back into his chair. Evans was shaken by the sudden ferocity Bond had shown. He could now see that there was genuine cruelty lurking within the man standing over him. Evans, relying on the experience he had gained working at a prison, recognized a natural born killer. In the flash of a second, the man from SIS had completely changed his demeanor. Instead of the soft blue eyes he had seen earlier, they were now cold and steely. The mouth had curved into a grimace and the scar on the right cheek was more prominent.
Jesus, Evans thought. Why didn’t I see this before?
“How … how about that cigarette?” he whispered.
Bond sat down across from him and removed the gunmetal case from his jacket inside pocket. He offered Evans one of his specially made cigarettes and then produced his Ronson lighter.
Evans took a couple of puffs and blew out the smoke, obviously taking comfort from the tobacco. “This is good, where d’you get it?”
“It’s imported. Now … do we have an understanding?” Bond asked calmly, but maintaining the level of menace in his voice.
“What do you want to know?” Evans smiled.
“The tattoo in your eye. Tell me all about it.”
Evans cleared his throat. “All Union members have it. Once you’ve been accepted, it’s like you get a membership card, only it’s on your eye. It’s sort of a secret handshake, like. Each new member receives some money just for joinin’ so nobody minds.”
“Who does the procedure?”
“Depends on where you’re located. I had mine done in Paris. There’s a doctor there—I don’t know his name, I swear—he does it for most of the Union people in Europe. He travels around.”
“But why? Why a tattoo on the eye?”
Evans shrugged. “I wish I knew. Really! No one really knows. It’s an order handed down from the big boss, that fellow they call Le Gérant. He has some kind of fascination wi’ eyes.”
“Have you met him?”
Evans shook his head. “I don’t know anyone who’s met him, except maybe that Yassasin fellow. But he never talked about the Union. He never talked at all.”
“Why did you kill him?”
Evans hesitated. “I … I was ordered to.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. I get my instructions by phone. It’s just a voice. It comes from France. That’s all I know.”
Bond stood and began to circle the room. “So, you reported to your superiors in France that Yassasin’s tattoo had been discovered. And they told you to eliminate him before he could talk, is that it?”
Evans nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“And what did you get out of it?”
“A little money.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand quid.”
“That’s not a lot.”
“It’s a lot to me. You ever work for the bleedin’ government?” Bond shot him a look and Evans realized his mistake. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“One last question,” Bond said. “Do you know where Le Gérant is now?”
Evans shook his head. “All I know is that the headquarters used to be in Morocco, but it isn’t any more. They moved to Europe somewhere. There’s a Paris branch but I don’t think he’s there. I believe that’s where my instructions came from. That branch controls all of the activity in Europe and the UK.”
Bond circled the room one more time, quietly, staring at Evans, daring him to leave out something. After nearly two minutes of nerve-racking silence, Bond was satisfied that the man was too scared not to talk.
Bond moved to the door and said, “Thanks, old chap,” and signaled for the guard to come and let him out.
The Kuril Islands form a chain of about thirty large and twenty small volcanic islands in extreme East Russia, separating the Sea of Okhotsk from the Pacific Ocean. They extend between north east Hokkaido, Japan, and South Kamchatka Peninsula, Russia. Settled by both the Japanese and the Russians in the eighteenth century, the islands at that time belonged to Japan. After the Yalta Conference during World War II, the islands were given to the USSR and today remain the property of Russia. Japan, however, has maintained a claim to at least some of the islands. No peace treaty had ever been concluded between Japan and the former Soviet Union, mainly because of the dispute over these “Northern Territories.” As a result, there is also no peace treaty between today’s Russian Federation and Japan.
Thus, the Kuril Islands remain a mysterious no man’s land with regard to the two countries. While they are governed as part of Sakhalin Oblast, Russia, in many ways they are still culturally tied to Japan. The islands are heavily forested and contain many active volcanoes. Hunting, fishing, and sulphur mining are the principal occupations of the inhabitants, among whom are the Ainu, a primitive race indigenous to the area.
At approximately the same time that James Bond was interrogating SO Evans in Belmarsh prison, a black Kawasaki BK117 helicopter landed on one of the disputed Kuril Islands, called Etorofu by the Japanese and Iturup by the Russians. The helicopter was big enough for ten passengers, but today it carried only one. He had flown in from Tokyo, after having made a series of very long flights that began in Calvi, Corsica.
The helipad was on private property hidden amongst the trees. The owner was associated with a mining operation that worked a nearby quarry; but if anyone at the firm were questioned, they would have no knowledge of who that owner might be.
The helicopter touched down on the strip and its passenger looked out of the window at lush, green trees and a colorful mountain looming in the distance. Was it a volcano? He didn’t know and really didn’t care. He wanted to get his business done and go back to Corsica where he felt more at home. He wasn’t suited to acting as an errand boy for the Union.
Emile Cirendini, carrying a briefcase, stepped out of the vibrating chopper and was met by two armed Japanese dressed in fatigues. One barked a greeting to him that he didn’t understand, but he held out his hand and said, “Bonjour.” The Japanese guard said something else and pointed to a jeep a few yards away. Cirendini wondered why Japanese people always sounded as if they were angry when they spoke.
Cirendini, a slightly overweight but otherwise healthy man in his fifties, was something of a giant compared to the two Japanese guards. He was a little over six feet tall, had short gray hair, a thick moustache, and deep brown eyes. He climbed into the back of the jeep and felt relaxed for the first time in twenty-four hours. But then one of the guards turned to him and said something. He held out an eyemask, the type used on transatlantic flights for people who want to sleep on the plane.
A blindfold? Cirendini took it and shrugged. He had been warned that something like this might occur. He put it on and the jeep began to roll.
The ride was bumpy as the vehicle drove over unpaved, rough terrain. Cirendini’s backside was already sore from sitting so long in the airplanes; this certainly didn’t help.
They drove for nearly twenty minutes. When the jeep finally slowed to a stop and the guard removed Cirendini’s blindfold, they were in front of a modest army barracks. Cirendini looked around him and saw that he was in some kind of military camp. He could see a field where men were running through obstacles and conducting target practice. Camouflage netting covered several buildings. A group of soldiers were marching in formation. It looked like basic training for the Japanese army.
Cirendini knew that it was far from that.
After he was thoroughly searched, he was led into a dugout covered in camouflage netting. Steps went down into the darkness; a ten-meter passage emptied into a spacious, well-lit receiving room that was ornately decorated in traditional Japanese style. A sliding paper door opened as a guard ushered Cirendini into the next room.
But the guard stopped him and admonished him for something.
“What?” Cirendini asked.
The guard pointed to Cirendini’s shoes.
“Oh, right,” he said, removing them.
Cirendini was led into a room where a man was sitting on the floor at a low table, having dinner. A central ceiling fan provided a cool breeze and the smell of incense was strong. The man appeared to be in his fifties. He was handsome, had black hair sprinkled with gray and dark eyes. He was wearing a colorful kimono.
“Mister Cirendini,” he said in English and bowing slightly. “Please sit. Have some sake. Forgive me if I don’t get up.”
Cirendini felt ridiculous sitting at the low table. His size seemed to dwarf everything in the room. A servant poured a cup for him and left them alone.
“You have a beautiful place here, Mister Yoshida,” he said.
“Thank you. We try to keep it that way. The Russians have been most hospitable in allowing me to stay here. One of these days the island will be Japan’s again. But for the moment, they are being quite reasonable. I suppose it helps that I pay handsomely for the use of the land.”
Goro Yoshida took a sip of his sake and picked up his chopsticks to resume eating the sushi that was before him. “Would you care for something to eat?”
Cirendini was not fond of uncooked food. “No, thank you. I suppose we should simply get down to business.”
Yoshida dabbed his mouth with a napkin and said, “Very well.”
Cirendini opened his briefcase and removed a piece of paper. The text was written in English, only a few lines long. He handed it to Yoshida, who took it and read it carefully.
Then, without a word, Yoshida reached inside his kimono and took out a hanko. He stamped the piece of paper with a flourish.
“I will make the money transfer this afternoon,” Yoshida said as he handed the paper back to Cirendini.
“Thank you,” he said. “Le Gérant sends you his best regards.”
“Tell him that it is a pleasure doing business,” Yoshida said with an insincere smile.
Cirendini replaced the paper in the briefcase and stood. A guard opened the sliding door on cue. Cirendini walked out of the room, was blindfolded again, and taken back to the helicopter for another long series of flights back to the Mediterranean Sea.
SIX
THE SAILOR
AFTER LEARNING THAT “PIERRE RODIAC” USED A YACHT OWNED BY THE Corsican mafia man, Emile Cirendini, Mathis took the ferry to Calvi to investigate further. When he had looked into the CL-20 theft from the air force base in Solenzara, Mathis had made several useful contacts. One of them was a man who worked on the marina in Calvi, which was one of the island’s main shipping headquarters. Locals called him “The Sailor,” and Mathis was unable to find out his true name. Nevertheless, the Sailor liked wine and money, in that order.
When the Sailor saw Mathis again, he smiled warmly and shook his hand.
“Hello my friend!” he said. He was a large man with long, curly black hair. His teeth were yellow and a front one was missing. He smelled strongly of fish and wine. “Come to spend more money on me?”
Mathis laughed and said, “I would be happy to if you are willing to have a little chat.”
The Sailor put down a crate of salmon on ice, rubbed his hands, and said, “Let’s go to the bar over there.” He pointed to a pleasantlooking establishment with tables outside. Mathis appreciated the fact that the wharves in Corsica were well maintained, clean, and usually in close proximity to the tourist shops and restaurants.
It was the middle of the day. The sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky, and the view from the harbor was always impressive. On one side spread the vast Mediterranean. On the other was a panorama of rugged mountains. Mathis noted that the highest peak still had a bit of snow on it. Corsica was indeed a place of hardy landscapes and a strong people to populate them.
All manner of small craft were docked at the harbor, and there was room further down the marina for larger cruise ships. Pierre Rodiac’s Princess 20M was docked there as well.
The two men walked to a small café with outdoor seating facing the sea. Mathis ordered a bottle of Domaine de Culombu, a rich red Corsican wine, and asked the Sailor if he wanted lunch. The Sailor wasn’t about to refuse. After a few minutes, a plate of scorpionfish with lobster sauce was placed in front of him. Mathis had langoustines grilled with basil sauce. Both dishes were Corsican standards.
“So, what brings you to our little island this time?” the Sailor asked.
“Do you know a man named Emile Cirendini?” Mathis asked.
The Sailor’s smile vanished. He looked around to make sure no one was listening. Then he shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, I know who he is.”
“What can you tell me about him.”
“I believe you already know,” the Sailor said. “Right?”
Mathis came clean. “I know that he’s a shipping magnate but that he has ties with the mafia here.”
“That’s right! The old Union Corse,” the Sailor said. “You don’t hear much about them these days. The mafia today is not the same thing. At least in name it isn’t.”
“I know. Tell me, is Cirendini still involved in illegal activity?”
“How would I know? I’m just an honest fisherman. But I hear things, you know.”
Mathis slipped the man a wad of francs. “I know that his shipping establishment is not far from here. Can you tell me anything interesting about him or his business?”
The Sailor pocketed the money so quickly that he might have made a good magician’s assistant. “Yes, I can. I know that he imports and exports beverages, mostly to the mainland of France. That’s his main business. He ships other goods, too—machine parts, electronics, that kind of stuff. All day long, every day. What he ships at night, that I don’t know.”
“At night?”
The Sailor raised his eyebrows. “Sometimes ships come and go in the dark of night, and they don’t use any lights, either. Like he’s hiding something.”
“That’s interesting. How do they keep from crashing into the rocks? The coastline is awfully treacherous around Corsica.”
“Aha!” the Sailor exclaimed, building up to his punchline. “It’s because there is a secret entrance to the shipping center. Through a cave on the coast!”
“You’ve seen it?”
The Sailor nodded. “I can tell you where it is. It looks like a harmless, natural cave, but it’s large enough for a medium-sized boat to enter. Boats can slip in and out without the police noticing. I believe that there is access to the inside of the headquarters from the cave.”
“That’s excellent. Thank you,” Mathis said. He ordered afterdinner drinks, a strong spirit called Eau de vie de Corse. “I have one more question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you know who sails on that yacht?” Mathis pointed to the Princess.
The man hesitated, then asked, “The blind man?”
Mathis nodded.
“The yacht is owned by your friend Cirendini,” the Sailor said. “But the blind man and his bodyguards use it. They take it out every Thursday night. I don’t know where they go—”
“Do you know the blind man’s name?”
The Sailor shook his head. “A fancy car brings him here and picks him up when he returns.”
“Do you know where they go from here?”
“South. That’s all I know.”
“I’ve heard that he has a business address in Sartène.”
The man shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Sounds like you know more about him than I do.”
Mathis smiled. “I don’t know nearly enough, my friend. Not yet, anyway.”
Mathis found Cirendini’s shipping establishment east of Calvi, close to Cap Corse, the peninsula that jutted northward from the island. It was close to the small port of St. Laurent, a prime spot for diving enthusiasts.
Called simply “Corse Shipping,” Cirendini’s outfit was a large warehouse perched on the cliff overlooking the water. A dirt road went from the main two-lane paved highway to the building. A small gravel parking lot contained four cars. The bu
ilding was once an old asbestos mine that had been closed years ago. Mathis eventually learned that Cirendini had bought the property and renovated it.
The most unusual thing about it was that a freight lift was built on the side of the cliff that went down to the docks. Cargo could be placed on the lift at the building level and lowered to the ships waiting below.
Mathis drove his rented Renault Mégane along the coast road that wound through the high cliffs. He went around a bend and pulled over to the side of the road, in a spot designated for snapshot seekers. From here, he could get a scenic vista of Corse Shipping, the cliff it was perched upon, and the docks and coastline below.
There it was, the cave that the Sailor had told him about. Mathis took some pictures with his miniature belt-buckle camera.
He drove back to Corse Shipping and parked his car. He went inside and found a middle-aged woman at the front desk. He could hear the sound of machinery back in the warehouse.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Is Monsieur Cirendini available?”
She shook her head. “He is away on a business trip.”
“Oh,” he said. He produced a card and a fake identification that he had made up. “I’m with French Customs. I’m doing routine inspections of shipping establishments in Corsica. I had an appointment to take a look at your facility.”
The woman frowned. She checked a book and said, “I don’t have you down. When was the appointment made?”
“Weeks ago. It’s all right, I don’t need Monsieur Cirendini to show me around. I can just have a quick look inside. I won’t be long. It’s all very routine, I assure you.”
The woman was obviously intimidated by the badge. “All right, go ahead.”
Mathis went past her through big double swing doors into the warehouse. There were stacks of crates, boxes, and barrels all over the place. Large tarpaulins covered piles of goods. Another area held smaller packages and parcels. Some men were busy loading items onto forklifts. They looked at him suspiciously but he went about his business as if there was nothing wrong.
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