by John Gardner
The room was cool and silent, with a slightly less fussy decor and furnishings just visible from the standard and bedside lamps. A nurse, dark, crisp, efficient and giving away nothing from either face or stance, monitored a drip by the bed on which a young woman was lying, covered by a blanket. The doctor moved over to her and began a conversation, conducted sotto voce.
Bond could make out the contours of the body under the blanket. Unlike her father and mother, Trilby Shrivenham was obviously tall and slender, her oval face placid, as though she was in normal repose, the head on the pillow surrounded by a mass of untidy blonde hair. Bond and Bailey stood, for a moment, looking down at her, then Bailey saw a large tote bag on the floor near the bedside table. He asked if it belonged to the patient and the nurse gave him a curt nod, then moved to stop him picking it up, but the doctor restrained her, muttering on as he had done since they entered the room.
Bailey began to go through the bag while Bond could not take his eyes off the face on the pillow. After a minute or so, Bailey tapped him on the shoulder. Bond turned to see that the Special Branch officer was holding an Avante Carte card in his hand. This one was made out simply to Trilby P. Shrivenham.
They looked at one another and Bond raised his eyebrows, then the girl on the bed started to stir and moan.
The hairs on the nape of Bond’s neck rose, for from this beautiful creature came a voice that could have somehow scrabbled its way up from the grave – hoarse, cracked and sneering, as though wrapped in evil – ‘The meek shall inherit. The meek shall inherit the earth,’ the voice croaked, and Bond knew there and then that it was not Trilby Shrivenham speaking as she went on and on – ‘The meek shall inherit . . . The meek shall inherit the earth.’ Then a laugh which seemed to come from far away, so horrible that both doctor and nurse reflexed, stepping away from their patient. ‘The meek shall inherit the earth,’ it said again. Then, for the first time the eyes opened, staring and wide, flooded with fear. It was as though Trilby was looking at something nobody else could see, there in the bedroom. Again the laugh, and – ‘The blood of the fathers will fall upon the sons!’ the voice said. To Bond it was as though the words were crawling up through a slimy dark pit, filled with a pile of decomposing bodies. Later he was to remember the picture as it came into his mind at that moment.
Behind them Lady Shrivenham gave a little sob, and they all shuddered as though a curse had come from somewhere beyond the girl’s lips and vocal cords.
6
TWO OF A KIND
Bond tried to rationalise the sense of horror that shrouded the room with the unnerving, other-worldly voice coming from the undeniably attractive young woman lying on the bed. In that moment of sorting through the filing system of his mind for the many possible causes of the phenomenon the fatigue and exhaustion seemed to leave his body.
He took two swift steps towards the doctor, placed a hand firmly in the small of his back and said, ‘A word in private, please.’
The man gave him a sharp, puzzled look, then nodded and followed him out of the room and onto the small landing. ‘This consultant you’ve sent for,’ Bond began.
‘Yes?’
‘Who is he?’
‘A man I’ve used many times.’ Doctor Roberts now appeared to be more comfortable with Bond. Initially he had a wary look in his eyes, which was now replaced with confidence. ‘Harley Street, naturally. Name of Baker-Smith.’
‘And he specialises in?’
‘Drug and alcohol abuse and addiction, of course.’
‘You really think that’s what the girl needs?’
‘Mr Bond,’ the doctor said, with pained weariness, ‘Trilby Shrivenham has a history. I think you can safely leave this side of things to us medical men.’
‘After the performance in there?’ He cocked his head in the direction of the bedroom. ‘You really think that all she needs is a skilled detox clinic? You believe that?’
‘You have some better suggestion?’ Roberts’s tone was now patently condescending.
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’
‘I see. You are a medical practitioner as well?’
‘No, but I work in a world in which we have our fair share of this thing. Wouldn’t you agree that the girl is more likely to be stoned out of her mind with hallucinogenics and hypnotics?’
‘Possibly.’ There was no real commitment from Roberts. ‘Even so, it’s a drug problem. She’s got to be brought down. Then weaned off them to regain her equilibrium.’
‘Don’t you see it as a little more complex than that, doctor? The centre of that girl’s mind has been tampered with, under the influence of things like Sulphonal, LSD and the like. Her soul’s been stolen from her. She requires more help than a simple detox clinic.’
‘We’ll see. Wait until Mr Baker-Smith gets here.’
‘No, doctor, I’m sorry, but the authorities which Mr Bailey and myself work for will probably not allow that.’ Bond’s mouth was set in a hard stubborn line. ‘I must take instructions from my own superior, but in the meantime you will be good enough to leave your patient where she is. I don’t want ambulances whisking her off to Mr Baker-Smith’s clinic wherever that happens to be.’
‘You can’t . . .’ Roberts began.
‘Do this to your patient, doctor? Oh, I think you’ll find I can.’ Bond turned on his heel and went down the stairs quickly, opening the front door and instructing the uniformed constable that nobody – not even a doctor – was to be allowed in until there were further instructions. The policeman nodded and took the orders. He had seen Bond arrive with Lord Shrivenham and Bailey. He had also seen Bailey’s ID, so naturally assumed he was receiving instructions from on high.
Bond closed the door and crossed the hall to the telephone which stood on a heavy oak table just below the stairs. He punched out the code for M’s private line.
M answered immediately, grunting as soon as he recognised Bond’s voice. ‘This isn’t secure, sir, but we need to take action fast. Does the Service still keep that tame trick cyclist on the books?’
M gave an irritated sigh. ‘007, I wish you wouldn’t use these slang expressions. He is an eminent neurologist, and the answer is yes. Yes, we do still have access to him and the clinic – but only in cases of extreme urgency. The fact you haven’t been sent back to him for treatment in no way indicates that we have ceased to employ him. Now, why do you ask?’
Bond told him in a matter of seven fast sentences. When he finished, M grunted again. ‘See your point, 007. But you must have a word with Shrivenham first. On no account can we upset the doctor in charge of the case. But make sure it is Shrivenham who gets the GP out of the house. I’ll talk to our man now, and then have one of our own units pick up the patient. Standard operating procedure. There should be an ambulance with you in half an hour at the latest. Just make sure they know the day’s code. I certainly believe this is a case for our friend, and the sooner the better.’
Bond thanked him. The Service had often used Sir James Molony in the past. He was probably the world’s most eminent neurologist, and a Nobel Prize-winner for his book Some Psychosomatic Side-Effects of Organic Inferiority. On several occasions, some years ago, he had even treated Bond himself, when he had been under great stress.
Trilby Shrivenham was just the sort of case in which Molony would be interested. Putting down the telephone, Bond went quickly back up the stairs and coaxed Basil Shrivenham from his daughter’s side. She was quiet again now, as though the half-waking delusions had never happened. She lay, still and placid, silent in deep sleep. It was unthinkable that, only minutes before, an horrific, demonic voice had issued from her lips. Bond thought the girl must look stunning when fit, well, and in her right mind.
On the landing again, he faced Lord Shrivenham, giving him a slightly expurgated version of his conversation with M. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to break it to your own GP, sir,’ he ended. ‘M is adamant that Trilby should be moved, as soon as possible, and put under Sir Jam
es Molony’s care. We all know what happened to Emma Dupré, and none of us wants anything to go wrong with Trilby. With Sir James she’ll have the best medical care – surely you must want that. You must be terribly concerned about her state of mind, sir.’
Shrivenham nodded several times. ‘I’ll do it. If old M says it’s the right thing, who am I to argue? I’ll do it now.’
Roberts left the house a few minutes later, cutting Bond dead, his face set in a fury of irritation.
As promised, within the half-hour a Service team arrived with an ambulance, complete with paramedics, a trail car and a couple of unidentifiable men on powerful motorcycles. The transference of Trilby Shrivenham to the ambulance took around fifteen minutes, and soon the small convoy was rolling softly away in the direction of the Service’s safe clinic near Guildford in Surrey.
At three in the morning, Bond returned to Regent’s Park where M told him to get some rest on the camp bed usually used by the Duty Officer. That night the DO was obviously being kept very busy.
‘In the morning,’ M said, ‘I want you to read the Scorpius file, and then take a look at Avante Carte’s offices.’ Seeing the look of surprise on Bond’s face, he allowed his lips to form a brief smile of pleasure. ‘Oh yes, 007, we haven’t let the grass grow under our feet. We’ve tracked down the centre of their credit card operation, and I’ve seen your friend Sergeant Pearlman. Stout fellow. He’s off to the Pangbourne place at first light, and they’ll keep him busy enough. We’ve leaked the Dupré girl’s death to the press – including the fact that she was a member of the Meek Ones, and details of the considerable funds she provided. That should put the cat among the pigeons.’ He nodded brusquely towards the door. ‘Rest well, Bond. I’ll put in a call for you at six o’clock. Early start’s always the best thing. Goodnight to you. Sleep well.’
Bond dreamed of some great temple – he did not know where – with a huge white-robed congregation chanting an incomprehensible mantra. He was in the middle of the temple and looked up to see a girl being carried towards a block of granite that served as an altar. He could not see her face, but she was screaming in a croaking voice as they tied her to the stone and stood back to make way for a gigantic insect. The creature crawled forward, and he saw that it was a massive scorpion. It raised its tail, the sting like a long rapier, ready to plunge it into the girl on the altar. The chanting became louder and louder – ‘Si-si-si-si-si-si . . .’ – and as he looked, Bond saw the girl had changed into a man. The man turned his terrified face towards the waiting congregation and Bond realised it was himself. The long steel needle that was the scorpion’s sting started to come down. ‘Si-si-si-si-si . . .’
‘Si . . . Six o’clock, Commander Bond, sir.’ Harper, one of the senior messengers, an ex-Royal Marine commando, was shaking his shoulder.
Bond realised he was awake and sweating, the nightmare still fresh and real in his mind.
‘Nice cup of coffee, sir. Just how you like it.’
He thanked Harper, who had known him and his idiosyncrasies for years. The hot brew tasted good, and seemed to set Bond’s life forces flowing again. Slowly he got out of the bed and began his usual morning routine – the hot and cold shower, exercises and some new breathing controls learned from one of the SAS PTIs. It was just after six thirty when he presented himself in M’s anteroom. Moneypenny’s deputy – an autocratic and unapproachable harridan known throughout the whole Service simply as Ms Boyd – sat at the ‘receipt of custom’, as Moneypenny’s desk, with its two computer VDUs, and complex telephone/intercom unit, was known.
‘Would M be expecting you?’ The dragon-like Ms Boyd gave Bond a look indicating that, to her, he was but riff-raff.
‘He would indeed.’ Bond seldom bothered to engage Moneypenny’s deputy in conversation, and never in banter. She rarely took over the coveted anteroom, and it was said that Moneypenny had personally hired her because of her unfortunate lack of charisma. Moneypenny wanted nobody usurping her domain.
The light above M’s door came on as soon as Ms Boyd gave Bond’s name over the intercom.
M had obviously remained in the office all night, for there was a camp bed, recently made up, against one wall. He was in shirtsleeves and needed a shave – most uncharacteristic for an old sea dog. He waved Bond forward, indicating that he should wait, standing in front of his desk. It took M a couple of minutes to finish going through his papers. ‘Right, 007,’ he said, finally. ‘I’ve arranged that Registry should have the file in Room 41. As it’s flagged Cosmic, since Wolkovsky added to it yesterday, there will be a guard on the door. You’ll leave all writing materials – your pen, notebook, diary and whatever else – with the guard. I trust you, but we should abide by the rules, eh?’
Bond nodded and asked how his chief had got on with the Special Air Service sergeant, Pearlman.
‘Seems to be the right stuff.’ M glanced at his watch. ‘He’s on his way down to Berkshire now – together with half of Fleet Street, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘And Trilby Shrivenham?’
‘What about her?’
‘Just wondered if you’d had any news about her condition, that’s all, sir.’
‘Mmm. Well, she’s in a bad way. Sir James tells me she’ll pull out of the drugs thing. Someone fed her a pretty lethal dose. He’s more concerned about her mental state.’
‘Mind tampered with while under the influence of this infernal concoction?’ Bond was anxious to check out his own theory.
‘Something like that. Now, off you go to Room 41. When you’ve finished the file, get back up here fast. There’s a great deal to be done.’
Bond nodded, said, ‘Aye aye, sir,’ which brought a nostalgic glance from M who added, ‘I’ve had both the Avante Carte things sent down to Q Branch. The Armourer’s Assistant is giving them the once-over.’ He meant the delectable Ms Ann Reilly, expert in both weaponry and electronics, known to most members of the Service as Q’ute because of her role as Assistant to Major Boothroyd, Armourer and Head of Q Branch.
As he took the lift down to the second floor, where Room 41 was located, Bond wondered what had prompted M to let Q’ute pass her experienced eye over the Avante Carte plastic.
Like the famous CIA Headquarters at Langley, Virginia, the doors to left and right along the passages of the second floor were of differing colours. There was nothing arcane or sinister about this. The fact was that, when it came to paintwork, the Maintenance Section worked to a strict colour chart. When they ran out of red they moved on to blue, etc. The corridors of the Service HQ were often nicknamed after the predominant colour.
The door of Room 41 was pink. A Service tough stood over it looking as though he would rather kill than let anyone enter. Though the man knew Bond well by sight he still insisted on seeing ID, and he removed all possible writing and copying materials with above-average enthusiasm. Inside the room there was one chair and a table on which lay the thick file. Bond sat, looked at the cryptonym sellotaped to the front cover – BONK – an apt cover name for a man like Vladimir Scorpius, he thought, turning the cover and starting to read.
The bulk of the dossier was old material which Bond had read many times before – the scant details of one shadowy man’s life. Vladimir Scorpius, thought to have been born in Cyprus of a wealthy Greek businessman and a renegade white Russian – possibly Evdokia, daughter of the mysterious Prince and Princess Talanov who, with their daughter, had escaped the Bolshevik Revolution in strange, and almost unbelievable circumstances.
Vladimir Scorpius had first come to the attention of the British Secret Intelligence Service in the late 1950s during the guerrilla warfare waged – for independence – against British military forces in Cyprus by the Greek Government, the Communist Party and the guerrilla army, EOKA. Scorpius was suspected of supplying arms to EOKA – the so-called terrorists. Since that time his name had cropped up again and again – always as the supplier of armaments and military materiel, usually to terrorist groups around the world.
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br /> While Scorpius’s name ran like a crimson thread through shipments of weapons and explosives in every trouble spot on the globe, no firm traces led back to the man. There was page upon page of lists – rifles, handguns, ammunition, grenades, plastique, fuses, detonators, missile launchers and even more sophisticated machinery of war – yet none of them could be completely and convincingly traced back to Scorpius. It was obvious to anyone, even with scant knowledge of the twilight world of illegal arms supplies, that Scorpius was behind hundreds of illicit consignments. But the man – and the evidence – became a tangled will-o’-the-wisp thread, which ran out once investigations appeared to be almost complete.
Bond concentrated on the realities – what was known fact about the man. First, he was certainly ruthless. In the past twenty years or so, no fewer than sixteen people who were known to be in a position to betray him had died in odd circumstances – four in freak road accidents, three in shootings, four by poison, two beaten to death by supposed muggers, two in possible suicides, and one drowned bizarrely in a motel shower. The file also showed that another twenty people who were suspected of being in Scorpius’s employ had also died in either straightforward murder or suspicious suicides. It was not healthy to get on friendly working terms with the man.
Secondly, he was something of a hypocrite. For a large part of the sixties and seventies he had lived with his extravagant and beautiful wife, Emerald, aboard his magnificent 280-foot oceangoing yacht, Vladem I, powered by two 3,000-hp diesels – Bond winced at the sheer bourgeois taste of the name – yet managed to keep the press, particularly the paparazzi, off his back. He gave several interviews, by telephone, to both newspapers and magazines – they were all there in the bulky file – in which he claimed to eschew the world, preferring to live on his boat with the love of his life. Constantly he stressed marital fidelity, yet there in black and white were transcripts of long-range surveillance watches with details of his multitude of mistresses, and nauseating facts about his unslakeable sexual appetite, appeased only by weird and imaginative tastes.
