Scorpius

by John Gardner

  ‘I’ll only be a minute.’ He slid out the box and carried it into the little, bare private room provided in the deposit-box area. Taking great care he placed everything from his pockets – except money – into an empty thick manila envelope from a pile at the bottom of the metal box. He then slit open one of the bulky envelopes which filled the box. From it he extracted the Boldman passport, cheque-book, a wallet containing credit cards, a small leather notepad with the words James Boldman printed at the bottom of each page, and two crumpled envelopes, open and with letters enclosed. The envelopes were addressed to James Boldman Esq and carried an address which could be proved if anyone went to the trouble of checking. ‘Mr Boldman’s away at the moment,’ they would tell any caller who asked for him.

  He distributed the items in various pockets, and added a couple of other things – a Visa slip from HMV Records in the sum of £24.70, and the return half of a first-class ticket for Wembley: part of the address on the envelopes.

  The box was returned and locked. All field operatives keep other ‘lives’ in most major cities within their territory. Bond had similar boxes in Paris, Rome, Vienna, Madrid, Berlin and Copenhagen. He also knew how to get hold of material like this at an hour’s notice, in Washington, New York, Miami and Los Angeles.

  He was now, to all intents and purposes, Mr James Boldman. Outside, Pearlman loitered, blending into the background. The newly created Boldman glimpsed a cab driver talking to his fare across the road. He knew both faces and stayed happy in the knowledge that there was a team close by.

  ‘Up to you, now, Pearly,’ he said.

  ‘Right. Heathrow, I think. We’ve plenty of time so there’s no rush.’ Together they hailed another passing cab.

  At Heathrow Airport, Pearlman led them to the helicopter shuttle desk – Heathrow–Gatwick. ‘We go on the noon flight to Charlotte, North Carolina.’ He smiled, a shade too self-satisfied for Bond. Pearlman had already produced their flight tickets for Piedmont Airlines PI161. ‘We have seats on the shuttle and can check in here. Should make it in time.’ It was eleven o’clock exactly. If Pearlman was anxious to dodge surveillance he was going the right way about it, though Bond knew the team would quickly make their enquiries. Time would be tight, but a second unit might just catch them. After that, he would be off-limits and only sanctioned Secret Intelligence Service personnel, combined with the CIA, would be able to take over.

  They made Gatwick with time to spare, and, as they boarded PI161, Bond was not a little alarmed to see none other than David Wolkovsky himself – the Agency’s London resident – with another watcher, behind them in the line-up for boarding. If the Meek Ones knew what he thought they did, Wolkovsky was completely unprotected. Unless, the thought struck home like a poisoned dart, Wolkovsky was the Meek Ones’ penetration agent passing on everyone’s moves to Scorpius or his lieutenants.

  The more Bond thought about it, the less he liked the fact of Wolkovsky being on his back. The Agency’s top man in London would have access to most moves – from his own people, the Branch, MI5 and Bond’s own Service. He had not thought of the possibility before. Now that particular profile made a great deal of sense.

  In the first-class cabin, after take-off, he leaned over and warned Pearlman, ‘We might just have a porpoise treading on our tails.’

  ‘Then we move bloody fast at Charlotte. There’ll be no hanging around in any case. Give me his number when you can.’

  ‘I’m glad to say that he seems to be travelling steerage, but we’ll see.’

  Pearlman gave a quick smile. ‘There are things you have to know. First, we can relax until we get to Charlotte.’ He went on to explain the rest of it. At Charlotte they would take the connecting flight to Hilton Head, and that was where the fun would begin. ‘Scorpius’ll have someone watching every arrival through today. He’ll mark us and call ahead to the island. Your freedom will end there. They’ll meet us with a limo. I haven’t been there, of course, but I gather he has quite a spread on the north-west side of the island. Used to be a plantation, and it’s screened by trees on three sides, the Atlantic Ocean on the fourth. The whole island has security checkpoints and the residents with spreads like Ten Pines Plantation – that’s his – have their own security: electronic and live. The checkpoints are manned twenty-four hours, because of the many tourists who go down there. I’m told it’s breathtaking, fabulous weather, and hell’s own expensive. But plenty of people live on the island as well as those who go vacationing, for the golf tournaments, and conventions. Island paradise they all say.’

  The limousine would take them directly to Ten Pines, and their story would be that Bond had come along quietly once Pearly had told him they held Harriett captive.

  ‘I suppose she is there?’

  ‘It’s what I’ve been told. Your reputation is that of a knight in shining armour.’ Pearlman gave him a sidelong glance. ‘My instructions were to tell you it was not just for your own good, but for Harriett’s as well. No harm would come to her. They said you wouldn’t resist it. Would you have?’

  ‘Depends. I’m doing it for you and your daughter, Pearly. I’m also coming along because it seems to be the only way of getting close to the devil, and I always reckon if you can get close to the devil you stand a chance of beating him – which is my job. I’m still interested to know why they chose me in particular.’

  ‘It’s been you all along. Ever since you were flushed out of Hereford, anyway.’ He frowned as though trying to work out by pure logic why indeed it should be Bond. A little later, after they had eaten, he said it was all too possible that Bond would be held prisoner. ‘You’re not to worry, though. Once I’ve found out where Ruth is, I’ll find a way of springing you – and the Horner bit as well.’

  ‘I would appreciate that, Pearly. Don’t fancy being incarcerated by Scorpius for any length of time. One could have a nasty accident as Scorpius’s house guest.’ Then, as though to himself, ‘I wonder if they’ve taken the Shrivenham girl there as well.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be surprised.’ Pearlman settled back to watch the in-flight movie. Though he had already seen it, Bond sat through it again. The Untouchables. A favourite actor of his played a Chicago cop.

  They landed at Charlotte a little after four fifteen, local time. Pearly stayed very close to Bond, usually behind him, his left shoulder close to the right-hand side of Bond’s back. They only had time to check in for the flight to Hilton Head, and a short wait in the departure lounge, before being taken out to the comfortable, and quiet, Dash 7 which seemed to get them airborne almost before it started its take-off run. Of Wolkovsky there was no sign.

  And now here they were, on finals into the little airport, with the sun slowly turning into a ball of red which would settle into dusk within an hour. Below, the airfield looked ordered and tidy with its neat rows of light private aircraft tethered and chocked, tucked away for the night.

  Passengers, waiting to board for the trip to Charlotte, sat in garden chairs outside the little hut that served for the airport Arrivals and Departures lounge, and, as they descended the short steps from the aircraft, Bond easily picked out the reception committee. A uniformed driver standing by a stretch limo that looked as though it could house a football team. Nearer the aircraft were three young men in grey lightweight suits, white shirts and identical ties. As they grew closer, Bond saw that the ties were of navy-blue silk, each bearing an identical logo pattern – the intertwined Greek A and Ω – that was on the Avante Carte credit cards.

  ‘Hi, John,’ one of the young men greeted Pearlman. He was what Bond had heard a certain class of young, and not-so-young American ladies refer to as a ‘hunk’ – good looks, good height, muscular, light of hair, and with teeth which seemed to have been polished especially for flashing semaphore, or bending iron bars. The other two men were cast from similar moulds.

  ‘Bob,’ Pearlman responded.

  ‘Greetings from the beginning to the end,’ all three men chorused, and Pearlman responded with
the same words. This was obviously the salutation of the Meek Ones.

  ‘And this,’ – the one called Bob looked hard at Bond – ‘this must be the famous Mr Bond.’

  ‘Boldman, if you don’t mind.’ He gave the young man a hard, icy look as if to say that he was not going to stand for any fooling around. ‘James Boldman.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ Bob could give back in kind, for his stance now suggested that instead of flesh and bone under the suit, he was made of steel plating. ‘Whatever you wish to call yourself, I’m positive our leader, our Father, Valentine, will be delighted to see you.’ He turned back to Pearlman. ‘He give you any bother?’

  ‘Came like a lamb. Did just as our Father, Valentine, prophesied.’

  ‘Well, he’ll be waiting.’

  The three men closed around them and Bond felt the overnight briefcase taken skilfully from his hand. Whichever one of them had done it, knew a lot about the persuasive arts for, though it caused no pain, Bond felt him use a particular control pressure on the back of his hand.

  They were quickly inside the car. The engine purred into life, and very gently the limo glided forward.

  Bond remained silent. Around him, outside the car, you could sense the exclusiveness of this place, with its controlled and ordered wide roads, the wonderful stretches of green which showed between palm, pine and a host of other trees, Spanish moss dripping down towards the verges at one moment, then a small mall of shops giving way to side roads with security barriers. Hotels peeped out at intervals; there were golfers, completing a day’s play on some of the distant greens, and the feel of the island was one of rich reward. A place for the lotus eater and the money-maker. As they progressed towards Ten Pines, he realised there was another facet. The island was unreal. Once there, the resident or vacationer might lose all track of time and all sense of the real world. An ideal place for Father Valentine to further corrupt his Meek Ones.

  They turned left, went through something that resembled a very large storm drain, and came out of the other side, hemmed in by grassy, manicured banks which gave way to trees. For a second, though there was absolutely no similarity, it reminded Bond of those belts of nurtured forest which flank the roadside after you pass through the Helmstedt checkpoint to drive on the Autobahn through East Germany to the divided, land-locked island that is Berlin. Within those belts of trees soldiers lurked, camouflaged, in hide-outs or watchtowers. He felt now that there was a different breed of soldier within these thick strips of trees which obviously ringed Ten Pines.

  They broke from the trees to drive through perfect lawns towards a massive, two-storey structure which looked more like an hotel than a house. It appeared to be circular, built of stone, intermingled with great wooden beams, and topped by an octagonal tower. The whole place was bathed in light, for the day was on the edge of death and night began to close in.

  The limo pulled up in front of a great porchway surrounding a pair of high, weathered doors, and the three-man reception party was out of the car and in position, covering it from every possible angle, almost before it stopped.

  ‘Do the honours please, John,’ Bob said, and Pearlman quickly frisked Bond.

  ‘He’s clean.’

  Bob nodded. ‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Bond. We couldn’t really do it in public at the airport, and you were safe enough in the car. Now we can go in.’

  The doors opened onto a semi-circular hall, high-roofed but with no sign of a staircase. A series of doors led from the hall, and two large chandeliers hung, one higher than the other, from the wooden vaulted ceiling. To left and right of the chandeliers, big fans turned lazily to stir cool air. There were no pictures, just plain wood, with varnished and highly polished blocks underfoot.

  Pearlman closed in to his now familiar position, just behind Bond’s right shoulder. For a second they all just stood, as though waiting for some event. Static seemed to crackle between the trio of bodyguards.

  Then, to their left one of the doors opened and a small, slim, bronzed figure walked with two long strides which appeared to bring him into their midst. From the photographs, Bond had thought he was a tall man, but he barely touched five-six. The eyes, however, and the voice had a power of their own. The voice was pitched low, gentle, almost a whisper.

  ‘Mr Bond, how nice of you to make such a long trip.’ He flicked a look at Pearlman. ‘Well done, John. I was sure you wouldn’t let me down.’ Then to Bond again, ‘Welcome to Ten Pines, Mr Bond. As you know, my name is Valentine. The faithful call me their Father, Valentine. Welcome, and greetings from the beginning to the end.’

  As he said the last words, so a terrible noise filled the hallway, coming from somewhere deep within this strange building – the sound of a human being in great pain. Bond shuddered, recognising the scream which seemed to rise and fall in appalling intensity.

  It could have come only from Harriett Horner.

  Valentine cocked his head. ‘Ah,’ he said, his voice still soft, almost caressing. ‘Ah, a little night music to welcome you.’

  17

  THE PRAYER HALL

  James Bond took one pace forward. The screaming had reached a new pitch, echoing sheer, brutal terror. He tried to take another step and, while nobody attempted to restrain him, he stopped, unable to move, as though paralysed.

  He saw Valentine, now leaning against the door, a slight smile on his lips. For a second, as he looked at Valentine’s slim face, radiating good health, Bond saw it, again, overlapped by the photograph of Vladimir Scorpius, just as he had seen it in the dossier.

  He looked at the ears – Scorpius’s ears; then the hair, thinning, yet immaculate – Scorpius’s hair; the jawline, once pudgy, now tight skin stretched over minimal flesh – Scorpius’s jawline; the cheekbones – Scorpius’s cheekbones; and last of all the eyes, black as night, old Basil Shrivenham had said. Scorpius’s eyes, black as night, and holding Bond immobile.

  The eyes glittered, as though fires lay deep within them; behind the irises a worm seemed to move in the fires. The pupils began to enlarge, as though swallowing him. Bond dragged his own eyes away, thrusting into his head a different image of Scorpius – one he pulled from somewhere way down in the darkness of his own subconscious: Scorpius impaled on a dagger, with his own hand, James Bond’s hand on the haft which was fashioned like a serpent. He held the dagger, and, in the second before plunging it into Scorpius’s throat, he was able to look again, and step forward, close to the man.

  ‘Ah.’ The smile remained on Scorpius’s face, but the eyes had lost their brightness, and it seemed that a twinge of fear showed – there for a tiny moment, then gone. ‘Come, Mr James Bond.’ The voice remained steady, soft, soothing, ‘Let’s go and see what that noise was really about. I think you might be quite impressed.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Is that the way you repay my hospitality? Doubts? Mr Bond, I really think you have much to learn. Come.’ He lifted one hand, fingers splayed – the gesture of a mediaeval prince? Possibly. Then the fingers gave a small beckoning movement. ‘Come. All of you come to the Prayer Hall.’

  So, Bond thought, this is the true evil. Undeniably Scorpius had a power, held by many great public figures, and often unrecognised by them. Scorpius had been cursed with a strong will, combined with an overdeveloped hypnotic strength. This he probably wielded almost as a reflex by now. The power by itself would only be limited, but invaluable, say, for addressing those who wished to believe in him. With a man or woman of sufficient intelligence, Scorpius would be forced to fall back on other methods – the use of hypnotic drugs, and the like. But his will and mental strength combined to make him a dangerous adversary.

  If Scorpius had operated solely on the unsubtle pressures of physical force, or a will to cause panic and fear in those near to him, he would be easier meat. Bond now recognised that the task was greater than he had imagined. He had to pit not only muscle, cunning, and skill against the man, but also mental power.

  For a second, as they
all stood, poised to follow the beckoning man, he saw complete evil, the ultimate enemy; one who could, by word, deed and warped reason, convince other mortals that obscene and horrific deeds were, in every way, works of goodness, charity and right. In Scorpius’s world all morality was turned topsy-turvy. Evil became good. Wrong became right. While that which was good and right became evil and wrong.

  It was plain enough in the simple action of following the man to what he called the Prayer Hall. Bond’s intuition told him the Prayer Hall was a place to which no right-minded person should go. Yet, in spite of this, he followed.

  Through the door, where Scorpius had first appeared as Father Valentine, was a large room, lined with books. A simple desk stood under a window at the far end, but, in spite of the rows of leather-bound spines in the tall bookcases, the whole chamber had about it the feel of austerity. Again, there were no pictures, and no rugs or carpets on the floor.

  ‘Come,’ Scorpius repeated, and they passed through the room via a door set between the bookcases to the right. Down an equally bare corridor to a pair of double doors which made Bond think of the interior entrances to stalls or circle in a theatre or cinema.

  He was not far wrong; the doors led into a vast amphitheatre, a great crescent-shaped room where tier upon tier of seats rose up from a dais below. There were no windows, only dim lighting hidden in the roof, and like a theatre or cinema the rows of seating were divided by three aisles of steps which ran down to the dais – a platform on which rested a plain wooden table.

  There appeared to be about sixty or seventy men and women in the place. Their attention was riveted upon the dais, lit dramatically by two spotlights which accented the inherent bareness of the place. In front of the table was a large, high-backed wooden chair. Two young men, robed like acolytes – their scarlet cassocks providing the only colour to the scene – flanked the chair, facing towards its occupant: Harriett Horner, who, as Scorpius and his party entered the chamber, let out another piercing series of screams.