by John Gardner
She was anchored to the chair by restraining straps of leather around her arms, legs and waist, and, as she screamed, so she struggled against the straps like someone undergoing terrible torture, trapped and unable to escape.
Bond muttered an oath and Scorpius turned on him. ‘Have care, Bond. You will see things now that even you might not believe possible. Ms Horner is only going through what most neophytes face when they come here to join this holy society.’
‘Unholy society!’ Bond spat back. ‘She did not come here of her own accord.’
‘No? And what of you, James Bond? I suppose you did not make the journey to visit us of your own will?’
Bond avoided the man’s eyes. ‘I came to see you, talk to you and stop the terror you’re hell-bent on inflicting.’
‘Really? How interesting. We shall see why you’ve really come to the Meek Ones.’ He made another gesture, and one of the young men – who were undoubtedly his bodyguards – came forward holding a long white cassock – similar to the soutane worn by the Pope himself. Once he had completed buttoning the garment, Scorpius pulled a wide silk sash into place around his waist, took a white skull-cap from one of the other bodyguards, and began to make his way down the centre aisle of steps leading to the platform below.
A low murmur came from the assembly as he made his progress. They all knelt in front of their seats and the murmur assumed the proportions of a chant – ‘Our Father, Valentine. Greetings from the beginning to the end. Our Father, Valentine. Greetings, greetings, greetings. From the beginning to the end we praise our Father, Valentine, giver of paradise, power of good, creator of the new world without end,’ and so on, and so on, and so on, until Scorpius reached the dais.
The two acolytes were now kneeling, their faces radiant with some inner ecstasy they appeared to share from the very presence of Scorpius. It sickened Bond even to watch this profane and horribly real manifestation of iniquity.
But Harriett had ceased to scream, and he saw that Scorpius had placed his hands on her head. He raised his own head and began to speak to the girl—
‘You have looked into the dark pit, sister?’ Scorpius asked.
‘I have looked into the dark pit.’ Harriett’s voice was strong, but unnatural. This, Bond thought, was no simple manifestation of hypnosis. Certainly Scorpius was responsible, but his own, extraordinary power alone had not rendered Harriett into this speaking clock of a puppet she appeared to have become. A kind of revolting litany continued between the two.
‘You looked into the dark pit which is the world as we now know it, sister. What did you see?’
‘Horrors of corruption. Men, women and children debased by their own folly and beliefs in material wealth.’
‘Was it terrifying to see these people destroying themselves, living in a false and disgusting world which they fondly imagine to be paradise?’
‘I saw those I knew, labouring under these terrible beliefs. They cannot be forgiven. They frighten and terrify me.’
‘So much so that you screamed in anguish for them?’
‘The screams are my prayers that they will see the truth.’
‘Will they see the truth and embrace it?’
‘Not until a new order is brought by fire and death. Only then will they understand.’ The voice, though that of a robot, became agitated, rising unnaturally.
‘Peace, sister Harriett. Be at peace. You have seen truth. You will see, and understand more. But now, be at peace.’ He turned to face the entire assembly. ‘I have news, my brothers and sisters. Our brother whose death-name is Philip has earned eternal peace and the reward of paradise. He has destroyed two important men who walked in the darkness of their own tainted beliefs. He has brought paradise closer to us. This act was done in England only an hour or so ago. Yet it has brought us many years nearer to our own paradise when all men will walk equal on this earth, when all the earth’s bounty will be equally shared, when we shall all find peace of mind and breathe pure air without threat of darkness. Praise be to Philip, our brother and a Meek One who has already found this paradise. Greetings, Philip, from the beginning to the end.’
Like a great rising moan the assembly joined in, chanting, ‘Greetings, Philip, from the beginning to the end,’ and as a hush fell over the chamber, there was the lone, drugged voice of Harriett, rising and falling, out of control, crying out her greetings to this unknown Philip, from the beginning to the end.
Scorpius said something quietly to one of the acolytes and they moved to either side of the chair. Harriett appeared to have slumped forward, collapsed against the straps, which the young men in red cassocks unbuckled, helping the girl to her feet and guiding her behind the table. Scorpius turned to the assembly again, raising his right hand, the index and middle fingers extended in an obscene imitation of the Papal blessing.
‘I commend you all to whatever pleasures your bodies and souls have need of this night,’ he intoned. ‘Soon there will be news of other victories, and the final work will be started. We expect many new believers to come to this place and join our blessed society. There will be more weddings and many births to set free those of you who cannot yet go forth and give yourselves to paradise. Have patience, your hour will come. Go forth in peace.’
From hidden loudspeakers came the distant sound of music, throbbing, ethereal, electronic music of the kind these young people would find most appealing, yet there was also an hypnotic quality about it.
As the music rose, so a thin mist began to curl from vents in the platform. A dry ice machine, Bond thought. Friend Scorpius has some very good FX people working for him. As he thought it, Scorpius appeared to be enveloped by the mist. The illusion was of a man transported, slowly melting before the eyes of all who watched.
The assembly began to file out. Most were in their early twenties, one or two older – maybe thirty or more – but they took little notice of the three bodyguards, Pearlman and Bond, who suddenly spotted a recognisable face in the crowd. The face in the photograph he had seen in the early hours of that morning, in England. The face of Ruth Pearlman.
Her eyes stared straight ahead, yet, as she approached the group, her pace slowed, as though she had been sleepwalking and was at the moment of waking. Her eyes moved and she looked straight at her father.
She stood stock still, then her freckled face glowed into a delighted smile of recognition. ‘Daddy!’ She ran towards Pearlman, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, what a lovely surprise. Our Father, Valentine, told me only yesterday that he might have a wonderful gift for me before I went . . .’ She stopped, glancing at the other faces, knowing she was on the verge of saying something forbidden. ‘Oh, but how lovely.’ She hugged her father again and again, until one of the bodyguards gently eased her away.
‘It has been arranged that you will have time enough with your parent.’ The smooth young thug took her by the shoulders. ‘For now, sister, you must go to your quarters. You must meditate, tend to your child. Your hour of glory will come soon enough.’
‘What hour . . . ?’ Pearlman began, then changed his mind, glancing towards Bond who saw, in the other man’s eyes, a plea for help.
As Ruth was led away, so the bodyguard called Bob came up behind Bond. ‘Father Valentine hopes you will do him the honour of dining with him, in his private suite, this evening. What luggage you have has been taken to the guest suite. One of my men will show you the way. I shall call for you in, shall we say, half an hour. Give you a chance to freshen up and have a word with your fellow guest.’
‘Fellow guest?’ Bond queried, but Bob had already signalled to one of the other young giants, whom he referred to as Jack.
Jack placed a hand firmly on Bond’s forearm. ‘This way, Mr Bond. I wouldn’t like you to be late for dinner with Father Valentine.’ He started to guide his charge from the amphitheatre, but Bond shook himself free.
‘Get your hands off me!’
‘Gently, Mr Bond, we don’t want to cause a scene in this holy place, d
o we?’
‘Just keep your hands to yourself then.’
Jack gave a little mocking bow, and gestured for Bond to go ahead of them. ‘I’ll tell you when to go left and right, and upstairs. Carry on, Mr Bond.’ They began to make a long journey, up stairs and down corridors, with Bond trying to keep a check on the direction they were going. They did not pass through Scorpius’s study again, nor go near to the main hall and it took just around eight minutes for them to reach an area which, Bond deduced, was on the ground level, towards the rear of the building.
They passed though a fire door, and suddenly the austere bareness, which seemed to be the hallmark of the interior decor, gave way to unusual magnificence – a long and ornate corridor, lit with intricate, garishly coloured chandeliers which looked Mexican in origin. There was a heavy pile carpet underfoot, and, though the corridor must have stretched for a good forty yards, there were only four doors – two in the left-hand wall, and two to the right – each decorated with false columns and a gilded carved cornice incorporating love knots and cherubs. It all seemed a little much, and quite out of place, Bond thought, then he realised that the decor was as vulgar and repulsive as the real Scorpius. He should not be surprised by anything.
Jack stopped at the second door, tapped on it and opened up. ‘The sitting room, sir. There are bedrooms to the left and right. Bathrooms and dressing rooms in the interconnecting passages. I think you’ll find everything in order, but should we have forgotten anything, please use the telephone.’ He gave a little sneer. ‘It’s only internal, I’m afraid. You will not be able to get an outside line. Oh, I’m afraid your razor had to be removed. Delicate weapon, a razor. You’ll find a simple electric shaver in the bathroom. Bob will be here for you in twenty minutes or so. Enjoy yourself.’ With another of his mock bows, Jack withdrew and, as the door closed, Bond heard the ominous thump of security locks sliding into place. He had already noticed a small, numeric key pad recessed into the pillar outside. Never mind, he thought, if they haven’t discovered the secrets of my luggage, an electronic lock should not cause much of a problem.
He turned to look at the room, ornate and overdone, with reproduction Louis XV furnishings, modern pictures, and fabrics of loud – almost hysterical – colours. The curtains were not yet pulled for the night and they disclosed that the entire length of one wall was a huge window through which the exterior floodlighting revealed a stretch of sand beyond which marshy land, replete with reeds, ran to another rich golden beach and the pounding sea.
He explored the passage running off to the left of this main room with a hideously modern bathroom in two shades of green on the left, and a dressing room which looked more like a big department store fitting room, to the right. The door ahead took him into a bedroom of equal size and bad taste as the sitting room. The bed was huge – a reproduction four-poster at the foot of which stood his briefcase. The right-hand wall, like the one in the sitting room, was another giant window.
It could be the bedroom of an hotel with more investment than taste, but, Bond thought, this could be used as a lever. It was quite possible that Scorpius, the old arms dealer, had developed this ornate and terrible style as he became the wealthy recluse. They had never managed to sneak any pictures of Vladem I – the yacht. It was most probably very similar to this. Vladimir Scorpius, the flim-flam holy man, the evil designing spirit behind his rent-a-terrorist business, preying on the emotional gullibility of the young, had an Achilles’ heel – vulgarity and pretensions. Well, Vladimir, Bond thought, I can exploit this in ways you will never have dreamed of, because you probably believe all this – your outward show of power.
He stepped towards his briefcase, hesitating for a moment before lifting it on to the bed. Take care, he thought. With a set-up like this, Scorpius would almost certainly have his guest rooms wired for son et lumière. He placed the briefcase on the bed. The locks had been tampered with, the combinations found – it was easy enough even with a sophisticated system – but he could tell by the weight, and feel of the case, that the secret compartment had remained untouched. Certainly no X-ray machine would show it; nor would measurements. Q’ute had used exceptionally clever methods in the installation.
Noting the razor and spare blades were the only things to have been removed, he took out a clean shirt, socks and underwear, then closed and locked the case again, leaving it on the bed, as though it was unimportant. Later there would be a way of getting to the weapons and other devices he might need.
Stripping off his clothes, Bond showered quickly, rubbed himself down with one of the big rough towels which were piled neatly in a chrome container above the bath, then, naked, went through into the bedroom. He had just tossed the towel back into the bathroom when there was a little amused cough from the bedroom door. He looked up. Harriett Horner stood there in a towelling robe, her face pale and stress marks showing around the eyes, but her mouth in an amused smile at finding Bond naked.
‘They told me you had arrived, James. Thank God you’ve come. Oh, thank God!’ She ran to him, unabashed by his nakedness, twisting her arms around his neck, kissing his face, then putting her lips close to his ear and whispering, ‘They’re wired for sound, but no pictures as far as I can see.’ Loudly again. ‘I really couldn’t believe it when our Father, Valentine, told me about you.’
Her lips close to his ear again, and another fast whisper. ‘It’s been grim. He’s using drugs and powerful hypnotism on me. Trying to make me believe, and become a Meek One. He’s getting through, but I’ve been able to remember it all.’
Loudly again, ‘Is it tonight he’s going to ask you?’
‘Ask me what?’ Bond watched as she gave him a wicked little wink.
‘Oh, James.’ She kissed him again, as though she meant it. Not an unpleasant experience. Again her lips came close to his ear for the whispering routine, ‘Prepare yourself, this is going to come as a shock.’
‘Ask me what?’ Bond repeated.
‘If you’ll marry me.’ She was excited, but did not smile. ‘He says that if you’ll agree to marry me, and live here under the Meek Ones’ discipline, he’ll do us no harm. Please, James. Please say yes.’
‘To save our lives, of course. But I can’t see the sinister Scorpius letting any of us off the leash that easily.’ He looked at Harriett, and her eyes seemed already dead. Then came the soft tapping on the main sitting-room door. It would be Bob to take Bond to Scorpius.
‘So you’ll marry me, James?’ Harry Horner pressed close to him.
Well, he thought, it would not be a fate worse than death, that was for sure. Though the threat of death could not be far away. A smile flicked across his mouth – a gesture of comfort. ‘I’ll think about it, Harry. I’ll give it some really serious thought.’
18
MEET MRS SCORPIUS
‘How nice of you to join me for dinner, Mr Bond.’ Even Scorpius’s voice seemed to take on sinister undertones – a voice of honey and milk, mixed with strychnine. He was now dressed casually, yet managed to give the impression of being formal – dark slacks and a white silk shirt, open at the neck. Under the shirt, Bond could see the outline of a medallion – gold, naturally – hanging from a heavy chain around his neck. On his left wrist there was the famed Scorpius Chronometer with its twelve diamonds for the normal display and tiny windows for the digital functions.
‘Did I have any alternative but to dine with you?’ As he looked him in the eye, Bond consciously summoned a vivid picture into his head – this time Scorpius was at his mercy, strapped to a table. Bond held a huge branding iron just above the flesh of his chest. If he brought images such as this to file in and out of his mind, he had little to fear from the man. It was when you allowed your eyes to meet his that you became vulnerable.
He sensed Scorpius wince inwardly. ‘You are a very clever man, Mr Bond.’ It was as near as he would allow himself to reveal weakness. ‘I was warned of that, but I imagined you were merely a strong physical man, used to violence, and
an able fighting opponent. I had no idea you had willpower as well. Nor that you were intelligent. Someone once called you a blunt instrument. I find you are more than a bludgeon.’
When ‘Bodyguard Bob’ arrived in the guest quarters, Harriett had quickly disentangled herself, and with great poise walked to the door, asking him to wait. ‘Mr Bond will be with you momentarily,’ she said, lapsing into the incorrect American use of the final word. Bond was dressed in minutes, and she whispered goodnight, kissing him lightly on the cheek, and telling him to ‘Watch out for the food. That’s how they started on me.’
He was taken along the corridors again, through to Scorpius’s bare, austere study, where Bob went straight to the fitted bookcase nearest the window, and pulled out a book on the third shelf. There was a click, and that part of the bookcase swung open to reveal a door. Bond was quick to notice that the spine of the false book showed it to be a fat imitation copy of Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Somewhere within Vladimir Scorpius there was a spark of humour.
He did not know what to expect, but the dining room into which he was shown – to be greeted by Scorpius – was a disaster area of styles. Here, it became obvious that the master of this strange house had been thoroughly influenced by a number of restaurants, favourite eating places of his past life. Bond imagined that he detected some panelling copied from the Connaught in London, a zinc bar from Fouquet’s in Paris, and at least two reproductions of original book-jacket artwork he had seen in the vulgar decor of Langan’s Brasserie. The man appeared obsessed by reproductions. An odd attitude from one who could have had the originals twice over.
