by John Gardner
‘I’ve planned only a simple meal for us.’ Scorpius smiled, and Bond thought he could detect the leer of one of the Borgias. ‘Very simple. Especially for you, Mr Bond. Airline food is not substantial, but I always find myself unable to eat a great deal for the first twenty-four hours after flying the Atlantic.’
Bond held up a hand. ‘Just one thing, er . . . Father Valentine . . .’
‘Yes, my son?’
Off guard for a second, Bond looked up, into the full power of the man’s eyes. From a long way off he heard Scorpius repeat, ‘Yes, my son?’ Then he tore his own eyes away, concentrating on a Scorpius whose body was being riddled with bullets.
‘When you sup with the devil, they say you should use a long spoon. I’m sorry if I seem to abuse what you call your hospitality, but I shall require you to taste every course set in front of me.’
Scorpius laughed. ‘I can do better than that. My wife will taste it for you. I shall see to it. You have no need to fear me, Mr Bond.’
‘I don’t fear you.’
‘Funny, I had the impression you did. Why else would you have need of a food taster at my table?’
‘Because you are an expert in the use of certain kinds of drug; an expert in manipulating people, so that they believe the religious hodgepodge you throw at them. You are – let’s cut the formalities – you are expert in sending young and impressionable people to their deaths, along with innocent victims; and you do it for money, right, Vladimir Scorpius?’
There was silence for a second, no more. ‘So.’ Scorpius did not sound in any way shaken. His voice did not waver. ‘So. I did not believe it. I was told, but thought it an exaggeration. I should have known my informant wouldn’t feed me with dreams. I should have realised that someone would identify me sooner or later in spite of the careful precautions.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Who else knows, Mr Bond? Who knows, apart from you, your Chief of Service, MI5, and the Special Branch? Do they know, here, in America?’
‘By now.’ Bond looked him full in the eyes this time, and as he spoke kept a supremely vivid fantasy in the front of his mind. ‘By now, a very large number of people know. I would guess the American Service is familiar with your dossier as well – unless you have some control over that . . .’
‘Maybe I have. We shall see. Well, it is good that I shall be able to retire quite happily when this job is done.’
‘I wouldn’t be so certain of that. The people I’m speaking about know exactly what you are doing, and how you’re doing it.’
Scorpius spread his hands. ‘Yet they cannot stop it. There is no way – except by draconian security, the banning of all public meetings, the closing of cinemas, opera houses, concert halls, theatres and restaurants. Where my dear Meek Ones go, there can never be complete safety.’
‘Your Meek Ones will soon be brought to book.’
‘How? Tell me how. There is no way, Bond. They are above law and order; they can walk anywhere undetected. And they can operate without me. That is the beauty. Only married couples, who have produced at least one child, can undertake the death-tasks. In turn, when the child is old enough, he or she will marry, and the process regenerate itself. I can go, disappear for ever – once the present operation is complete. The faithful will mourn, but the work will go on.’ He stopped for a short breath. ‘You see, Mr Bond, these young people, the Society of Meek Ones, cannot give up, even if I die or disappear, tomorrow. The current campaign will be over in a very few days, and I cannot stop it now. Once it’s running, those chosen for death-tasks will perform them. I have no more contact with them. They are like well-programmed robots. They have the plastique. They have their orders. They will die and take the leaders of Britain, together with the potential leaders of Britain, and the leader of . . .’ He smiled. ‘No, I’ll let you find out for yourself. But they will do it, and, if the game’s up for me, I have plenty on which to fall back. A fortune from this job alone, and a myriad hiding places.
‘The Meek Ones will go on, simply because they believe. They really do believe. Nobody will have to pay for their services any more, for they’ll do it for their faith. Ha!’ He finished with a short laugh. ‘To think that a brilliant idea like that will never be used again to feather a nest.’ His voice dropped to almost a whisper, which was totally commanding.
‘You can be as cold-blooded as that?’ Bond could hardly credit that one human being was capable of such depravity. ‘A true holy war, I can understand. But a holy war based on lies and disbelief . . .’
‘Please don’t be a hypocrite, Bond. All holy wars have been fought for the motive of profit. That’s how I came up with my own idea. For years I had been getting rich on holy wars. Then I thought, why do I not get richer? Why don’t I provide the manpower as well as the weapons. Where’s the wrong in that? In a way I am saving lives, by sacrificing young, emotional, ingenuous people who wish to die for an ideal.’
Bond was so repulsed by this last outburst that he stepped back towards the door.
‘Don’t leave, Mr Bond. Don’t even think of it. Because I can furnish you with the means to stop the Meek Ones if I so desire.’
Bond shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t though, Scorpius. You wouldn’t give up. I thought, until now, that I had already met the most evil people alive in the world today. And I imagined I knew of all those before this, but you leave me in no doubt that I was wrong. You are evil personified. A death-bringer, a dreamer of nightmares. The worst since . . .’
‘Hitler? Stalin? Oh, I think not. If, once this business is concluded, I gave you a full list of the faithful, together with their locations, what would you say? I might do that you know. Or can’t you believe me?’
‘I believe you’d do it for a price, and I haven’t enough to pay you.’
‘You might have. No man knows what he has to give. My friend, I have walked the wicked paths of this earth for many more years than you. I might give you details for the future, if you do something in return.’ His eyes were clear of menace now. It was as though he really had an offer to make, though Bond was in no doubt that the man’s words were cheap, worthless, and any promises made would be counterfeit.
‘Why do you think I had John Pearlman bring you here?’ Scorpius asked, in almost a whisper. The low, controlled voice became even more sinister once you were in his company for any length of time.
‘I don’t know. Why me in the first place? Why was I involved? Why me?’
‘There is a simple answer. Why not? It is the answer that Fate gives to all who ask that question, when disaster, death, tragedy, hardship overtakes them. “Why me? Why me? Why me?” ’ He beat his breast with a clenched fist at each question. ‘And Fate answers these fools – “Why not?” In your case, Mr Bond, it was because you were there. You happened to be in the right place at the right time. I had an informer who could be put close to you. You were not the only one I could have used, but, as I’m sure you’ve already deduced, you were set up, just so that my particular informer could give me better intelligence. If that person was near to you, I would be able to stay one jump ahead. And I did, even though I didn’t believe your people had discovered my true identity. So, Mr Bond, you are in the right place, at the right time, now.’
‘How so?’
‘I ask only a very small favour. In return I’ll give you every name, every known address of every Meek One – including those left here.’
‘But only after the terrible damage is done.’ Pretend; act as though you really believe him, Bond told himself. Yes, there probably was ‘a small favour’, but one that would suit Scorpius and nobody else.
‘Naturally, after this particular campaign is over, yes.’
‘So what’s the favour?’ As he asked, Bond knew that it could only be some form of death warrant for himself.
‘In a moment. Let me provide some collateral.’ He moved towards the longest wall in the room. The zinc bar stood in front of it, while two fairly awful reproduction pictures, mounted together in a large frame,
hung above it. Scorpius felt under the bar and, a second later, the pictures slid upwards and a large-scale map of England seemed to float down to replace them. Scorpius pulled out a drawer under the bar and flicked a switch. A winking light came on, and Bond could see it was at the true position of Glastonbury.
‘You see?’ Scorpius appeared to have quite abandoned the power he could wield from his personality and those devastating eyes. ‘I can afford to let you see this. You will be here until it is all complete, make no mistake about that. There is no escape from the Ten Pines Plantation. Only death waits for you outside these walls – quite unpleasant some of the deaths that squirm, or scurry out there. So, this I can afford. First, the nice little town of Glastonbury – but you know what happened there. And Chichester.’ Another light winked from the map. ‘You know that also. I wonder if you know what occurred only a few hours ago near Newcastle-upon-Tyne?’ The pin of light began to pulse as he carefully named the trade union leader and the Labour candidate. ‘Where else? What else will happen? What else is there that I cannot stop happening? Let us see.’ His hand touched something else on the panel jutting from the zinc bar. Manchester lit up, and he named a former Cabinet Minister from the Government that had ‘gone to the country’. ‘That is tomorrow.’ He sounded like someone who planned a holiday, not a man passing sentence of death upon several innocent people in order to dispose of one. Another button – Birmingham, a Member of Parliament who had a reputation as a firebrand; Oxford – two candidates, Labour and Conservative. ‘Two in a day; should hit the headlines.’
It went on and on. The campaign seemed without pattern, candidates from all parties: former Ministers; two ex-Chief Whips; the Lord Chancellor. London, Ealing, Edinburgh, Glasgow, London again – Kensington, not far from where Bond had hidden the previous night – Cambridge, Canterbury, Leeds, York. Practically every major town in England, Scotland and Wales, plus Belfast. The dates were there, positive. The targets had been selected. Next to each winking light, Bond could see the names of the victims, etched in scarlet, and below them, another name – too small to read from this distance, but almost certainly the human death-bringer.
‘What if they change days and times?’ he asked, his stomach turning with horror at the carnage.
‘They have.’ Scorpius smiled directly at Bond. The eyes began to dig into 007’s mind again. Bond had dropped his guard, so he pulled his head to one side and replaced his thoughts with those of Scorpius as a victim of one of his own terrible human bombs. ‘They have changed times and venues. I am in possession of the whole new list.’
‘How d’you know it’s correct – your list?’ The answer did not really matter. The man was simply putting on a terrible display of power. He was like a child showing off – a mad, bad, death-master child.
‘I know it is correct,’ Scorpius gave a smile that was more wicked and evil for its seeming openness, ‘because I trust the one who’s informing me.’
‘You didn’t trust the intelligence about yourself.’
‘No! And obviously I’m very foolish. It’s one of the first rules, isn’t it? You as an operative with many years’ experience should know. One of the first rules is do not rule out intelligence that does not fit what you want to believe. Do not only believe that which you want to believe. True?’
‘True.’ Bond nodded. ‘I notice, though, that one obvious victim is missing.’
‘Oh? Who could that be?’
‘The Prime Minister. Unless you have some reason for keeping the PM alive.’
Scorpius laughed, a low, deep chuckle. ‘Oh, no, James Bond. The Prime Minister is not forgotten. Certainly not. But I have a very special fate for the Prime Minister that does not show on this map.’
Bond’s mind was working hard, probing, taking in every target, every place, noting them in his memory, holding them there in the hope that he might get out and give some kind of warning. ‘You said you could not stop the running of the operation.’
‘Correct.’
‘Yet you are able to let those who have death-tasks know that dates and times have been changed. How?’
‘That is relatively easy. I know where they are. I can contact them. I can change time and location. The one thing I cannot alter is their individual targets.’ He explained how the men and women were drawn into the net of the Meek Ones. How they were chosen and manipulated so that there was no fear of death, for in their deaths they would attain paradise. ‘All that is relatively easy.’ He sounded like some dusty university don lecturing on a piece of dull history. ‘However, the final motivation, the method used for defining the target must be exact. It must also be buried so deeply into the subconscious of my human missiles, that they consciously forget it. If, by chance, a weak link is arrested, hours of interrogation will not reveal the target. Interrogators might well be able to guess in some cases, but not with certainty.’
‘And you cannot, or will not put an end to this . . . this . . . battlefield?’
‘Cannot, and will not. No, I cannot do it except by handing over all those times, places and names to you, or someone like you, and then adding the names of those who will do the final job.’
‘And if the target does not show himself – or herself – what then?’
‘The missile I have sent will search out that target. No other. Every specific target is already dead, because there is one person out there and running with one mission in life – to dispose of a target. A specific target. Leave it a week, a month, a year even. Eventually, without my help, the one with the death-task will find the target, and – boom!’ he quietly snapped his fingers, making the very idea even more horrific.
In his head, James Bond gathered together the whole collection of information so far. His memory would hold it – times, places, and most especially targets. His concentration was such that, for a second, he did not realise Scorpius was still speaking. ‘There!’ He pointed to the twelfth target on the map – the whole of which now winked like a Christmas tree. ‘When we get there, I think something quite different will blow up. Another fly in the ointment.’
‘What sort of fly?’
‘Oh, a little financial problem.’
‘If you mean Avante Carte and the supposed slush fund built up in Lord Shrivenham’s account . . . ?’ Bond stopped in mid-sentence, for the door had opened and a third person came gently into the room.
‘Shrivenham? Ah-ha! There is something much better than that in store. Lord Shrivenham was a neat little – what do those women detective writers call it? A little red herring. Avante Carte, of which you have seen two, has a much more subtle financial bomb built into it. We can forget about dear old Basil Shrivenham, can’t we, my darling?’ He was looking past Bond to the door. ‘You have, I think, met my wife, Mr Bond. If not, meet Mrs Scorpius now.’
‘Yes, we have met, under most amusing circumstances. And Vladi is right, we can forget about poor old Daddy,’ said Trilby Shrivenham, looking in perfect health. ‘Now, shall we have dinner? I think Vladi has a proposition to put to you.’
19
WHY NOT TONIGHT?
‘So, it was all play-acting in London – the coma, the riddles, “the blood of the fathers will fall upon the sons”, all that stuff, and the demonic voice?’ Bond looked first at Vladimir Scorpius, and then at the Hon. Trilby Shrivenham, revealed now as his self-styled wife.
‘Not exactly.’ Trilby stretched out a hand and squeezed Scorpius’s arm. ‘I’m not that good at acting.’
Bond noticed her hand shook slightly as she touched her husband. If indeed he was her husband.
Trilby, as he had guessed when seeing her unconscious at home – and again at the Puttenham Clinic with Molony – was a tall, slender girl of proportions that would do credit to any model featured in the pages of glossy magazines. She wore a dramatic dress in equally dramatic red silk. If put to it, he would have guessed that it was probably by Azzedine Alaïa. Her long hair had been cut recently, and restyled, but there was one off-key note. She had b
een too liberal and heavy-handed with the make-up.
Somehow it was all wrong. Trilby Shrivenham’s face – with its high cheekbones, well-proportioned mouth and deep hazel eyes – was not in need of what appeared to be almost a full stage make-up. Also, it would take an insensitive dolt not to notice that she was strung out with tension. Every time she spoke, Trilby either touched, or looked at Scorpius, as though seeking reassurance.
‘It really wasn’t play-acting, was it, dear heart?’ Her fingers bit into Scorpius’s arm, so that he tore it away from her, brushing her hand off him as though it was an irritating insect.
‘She was a volunteer.’ Scorpius’s voice maintained the cold, calm, frighteningly low pitch, but he rendered the line very quickly. With Trilby’s sudden appearance, Bond became even more alert than before. Scorpius continued to talk: ‘We needed some kind of back-up to poor little Emma Dupré – she was not supposed to die, you know. That was a terrible shock to all of us.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ll bet it was. You’re most sensitive where death is concerned, aren’t you?’
Scorpius ignored Bond’s bitter remark. ‘Yes, we are all sensitive. You should believe that, Mr Bond. Emma really thought we’d allowed her to escape. She had some scruples about what we were doing, I admit. But I thought I might turn this to our advantage – that I could use her in various ways. You see, I made certain that, when she left, Emma carried clues – particularly your telephone number. When I first heard, through our contact, that she had been drowned I became alarmed. It was possible the clues she had been given had gone with her.’
‘My telephone number?’
‘That, and what you call the riddle, about the blood of the fathers falling upon the sons. I had implanted that in poor Emma’s subconscious. At that time, Mr Bond, it was my desire to put the British authorities on the alert. Once the first death-task was done, I hoped they would realise that they were up against an unbeatable force. It was meant to cause panic, possibly even more – a huge security clamp-down that would render the General Election hopeless, for instance. In any case, it is bound to do that eventually.’ He raised a hand, the same princely gesture Bond had noticed after first arriving – the hand lifted imperiously, index finger jutting upwards, while the other fingers remained curled, the whole hand moving at a flick of the wrist.
