by John Gardner
Bond could not buy the story. For the first time he detected a note of uncertainty, a concocted tale, embedded in Scorpius’s explanations. It would be folly to challenge the man at this stage. Scorpius had already shown he had great power at his fingertips; he had proved it in the diabolical human-bomb outrages, and the outline of his future plans. Pretend, Bond told himself again. Make him think you are lapping it all up without a second thought.
‘At the time, I was lining up further contracts so that the Meek Ones would spread their word, and terror, throughout the world.’ Scorpius seemed to be speaking to the air, with a note of great regret.
Bond could not let that pass. ‘Contracts that would wreak more havoc, and cause the deaths of many innocent people. Contracts that would line your pockets.’
‘Unhappily, that is now unrealistic.’ Scorpius’s eyes had gone dead, and he spoke very slowly.
‘I would have said, happily it is unrealistic.’ Keep shaking him, Bond thought. Who knows, even with such a devious and cruel mind, Scorpius might just be thrown off balance.
‘What’s unrealistic, darling?’ There was an almost frightened look about Trilby, a terror behind the over made-up face and the outward elegance.
‘Nothing for you to worry about, my dear.’ He patted her hand, which still shook slightly.
‘I only worry for you, angel.’ She looked at him, then away, sharply.
Not only did Bond feel nauseated by the endearments that passed between Scorpius and the girl, but he was also alarmed by the surface quality of the conversation. It reeked of manipulation and a Never-Never Land of unreality. ‘So, you allowed Trilby to act as . . . ?’
‘He told you, I volunteered.’ Trilby answered, a shade too brightly. ‘You must understand, Mr Bond, that I owe my life to Vladi. He brought me into the light; got me right off heroin, when I was a bad case. When I first told him that I loved him he was concerned; he thought it was a case of what the psychiatrists call transference. A patient falling in love with her doctor, as a substitute for the illness. In my case the addiction.’ It was the longest speech Scorpius had allowed her to make, and she reeled it off as though the main points had been learned by heart.
‘Yes, I do know what it means. You’ve had remarkable success with drug addiction, Scorpius. How d’you account for that?’
‘In the same way many clinics manage it. There’s nothing magical about getting people off drugs if they truly want to live.’ He began to become pompous, as though getting onto a hobby horse. ‘Vitamin injections, discipline, abstinence syndrome suppressants – methadone in the case of heroin – and very deep hypnosis to help the most unpleasant side effects.’ He paused, as though expecting Bond to applaud. The silence lasted for twenty seconds or so, before he spoke again.
‘I think that’s where I score – if you’ll excuse the expression. Through my own particular use of very deep hypnosis. In the clinics, people do go through hell coming off. With me, it’s easier. But there are cases even I cannot help – those who have reached the stage of not caring whether they live or die. The death-wish addict. Sometimes they can recover for a time. A large number of my death-task people are like that. But enough, let us eat.’
The map had been electronically returned to its hiding place, and the big framed prints now occupied the space over the zinc bar. Bond had been careful to note exactly where the operating switches were hidden. He was determined to return alone and make a list of the death-task names. Just as he was determined to get out of the Ten Pines Plantation alive, and as soon as possible.
Now, Scorpius pressed a bell at the corner of the bar.
The grey-suited bodyguards acted as waiters. There were six of them in all, and even the stylish cut of their clothes could not hide the tiny bulges which indicated that the whole half dozen were armed.
The only items of genuine taste in the room consisted of a beautiful Caroline dining table, kept in exquisite condition, and with the original chairs. There was space enough to sit twelve people. Tonight they set it for three only; the place settings looked like real Georgian silverware and the glasses were Waterford crystal. ‘Bodyguard Bob’ announced that dinner was served, leaving a large silver bowl in the centre of the table. From this, Trilby served the best of summer soups – gazpacho, ice-cold and with the correct side dishes of croutons, chopped onion, tomato and peppers.
‘I hope you like this, Mr Bond, or may I call you James?’
‘By all means, Trilby. Why not? Soon you’ll be in need of firstname friends.’
She looked up at him, alarmed, almost spilling a ladle of soup. ‘What do you mean?’ The panic was clear in her eyes, and her voice rose onto a higher register. Suddenly she became clumsy in ladling out the thick gazpacho.
‘Nothing, my dear,’ Scorpius soothed. ‘He does not approve of me, or the Meek Ones. So he does not approve of you either. It is of no matter. You cannot be loved by every man, you know.’
The spicy soup was placed before Bond, but he turned to Scorpius. ‘Will you be my taster?’
‘You need a taster for something that comes from the same tureen as our portions?’
Bond reminded him of supping with the devil. Scorpius gave a small shrug, dipped his spoon into Bond’s bowl and drank. ‘That satisfy you?’
‘Just.’
‘I don’t think that’s very nice,’ said Trilby. It was meant to sound cross, but came out too glibly. ‘You’re Vladi’s guest. It’s no way for a guest to behave.’ Her voice remained close to the edge of hysteria.
‘My dear Trilby, if Vladi would stop this bloody terrorist campaign now, and hand over all the Meek Ones, then possibly I would find better manners – particularly if I came to visit you both in jail.’
‘Jail is somewhere neither of us will see,’ Scorpius said very quickly, his eyes turning towards Trilby. At the end of the rapid sentence he laughed, and, somehow, Bond believed him. The man was so warped in his attitude to death and terror – a psychotic who would possibly take his own life, and Trilby’s also, rather than be caught: but only as a final resort.
They made small talk until the main dish arrived, succulent and lean lamb chops, cooked with rosemary and other herbs, served on a huge salver, surrounded with small roast potatoes and beans.
‘There.’ Scorpius smiled. ‘You could well be in one of your English gentlemen’s clubs. I asked for the main course to be very English tonight, especially for you, James Bond. Help yourself. We shall also eat from this same dish, and I shall taste the wine for you, in case that is laced with some deadly poison.’ He gave another laugh, more unpleasant this time, and went to the zinc bar where two bottles of Chablis Grand Cru had been left to breathe. They were from Les Preuses, one of the best of those seven small vineyards that dot the southern-facing slopes from Chablis itself. Scorpius tasted from both bottles, making it an extravagant production number.
In the end, Bond had to admit that it was many years since he had tasted lamb as tender and sweet as this, or drunk such an excellent classic Chablis.
As they ate and drank he continued to press Scorpius regarding Trilby’s return to her home. ‘When I saw her, she appeared to be in a particularly vulnerable and collapsed state.’
‘It was a small risk,’ Scorpius replied. ‘One we were both willing to take. The point was that she knew the meaning of the words I placed in her mind. Trilby has always been a true follower of the Meek Ones. She is bound to the faith, just as she is dedicated to our aims. I travelled to London with her – from Pangbourne – and gave her the final doses of LSD in the car as we approached her father’s house. She had seven, seven, mind you, days of intensive hypnosis.’ He smiled, and there was a wickedness in the smile that would have pleased the Marquis de Sade. Bond could almost feel the shade of the Marquis in the room with them.
Scorpius still smiled as he said, with a certain relish, ‘It was good to pay back her father for some of the indignity he put me through. It would have suited our purpose better if his bank, the truly
terrible Gomme-Keogh, had backed the Avante Carte venture.’
‘So your people were trying to get Trilby out of our clinic when they were surprised. We all imagined they were bent on killing her.’
‘Indeed, yes, of course they were rescuing her. Why would my people attempt to kill her? That whole business was bad luck. Pearlman was there, but the foolish Horner girl started the trouble. Which brings me, Mr Bond, to my previous offer.’
‘Which was?’ Bond asked, as though he had forgotten about Scorpius’s vague promise – that, in return for a small favour, he would hand over what was left of the Meek Ones, once the current campaign was over. Bond had no reason to think Scorpius would ever honour a promise, or indeed demand a small favour. His was a world of exceptionally large favours, littered with broken promises and devious intentions.
Scorpius repeated the words he had used earlier – ‘I ask only one very small favour. In return I’ll give you every name, every known address of every Meek One – including those left here – after this particular campaign is completed.’
Bond smiled, his eyes on the now empty plate in front of him. ‘Oh, let’s not discuss business over such a pleasant meal. I can wait to hear of the favour you ask. Let it rest, Scorpius.’
‘As you wish. The pudding has been left on the bar. Again, we all eat from the same dish.’
‘A peach cobbler,’ Trilby said. ‘I trust you like peach cobbler?’ Her speech was still brittle, nervous, too fast.
‘Simple, delightful fare.’ In fact the dish – peaches skinned and simmered for five minutes in a syrup of sugar and water, sometimes with a bag of rose petals – was an old favourite. As a general rule, Bond eschewed puddings, but this, or a really good Meringue Chantilly, seldom failed to tempt him. ‘Tell me,’ he began, making it sound as though he was starting to adjust to the infernal company, ‘you said I could never escape from this place.’
‘Mr Bond, you must not even think of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Even if I told you it would not matter. There is no way out of Ten Pines Plantation, except with permission from myself.’
‘The glass windows of the guest rooms look out onto beaches and the sea. There are sliding doors with no locking devices. Why couldn’t I simply walk down to the sea and swim away? Have you armed guards on watch, twenty-four hours a day?’
‘The armed guards are for the front of this property.’ Scorpius sounded as though he was trying to humour Bond. ‘There is a great half-circle of trees which swarm, and I use the word advisedly, with guards and dogs. The way to the sea needs no dogs or armed sharpshooters. The way to the sea has very unpleasant natural hazards – to which I have added a few embellishments of my own.’
‘Such as?’
‘The alligators do not come into this area. They don’t really like the sea. But there is a small stretch of reedy, soggy marshland between the rear of the house and the main beach which leads to the sea. We have large warnings posted at the extremities to keep tourists at bay. Even so, I admit there have been unfortunate accidents. Nobody – and I mean nobody – has ever walked from the plantation to the sea and lived to tell the story. You’ve heard of the water moccasin?’
Bond nodded. ‘Usually known as the cottonmouth. Yes.’
‘Then you would agree they are dangerous snakes?’
‘Very, unless you get treatment pretty fast.’
‘Quite so. The water moccasin’s venom is used in medicine, for the treatment of haemorrhagic conditions, and the like. It destroys red blood cells; coagulates the blood. One bite is exceptionally serious if not treated quickly. Several bites are certain death.’
‘Several?’
Scorpius nodded. ‘The marshes, near our beaches – those that back upon Ten Pines – are sealed off with ten-foot metal plates at the extremities. You see, we have a colony of water moccasins in the marsh. They have been there for years and the locals know all about them.’
‘Don’t they get out to sea?’
‘No, they’re generally nocturnal creatures, and don’t thrive in the sea. But, in the marshes it’s a different story. When you consider that the female produces around fifteen young every two years, you will understand why we have no need for armed guards.’
Trilby shuddered, and Scorpius put out a hand to soothe her. ‘My young wife is especially nervous of them. We had an incident on her first visit here. The man, who did not matter to us, was bitten forty times. So, you understand, Mr Bond. Water moccasins bear a government health warning – that is not to mention the rattlers, black widows, scorpions and similar dangerous life that abounds here.’ He gave a smile which could only be described as terrible. ‘The pelicans, cormorants and sandpipers are nice to watch, and the average tourist rarely comes within spitting distance of the dangerous creatures. The hotels here take many precautions, though golfers sometimes meet alligators. Never run straight away from those things. But you know that.’
‘I know they can run fast if they’re roused, but only in straight lines. If you zig-zag you should be safe.’
‘You’ve enjoyed the meal?’ Trilby asked, as though she wanted to change the subject.
Bond said, yes, very much. He turned down the coffee and liqueurs.
‘So, I’ve warned you,’ Scorpius continued, ‘and, lest you think you’re immortal, know that I have also added some refinements between the house and the sea. So put any thought of beach parties out of your head. It’s not worth it.’
No, Bond thought, but perhaps, because of its danger, there was a way to the sea and safety. Possibly he had it back in the guest room, in Q’ute’s handy emergency pack, hidden within the overnight briefcase.
‘The meal is over,’ Scorpius said, pointedly.
‘So?’
‘So, shouldn’t we discuss my offer?’
‘I don’t really know.’ In the back of his mind, Bond had gone through the moral implications of doing any kind of deal with this mad and dreadful, warped impersonation of a man – true man he could never call him. Scorpius was a representative of all the double standards, double, even triple thought, bigotry, hatred, self-serving, and plain evil which lies within the worst part of man. To him, Scorpius was the devil’s emissary on earth, the bringer of corruption, dispenser of death. He would have made an admirable member of the Spanish Inquisition; a leader of the unthinkable Children’s Crusade; a Commissar of Stalin’s death camps; a deceiver and pervert in the mould of Lavrenti Beria, that most monstrous leader of the Soviet secret police; or, perhaps best of all, the SS Commandant of a Nazi camp, revelling in the gassing and cremation of millions of Jews. To Bond, Scorpius was all that had ever been cruel, uncaring, revolting and unjust through history, from Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun, to Himmler and Klaus Barbie.
‘Come,’ Scorpius nudged him, ‘The favour has its compensations. With my true identity revealed, I realise the Meek Ones must go. Let me perform one act that might seem worthy to you, by delivering their future into your hands. Why not? At least hear me out?’
It just did not ring true. This was the dark angel, Bond thought, the fallen angel, Satan himself speaking, pouring honey into his ear – honey laced with poison. The temptation was too great. Maybe he could stop the horror before it went any further. But, if that proved impossible, perhaps this walking demon might just keep the one promise. No, he told himself, that is what Scorpius would have him believe. Do it again – pretend. Act. It was the only way.
‘Alright. Tell me. What is this favour?’
‘I won’t bore you with a long, tortuous story, but this concerns the Horner girl.’
Bond had not believed Harriett when she had clung to him and said that, if he agreed to marry her, Scorpius would allow them to live in peace within the Society of the Meek Ones. Now, he thought that he knew what was to come.
‘It goes back a long way,’ Scorpius continued, his voice like rough sandpaper, low, harsh and strangely uncertain. ‘Enough to say that I was once indebted to Harriett Horner’s fat
her. Coincidence is an impossible thing.’ He sounded as though his thoughts were far away. ‘It might be difficult for you to believe, but believe it you must. The Horner girl is my godchild. I owe her father my freedom and life. Once, when she was a tiny child he asked me to make sure she was well cared for and looked after. Coincidence placed us in an odd juxtaposition. How could I ever know that she would grow to be an IRS agent? That the United States IRS are out to get me is no secret. But they can never win, and I have Harriett, my godchild, here as my prisoner. What am I to do with her? Well, I have you here, also, Mr Bond. My senses say I should have you shot, out of hand, for you are a very dangerous man. However, I can keep you confined here for as long as I like.
‘When I leave, which will have to be soon, I would like to leave with one tiny corner of my conscience clear. In return for the information I shall give you – once the present series of tasks are completed – I ask you, James Bond, to marry Harriett Horner.’
It was unthinkable, but Bond needed time. ‘Does Harriett know all this?’
‘All what?’ Scorpius shrugged, spreading his hands.
‘About her being your godchild? About her father and you?’
‘No! No, and she must never be told.’ A shade too fast, and tinged with anxiety. A raw nerve perhaps? Certainly it was out of character for Scorpius.
‘Why not?’
Scorpius hesitated. ‘Because of how I must appear to the world.’
‘When would you want the ceremony to take place?’ Bond asked.
‘As soon as possible. I can preside over the ceremony, naturally.’
