Raymond Benson - High Time To Kill

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t want to give me some, would you?” Marquis, pleaded, but with dignity. “For old time’s sake?”

“Where’s the pacemaker?” Bond asked coldly.

Marquis coughed and choked. The spasm lasted for nearly a minute. Finally, the officer caught his breath and said, “See what happens when I try to laugh?”

“It’s an honest offer, Roland,” Bond said. “Oxygen for the pacemaker.”

“You bastard.”

There was silence. The storm was getting worse. The wind was screaming, and Bond could feel the subzero temperatures penetrating his parka. They had to get out of there.

“Come on, Roland, I haven’t got all day.”

Roland reached into a pocket. Bond caught his hand. “It’s all right, Bond,” Marquis said. “There’s no gun there.”

Marquis brought out the gold object and held it in his palm. Bond took it, verified that it was indeed Lee’s pacemaker, and put it in a pouch. He then removed the emergency breather and placed the mouthpiece to Marquis’s lips. Marquis choked on the air but was soon breathing steadily.

“How much was the Union paying you?” Bond asked.

Marquis tried to laugh but coughed again. He said, “I’m not Union, Bond. I never was. It was Steven Harding, not me.” He began to tell the story slowly, between breaths. “The Union got to him and paid him something to steal Skin 17. . . . He came to me and offered me an insulting fifteen thousand pounds to help him. . . . I, of course, would remain a silent partner because of my high profile in the RAF, but 1 was the ideal person to bring in on the job because of my proximity to the Skin 17 project. . . . Even though the money was ridiculous, I thought about the scheme’s potential. I talked him into double-crossing the Union and helping me sell it to the Russian Mafia. . . . You see, I’ve done business with them before. . . . I convinced Harding that he would make a lot more money. . . . Besides, better the Russian Mafia get it than the Chinese, which is whom the union wanted to sell it to. . . . We were just eliminating the middlemen and their commission!”

Then the business with the pacemaker, and Lee Ming . . . ?”

“That was the Union’s plan all along. . . . When you interfered in Belgium, the Union changed the scheme . . . . They decided to reroute Lee’s journey to China through Nepal and Tibet. . . . Since I had connections in Nepal, I came up with the plot to hire hijackers, kidnap Lee from his hotel, and whisk him away to an airfield in Sikkim. . . . There he would have been picked up by my people and hidden. . . . Harding made most of the arrangements. After selling the formula, Harding and I were going to split the money, but he was careless . . . . I knew the Union would eliminate him and then the fortune would be all mine. . . . Unfortunately, the damned tourist plane crashed on this . . . fucking mountain . . . it was carrying a goddamned MP and an American senator. . . . I knew that the Skin 17 microdot was somewhere on Lee Ming’s body, but exactly where was one piece of information that was withheld from me. You knew where it was. . . . I needed you to find it for me. And now . . . here we are.”

He returned the emergency breather to Bond.

“You had better get going,” Marquis said. “That storm is getting worse.”

“You’re coming with me,” Bond said.

Marquis shook his head. “I don’t want to be court-martialed. I couldn’t face it. I don’t want to die in prison. No, this is a much better way to die. Leave me here. Let me die at the top of the world.”

“What happened to Chandra?” Bond asked.

“He did his best to stop me. He fell. He didn’t die a coward, that’s certain. Unlike me. I’m sorry, Bond.”

Bond became aware of another person climbing toward them. At first he thought it might be a supernatural being—a yeti or a ghost. But it was only Hope Kendall. She was carrying a backpack and had oxygen. She dropped the respirator from her mouth and yelled, “Christ, what the hell are you two doing here? We have to get down!”

“Hope . . .” Marquis said. “Congratulations . . .”

“What?”

“Congratulations,” he gasped. “You can count on one hand the number of women who have summited Kangchenjunga.”

That news surprised her. She involuntarily laughed, then dropped to her knees beside Bond.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said. “I was in, boots and all, and didn’t even think about that. I just wanted to catch up with you two.”

“Both of you,” Marquis said. “Go. Leave me. I’m staying here.”

Bond pulled on Hopes arm. “Come on.”

“What?”

“We’re leaving him.”

“We can’t leave him!” She struggled against Bond. “Let’s give him oxygen. We can get him down the—”

But Marquis gasped, choked a moment, and went limp. Hope examined him, reached for his wrist, and felt for a pulse. She put her head to his chest.

Bond gently tugged on her arm again. “The storm is getting bad,” he said.

She finally raised herself, nodded, and got to her feet. She helped Bond stand, but his legs were very weak. She reached into her pack and brought out an extra oxygen canister. “Here, put this on,” she said.

The new air helped tremendously, and they began the torturous descent back to Camp Five. Bond paused to look at the figure of Roland Marquis, lying amid the prayer flags and country markers. He might have been a great man, Bond thought, but his pride got him in trouble. The gods disapproved of it. He had not shown the mountain the proper respect. As he had betrayed his country, he had betrayed his pact with the deities who controlled the elements in this cold hell, high above the living earth.

“Come on,” Hope urged.

She helped him as he stumbled along, trying to keep his balance on the West Ridge. He hadn’t realized how wrecked he was until he started moving. The wind was intense and was getting worse by the minute. If they stopped at all, they would perish.

The storm hit full force when they were a hundred and fifty meters from camp. Hope could see the Great Scree Terrace below them. All they had to do was climb down the rock wall.

Bond took one look and knew that he couldn’t do it. Like Marquis, he was ready to give up and die.

“Get up, damn you!” Hope cried. “You’re not wimping out on me now! You’re coming down with me.”

Bond attempted to wave her away.

“Breathe, dammit! Breathe the oxygen!” she yelled.

Bond took some breaths, but he could barely find the strength to inhale.

“Fine, I’ll have to do it the hard way,” she said.

Working as quickly as she could, Hope removed anchors, rope, a harness, and a pulley from her bag. She got the harness around Bond, who was barely conscious. She drove the anchors into the rock with her ice ax, fixed the pulley and threaded the rope through it. She then attached the rope to the harness and pushed Bond over the wall.

She slowly lowered him, belaying his body as he bounced like a marionette against the side of the rock. When he reached the bottom, he crumpled as if he had no skeleton.

Hope then began her descent, holding on to the bits of rock and ice, praying that the wind wouldn’t blow her off. It was more difficult than she had thought it would be, but she kept going without looking down.

After what seemed like an eternity, her boots touched the plateau. She fell against a snowdrift and rested for a minute, then pulled Bond to his knees.

“Get up, you bastard,” she yelled at him. “We’re almost there!”

Bond mumbled something. He was completely out of it. He could barely stand and lean in to her. She helped him along, acting as a crutch.

“Right foot . . . left foot . . .” she called, telling his brain what to do, for it had ceased to function. Nevertheless, he understood her commands, moved his feet forward, and marched with her.