John Gardner - Nobody Lives for Ever

Rahani tried to speak to Bond, ‘You said you trust . . .’

‘I trust both ladies are safe, and that, for once, SPECTRE will act honourably and see they are returned in exchange for my head.’

‘They are both here. Safe. They will be freed the moment your head is severed from your body.’

Rahani seemed to shrink even smaller as his head sank back on to the pillows. For a second Bond relived the last time he had seen the man, over the Swiss lake – strong, tough, outclassed – yet leaping from an airship to escape Bond’s victory.

The doctor looked around at the hoods. ‘Is everything prepared? For the . . . er . . . the execution?’ He did not even glance at Bond.

‘We’ve been ready for a long time.’ The fair man gave his toothy smile again. ‘Everything’s in order.’

The doctor nodded. ‘The Colonel hasn’t got long, I fear. A day, maybe two. I have to give him medication now, and he will sleep for about three hours. Can you do it then?’

‘Whenever.’ The balding man nodded, then gave Bond a hard look. He had stony eyes the colour of granite.

The doctor signalled to the nurse and she started to prepare an injection.

‘Give the Colonel an hour, he’ll no be disturbed by being moved then. In an hour ye can move the bed into . . . what d’ye call it? The execution chamber?’

‘Good a name as any,’ the fair-haired man said. ‘You want us to take Bond up?’ he asked Nannie.

‘You touch him and you’re dead. I know the way. Just give me the keys.’

‘I have a request.’ Bond felt the first pangs of fear, but his voice was steady, even commanding.

‘Yes? What is it?’ asked Nannie almost diffidently.

‘I know it’ll make little difference, but I’d like to be sure about May and Moneypenny.’

Nannie looked across at the two armed guards and the fair one nodded and said, ‘They’re in the other two cells. Next to the death cell. You can manage him by yourself? You’re sure?’

‘I got him here, didn’t I? If he gives me any trouble I’ll take his legs off. The doctor can patch him up for the headectomy.’

From the bed, where he was administering the injection, McConnell gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I like it, Mistress Norrich – headectomy, I like it verra much.’

‘Which is more than can be said for me.’ Bond sounded very cool. At the back of his mind he was already doing some calculations. The mathematics of escape.

The doctor chuckled again. ‘If ye want tae get a head, get a Nannie, eh?’

‘Let’s go.’ Nannie came close to prodding Bond with the Uzi. ‘Hands above the head, fingers linked, arms straight. Go for the door. Move.’

Bond walked through the door and into a curving passage with a deep pile carpet and walls of sky blue. The passage, he reckoned, ran around the entire storey, and was probably identical to others on the floors above. The great house on Shark Island, though externally constructed as a pyramid, seemed to have a circular core.

At intervals along the passage were alcoves in Norman style, each containing an objet d’art or painting. Bond recognised at least two Picabias, a Duchamp, a Dali and a Jackson Pollock. Fitting, he thought, that SPECTRE should invest in surrealist artists.

They came to elevator doors of brushed steel, curved to fit the shape of the passage. Nannie ordered him to lean back with his hands against the wall again, while she summoned the elevator. It arrived as soundlessly as the doors slid open. Everything appeared to have been constructed to ensure constant silence. She ushered him into the circular cage of the elevator. The doors closed and although he saw Nannie press the second floor button, Bond could hardly tell whether they were moving upwards or down. Seconds later the doors opened again, on to a very different kind of passage – bare, with walls which looked like plain brick, and a flagstone floor that absorbed the sound of every footstep. The curved passage was blocked off at either end.

‘The detention area,’ Nannie explained. ‘You want to see the hostages? Okay, move left.’

She stopped him in front of a door that could have been part of a movie set, made of black metal, with a heavy lock and a tiny Judas squint. Nannie waved the Uzi.

From what he could see, the interior appeared to be a comfortable but somewhat spartan bedroom. May lay asleep on the bed, her chest rising and falling and her face peaceful.

‘I understand they’ve been kept under mild sedation,’ Nannie said with just a glimmer of compassion in her voice. ‘They take only a second or two to be wakened for meals.’

She ushered him on, to a similar room where he saw Moneypenny on a similar bed, relaxed and apparently sleeping, like May.

Bond drew back and nodded.

‘I’ll take you to your final resting place, then, James.’

Any compassion had disappeared. They went back the way they had come, this time stopping before not a door but an electronic dial pad set into the wall. Nannie again made him take up a safe position against the wall as she punched out a code on the numbered buttons. A section of wall slid back, and Bond was ordered forward.

His stomach turned over as they entered a large, bare room with a row of deep comfortable chairs, like exclusive theatre seats, set along one wall. There was a clinical table and a hospital Gurney trolley, but the centrepiece, lit from above by enormous spots, was a very real guillotine.

It looked smaller than Bond had expected, but that was probably due to the French Revolution movies filming the instrument from a low angle, with the blade sliding down between very high, grooved posts. This instrument stood barely two metres high, making it look like a model of all the Hollywood representations he had seen.

There was no doubt that it would do the job. Everything was there, from the stocks for head and hands at the bottom, and an oblong plastic box to catch them once dismembered, to the slanting blade waiting at the top between the posts.

A vegetable – a large cabbage, he thought – had been jammed into the hole for the head. Nannie stepped forward and touched one of the upright posts. He did not even see the blade fall, it came down so fast. The cabbage was sliced neatly in two and there was a heavy thud as the blade settled. It was a macabre and unnerving little episode.

‘In a couple of hours or so . . .’ Nannie said brightly.

She allowed him to stand for a minute, to take in the scene. Then she pointed him towards a cell door at the far side of the chamber, similar to those in the passage. It was directly in line with the guillotine.

‘They’ve done it quite well, really,’ said Nannie, almost admiringly. ‘The first thing you’ll see when they bring you out will be Madame La Guillotine.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘And the last thing too. They’ll do you proud, James. I understand that Fin is to do the honours, and he’s been instructed to wear full evening dress. It’ll be an elegant occasion.’

‘How many have received invitations?’

‘Well, I suppose there are only about thirty-five people on the whole island. The communications people and guards will be working. Ten, possibly thirteen if you count me, and should the Colonel want the hostages present, which is unlikely . . .’

She stopped abruptly, realising that she was giving away too much information. Quickly she regained her composure. It did not matter if he knew or not. In two hours the blade would come thudding down, separating Bond’s head from his body in a fraction of a second.

‘Into the cell,’ she said quietly. ‘Enough is enough.’ As he passed through the door she called, ‘I suppose I should ask if you have a last request.’

Bond turned and smiled. ‘Oh, most certainly, Nannie, but you’re in no condition to supply it.’