John Gardner: Nobody Lives for Ever

Bond watched from behind his half-closed shutters as Quinn got out of a hired car and walked towards the hotel entrance. A few seconds later, the telephone rang and Mr Quarterman was announced. Bond told them to send him up.

Quinn was inside with the door locked almost before the knock had died in the air. He did not speak immediately, but went straight to the window and glanced down at the forecourt and the lake steamer which had just docked. The sheer beauty of the lake usually took the tourists’ breath away when they disembarked, but this morning the loud yah-yahing of an English woman’s voice could be heard, even in Bond’s room, saying, ‘I wonder what there is to see here, darling.’

Bond scowled, and Quinn gave a tiny smile, almost hidden by his beard. He looked at the remains of Bond’s breakfast and mouthed noiselessly, asking if the place was clean.

‘Spent the night going over it. Nothing in the telephone, or anywhere else.’

Quinn nodded. ‘Okay.’

Bond asked why they could not have flown Geneva up to him.

‘Because Geneva’s got problems of his own,’ said Quinn, his finger stabbing out towards Bond. ‘But not a patch on your problems, my friend.’

‘Talk, then. The Chief met you for a briefing?’

‘Right. I’ve done what I can. Geneva doesn’t like it, but two of my people should be here by now to watch your back. M wants you in London – in one piece if possible.’

‘So, there is someone on my tail.’ Bond sounded unconcerned, but pictures of the shattered car on the motorway and Cordova’s body lying in the churchyard flashed through his mind.

Quinn lowered himself into a chair. He spoke in a near whisper.

‘No,’ he said, ‘you haven’t got some one on your tail. It seems to us that you’ve got just about every willing terrorist organisation, criminal gang and unfriendly foreign intelligence service right up your rectum. There’s a contract out for you. A unique contract. Somebody has made an offer – to coin a phrase – none of them can refuse.’

Bond gave a hard, half-smile. ‘Okay, break it to me gently. What am I worth?’

‘Oh, they don’t want all of you. Just your head.’

Steve Quinn filled in the rest of the story. M had received a hint about two weeks before Bond went on leave. ‘The Firm that controls South London tried to spring Bernie Brazier from the Island,’ he began. In other words, the most powerful underworld organisation in South London had tried to get one Bernie Brazier out of the high security prison at Parkhurst, on the Isle of Wight. Brazier was doing life for the cold-blooded killing of a notorious London underworld figure. Scotland Yard knew he had carried out at least twelve other murders, although they could not prove it. In short, Bernie Brazier was Britain’s top mechanic, a polite name for hired killer.

‘The escape was bungled. A real dog’s breakfast. Then after it was all over, friend Brazier wanted to do a deal,’ Quinn continued, ‘and, as you know, the Met don’t take kindly to deals. So he asked to see somebody from the sisters.’

He spoke of their sister organisation, MI5. This had been refused, but the details were passed to M, who sent their toughest interrogator to Parkhurst Prison. Brazier claimed he was being sprung to do a job that threatened the country’s security. In return for giving them the goods, he wanted a new identity and a place in the sun, with money to singe if not actually to burn.

Bond remained oddly detached as Quinn described the nightmarish scene. He knew the devil incarnate in M would promise the world for hard intelligence, and that in the end he would give his source the minimum. So it had been. Two more interrogators had gone to Parkhurst and had a long talk with Brazier. Then M had taken the trip himself to make the deal.

‘And Bernie told all?’ he finally asked.

‘Part of it. The rest was to come once he was nicely tucked away in some tropical paradise with enough birds and booze to give him a coronary within a year.’ Quinn’s face went very hard. ‘The day after M’s visit they found Bernie in his cell – hanged with piano wire.’

From outside came the sound of children playing near the jetty, the toot of one of the lake boats, and far away the drone of a light aeroplane. Bond asked what they had got from the late Bernie Brazier.

‘That you were the target for this unique contract. A kind of competition.’

‘Competition?’

‘There are rules, it appears, and the winner is the group that brings your head to the organisers – on a silver charger, no less. Any bona fide criminal, terrorist, or intelligence agency can enter. They have to be accepted by the organisers. The starting date was four days ago, and there’s a time limit of three months. The winner gets ten million Swiss.’

‘Who in heaven’s name . . . ?’ Bond started.

‘M discovered the answer to that less than twenty-four hours ago, with the help of the Metropolitan Police. About a week back, they pulled in half of the South London mob, and let M’s heavy squad have a go. It paid off, or M’s paying off, I don’t quite know which. I do know that four major London gangland chiefs are pleading for round the clock protection, and I guess they need it. The fifth laughed at M and walked out of the slammer. I gather they found him last night. He was not in good health.’

When Quinn went into the details of the man’s demise, even Bond felt queasy. ‘Jesus . . .’

‘. . . Saves.’ Quinn showed not a shred of humour. ‘One can but hope He’s saved that poor bastard. Forensic say he took an unconscionable time a-dying.’

‘And who’s organised this grisly competition?’

‘It’s even got a name, by the way.’ Quinn sounded offhand. ‘It’s called the Head Hunt. No consolation prizes, just the big one. M reckons that around thirty professional killers went through the starting gate.’

‘Who’s behind it?’

‘Your old friends the Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion – SPECTRE; in particular, the successor to the Blofeld dynasty, whom you’ve had one nasty brush with already, M tells me . . .’

‘Tamil Rahani. The so-called Colonel Tamil Rahani.’

‘Who will be the late Tamil Rahani in a matter of three to four months. Hence the time limit.’

Bond was silent for a minute. He was fully aware of how dangerous Tamil Rahani could be. They had never really discovered how he had managed to take over as Chief Executive of SPECTRE, which seemed always to have kept its leadership within the Blofeld family. But certainly the inventive, brilliant strategist, Tamil Rahani, had become SPECTRE’S leader. Bond could see the man now – dark-skinned, muscular, radiating dynamism. He was a ruthless, internationally powerful leader.

He recalled the last time he had seen Rahani, drifting by parachute over Geneva. His great forte as a commander was that he always led from the front. He had tried to have Bond killed about a month after that last meeting. Since then there had been few sightings, but 007 could well believe this bizarre competition was the brainchild of the sinister Tamil Rahani.

‘Are you implying the man’s on his way out? Dying?’

‘There was a sudden escape by parachute . . .’ Quinn did not look him in the eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m told that he jarred his spine on landing. This set off a cancer affecting the spinal cord. Apparently six specialists have seen him. There is no hope. Within four months, Tamil Rahani’s going to be the late Tamil Rahani.’

‘Who’s involved, apart from SPECTRE?’

Quinn slid a hand down his dark beard, ‘M’s working on it. A lot of your old enemies, of course. For starters, whatever they call the former Department V of the KGB these days – what used to be SMERSH . . .’