John Gardner - Nobody Lives for Ever

‘Department Eight of Directorate S: KGB,’ Bond snapped.

Quinn went on as though he had not heard: ‘. . . Then practically every known terrorist organisation, from the old Red Brigade to the Puerto Rican FALN – the Armed Forces for National Liberation. With ten million Swiss francs as the star prize you’ve attracted a lot of attention.’

‘You mentioned the underworld.’

‘Of course – British, French, German, at least three Mafia Families and, I fear, the Union Corse. Since the demise of your ally, Marc-Ange Draco, they’ve been less than helpful . . .’

‘All right!’ Bond stopped him sharply.

Steve Quinn lifted his large body from the chair. There was none of the visible effort that might be expected from a man of his size, just a fast movement, a second between his being seated and standing, with one large hand on Bond’s shoulder. ‘Yes. Yes, I know, this is going to be a bitch.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s one more thing you ought to know about Head Hunt . . .’

Bond shook off the hand. Quinn had been tactless in reminding him of the special relationship he had once nurtured between the Service and the Union Corse, an organisation that could be even more deadly than the Mafia. Bond’s contacts with the Union Corse had led to his marriage, followed quickly by the death of his bride, Marc-Ange Draco’s daughter.

‘What other thing?’ he snapped. ‘You’ve made it plain I can’t trust anybody. Can I even trust you?’

With a sense of disgust, Bond recognised the truth of the last remark. He could trust nobody, not even Steve Quinn, the Service’s man in Rome.

‘It’s to do with SPECTRE’S rules for Head Hunt.’ Quinn’s face was expressionless. ‘The contenders are restricted to putting one man in the field – one only. The latest information is that already four have died violently, within the past twenty-four hours – one of them only a few hundred metres from where we’re sitting.’

‘Tempel, Cordova and a couple of thugs on the Ostend ferry.’

‘Right. The ferry passengers were representatives from two London gangs – South London and the West End. Tempel had links with the Red Army Faction. He was an underworld-trained hood and a barroom politician trying for the rich pickings in the politics of terrorism. Paul Cordova you know about.’

All four, Bond thought, had been very close indeed when they were murdered. What were the odds on that being a coincidence? Aloud, he asked Quinn what M’s orders were.

‘You’re to get back to London as quickly as you can. We haven’t the manpower available to look after you loose on the Continent. My own people will see you to the nearest airport and then take care of the car . . .’

‘No.’ Bond spat the word. ‘I’ll get the car back. Nobody else is going to take care of it for me – right?’

Quinn shrugged. ‘Your funeral. You’re vulnerable in that car.’

Bond was already moving about the room finishing his packing, yet all the time his senses were centred on Quinn. Trust nobody: right, he would not even trust this man.

‘Your boys?’ he said. ‘Give me a rundown.’

‘They’re out there. Look for yourself.’ Quinn nodded in the direction of the window. He crossed to the long shutters and peered through the louvred slats. Bond placed himself just behind the big man.

‘There,’ said Quinn, ‘the one standing by the rocks, in the blue shirt. The other’s in the silver Renault parked at the end of the row of cars.’

It was a Renault 25 V6i, not Bond’s favourite kind of car. If he played his cards properly he could outrun that pair with ease.

‘I want information on one other person,’ he said as he stepped back into the centre of the room, ‘an English girl with an Italian title . . .’

‘Tempesta?’ There was a sneer on Quinn’s lips.

Bond nodded.

‘M doesn’t think she’s part of the game, though she could be bait. He says you should take care. His words were “Exercise caution.” She’s around, I gather.’

‘Very much so. I’ve promised to give her a lift to Rome.’

‘Dump her!’

‘We’ll see. Okay, Quinn, if that’s all you have for me, I’ll sort out my route home. It could be scenic.’

Quinn nodded and stuck out his hand, which Bond ignored. ‘Good luck. You’re going to need it.’

‘I don’t altogether believe in luck. Ultimately I believe in only one thing – myself.’

Quinn frowned, nodded and left Bond to make his final preparations. Speed was essential, but his main concern at this moment was what he should do about Sukie Tempesta. She was there, an unknown quantity, yet he felt she could be used somehow. As a hostage, perhaps? The Principessa Tempesta would make an adequate hostage, a shield even, if he felt sufficiently ruthless. As though by telepathy, the telephone rang and Sukie’s mellow voice came on the line.

‘I was wondering what time you wanted to leave, James?’

‘Whenever it suits you. I’m almost ready.’

She laughed, and the harshness seemed to have gone. ‘I’ve nearly finished packing. I’ll be fifteen minutes at the most. Do you want to eat here before we leave?’

Bond said he’d prefer to stop somewhere on the way, if she did not mind. ‘Look, Sukie, I’ve got a small problem. It might involve a slight detour. May I come and talk to you before we go?’

‘In my room?’

‘It would be better.’

‘It could also cause a small scandal for a well brought up convent girl.’

‘I can promise you there’ll be no scandal. Shall we say ten minutes time?’

‘If you insist.’ She was not being unpleasant, just a little more formal than before.

‘It is rather important. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

Hardly had he put down the telephone and snapped the locks on his case, when it rang again.

‘Mr Bond?’ He recognised the booming voice of Doktor Kirchtum, Direktor of the Klinik Mozart. He seemed to have lost some of his ebullience.

‘Herr Direktor?’ Bond heard the note of anxiety in his own tone.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Bond. It is not good news . . .’

‘May!’

‘Your patient, Mr Bond. She is vanished. The police are here with me now. I’m sorry not to have made contact sooner. But she is vanished with the friend who visited yesterday, the Moneypenny lady. There has been a telephone call and the police wish to speak to you. She has been, how do you say it? Napped . . .’

‘Kidnapped? May kidnapped, and Moneypenny?’

A thousand thoughts went through his head, but only one made sense. Someone had done his homework very well. May’s kidnapping could just possibly have been associated with Moneypenny’s, who was always a prime target. What was more probable, however, was that one of the Head Hunt contenders wanted Bond under close observation, and how better than to lead him in a search for May and Moneypenny?

5

NANNIE

All things considered, Bond thought, Sukie Tempesta showed that she was an uncommonly cool lady. He dropped the Happi-coat on to the bed, ready to pack later, and caught sight of his naked body in the long mirror. What he saw pleased him, not in any vain way, but because of his obvious fitness: the taut muscles of his thighs and calves, and the bulge of his biceps.

He had showered and shaved before Quinn’s arrival, and now he dressed as he worked out a viable plan to deal with Sukie. He put on casual slacks, his favourite soft leather moccasins and a Sea Island cotton shirt. To hide the 9mm ASP, he threw on a battledress-style grey Oscar Jacobson Alcantara jacket. He placed his case and the two briefcases near the door, checked the gun, and went quickly downstairs, where he settled both his own and Sukie’s accounts. He then went straight up to her room.