John Gardner - Nobody Lives for Ever

Sukie’s Gucci luggage stood in a neat line near the door, which she opened to his knock. She was back in the Calvin Klein jeans, this time with a black silk shirt which looked to Bond like Christian Dior.

Gently he pushed her back into the room. She did not protest, but said simply that she was ready to leave. Bond’s face was set in a serious mask, which made her ask, ‘James, what is it? Something’s really wrong, isn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry, Sukie. Yes. Very serious for me, and it could be dangerous for you too.’

‘I don’t understand . . .’

‘I have to do certain things you might not like. You see, I’ve been threatened . . .’

‘Threatened? How threatened?’ She continued to back away.

‘I can’t go into details now, but it’s clear to me – and – others that there’s a possibility you could be involved.’

‘Me? Involved with what, James? Threatening you?’

‘It is a serious business, Sukie. My life’s at risk, and we met in rather dubious circumstances . . .’

‘Oh? What was dubious about it? Except for those unpleasant young muggers?’

‘It seemed as though I came along at a fortunate moment, and that I saved you from some unpleasantness. Then your car breaks down, conveniently near where I’m staying. I offer you a lift to Rome. Some might see it as a set-up, with me as the target.’

‘But I don’t . . .’

‘I’m sorry, I . . .’

‘You can’t take me to Rome?’ Her voice was level. ‘I understand, James. Don’t worry about it, I’ll find some way, but it does present me with a little problem of my own . . .’

‘Oh, you’re coming with me, maybe even to Rome eventually. I have no alternative. I have to take you, even if it’s as a hostage. I must have a little insurance with me. You’ll be my policy.’

He paused, letting it sink in, then, to his surprise, she smiled and said, ‘Well, I’ve never been a hostage before. It’ll be a new experience.’

She looked down and saw the gun in his hand.

‘Oh, James! Melodrama? You don’t need that. I’m on a kind of holiday anyway. I really don’t mind being your hostage, if it’s necessary.’ She paused, her face registering a fascinated pleasure. ‘It could even be exciting, and I’m all for excitement.’

‘The kind of people I’m up against are about as exciting as tarantulas, and lethal as sidewinders. I hope what’s going to happen now isn’t going to be too nasty for you, Sukie, but I have no other option. I promise you this is no game. You’re to do everything I say, and do it very slowly. I’m afraid I have to ask you to turn around – right around – with your hands on your head.’

He was looking for both a makeshift weapon and one more cunningly concealed. Sukie wore a small cameo brooch at the neck of her shirt. He made her unpin the brooch and throw it gently on to the bed, where her shoulder bag lay. Then he told her to take off her shoes.

He kept the cameo; it looked safe, but he knew technicians could do nasty things with brooch pins. He performed the entire examination deftly with one hand, while he held the ASP well back in the other. The shoes were clean, as was her belt. He apologised for the indignity, but her clothes, and person, were the first priorities. If she carried nothing suspicious he could deal with the luggage later, making sure it was kept out of harm’s way until they stopped somewhere. He emptied the shoulder bag on to the bed. The usual feminine paraphernalia spilled out over the white duvet – including a cheque book, diary, credit cards, cash, tissues, comb, a small bottle of pills, crumpled Amex and Visa receipts, a small Cacharel Anaïs Anaïs spray, lipstick and a gold compact.

He kept the comb, some book matches, a small sewing kit from the Plaza Athénée, the scent spray, lipstick and compact. The comb, book matches and sewing kit were immediately adaptable weapons for close-quarter work. The spray, lipstick and compact needed further inspection. In his time Bond had known scent sprays to contain liquids more deadly than even the most repellent scent, lipsticks to house razor-sharp curved blades, propellants of one kind or another, even hypodermic syringes, and powder compacts that were miniature radios, or worse.

Sukie was more embarrassed than angry about having to strip. Her body was the colour of rich creamed coffee, smooth and regular, the kind of tan you can get only through patience, the right lotions, a correct regimen of sun, and nudity. It was the sort of body that men dreamed of finding alive and wriggling in their beds.

Bond went through the jeans and shirt, making sure there was nothing inserted into linings or stitching. When he was satisfied, he apologised again, told her to get dressed and then call the concierge. She was to use his exact words, saying that the luggage was ready in her room and in Mr Bond’s. It was to be taken straight to Mr Bond’s car.

Sukie did as she was told. As she put down the receiver, she gave a little shake of the head. ‘I’ll do exactly what you tell me, James. You’re obviously desperate, and you’re also undoubtedly a professional of some kind. I’m not a fool. I like you. I’ll do anything, within reason, but I too have a problem.’ Her voice shook slightly, as though the whole experience had unnerved her.

Bond nodded, indicating that she should tell him her problem.

‘I’ve an old school friend in Cannobio, just along the coast . . .’

‘Yes, I know Cannobio, a one-horse Italian holiday resort. Picturesque in a touristy kind of way. Not far.’

‘I’m afraid I told her we’d pick her up on our way through. I was meant to meet her last night. She’s waiting at that rather lovely church on the lakeside – the Madonna della Pietà. She’ll be there from noon onwards.’

‘Can we put her off? Telephone her?’

Sukie shook her head. ‘After I arrived with the car problems, I telephoned the hotel where she was supposed to be staying. That was last night. She hadn’t arrived. I called her again after dinner, and she was waiting there. They were fully booked. She was going in search of somewhere else. You’d said we might be late setting off so I just told her to be at the Madonna della Pietà from twelve noon. I didn’t think of getting her to call back . . .’

She was interrupted by the padrone himself, arriving to collect the luggage.

Bond thanked him, said they would be down in a few minutes, and turned his mind to the problem. There was a big distance to cover, whatever he did. His aim was to get to the Klinik Mozart, where there would be a certain amount of police protection because of the search for May and Moneypenny. He had no wish to go into Italy at all, and from what he could recall of the centre of Cannobio, it was the perfect place for a set-up. The lakeside road and the front of the Madonna della Pietà were always busy, for Cannobio was a thriving industrial centre as well as holidaymakers’ paradise. The square in front of the church was ideal territory for one man, or a motorcycle team, to make a kill. Was Sukie, knowingly or not, putting him on the spot?

‘What’s her name, this old school friend?’ he asked, sharply.

‘Norrich.’ She spelled it out for him. ‘Nannette Norrich. Everyone calls her Nannie. Norrich Petrochemicals, that’s Daddy.’

Bond nodded. He had already guessed. ‘We’ll pick her up but she’ll have to go along with my plans.’ He took her firmly by the elbow, to let her know he was in charge.

Bond knew that the trip to Cannobio would hold him up for only an hour, thirty minutes there, and another thirty back, before he could head off towards the frontier, and Austria. If he took the risk, it would mean two hostages rather than one, and he could position them in the car to make a hit more difficult. There was also comfort in the thought that it was only his head that would gain the prize. Whoever struck would have to do it on a lonely stretch of road, or during a night stop. It was easy enough to sever a human head. You did not even have to be very strong. A flexi-saw – like a bladed garrotte – would do it in no time. What would be essential to accomplish the task was a certain amount of privacy. Nobody would have a go in front of the main church in Cannobio, beside Lake Maggiore.