John Gardner - Nobody Lives for Ever

For

Peter and Peg

with affection

NOBODY LIVES FOR EVER

John Gardner

1

THE ROAD SOUTH

James Bond signalled late, braked more violently than a Bentley driving instructor would have liked, and slewed the big car off the E5 motorway and on to the last exit road just north of Brussels. It was merely a precaution. If he was going to reach Strasbourg before midnight it would have made more sense to carry on, follow the ring road around Brussels, then keep going south on the Belgian N4. Yet even on holiday, Bond knew that it was only prudent to remain alert. The small detour across country would quickly establish whether anyone was on his tail, and he would pick up the E40 in about an hour or so.

Lately there had been a directive to all officers of the Secret Service, advising ‘constant vigilance, even when off duty, and particularly when on leave and out of the country’.

He had taken the morning ferry to Ostend, and there had been over an hour’s delay. About half-way into the crossing the ship had stopped, a boat had been lowered, and had moved out, searching the water in a wide circle. After some forty minutes the boat had returned and a helicopter appeared overhead as they set sail again. A little later the news spread throughout the ship. Two men overboard, and lost, it seemed.

‘Couple of young passengers skylarking,’ said the barman. ‘Skylarked once too often. Probably cut to shreds by the screws.’

Once through Customs, Bond had pulled into a side street, opened the secret compartment in the dashboard of the Bentley Mulsanne Turbo, checked that his 9mm ASP automatic and the spare ammunition clips were intact, and taken out the small Concealable Operations Baton, which lay heavy in its soft leather holster. He had closed the compartment, loosened his belt and threaded the holster into place so that the baton hung at his right hip. It was an effective piece of hardware: a black rod, no more than fifteen centimetres long. Used by a trained man, it could be lethal.

Shifting in the driving seat now, Bond felt the hard metal dig comfortably into his hip. He slowed the car to a crawl of 40 kph, scanning the mirrors as he took corners and bends, automatically slowing again once on the far side. Within half an hour he was certain that he was not being followed.

Even with the directive in mind, he reflected that he was being more careful than usual. A sixth sense of danger or possibly M’s remark a couple of days ago?

‘You couldn’t have chosen a more awkward time to be away, 007,’ his chief had grumbled, though Bond had taken little notice. M was noted for a grudging attitude when it came to matters of leave.

‘It’s only my entitlement, sir. You agreed I could take my month now. If you remember, I had to postpone it earlier in the year.’

M grunted. ‘Moneypenny’s going to be away as well. Off gallivanting all over Europe. You’re not . . . ?’

‘Accompanying Miss Moneypenny? No, sir.’

‘Off to Jamaica or one of your usual Caribbean haunts, I suppose,’ M said with a frown.

‘No, sir. Rome first. Then a few days on the Riviera dei Fiori before driving across to Austria – to pick up my housekeeper, May. I just hope she’ll be fit enough to be brought back to London by then.’

‘Yes . . . yes.’ M was not appeased. ‘Well, leave your full itinerary with the Chief-of-Staff. Never know when we’re going to need you.’

‘Already done, sir.’

‘Take care, 007. Take special care. The Continent’s a hotbed of villainy these days, and you can never be too careful.’ There was a sharp, steely look in his eyes that made Bond wonder whether something was being hidden from him.

As Bond left M’s office, the old man had the grace to say he hoped there would be good news about May.

At the moment, May, Bond’s devoted old Scottish housekeeper, appeared to be the only worry on an otherwise cloudless horizon. During the winter she had suffered two severe attacks of bronchitis and seemed to be deteriorating. She had been with Bond longer than either cared to remember. In fact, apart from the Service, she was the one constant in his not uneventful life.

After the second bronchial attack, Bond had insisted on a thorough check-up by a Service-retained doctor with a Harley Street practice, and though May had resisted, insisting she was ‘tough as an auld game bird, and no yet fit for the pot’, Bond had taken her himself to the consulting rooms. There had followed an agonising week, with May being passed from specialist to specialist, complaining all the way. But the results of the tests were undeniable. The left lung was badly damaged, and there was a distinct possibility that the disease might spread. Unless the lung was removed immediately and the patient underwent at least three months of enforced rest and care, May was unlikely to see her next birthday.

The operation was carried out by the most skilful surgeon Bond’s money could buy, and once she was well enough, May was packed off to a world-renowned clinic specialising in her complaint, the Klinik Mozart, in the mountains south of Salzburg. Bond telephoned the clinic regularly and was told that she was making astonishing progress.

He had even spoken to her personally the evening before, and he now smiled to himself at the tone of her voice, and the somewhat deprecating way she had spoken of the clinic. She was, no doubt, reorganising their staff and calling down the wrath of her Glen Orchy ancestors on everyone from maids to chefs.

‘They dinna know how to cook a decent wee bite here, Mr James, that’s the truth of it; and the maids canna make a bed for twopence. I’d no employ any the one of them – and you paying all this money for me to be here. Yon’s a downright waste, Mr James. A crinimal waste.’ May had never been able to get her tongue round the word ‘criminal’.

‘I’m sure they’re looking after you very well, May.’ She was too independent to be a really good patient.

Trust May, he thought. She liked things done her way or not at all. It would be purgatory for her in the Klinik Mozart.

He checked the fuel, deciding it would be wise to have the tank filled before the long drive that lay ahead on the E40. Having established that there was nobody on his tail, he concentrated on looking for a garage. It was after seven in the evening, and there was little traffic about. He drove through two small villages and saw the signs indicating proximity to the motorway. Then, on a straight, empty, stretch of road, he spotted the garish signs of a small filling station.

It appeared to be deserted and the two pumps unattended, though the door to the tiny office had been left open. A notice in red warned that the pumps were not self-service, so he pulled the Mulsanne up to the Super pump and switched off the engine. As he climbed out, stretching his muscles, he became aware of the commotion behind the little glass and brick building. Growling, angry, voices could be heard, and a thump, as though someone had collided with a car. Bond locked the car using the central locking device and strode quickly to the corner of the building.

Behind the office was a garage area. A white Alfa Romeo Sprint stood in front of the open doors. Two men were holding down a young woman on the bonnet. The driver’s door was open and a handbag lay ripped open on the ground, its contents scattered.

‘Come on,’ one of the men said in rough French, ‘where is it? You must have some! Give.’ Like his companion, the thug was dressed in faded jeans, shirt and sneakers. Both were short, broad shouldered, with tanned muscular arms – rough customers by any standards. Their victim protested, and the man who had spoken raised his hand to hit her across the face.