John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

Once back in the house, she said she would light the stove.

“It will become cold tonight, and I do not wish an invalid on my hands.” She gave him a sideways glance as though to imply that she would not mind him on her hands if he were fit and willing.

Bond merely smiled and said he would go down to the car and get his luggage. “Have you the keys?” he asked. “I should lock the gates.”

“Of course. They are in the kitchen. In their usual place.” A pause of four or five heartbeats, then, “Everything is in the kitchen as you expect.” Another pause, slightly shorter. “Evething, Signor Bond.”

“Call me James,” he threw back over his shoulder. If she was on the side of the devils and not the angels, it would be best to meet her on Christian name terms. They said that knowing the name of devil or angel always put you at the advantage.

The bunch of seven or eight keys lay on the free-standing kitchen unit. They were attached to a penlight key-ring and looked as though they had just been tossed onto the work-top, even though the smallest key stuck out separately and was aligned with the edge of the unit. He picked the whole lot up by the small key, inserting it into the lock on the drawer just below the point where the bunch had been lying. It turned easily.

Inside the drawer lay one mm Browning automatic and three spare ammunition clips. The action moved slickly, well oiled, and showed there was a round in the chamber. Later he would strip the weapon down and go through it piece by piece. “There’ll be a pistol in the locked kitchen drawer,” M had said. Had Beatrice put it there? Or had she merely been inquisitive and found the secret?

Bond hefted the pistol in his hand. The weight seemed right for a fully loaded weapon. The spare magazines also appeared to be correct, but he knew weapons and ammunition could easily be doctored to feel right. If that happened, then the last thing you ever knew was that someone had been clever, spiked the firing-pin, mechanism, or even the rounds.

For the time being he simply had to trust, slipping the spare magazines into the pockets of his windcheater, putting the Browning’s safety to “on”, and pushing it into his waistband, far to the left so that it was hidden, then pulling the butt down so that the muzzle was screwed to the left. This was always advisable. Movie cops and agents so often jammed a pistol straight into the waistband, risking a shot foot or worse - “testicide” as one leathery weapons instructor had called it.

He locked the drawer again and went out of the kitchen door, which contained a glass panel. On his way down, he went through the whole catastrophe of the Villa Capricciani’s security. The main gates, and the gate at the foot of the steps, could be taken out quickly enough, either by scaling, or the use of a lock-gun.

The pair of sliding doors which led from the villa to the front terrace would be a noisy job, but could be accomplished quickly.

The kitchen door was simplicity, particularly with the one pane of glass, while the rear french windows offered easy access using a jemmy.

Ninety seconds at the most for any of them, he reckoned as he secured the bolts on the main gate, and took his heavy case from the car.

He locked the second gate behind him and went up the stairs and in through the main sliding doors. Beatrice was standing by the telephone, checking the meter which would monitor all outgoing calls.

She looked up and gave him her cheeky smile, reading off the numbers and asking him to agree them.

“Now, I show you what food is here.” Another smile as she led him towards the kitchen. “You found all you needed?” Over her shoulder with eyecontact and the same smile.

Bond nodded. She loves me? She loves me not?

She opened the refrigerator with a flourish, and began to reel off all the provisions she had bought. Chicken, veal, eggs, butter, cheese, milk, three bottles of wine, bacon, sausage, pate, pasta.

In the other small fridge set into the opposite units of cupboards and drawers there were vegetables.

“Is enough until tomorrow?”

“Only if I’ve got an army staying overnight.”

“Tomorrow is last proper shopping before Natale.” Tomorrow was Saturday and Christmas Eve.

“Yes,” Bond mused. “Christmas is a’coming and the goose is getting fat

. .

“You wish for goose?”

He shook his head. “Old English children’s rhyme. No, Beatrice, I don’t know how I’ll celebrate Christmas - Natale.”

“In England you have snow, yes?”

“Usually only on the Christmas cards. We gather the whole family together, give each other unsuitable gifts, and eat ourselves stupid.

Turkey, as a rule. I do not like turkey.” He looked at her hard and asked how she would be spending Christmas.

“At the big villa. On my own. I told you. I am in charge.

Umberto and Franco, two of the gardeners, will come in to see all is well, and maybe one of the young girls we have to help when the villas are all occupied, or the Signora is at home, will call to see me.

“Well, I’ll probably drive into Forio and buy some kind of special feast we can share. How about that?” If she were a devil, then at least he would know where she was; if an angel, it would not matter.

“This is good, Signor Bond -James. This I would like.”

“Okay.” He found the dark eyes disconcerting, for they locked onto his like radar.

“Now I must go back to the house. The big villa. La Signora, she telephones me each day. In her slim wrist came up showing her watch.

“In about fifteen minutes. I must be there always for her.

Otherwise is lot of shouting over the telephone.

Is not good.”

Bond saw she was wearing a very functional wrist-watch. Black metal, with all the bells and whistles Middle Eastern airline pilots liked on their chronometers.

Beatrice paused by the doors leading to the rear terrace. “Look, James. I make good cannelloni. How if I come down tonight and cook for you?”

The temptation went in and out of Bond’s mind in the time it takes for an expert to slit a throat. He smiled and shook his head.

“Very kind of you, Beatrice. Perhaps tomorrow. I’m tired and want to make it an early night. Need the rest. You know, light meal and bed with a good book.”

“You’re missing one of the great delights of Ischia,” she said, the cheekiness in both face and voice.

“I’ll make up for it.” But, by the time he said it, she had disappeared. All that remained was the soft patter of her shoes on the path leading back to the main villa.

He chose the bedroom at the back of the house: the one furthest away from any of the doors and windows. It was large with a big, old-fashioned wooden bed, built-in closets fitted with doors and interiors that had once belonged to a pair of beautiful old wardrobes.

There was a complicated icon facing the bed elongated figures, a fussy combination of faith and philosophy that showed the Trinity surrounded by saints and angels. It looked like a genuine product of the Stroganov school, but who would know? A doctor friend of Bond’s could have knocked a similar piece off in a matter of weeks, then aged it over twelve months and nobody but an advanced expert would have known.

He hung up the one suit and two spare pairs of slacks, carefully put the shirts, socks and other items in the drawers which formed one side of each cupboard and laid Out the short towelling robe he had brought with him. Lastly he casually threw a heavy roll-neck sweater onto the bed, placed a little leather-cased toolkit on the night table, then went into the main room to the telephone.

The number in England picked up on the third ring.

“Predator,” said Bond.

“Hellkin,” the voice was clear from the distant line. “Repeat.