John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

“So, you don’t think they’ll have another go today?”

She shook her head. “Not here. We should watch it when we go out.”

“Go out?”

“Weren’t you going to get food as a nice surprise for Christmas?”

“Oh, yes. Natale, yes. What happened to the Italian accent, Beatrice?” Almost sarcastically he pronounced it Beh-ah-Tree-che.

“Is gone.

“I noticed. So what’re your orders?”

“I think we should rest. Then go and do the shopping - behave normally. Thy might well try while we’re out and about, but I must make a telephone call to get those damned gates fixed. I also think we should bring in the dogs.”

“Dogs?”

“We’ve got two pairs of Rottweilers at our disposal. They’re as vicious as they come, and we can let them loose at night.”

“You’re well-organised as a bodyguard. How long have you worked for La Signora?”

She gave an amused little sniff “Forty-eight hours. The Chief has some big pull with her. She’s a pretty well-connected lady, but she moved out for Christmas as a favour to M. She also moved her staff out.

The couple of guys I mentioned - Franco and Umberto - are extra heavy help. They were around when we had that little brush with the BAST team, but they’re only for support if things get really tricky.”

Franco and Umberto were at the main villa, she said. “That’s why you can rest easy.

I’ll alert them now. They can watch until we’re ready to go shopping.”

She rose, in a series of very attractive moves, and walked slowly to the telephone. Her conversation was short, to the point and in Italian. The two men should take over the watch and the dogs should only be fed the minimum this morning. They would be let out tonight.

In the mmeantime, would Franco go down and secure the main gates.

New lock and, yes, “put a screamer on it.

She left the telephone and paused behind Bond’s chair. “See, I am efficient.”

“Didn’t doubt it for a minute.”

She slid forward and sat on the arm of the chair. Once again Bond smelled that mixture of dry summer and the scent he could not identify.

“I still think you don’t like having a woman in charge.”

“What’s your real name?” He disregarded her observation.

“Like I told you. Beatrice,” she pronounced it the Italian way.

“I believe you, but what else? I mean you’re not Dante’s angel, Beatrice. You have other names?”

She giggled. “They told me you were just a blunt, well-trained instrument. A hunk. Now you’re talking literature and poetry.

Full name, Beatrice Maria da Ricci. Italian father, English mother. Educated Benenden and Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford.

Father in Italian Foreign Service. When their marriage broke up, I was handed over to Mama, who was a lush.”

“You’re pretty luscious yourself.”

“That’s not funny,” she bridled. “Have you ever had to live with a lush? It just isn’t amusing.”

“I apologise His da Ricci.” There was no side-stepping her anger.

“Okay, I’m touchy about it. I read modern languages, and took the Foreign Office examination . . “And failed.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me: a man comes around and says that perhaps they can offer you a job within the Foreign Office, and before you know it, you’re mixed up with all the paraphernalia of espionage.” She nodded, “More or less, but they wanted me for languages.

I took another degree in computer sciences and found myself in Santa’s Grotto.”

Bond nodded. In the basement, below the underground parking at that building overlooking Regent’s Park, there was a great sterile computer room they all called Santa’s Grotto. With the advent of the microchip the old Registry had been relegated to a smaller area and people were constantly transferring the paperwork onto a series of giant databases. Rumour had it that all the work would not be completed from past files until the year 2009, or thereabouts, as the crow flies. “Then they remembered you had languages,” he filled in.

“Partly. I got sinus trouble from the air-conditioning.”

“Better than a touch of Legionnaires’ Disease.”

“I asked for a transfer to the real world.”

“No such thing in our business. We’re T S Eliot’s “Hollow Men’; we are also rust-stained dinosaurs. Our day has come, and gone. I give us a decade more. After that, well we could be sitting in front of computer terminals all day and most of the night. It’s known as the invasion of the killer tomatoes syndrome.”

She nodded gravely. “Yes, the days of the Great Game are numbered.”

“The years are numbered. We’re not down to days yet. But, Beatrice Maria da Ricci, which is a classy sort of name anyway, how did a nice girl like you end up in a sordid bullet-catcher’s job like this?”

She leaned over him, her face a few inches from his. “Because I am very good at it, and part of my job, James Bond, is to keep you relaxed and happy.”

“Meaning?”

Their mouths met. Not simply lips brushing, or doing all the things graphically described in romantic novels or those historical things known in the trade as “bodice rippers”. This was real mouth-to-mouth resuscitation of other emotions. After a minute their bodies and hands also moved, and five minutes later Beatrice said, with a husky dryness that matched the delightful smell of her, “Would you like to lie down with me, Mr. Bond?”

“You’re a pleasure to work for, His da Ricci.”

“I hope so.

“Do I get a raise in salary?”

“I think you already got one, Mr. Bond.”

They barely made it to the bedroom. Outside, the sun had come up.

Franco was working on the main gates, fitting a new lock and the electronic sensors that would scream an alarm should anyone tamper with them again. In the rear bedroom of the Villa Capricciani there were low moans and little screams of joy.

In a room high in the main grey, fortress-like villa, the other hood called Umberto stood back in the shadows and scanned the garden and the rocky skyline above them. If anything were going to happen, it would probably come from that direction and not the main gates. A frontal attack had proved dangerous. He wondered if his new boss, the girl who was very much in charge, and whom he had met for the first time a couple of days ago, was vulnerable to a frontal attack. He guessed she was - but not from the hired help.

Far away, in Plymouth, three men had spent the night indulging in the sins of the flesh. They had drunk a great deal, and one of them had been with a tall black girl who had done things to, and for, him that had, until now, only been fantasies.

“It’s time for the deadline,” Harry said to the Petty Officer they called Blackie.

“Time to sell your soul and save all of us,” added Bill.

“Oh, Gawd.” Blackie had been putting off the evil day, stalling for time and knowing time was a commodity he had run out of long ago.

It was Christmas Eve and he had the rail-ticket in his pocket to return to the wife and kids for two weeks’ leave.

“It’s serious.” Bill’s face was set, engraved with concern.

“It was serious when we first told you. Now we’re all in a mess .

- - “I know; I know .

“All debts settled and one hundred thousand pictures of Her Majesty just for you, Blackie.”

“Yeah. I just.

“Look, Blackie,” Bill had wrapped his large strong fingers around the Petty Officer’s wrist, making the man wince with pain. “Look, it’s not as though you were being asked to steal anything. These people need a few hours, that’s all.”

“I know he paused, his bleary eyes moving slowly around the room.

“I know, and I ain’t got no option, have I?”