Christopher Wood - James Bond and Moonraker

‘I’m more interested in where the Moonraker came down,’ said Bond. ‘I didn’t find anybody in California who was prepared to look farther than the other side of the Bering Strait.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t talk to the right people.’

There was a note of criticism in Holly’s voice that Bond found puzzling. Apart from Drax and Holly, Trudi was the only person he had questioned in detail. ‘How’s Trudi Parker?’ he asked casually. ‘She seemed to be getting a bit bored with her job.’

‘She’s dead,’ said Holly calmly.

‘Dead?’

‘Rather a horrible accident. Mr Drax was out shooting and the Dobermanns attacked her.’

‘And nobody was able to control them?’

‘She’d wandered off into the woods by herself, apparently. The dogs must have picked up her scent. Chang went after them but when he got there it was too late.’ She shuddered convincingly. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’

Bond felt like throwing up. Just a few days before he had been making love to the girl. Now she was dead. Perhaps because of him. His bitterness was laced with strong measures of guilt which he funnelled instantly into a determination for revenge.

‘Accidents appear to be proliferating,’ he said grimly. ‘You must fear for your own life sometimes.’

Holly looked at him levelly. ‘I think we both have our fears, Mr Bond.’ She held out a hand in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Good luck with your inquiries.’

Bond shook the hand. ‘And with your address. I’ll see you later.’

Holly’s expression was sceptical but she said nothing. She turned on her heel to continue walking along the quay.

Bond’s face was set in grim lines as he retraced his steps to find his gondola. Trudi must have been killed because somebody knew that she had been in the study with him. His own life had probably been spared because two ‘accidents’ in the space of a few hours would have aroused suspicion even in Drax’s stronghold. But here, in Venice, he was vulnerable again. It was open season for James Bond. He lengthened his stride and found Franco fending off an American matron who was clearly more interested in his body than his gondola.

Bond adopted a mealy-mouthed English accent. ‘I’m frightfully sorry but I’m afraid I engaged this chap for the day.’

The woman’s eyes challenged him contemptuously and the word ‘faggot’ almost formed itself on her lips. She turned away, making no secret of her disappointment.

Bond stepped into the gondola. ‘Have you seen anything unusual, Franco?’

‘A man with binoculars has been watching the Piazzetta for a long time from the top of the Campanile. You see —’ he nodded discreetly as he began to paddle ‘— they glint in the sunlight.’ •

Bond looked and nodded. It might be a tourist. It might be somebody reporting his movements. He must keep on the alert but not fall prey to exaggerated fears. ‘Take me up to the Rialto,’ he commanded.

‘ Si, signore. ’ Franco took the gondola away from the cluster round the jetties and headed towards the church of Santa Maria della Salute and the mouth of the Grand Canal. Bond sat back in comfort and looked at the façades of the noble buildings; the warm pink brick and the blackened stone. The water lapped noisily and there was a sad smell of age and decay. Bond thought of Trudi again and felt a fresh pang of bitterness and misery sweep over him. He was in a dirty business and kind, ordinary people with whom he came into contact ran the risk of dying. As he grew older it was something that worried him more. His increasing awareness of the limitations of his own mortality was making him more compassionate about the lives of others. It was something, he considered ruefully, that in due course could make him a liability to the service.

Franco turned into a narrow waterway at the Grande Hotel Europa e Britannia and the noise and bustle of the Grand Canal was replaced by the mournful slap, slap of muddy brown water against the slime-covered stones. Buildings rose on either side like the walls of a canyon and Bond turned his head to see a fat rat watching him from the mouth of a pipe. Far above there was an unnerving cackle of female laughter and the grinding noise of a window being forced shut. A low bridge loomed up and Franco almost knelt as they went beneath it. On all sides they were enclosed, and the atmosphere was claustrophobic. Bond slid his hand down to his waist to feel the comforting outline of hi§ Walther PPK, keeping his eyes moving warily. There were balconies far above, and suddenly a flowerpot seemed to tremble. Bond flinched and then saw that the movement was caused by a cat picking its way along a balustrade.

No sooner had he relaxed than a funeral launch appeared, nosing its way into the canal ahead of them. The launch was black with an elaborate coffin mounted forward of a low cabin. Wreaths lined its sides. Before the coffin, the helmsman, dressed in black and wearing dark spectacles, controlled the launch. The sight was a depressing one at the best of times, and in this dark and narrow waterway was made doubly sinister by its surroundings. Bond found his attention caught by the Charon at the helm. The dark spectacles gave the man an appearance that was unaccountably evil. And the hat. It was odd that the helmsman of a funeral launch should wear a flat black cap. Bond looked at Franco, who had taken off his straw and was holding it respectfully across his chest. The launch was a dozen yards away. The helmsman crouched over the wheel. Bond could make out shadowy figures in the cabin.

Bang!

With a noise like the lid of a jack-in-the-box springing open, the top of the coffin burst into the air and a man sat up clasping a sub-machine gun. His first volley of shots ripped into Franco’s chest and expelled him from the boat as at the tip of a lance. Bond threw himself flat and thrust out an arm. His finger collided with a button which he pushed as a second volley of sub-machine gun fire honeycombed the woodwork behind him. There was a grinding noise that struggled for survival against the metallic bray of the automatic, and the gondolier’s platform slid back to reveal an inboard motor and a tiller. As Bond grasped the tiller, so the engine roared to life and the prow of the gondola leapt into the air.

The boat surged forward as another hornet swarm of hot lead lacerated the air above Bond’s head. There were shouts of rage and defiance and loud scraping noises as the launch swung round to give chase. Bond found himself menaced by another gondola and steered a perilous passage between it and a wall before emerging in an open basin. There was no indication of which exit to take so he swung the tiller over and sped up the narrowest waterway he could find. Only a few yards’ progress was necessary for him to realize that he had made a mistake. Ahead lay a high brick wall signalling that he had entered a cul de sac. Still lying at full length, he manipulated the tiller and passed under a narrow bridge. Behind him he could hear the manic screech of the launch’s motor. It was closing the distance between them fast. There was a sound like somebody stamping on a matchbox, and Bond looked back to see that the coffin and the top of the cabin structure had been torn off as the launch roared under the low bridge. The helmsman did not give up easily. He knew that if he caught up with Bond he could run him down as a motorist with a couple of beers inside him might smear a rabbit just for the hell of it.

Now the brick wall was looming up fast. Bond cut the engine and turned to face the way he had come. The prow of the gondola thumped into the wall. Bond was shaken but pulled out the Walther PPK and held it before him in two hands. The muzzle wavered slightly between the two circles of dark glass that showed above a mouth parting in triumph. Bond knew that it had to be — now! A sharp crack and the helmsman’s head jerked out of view.