Nobody Lives for Ever

by John Gardner

  ‘A little old-fashioned, but it’ll do.’

  Osten smiled and glanced around him. ‘I shall be living in this kind of world very shortly. A good place for a ghost, yes?’

  ‘Enchanting. And what kind of place will I be haunting?’

  Any trace of humanity disappeared from the policeman’s face. The muscles turned to hard rock, and the glassy stare broke and splintered. Even the apple cheeks seemed to lose colour and become sallow.

  ‘The grave, Mr Bond. You will be haunting the cold, cold grave. You will be nowhere. Nothing. It will be as though you had never existed.’ His small hand flicked up so that he could glance at his wrist watch, and he turned to the man with the Uzi, sharply ordering him to switch on the television. ‘The late news will be starting any moment. My death should already have been reported. Yours will be announced as probable – though it will be more than probable before dawn. Please sit down and watch. I think you’ll agree that my improvisation has been brilliant, for I only had a very short time to set things up.’

  Bond slumped into a chair, half his mind on the chances of dealing with Osten and his accomplices, the other half working out what the policeman had planned and why.

  There were commercials on the big colour screen. Attractive Austrian girls standing against mountain scenery told the world of the essential value of a sun barrier cream. A young man arrived hatless from the air, climbed from his light aircraft and said the view was wunderschön but even more wunderschön when you used a certain kind of camera to capture it.

  The news graphics filled the screen and a serious-faced brunette appeared. The lead story was about a shooting incident on the A12 autobahn. One car carrying tourists had been fired at and had crashed in flames. The pictures showed the wreckage of the silver Renault surrounded by police and ambulances. The young woman, now looking very grave, appeared again. The horror had been compounded by the death of five police officers in a freak accident as they sped from Salzburg to the scene of the shooting. One of the police cars had gone out of control and was hit broadside on by the other. Both cars had skidded into woodland and caught fire.

  There were more pictures showing the remains of the two cars. Then Inspektor Heinrich Osten’s official photograph came up in black and white, and the newscaster said that Austria had lost one of her most efficient and long-serving officers. The inspector had been travelling in the second car and had died of multiple burns.

  Next Bond saw his own photograph and the number plate of the Bentley Mulsanne Turbo. He was said to be a British diplomat, travelling on private business, probably with two unidentified young women. He was wanted for questioning regarding the original shooting incident. A statement from the Embassy said he had telephoned appealing for help, but they feared he might have been affected by stress and run amok. ‘He has been under great strain during the last few days,’ a bland Embassy spokesman told a television reporter. So, the Service and Foreign Office had decided to deny him. Well, that was standard. The car, diplomat and young women had disappeared and there were fears for their lives. The police would resume the search at daybreak, but the car could easily have gone off one of the mountain roads. The worst was feared.

  Der Haken began to laugh. ‘You see how simple it all is, Mr Bond? When they find your car smashed to pieces at the bottom of a ravine sometime tomorrow, the search will be over. There will be three mutilated bodies inside.’

  The full impact of the inspector’s plan had struck home.

  ‘Mine will be without its head, I presume?’ Bond asked calmly.

  ‘Naturally,’ Der Haken said with a scowl. ‘It seems you know what’s going on.’

  ‘I know that somehow you’ve managed to murder five of your colleagues . . .’

  The tiny hand came up. ‘No! No! Not my colleagues, Mr Bond. Tramps, vagrants. Scum. Yes, we cleaned up some scum . . .’

  ‘With two extra police cars?’

  ‘With the two original police cars. The ones in the garage are fakes. I have kept a pair of white VWs with detachable police decals and plates for a long time, in case I should need them. The moment arrived suddenly.’

  ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘When I discovered the real reason for the kidnapping of your friends – and the reward. Yes, it was yesterday. I have ways and means of contacting people. Once I knew about the ransom demand I made enquiries and came up with . . .’

  ‘The Head Hunt.’

  ‘Precisely. You’re very well informed. The people offering the large prize gave me the impression that you were in the dark – that is correct, in the dark?’

  ‘For a late starter, Inspektor, you seem to be well organised,’ said Bond.

  ‘Ach! Organised!’ The polished cheeks blossomed with pride. ‘I have spent most of my life being ready to move at short notice – with ways, means, papers, friends, transport.’

  Clearly the man was very sure of himself, as well he might be, with Bond captive in a building high above Salzburg, his own territory. He was also expansive.

  ‘I have always known the chance of real wealth and escape would come through something big like a blackmail or kidnap case. The petty criminals could never supply me with the kind of money I really need to be independent. If I was able to do a private deal, in, as I have said, a blackmail, or kidnap, case, then my last years were secure. But I never in my craziest dreams expected the riches that have come with you, Mr Bond.’ He beamed like a malicious child. ‘In my time here I have made sure that my team had the proper incentives. Now they have a great and always good reason for helping me. They’re not really uniformed men, of course. They are my detective squad. But they would die for me . . .’

  ‘Or for the money,’ Bond said coldly. ‘They might even dispose of you for the money.’

  Der Haken laughed shortly. ‘You have to be up early in the morning to catch an old bird like me, Mr Bond. They could try to kill me, I suppose, but I doubt it. What I do not doubt is that they will help me to dispose of you.’ He rose. ‘You will excuse me, I have an important telephone call to make.’

  Bond lifted a hand. ‘Inspektor! One favour! The two young women are here?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘They have nothing to do with me. We met entirely by chance. They’re not involved, so I ask you to let them go.’

  Der Haken did not even look at Bond as he muttered, ‘Impossible’, and strode off down one of the passageways.

  The man with the Uzi smiled at Bond over the barrel, then spoke in bad English. ‘He is very clever, Der Haken, yes? Always he promises us one day there will be a way to make us all rich. Now he says we will sit in sunshine and luxury soon.’ Like as not, Osten would see his four accomplices at the bottom of some ravine before he made off with the reward – if he ever got the reward. In German he asked how they had concocted a plan so quickly.

  Der Haken’s team had been working on the kidnapping at the Klinik Mozart. There were a lot of telephone calls. Suddenly the inspector disappeared for about an hour. He returned jubilant. He had brought the whole team to this apartment and explained the situation. All they had to do was catch a man called Bond. The accident was simple to stage. Once they had him, the kidnapping would be over – only there was a bonus. The people who owned this very apartment would see that the women were returned to the clinic and pay a huge sum for Bond’s head.

  ‘The Inspektor kept calling in to headquarters,’ the man told him. ‘He was trying to find out where you were. When he discovered, we left in the cars. We were already on the way when the radio call told us you were waiting off the A8. There had been shooting and a car was destroyed. He thinks on his feet, the Inspektor. We picked up five vagrants, from the worst area of the town, and drove them to the place where we keep the other cars. The rest was easy. We had uniforms with the cars; the vagrants were drunk and easy to make completely unconscious. Then we came on to pick you up.’ He was not certain of the next moves in the game, but knew his chief would get the money. At that moment Der Hake
n strode back into the room.

  ‘It is all arranged,’ he said, smiling. ‘I am afraid I shall have to lock you in one of the rooms, like the others, Mr Bond. But only for an hour or two. I have a visitor. When my visitor has gone we will all go for a short drive into the mountains. The Head Hunt is almost over.’

  Bond nodded, thinking to himself that the Head Hunt was not almost over. There were always ways. He now had to find a way quickly to get them all out of Der Haken’s clutches. The grotesque inspector was gesturing with the ASP, indicating that Bond should go down the passageway on the right. Bond took a step towards the arch, then stopped.

  ‘Two questions. Last requests, if you like . . .’

  ‘The women have to go,’ Osten said quietly. ‘I cannot keep witnesses.’

  ‘And I would do the same in your shoes. I understand. No, my questions are merely to ease my own mind. First, who were the men in the Renault? They were obviously taking part in this bizarre hunt for my head. I’d like to know.’

  ‘Union Corse, so I understand,’ Der Haken was in a hurry, agitated, as though his visitor would arrive at any moment.

  ‘And what happened to my housekeeper and Miss Moneypenny?’

  ‘Happened? They were kidnapped.’

  ‘Yes, but how did it take place?’

  Der Haken gave a snarl of irritation. ‘I haven’t got time to go into details now. They were kidnapped. You do not need to know anything else.’ He gave Bond a light push, heading him in the direction of the passage. At the third door on the right Der Haken stopped, unlocked it and almost threw Bond inside. He heard the key turn and the lock thud home.

  Bond found himself in a bright bedroom with a modern four poster, more expensive prints, an armchair, dressing table and built-in wardrobe. The single window was draped with heavy cream curtains.

  He moved quickly, first checking the casement window, which looked out on to a narrow section of balcony at the side of the building – almost certainly part of the large main terrace. The glass was thick, unbreakable, and the locks were high-security and would take time to remove. An assault on the door was out of the question. There was a deadlock on it that wouldn’t be easy to break without a lot of noise and the only tools he had hidden on him were small. At a pinch he might just do the window, but what then? He was at least six storeys above ground. He was also unarmed and without any climbing aids.

  He checked the wardrobe and dressing table; every drawer and cupboard in the room was empty. As he did so, a door bell sounded from far away in the main area of the apartment. The visitor had arrived – Tamil Rahani’s emissary, he supposed; certainly someone of authority in SPECTRE. Time was running out. It would have to be the window.

  Oddly for a policeman, Osten had left him with his belt. Hidden almost undetectably between the thick layers of leather was the long, thin multi-purpose tool, made like a very slim Swiss Army knife. Fashioned in toughened steel, it contained a whole set of minute tools – screwdrivers, picklocks, even a tiny battery and connectors which could be used in conjunction with three small explosive charges, the size and thickness of a fingernail, hidden in the casing.

  The Toolkit had been designed by Major Boothroyd’s brilliant assistant in Q Branch, Anne Reilly known to everyone at the Regent’s Park Headquarters as Q’ute. Bond silently blessed her ingenuity as he now set to work on the security locks screwed tightly into the casement frame. There were two, in addition to the lock on the handle, and it took about ten minutes to remove the first of these. At this rate of progress, there was at least another twenty minutes work – possibly more – and Bond guessed he didn’t have that kind of time at his disposal.

  He worked on, blistering and grazing his fingers, knowing the alternative of trying to blow the deadlock on the door was a futile exercise. They would cut him down almost before he could reach the passage.

  From time to time he stopped, listening for any noise coming from the main room in the apartment. Not a sound reached him, and he finally disposed of the second lock. All that remained was the catch on the handle, and he had just started to work on it when a blaze of light came on outside. Somebody had switched on the balcony lights and one was on the wall just outside this bedroom window.

  He could still hear nothing. The place probably had some soundproofing in the walls, while the windows were so toughened that little noise from outside would seep through. After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted to the new light and he was able to continue his attack on the main lock. Five minutes passed before he managed to get one screw off. He stopped, leaned against the wall and decided to have a go at the lock mechanism itself, which held down the catch and handle.

  He tried three different picklocks before hitting on the right one. There was a sharp click as the bar slid back. A glance at his Rolex told him the whole business had taken over forty-five minutes. There could be very little time left, and he still had no firm plan in mind.

  Quietly Bond lifted the handle and pulled the window in towards him. It did not squeak, but a chill blast of air hit him and he took several deep breaths to clear his head. He stood, ears straining for any sound that might come from the main terrace round the corner to his right.

  There was only silence.

  Bond was puzzled. Time must now be running out for Der Haken. It had long been obvious that one of the competitors was watching, waiting for the moment to strike, carefully taking out the opposition as he went along. Der Haken had arrived, unexpectedly, on the scene. He was the wild card, the joker – the outsider who had suddenly solved SPECTRE’S problems. He would have to move fast to ensure his reward.

  Carefully, making no noise, Bond eased his way through the window and pressed against the wall. Still there was no sound. Cautiously he peered round the corner of the building to the wide terrace, high above Salzburg. It was furnished with lamps, huge pots filled with flowers and white-painted garden furniture. Even Bond took in a quick, startled breath as he looked at the scene. The lamps blazed and the panorama of the new and old towns twinkled as a beautiful backdrop. The furniture was neatly arranged – as were the corpses.

  Der Haken’s four accomplices had been laid out in a row between the white wrought-iron chairs, each man with the top of his head blown away, the blood stippling the furnishings and walls, seeping out over the flagstones set into the thick concrete balcony.

  Above the huge sliding windows leading to the main room pots of scarlet geraniums hung on hooks embedded in the wall. One of these had been removed and in its place was a rope with a small reinforced loop. A long, sharp butcher’s hook was threaded through the loop, and on its great spike Der Haken himself had been hung.

  Bond wondered when he had last witnessed a sight as revolting as this. The policeman’s hands and feet were tied together, and the point of the hook had been pushed into his throat. It was long enough to have penetrated the roof of the mouth, and to re-emerge through the left eye. Someone had taken great trouble to see that the big, ungainly man had suffered slowly and unremittingly. If the old Nazi stories were true, then whoever had done this wanted Inspektor Heinrich Osten’s death to be seen as poetic justice.

  The body, still dripping blood, swung slightly in the breeze, the neck stretching almost visibly as it moved. What was left of the face was contorted in horrible agony.

  Bond swallowed and stepped towards the window. At that moment there came a grotesque background sound, mingling with the creaking of rope on hook. From across the street, a group of rehearsing musicians began to play. Mozart, naturally; Bond thought it was the sombre opening of the Piano Concerto No. 20, but his knowledge of Mozart was limited. Then farther down the street a jazz trumpeter, a busker probably, started up. It was an odd counterpoint, the Concerto mingling with the 1930s’ Big House Blues. Bond wondered if it were mere coincidence.

  8

  UNDER DISCIPLINE

  Bond needed time to think, but standing there on the terrace amidst the carnage was not conducive to concentration. It was now three o
’clock in the morning. Apart from the music floating up from below, the city of Salzburg was silent – a glitter of lights, with the outline of mountains showing pitch black against the dark navy sky.

  The lights were still on in the main room as he entered. There was no sign of a struggle. Whoever had blown away Der Haken and his crew must have operated very quickly. There would have been more than one to deal with those five men. And whoever had carried out the executions would have been trusted, at least by Osten. Bloodstains could be seen on the wall between the two archways, and there were more traces on the deep pile cream carpet. On one of the tables his ASP and baton lay in full view. Bond checked the weapon, which was still loaded and unfired, before returning it to the holster. He paused, weighing the baton for a moment before slipping it into the cylindrical holder still attached to his belt.

  Then he went over and closed the windows, Der Haken’s body bumping heavily against the glass, and found the button which operated the curtains, blotting out the gruesome sight on the terrace.

  He had moved from the balcony quickly, knowing that whoever had finished off the policemen could still be in the apartment. Drawing the ASP, Bond began a systematic search of the flat. The door out to the lift appeared to have been secured from the outside, and three of the rooms were also firmly locked. One was the guest room he had recently vacated, the other two, he deduced, contained Sukie and Nannie. There was no response from either room when he knocked, and no sign of keys.

  Two things worried Bond. Why, with his quarry under lock and key in this very apartment, had not his adversary used the opportunity to kill him on the spot? One of the Head Hunt competitors appeared to be playing a devious game and eliminating any other competitor who had come near the prize. Who were the most likely people to be running this kind of interference? The obvious choice was SPECTRE itself. It would be just their style to mount a competition with a fabulous price on the victim’s head, and then step in at the last moment to reap the reward. That would be the most economic way to have your cake and eat it.