Nobody Lives for Ever

by John Gardner

  Ten minutes passed, then another ten, before he caught a glimpse of lights. Soon afterwards he cut the engine and drifted in towards shore. The long dark slice of land stood out against the horizon, twinkling with lights from buildings set among trees. He leaned over, washed out his mask again, took up the torch, and, for the second time that night, dropped into the sea.

  He remained on the surface for a while, judging that he was a couple of kilometres offshore. Then he heard the drumming of engines and saw a small craft rounding the island to his left, searching the waters with a powerful spotlight. Tamil Rahani’s regular patrol, he thought. There would be at least two boats like this keeping a constant vigil. He took in air and dived, swimming steadily but conserving energy against any emergency.

  He surfaced twice on the way in, to discover the second time that they had found the speed boat. The patrol craft had stopped and voices drifted over the water. He was less than a kilometre from shore and he was concerned now about the possibility of meeting sharks. The island would hardly be named after the creatures were they not known to haunt its vicinity.

  Suddenly he came up against the heavy wire mesh of shark guard, around sixty metres from the beach. Clinging on to the strong metal, he could see lights shining brightly from picture windows in a large house. There were floodlights in the grounds. Looking back, he saw the spotlight from the patrol boat and heard its engine rise again. They were coming to look for him.

  He heaved himself up on to the metal bar that topped the protective fence. One flipper caught awkwardly in the mesh, and he lost a few precious seconds disentangling himself before finally lowering his body into the water on the far side.

  Again, he dived deep, swimming a little faster now that he was almost there. He had gone about ten metres when instinct warned him of danger: something was close by in the water. Then the bump jarred his ribs, throwing him to one side.

  Bond turned his head and saw swimming beside him, as though keeping station with him, the ugly, wicked snout of a bull shark. The protective fence was not there to keep the creatures out but to make sure that an island guard of sharks remained close inshore – the favourite hunting ground of the dangerous bull shark.

  The shark had bumped him but had not attempted to turn and attack, which meant that it was either well fed or had not yet sized up Bond as an enemy. He knew his only salvation was to remain calm, not to antagonise the shark, and certainly not knowingly to transmit fear – though he was probably doing that at the moment.

  Still keeping pace with the shark, he slid his right hand down to the knife handle, his fingers closing around it, ready to use the weapon at a second’s notice. He knew that on no account must he drop his legs. If he did that, the shark would recognise him immediately as prey, and the bull shark could move like a racing boat. The most dangerous moment lay ahead, and not very far ahead, when he reached the beach. There Bond would be at his most vulnerable.

  As he felt the first touch of sand under his belly, he was aware of the shark dropping back. He swam on until his flippers began to churn sand. In that moment, he knew the shark was behind him, probably even beginning to build up speed for the strike.

  Later Bond thought that he had seldom moved as quickly in water. He gave a last mighty push forward, bringing his feet down, then he raced for the beach, in an odd splayfooted, hopping run made necessary by the flippers. He reached the surf and rolled to the left just in time. The bull shark’s snout, jaws wide and snapping, broke through the foaming water, missing him by inches.

  Bond continued to roll, trying to propel himself forward, for he had heard of bull sharks coming right out of the water to attack. Two metres up the beach, he lay still, panting, feeling his stomach reel with a stab of fear.

  Instantly his subconscious told him to move. He was on the island, and heaven alone knew with what other guardians SPECTRE had surrounded their headquarters. He kicked off the flippers and ran forward, crouching, to the first line of palms and undergrowth. There he squatted to take stock. First he had to dump the mask, snorkel and flippers. He pushed them under some bushes. The air was balmy and the sweet smell of night-blooming tropical flowers came to his nostrils.

  He could detect no sounds of movement coming from the grounds, which were well-lit and laid out with paths, small water gardens, trees, statues and flowers. A low murmur of voices came from the house. It was built like a pyramid lifted high above the ground on great polished steel girders. He could make out three storeys, each with a metal balcony running around the whole of the building. Some of the large picture windows were partly open, others had curtains drawn across them. On top of the building a forest of communications aerials stretched up like some avant-garde sculpture.

  Gently, Bond reached into the waterproof pouch and drew out the ASP, slipping off the safety catch. He was breathing normally now, and using the trees and statues for cover he moved stealthily and silently towards the huge modern pyramid. As he got closer, he saw there were several ways into the place. A giant spiral staircase running up through the centre and three sets of metal steps, one on each side, which zig-zagged from one balcony to the next.

  He crossed the last piece of open ground and stood to listen for a moment. The voices had ceased; he thought he could hear the patrol boat, far out to sea. Nothing else.

  Bond began to climb the open zig-zagging stairs to the first level, his feet touching the fretted metal noiselessly, his body held to the left so that his right hand, clutching the ASP, was constantly ready. Standing on the first terrace, he waited, his head cocked. Just ahead of him there was a large sliding picture window, the curtains only partially drawn, and one section open. He crossed to the window and peered in.

  The room was white, furnished with glass tables, soft white armchairs, and valuable modern paintings. A deep pile white carpet covered the floor. In the centre was a large bed, with electronic controls that could adjust any section to any angle, to improve the comfort of the patient who now lay in it.

  Tamil Rahani was propped up with silk-covered pillows, his eyes closed, and his head turned to one side. Despite the shrunken face with skin the colour of parchment, Bond recognised him immediately. On their previous meetings, Rahani had been smooth, short and dapper, attractive in a military kind of way. Now the heir to the Blofeld fortune was reduced to this human doll, dwarfed by the seductive luxury of the high-tech bed.

  Bond slid open the window, and stepped inside. Moving like a cat to the end of the bed, he gazed down on the man who controlled SPECTRE.

  Now I can have him, he thought. Now, why not? Kill him now and you may not ruin SPECTRE, but at least you’ll decapitate it – just as its leader wants you decapitated.

  Taking a deep breath, Bond raised the ASP. He was only a few steps from Rahani’s head. One squeeze of the trigger and it would be obliterated, and he could be away, hiding in the grounds until he found a way to get off the island.

  As he began to squeeze the trigger, he thought he felt a small gust of air on the back of his head.

  ‘I don’t think so, James. We’ve brought you too far to let you do what God’s going to do soon enough.’ The voice came from behind him.

  ‘Just drop the gun, James. Drop it, or you’ll be dead before you can even move.’

  He was stunned by the voice. The ASP fell with a noisy thump to the floor and Tamil Rahani stirred and groaned in his sleep.

  ‘Okay, you can turn around now.’

  Bond turned to look at Nannie Norrich, who stood in the window, an Uzi machine pistol held against her slim hip.

  18

  MADAME AWAITS

  ‘I’m sorry it had to be like this, James. You lived up to your reputation. Every girl should have one.’

  The grey eyes were as cold as the North Sea in December, and the words meant nothing.

  ‘Not as sorry as I am.’ Bond allowed himself a smile which neither the muzzle of the Uzi, nor Nannie Norrich deserved. ‘You and Sukie, eh? You really did take me in. Is it privat
e enterprise, or do you work for one of the organisations?’

  ‘Not Sukie, James. Sukie’s for real,’ she replied flatly. Any feelings she might have had were well under control. ‘She’s in bed at the Pier House. I slipped her what the old gumshoe movies would call a Mickey Finn – a very strong one. We had coffee on room service after we left you. And I provided a service of my own. You’ll be long gone by the time she wakes up. If she does wake up.’

  Bond glanced at the bed. The shrunken figure of Tamil Rahani had not moved. Time. He needed time. Time for some fast talking, and a little luck. He tried to sound casual.

  ‘Originally, a Mickey Finn was a laxative for horses. Did you know that?’

  She took no notice. ‘You look like a black Kermit the Frog in that gear, James. It doesn’t suit you, so – very slowly – I want you to take it off.’

  Bond shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do, and please don’t be foolish. The tiniest move and I won’t hesitate to take your legs off with this.’ The muzzle of the Uzi moved a fraction.

  Slowly, and with a certain amount of difficulty, Bond began to take off the wet suit. All the time, he tried to keep her talking, picking questions with care.

  ‘You really did have me fooled, Nannie. After all, you saved me several times.’

  ‘More than you know.’ Her voice was level and emotionless. ‘That was my job, or at least the job I said I’d try to do.’

  ‘You wasted the German – what was his name? Conrad Tempel – on the road to Strasbourg?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and there were a couple before that who had latched on to you. I dealt with them. On the boat to Ostend.’

  Bond nodded, acknowledging that he knew about the men on the ferry. ‘And Cordova – the Rat, the Poison Dwarf?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘The Renault?’

  ‘That took me a little by surprise. You helped a great deal, James. Quinn was a thorn in the flesh, but you helped again. I was simply your guardian angel. That was my job.’

  He finally pulled off the wet suit, standing there in the black slacks and rollneck.

  ‘What about Der Haken? The mad cop.’

  Nannie gave a frosty smile. ‘I had some help there. My own private panic button – Der Haken was briefed; he thought I was a go-between for himself and SPECTRE. When he had outlived his usefulness, Colonel Rahani sent in the heavy mob to dispose of him. They wanted to take you as well, but the Colonel let me carry on – though there was a penalty clause: my head was on the block if I lost you after that. And I nearly did, because I was responsible for the vampire bat. Lucky for you that Sukie came along to save you when she did. But that gave me a hard time with SPECTRE. They’ve been experimenting with the beasts here. It was meant to give you rabies. You were a sort of guinea pig, and the plan was to get you to Shark Island before the symptoms became apparent. The Colonel wants your head, but he wanted to see the effect of the rabies before they shortened you, as they say.’

  She moved the Uzi again. ‘Let’s have you against the wall, James. The standard position, feet apart, arms stretched. We don’t want to find you’re carrying any nasty little toys, do we?’

  She frisked him expertly, and then began to remove his belt. It was the action of a trained expert, and something Bond had dreaded. ‘Dangerous things, belts,’ she said, undoing the buckle, then unthreading it from the loops. ‘Oh, yes. This one especially. Very cunning.’ She had obviously detected the Toolkit.

  ‘If SPECTRE has someone like you on the payroll, Nannie, why bother with a charade like this competition – the Head Hunt?’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said curtly. ‘Not on the payroll, I mean. I entered the competition as a freelance. I’ve done a little work for them before, so we came to an arrangement. They put me on a retainer, and I stood to get a percentage of the prize money if I won – which I have done. The Colonel has great faith in me. He saw it as a way of saving money.’

  As though he had heard talk of himself, the figure on the bed stirred.

  ‘Who is it? What . . . Who?’

  The voice, so commanding and firm the last time Bond had heard it, was now as wasted as the body.

  ‘It’s me, Colonel Rahani,’ said Nannie respectfully.

  ‘The Norrich girl?’

  ‘Nannie, yes. I’ve brought you a present.’

  ‘Help . . . Sit up . . .’ Rahani croaked.

  ‘I can’t at the moment. But I’ll press the bell.’

  Bond, leaning forward, hands spread against the wall, heard her move, but knew he had no chance of taking precipitate action. Nannie was fast and accurate at the best of times. Now, with her quarry cornered, her trigger finger would be very itchy.

  ‘You can stand up now, James, slowly,’ she said a couple of seconds later.

  He pushed himself from the wall.

  ‘Turn around – slowly – with your arms stretched out and feet apart, then lean back against the wall.’

  Bond did as he was told, regaining a full view of the room just as the door to his right opened. Two men entered with guns in their hands.

  ‘Relax,’ Nannie said softly. ‘I’ve brought him.’

  They were the usual SPECTRE specimens, one fair-haired, the other balding; both big muscular men with wary eyes and cautious, quick movements.

  The fair one smiled. ‘Oh, good. Well done, Miss Norrich.’ His English bore the trace of a Scandinavian accent. The bald one merely nodded.

  They were followed by a short man, dressed casually in white shirt and trousers, his face distorted by the right corner of his mouth, which seemed permanently twisted towards the right ear.

  ‘Dr McConnell,’ Nannie greeted him.

  ‘Aye, so it’s you, Mistress Norrich. Ye’ve brought yon man the Colonel’s always raving about, then?’

  His face reminded Bond of a bizarre ventriloquist’s dummy as he spoke in his exaggeratedly Scottish accent. A tall, masculine-looking nurse plodded in his wake, a big, raw-boned woman with flaxen hair.

  ‘So, how’s ma patient, then?’ McConnell asked as he stood by the bed.

  ‘I think he wants to see the present I’ve brought for him, Doctor.’ Nannie’s eyes never left Bond. Now she had him, she was taking no chances.

  The doctor gave a signal to the nurse, who moved towards the white bedside table. She picked up a flat black control box the size of a man’s wallet, attached to an electric cable that snaked under the bed. She pressed a button and the bedhead began to move upwards, raising Tamil Rahani into a sitting position. The mechanism made no more than a mild whirring noise.

  ‘There. I said I’d do it, Colonel Rahani, and I did. Mr James Bond, at your service.’ The smallest hint of triumph could be detected in Nannie’s voice.

  There was a tired, wheezing cackle from Rahani as his eyes focused. ‘An eye for an eye, Mr Bond. Apart from the fact that SPECTRE has wanted you dead for more years than either of us would care to recall, I have a personal score to settle with you.’

  ‘Nice to see you in such a bad way,’ Bond said with icy detachment.

  ‘Ah! Yes, Bond,’ Rahani croaked. ‘On the last occasion we met, you caused me to jump for my life. I didn’t know then that I was jumping to my death. The bad landing jarred my spine, and that started the incurable disease from which I am now dying. Since you’ve caused the downfall of previous leaders of SPECTRE and decimated the Blofeld family, I regard it as a duty, as well as a personal privilege, to see you wiped from the face of the earth – hence the little contest.’ He was rapidly losing strength, each word tiring him. ‘A contest which was a gamble with the odds in SPECTRE’S favour, for we took on Miss Norrich, a tried and true operator.’

  ‘And you manipulated other contestants,’ Bond said grimly. ‘The kidnapping, I mean. I trust . . .’

  ‘Oh, the delightful Scottish lady, and the famous Miss Moneypenny. You trust?’

  ‘I think that’s enough talking, Colonel,’ said Dr McConnell, moving closer to the bed.

  ‘No
. . . no . . .’ Rahani said, scarcely above a whisper. ‘I want to see him depart this life before I go.’

  ‘Then ya will, Colonel.’ The doctor bent over the bed. ‘Ye’ll have to rest a while first, though.’

  Rahani tried to speak to Bond, ‘You said you trust . . .’

  ‘I trust both ladies are safe, and that, for once, SPECTRE will act honourably and see they are returned in exchange for my head.’

  ‘They are both here. Safe. They will be freed the moment your head is severed from your body.’

  Rahani seemed to shrink even smaller as his head sank back on to the pillows. For a second Bond relived the last time he had seen the man, over the Swiss lake – strong, tough, outclassed – yet leaping from an airship to escape Bond’s victory.

  The doctor looked around at the hoods. ‘Is everything prepared? For the . . . er . . . the execution?’ He did not even glance at Bond.

  ‘We’ve been ready for a long time.’ The fair man gave his toothy smile again. ‘Everything’s in order.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘The Colonel hasn’t got long, I fear. A day, maybe two. I have to give him medication now, and he will sleep for about three hours. Can you do it then?’

  ‘Whenever.’ The balding man nodded, then gave Bond a hard look. He had stony eyes the colour of granite.

  The doctor signalled to the nurse and she started to prepare an injection.

  ‘Give the Colonel an hour, he’ll no be disturbed by being moved then. In an hour ye can move the bed into . . . what d’ye call it? The execution chamber?’

  ‘Good a name as any,’ the fair-haired man said. ‘You want us to take Bond up?’ he asked Nannie.

  ‘You touch him and you’re dead. I know the way. Just give me the keys.’

  ‘I have a request.’ Bond felt the first pangs of fear, but his voice was steady, even commanding.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’ asked Nannie almost diffidently.

  ‘I know it’ll make little difference, but I’d like to be sure about May and Moneypenny.’

  Nannie looked across at the two armed guards and the fair one nodded and said, ‘They’re in the other two cells. Next to the death cell. You can manage him by yourself? You’re sure?’