No Deals, Mr. Bond

by John Gardner

  ‘Then just turn around, slowly.’

  She was calmer than he expected, but she was coming even closer, as though drawn towards his voice. He started to turn, his mind racing with the chances of his being able to take her with only one arm. Then, as she stepped in, her right hand holding the pistol high, he moved.

  Turn in. Always turn in towards the body but away from the weapon. It was what the experts taught, and anyone foolish enough to get close with a pistol deserved all she got. Bond wheeled right, knowing the position was good as he turned like a ballroom dancer executing a complicated step. Although his reactions were slightly impaired by the injured arm, he got it right. Heather’s gun arm remained rigid for just the necessary length of time. As he came close, her arm and weapon were to the right of his neck. He brought his knee up hard. It was never as effective with a woman, but it still caused a lot of pain. He felt the breath go out of her, and could smell her, feel her body close against his.

  As Heather doubled slightly from the impact, Bond’s right hand came up to grasp at her wrist. Even with one arm he could execute a lot of force with the downward pull. She gave a little cry when he broke her arm against his knee. The pistol dropped to the ground and bounced away down the steps.

  Bond flicked his knee up again. She was off balance and her spine presented an ideal target. His knee caught her in the small of the back so hard that he actually heard the spine go. Then she fell away, her breath coming in little panting jerks. Although she must by now be unconscious, loud whimpering noises came from her throat.

  He should have known it was Heather. She had taken the most prized target, Maxim Smolin. He should have seen it from the start. Bond reached out for the Luger. He did not hesitate. One bullet only, straight to the lovely head. He felt no qualms about it. Death was sudden and any nausea came only from the roaring pain in his left arm.

  He walked slowly over to the other body. It was one of the two guards. The man was dead, both bullets having caught him in the chest. He had hoped it would be Mischa.

  He looked at his watch again and at the fast-lightening sky. Time was really running out now. He would be lucky to make it. Taking another deep breath, Bond clenched his teeth. It was going to be one hell of a run, and lord knew what he could do when he got to the villa. Yet part of the job was done – the traitor had been found and dealt with. The odds on his saving the others were small, but he had to try.

  23

  CHINESE TAKEAWAY

  He thought his lungs were going to burst with the effort, for he ran faster than he had since leaving the house with the ‘Robinsons’ at his heels. The pain in his lungs, combined with the aching of his thighs and legs, helped to take his mind off the agony of his torn and broken arm. Somehow he had managed to take hold of his left hand and secure the arm inside the overall. In his good right hand he held the Luger.

  He forced himself on, scuffing the stones and sending up dust from the road that would take him almost as far as the promontory and the villa. He did not even try to calculate how much time had passed, but knew he would be cutting it very fine. Then, after what seemed an eternity, he reached the crest above the villa and sank to his knees, sliding back from the skyline. Using his right shoulder as a prop, he pulled himself up to peer at the building.

  Only a few yards below there was a large brown stain, and the remains of bodies strewn as though some wilful child had dismembered a couple of dolls: the two ‘Robinsons’ he had burned in the night.

  Bond caught a movement from the front of the villa. The one guard Heather had left behind, machine pistol at the ready, was crouching near the front wall, watching and alert. Chernov must be edgy, he thought. They would know about the two ‘Robinsons’ he had taken out close to the villa, and now the other two had not returned. There would be itchy fingers down there, though he suspected Chernov would be watching for Heather’s return. The odds had been so heavily stacked against Bond that nobody could have expected him to live.

  Chernov would have Mischa inside with him, to help with the ritual killing. It must be very near to the moment of execution now. Slowly and painfully, Bond started to work his way around to the rear of the house, aware of the time bomb ticking away inside the place. He edged downwards and pulled himself to his feet once more. The back of the house was some fifty yards away and he covered the ground quickly, loping somewhat lopsidedly as he had done all the way back from the Pak Tai Temple. Odd, he thought, how your sense of balance went with one arm out of action. He reached the low wall without being spotted and moved silently towards the house.

  Suddenly the sound echoed from the other side of the house, the noise he had dreaded from the beginning of his return journey, a terrible piercing scream – female, but like an animal in extreme pain. His mind was lanced by a vivid picture of Ebbie having her mouth forced open, with Chernov wielding a scalpel for the obscene punishment.

  At that moment the guard came round the corner of the house to check the rear. The man stopped, his jaw dropping open. The machine pistol came up but before he could fire, Bond’s Luger jumped twice and two bullets crashed into the man’s chest, knocking him down like a skittle. As Bond stepped forward he thought there was movement to his right, at the edge of his vision, but when he turned, the Luger ready, there was nobody there. A trick of the early morning light.

  There was a shout from the front of the garden and the sound of running feet, but before anyone reached the angle of the wall, Bond was on top of the guard. He wrenched at the machine pistol, identifying it almost by feel alone as an Uzi. It was the scaled-down version with the stock folded back; he wondered why the KGB were using Israeli weapons.

  Mischa was pounding around the corner as Bond lifted the Uzi, one-handed. He gave Chernov’s right-hand man a burst that almost cut him in two. He fired on the run and was at the front of the house almost before he knew it. He yelled at Chernov who stood undecided outside the window, unarmed except for a scalpel, his face pale and shocked.

  ‘Drop the cutter and freeze.’

  Chernov gave one pitiful shrug, then threw the scalpel into the garden and raised his hands, his shoulders drooping.

  Maxim Smolin, Susanne Dietrich and Jungle Baisley were still chained together in the corner, while Ebbie lay strapped to a wide plank set astride three saw horses.

  ‘My God, you really meant it! You bastard, Chernov, you must be crazy.’

  Bond’s voice had risen to an uncontrolled, murderous yell and Chernov backed away. ‘Vengeance is not just the prerogative of the gods,’ said Chernov shakily, although his eyes blazed with a mixture of fury and frustration. ‘One day, James Bond, one day all the ghosts of the old SMERSH will rise and crush you. That will be vengeance.’

  Bond rarely felt the desire to inflict pain but in that moment he saw Chernov being hit by three steel darts from the pen gun: one to each eye and one in the throat. But Chernov had to be taken alive.

  ‘We’ll see about vengeance!’ He nodded. ‘The keys, General. I want those chains undone.’

  Chernov hesitated for a second, then his hands moved towards the table and Bond saw the keys lying there.

  ‘Pick them up gently.’ Bond was under control now. ‘Unlock them.’

  Again Chernov hesitated, his eyes flickering to a point behind Bond’s shoulders. No, he thought, you don’t fall for an old trick like that.

  ‘Just do as I say, Kolya . . .’ he began, then the hairs on the nape of his neck prickled and he turned.

  ‘If I were you, Jacko, I’d simply be putting your gun down on the table very carefully.’

  Norman Murray faced him, having come in quietly through the door, his police issue Walther PPK steady in his right hand.

  ‘What . . . ?’ began Bond incredulously.

  ‘Kolya,’ Murray said calmly, ‘I’d leave the keys where they are. Whatever vengeance you’re wanting will have to wait, so, because I’ve a feeling we’re going to get some visitors up here soon enough. I’m sorry I’m so late, but it was a bi
t of a avoiding my own people and the Brits. Not an easy job.’

  Chernov made a ‘Tchah-ing’ sound.

  ‘Well, when it comes to us getting out safely we’ll have to use your man Bond as collateral, will we not?’

  Bond backed away. ‘Norman? What in God’s name . . . ?’

  ‘Ah, Jacko, the evils of this wicked world. You recall that lovely book of Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island? Grand book that. You remember the bit where young Jim Hawkins meets the castaway, Ben Gunn was his name? Well, auld Ben Gunn tries to explain to Jim how he got started on his iniquitous life of piracy. He says, “It begun with chuck-farthen on the blessed grave-stones” – playing what we’d be after calling shove-ha’penny on the gravestones. Well, I suppose it was like that for me. Now will you put that cannon on the table, Jacko Bond.’

  Bond turned his back, carefully placing the Luger near the keys.

  ‘Now, hands on your head, Jacko.’

  ‘I’ve got a broken arm.’

  ‘Well, hand on your head then. You’re a pedantic divil, Jacko.’

  By the time Bond turned again, slowly raising his right hand, he had slipped the pen from the breast pocket of the overalls, covering it with his right palm. Two traitors, he thought, and the second one an officer of the Republic of Ireland’s Special Branch. A man who had a special, secret relationship with the British Service over matters of intelligence, who even cooperated with M himself.

  ‘Good,’ Murray continued. ‘As I was saying, Jacko, it started by playing shove ha’penny on the grave-stones for me, after a fashion; only my game was the horses. The auld, auld joke – slow horses and fast women. The debts and the lady, one night in Dublin, who had me compromised and trussed neat as a turkey at Christmas. I just want you to know it wasn’t a political thing with me, more a matter of money.’

  ‘Money?’ The disgust showed in Bond’s voice. ‘Money? Then why bother to rescue me from Chernov?’

  ‘Now that was a bit of cover. None of us ever thinks we’ll blow our cover, do we Jacko? And I was playing it three ways: my own people, you Brits and these fellas. I’m a treble, really, Jacko and I didn’t know the cover was blown until I got you to Dublin airport. So that’s water under the bridge now.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Norm. And don’t tell me not to call you Norm again, because you’re Comrade Norm now.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I don’t know how I’m goin’ to like it in yon country. It’s goin’ to be awful cold there, so it is. But, you see, Jacko, they’re most of them on to me now. Your man M’s on to me for sure, so I’m getting a lift out with Kolya, here.’ He turned towards Chernov. ‘And don’t you think we should be getting a move on, Kolya? The porpoises must be close behind me now. Treading on my tail, so they were, when I left Dublin.’

  Chernov nodded gravely. ‘We go as soon as the business is completed.’

  During the momentary distraction, Bond was able to twist the two sections of the pen anti-clockwise with the first finger and thumb of his right hand then turn the weapon face forward. His thumb then moved back to the push trigger.

  ‘Norman!’ he called, swivelling his body so that he was aligned with Murray’s head. He pressed the trigger quickly twice. ‘Sorry, Norman,’ he said as the two steel darts made tiny red pinpoint holes in the Special Branch man’s head, just above the eyes.

  ‘Jacko!’ The word came as a reflex, for Murray must have been dead as he spoke, pitching forward, the gun dropping from his hand at the instant Bond reached out and retrieved the Luger from the table.

  Now it was done. Those who could have caused scandal were dead. Chernov would be a coup. Only the tidying up and some plausible explanations to the Press were needed.

  ‘Now, Kolya Chernov . . .’ Bond’s voice was not as steady as it might have been, for he had liked Murray, ‘. . . take the keys and unlock these good people.’ He looked at Ebbie. ‘When you’re free, go to the telephone, darling, and dial the number I give you. It belongs to my own Department’s Resident in Hong Kong. You’ll have to cover the General while I speak to him. We must go official on this.’

  Chernov began to unlock the shackles and Ebbie went to the telephone. The conversation took no more than three mintues. Meanwhile the others were freed. Jungle and Smolin, using their initiative, secured Chernov with the chains. All the fight seemed to have gone out of him now.

  Bond put down the telephone, resting his good hand on the table. There was a light touch on his shoulder and a hand slid down to lie on top of his own.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ebbie said, her voice breaking. ‘James, I have to thank you so much.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ he replied.

  The pain returned, the dizziness took over, and his legs buckled under him. In a far corner of his mind he welcomed the oblivion.

  James Bond came round in a private hospital room. The Service Resident was by his bedside. He was well known to Bond. They had worked together, once in Switzerland and again in Berlin.

  It did not take Bond long to realise that his left arm was encased in plaster.

  ‘It’s broken in two places and there are some torn muscles.’

  ‘Apart from that,’ said Bond, smiling, ‘how did you enjoy the play Mrs Lincoln?’ It was a very old joke they had shared in the past.

  ‘M sends congratulations, together with some harsh words about your allowing that girl to travel here with you.’

  Bond closed his eyes, feeling very tired. ‘Girls like Ebbie are not easy to stop. Don’t worry, it wasn’t my only mistake.’

  ‘He wants you back in London. The doctors say you can leave the hospital tomorrow but you’re to stay here for a couple of weeks. Reluctantly our Chief has agreed. The quacks just want to keep an eye on the arm, if you follow me.’

  ‘What about the others?’ Bond asked.

  ‘Everything’s tidied up. No mess. No questions. Chernov was flown to London this afternoon. You’ve been out for the best part of a day, incidentally.’

  ‘Open him up.’ Bond’s mouth turned down, betraying that rare, innate cruel streak.

  ‘We’re denying all knowledge at the moment. Our people will put him through the mill before we go public – if we ever do. Ms Dietrich, young Baisley and Maxim have gone as well. Smolin’s no use in the field any more, but they’ll find plenty for him to do on the Eastern Bloc desk at Headquarters. You just rest now, James. You’ve wrapped up the last crumbs of Cream Cake and you’ve no more to worry about.’

  ‘Where’s Ebbie?’

  ‘I have a surprise for you.’

  The Resident winked and left the room. A minute later Ebbie Heritage came in. She stood looking at him, then approached the bed.

  ‘I put my feet down,’ she said, her face breaking into a smile. ‘I put my feet down and said I would take care of you. My surprise was great. They told me yes, okay. We are very grand, James. We even have bodyguards until you’re well enough to travel.’

  ‘I guess I might need one.’ He smiled and she laid the palm of her hand on his brow.

  ‘That feels very nice,’ said Bond. His arm might be damaged, but he knew other parts of his body were in working order. ‘Your hand’s so cool.’

  ‘There is old Chinese saying,’ she said, looking at him sweetly. ‘Woman with cool palm has fire under skirt.’

  ‘Never heard that.’ Bond’s eyes twinkled.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘It’s a true saying. I know, because an elderly Japanese gentleman once told me.’

  They stayed at the Mandarin, and in spite of the plaster cast enjoyed two very active weeks together.

  Eventually they left by Cathay Pacific. As the carpet of lights that was Hong Kong disappeared from sight, the jolly female purser came over to introduce herself.

  ‘Mr Bond? Ms Heritage? Welcome aboard.’ She had a broad grin and infectious laugh. ‘You had a good time in Hong Kong?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Ebbie.

  ‘Full of surprises,�
�� Bond added.

  ‘Were you on holiday?’ the purser asked.

  ‘A sort of working holiday.’

  ‘So now you return to London.’ The purser gave what was almost a guffaw of laughter. ‘This route has a special name in Cathay Pacific, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ said Ebbie, sipping her champagne.

  ‘Yes. We call this route from Hong Kong, Chinese Takeaway, ha!’

  Ebbie giggled, and Bond gave a wry smile.

  ‘No doubt we’ll be back,’ he said. ‘One day we’ll be back.’

  By John Gardner

  Licence Renewed

  For Special Services

  Icebreaker

  Role of Honour

  Nobody Lives For Ever

  No Deals, Mr Bond

  Scorpius

  Win, Lose or Die

  Licence to Kill

  Brokenclaw

  The Man from Barbarossa

  Death is Forever

  Never Send Flowers

  SeaFire

  GoldenEye

  COLD

  John Gardner served with the Fleet Air Arm and Royal Marines before embarking on a long career as a thriller writer, including international bestsellers The Nostradamus Traitor, The Garden of Weapons, Confessor and Maestro. In 1981 he was invited by Glidrose Publications Ltd – now known as Ian Fleming Publications – to revive James Bond in a brand new series of novels. To find out more visit John Gardner’s website at www.john-gardner.com or the Ian Fleming website at www.ianfleming.com

  An Orion ebook

  First published in Great Britain in 1987 by Jonathan Cape

  This ebook first published in 2012 by Orion Books

  © Glidrose Publications Ltd 1987

  The right of John Gardner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.