Trigger Mortis

by Anthony Horowitz

  Silence took its place at the table as Bond reflected on what he had just been told. Would it work? In the long run, the American authorities would surely be able to persuade the public of the truth. But Sin was right. That might take years, during which their entire space programme would be in stasis. And what proof did they have that the Russians were involved? Only the counterfeit money (which could have come from anywhere) and Bond’s word – that he had witnessed the meeting between Jason Sin and Colonel Gaspanov.

  He had to stop the launch taking place. There was very little time left but somehow they had to break out of here. Bond considered all the possibilities. What was it that Sin had said? The four guards were watching his every move. He could feel their eyes on him even now. Yes. In that lay his only hope.

  ‘You have nothing to add?’ Sin demanded.

  ‘Only that you’re wasting your time,’ Bond replied. ‘Miss Lane and I have both made separate reports. I have photographs of you with Gaspanov. We have the pictures that we took from your office and they show quite clearly that you’ve built a replica of the Vanguard. We already knew about Thomas Keller and we have the counterfeit money. The scenario you’re trying to set up won’t be believed.’

  ‘You still fail to understand me, Mr Bond. It is not my scenario. I am merely serving – and being handsomely paid by – the Russians. To be honest with you, I don’t care if it works or not. Causing multiple deaths whilst destroying a large part of Manhattan will give me satisfaction in itself.’ Suddenly, his hand closed on the stack of cards. He cut it several times, then reassembled the deck. ‘But, speaking of death, it is now time to discuss yours . . .’

  Briefly, Sin described the Hanafuda playing cards and how he had adapted them to his own ends. Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw Jeopardy grow pale. It was strange that this one death should seem more horrible than all the others that Sin had described and he hoped she wouldn’t try anything that would cause her harm. Sin talked for another minute. Then he spread the cards out across the table for Bond. ‘I have cast myself in the role of death,’ he explained. ‘The mechanism is in some respects a slightly clumsy one but I could think of no other way to marry the unpredictability of death with its inescapable certainty. Well, here we have both. It is your choice. Any card. The manner of your death will be revealed on the other side.’

  Bond looked down on the colourful arc with its gaudy images of leaves and flowers. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he wondered how many other people had been given this choice, forced to select their own deaths. ‘You can ——— yourself, Sin,’ Bond replied. ‘I’m not playing your squalid little games.’

  ‘There are three blank cards that could save your life.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Why would I lie?’

  ‘I want to see them.’

  Sin hesitated, with downturned lips. He had never heard this before and Bond was pleased that he had spoiled the game, removing some of his control. Almost sulkily, he said, ‘Very well. You can look.’

  Bond reached out and turned the cards over. Sure enough, they were all printed with capital letters, in English. He saw POISON, STARVATION, STRANGULATION but did his best not to look at any more. At her end of the table, Jeopardy was sitting dead still. Sin hadn’t said anything about her. Bond wondered if she would be next. He found the three blank cards. They had been evenly distributed through the deck. He pushed them forward, sliding them across the tablecloth.

  ‘Are you satisfied? Sin asked.

  Bond said nothing. He gathered up the cards, including the blank ones, gave them a thorough shuffle and spread them again. For a long minute, he sat staring at them.

  ‘Choose,’ Sin said.

  ‘Don’t, James!’ Jeopardy was fighting to keep herself under control but Bond knew that all of this was far outside her experience and she was terrified.

  He didn’t reply. He stabbed forward with a single finger and pushed a card out from the centre of the deck. ‘Are you happy now, you maniac?’ he asked, pleasantly. ‘Why don’t you turn it over?’

  Sin leant forward and turned the card.

  It was blank.

  ‘Well, that would seem to be that,’ Bond said. ‘I assume you’re going to obey your own rules, so if you’d get one of your men to show me to the door, I’ll say good night.’

  ‘No!’ Sin’s voice was high-pitched, somewhere between a whimper and a scream.

  ‘I hope you’re not going back on your word—’

  ‘No. You saw the cards! You cheated!’ Sin was like a petulant schoolboy and, alone in the room, Bond knew that he was right.

  There had been no greater card manipulator in the world than the American magician John Scarne, and Bond had spent long hours with his book, Scarne on Cards. When he had assembled the deck, it had been a simple matter to in-jog one of the blank cards, control it to the bottom and then, using the rather more difficult single-handed Annulment, to bring it to an exact position in the centre of the spread. In doing so, he had nicked one corner with his fingernail, making it instantly identifiable, and had simply drawn it out. He knew that it would do no good. There was no way that Sin was going to let him walk out of here. But it was always worth unsettling the enemy and at the very least it would have spoiled his squalid fun.

  Sure enough, Sin came to a decision. ‘I’m choosing for you!’ he snapped, and turned over the card next to the one that Bond had taken.

  BURIED ALIVE

  The two words screamed at Bond from the table.

  Sin was satisfied. He leaned back in his chair. ‘A slow death and a very unpleasant one. You deserve nothing less.’ He glanced briefly at Jeopardy. ‘I will keep you alive a little longer, Miss Lane. You are not a threat to me and you can provide useful services to some of my men. Many Koreans are fascinated by Western women but, of course, unless they are prepared to pay for prostitutes, it is forbidden fruit. I will give you to them as a reward. As for you, Mr Bond, you will be taken from this room, nailed into a box and buried underground. If you try to resist, my men will shoot you in the knee so that you will end this life not only in darkness and in terror but in pain.’ He repeated his words in Korean for the benefit of the guards who, without moving, seemed to have closed in on Bond. Sin stood up. ‘I myself must now leave for New York. I will wish you good night. They are the appropriate words.’

  Bond also stood and at once two of the guards seized hold of him. The other two were opposite, their guns aiming at his stomach. And that was when Jeopardy broke. With a sob, she threw herself forward, rushing into Bond, one arm around his neck, the other around his waist. ‘No! Please!’ she cried out. ‘Don’t leave me, James. I can’t bear it.’ She tried to pull him free but the guards were unmovable. She turned to Sin. ‘Please!’ There were tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t hurt him.’

  ‘Enough!’ Sin called out in Korean and two more guards entered the room. He nodded and they made straight for Jeopardy, pulling her away. Bond stood with his arms pinned behind him, two guns trained on him. ‘Make the preparations. Take him away.’

  ‘You turned the cards today, Sin,’ Bond muttered. ‘But one day, very soon, they will turn for you. Trust me. They’re being shuffled even now.’

  The guard who was holding him muttered something in Korean and he was dragged out of the room.

  NINETEEN

  Six Feet Under

  It was a box, not a coffin, but about the same shape and size, made of thick plywood with the lid resting against it. Sin’s men had carried it to a patch of land behind the Keats house (a man building a replica rocket in a replica house . . . even now, the irony wasn’t lost on Bond). A mechanical digger, marked with the Blue Diamond marque, had been used to scoop out a trench that was six or seven feet deep. It was being driven by a sandy-haired, very ordinary-looking worker, an American – who had gone about his task with blank-faced efficiency. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. Bond wondered what must
be going on in his mind. Was he a willing part of all this? As an added piece of obscenity, Bond had been made to stand in the sullen evening air, watching the entire process. His own grave being dug. He was still surrounded by guards who were clearly determined to make no mistakes. The digger finished its work and backed away. So the moment had come. Despite himself, Bond felt a hollowing in his throat and stomach, the primal fear of death – and a particularly horrific sort of death – which no amount of training could quite subdue.

  Sin had arrived to see the final act of the drama he had instigated. He had dressed himself, bizarrely, as a New York motorman, with baggy coveralls, black leather boots and an engineer’s cap. He waited until the digger had retreated, then gestured at the box. ‘Step in, Mr Bond. You might like to know that it will take you approximately sixty minutes to die, although it is quite likely you will go mad before the end. Do you have anything to say? Any last witticisms?’

  Bond swore, simply and meaningfully.

  ‘Do it,’ Sin said.

  Bond weighed up his options. He could fight it out. There were four men with guns, but if he moved fast enough he might be able to get his hands around Sin’s throat and use him as a human shield. Even if he was killed in the gunfire, would that not be preferable to the other option he was being offered? At least it would be quick. But he soon dismissed the thought. There was something he knew that Sin didn’t. There was still hope.

  He took a deep breath of the night air and briefly considered the sickness that motivated Jason Sin. Was he actually sick? Did he have some sort of cancer of the brain, triggered by the horrors of the massacre at No Gun Ri? Bond could almost imagine the abnormal cells, black and virulent, eating their way through the neural tissue inside the man’s skull. Or was that simply to excuse him? Like all truly evil men, Sin knew what he was doing. Bond wondered how many other victims he had tortured with his Hanafuda cards. He had boasted of killing rivals and employees. They would never have known danger in the way that he had, and faced with whatever unspeakable death they had been forced to choose, they would have been terrified. Standing on the edge of his own grave, Bond promised himself that he would bring Sin to account. But he said nothing. He took a few steps forward and climbed into the wooden box, then lowered himself so that he lay flat. Two of Sin’s men picked up the lid. Bond caught one last glimpse of the night sky, the roof of the house, Sin himself looming over him at the edge of his vision. Then the box was sealed.

  Darkness punched him in the face. It was an extreme sort of darkness – shocking, immediate, total. Already Bond felt his pulse racing, his heart furiously beating and he had to stop himself struggling for breath. Instinctively, he raised his hands, his palms pressing against the solid wood just inches above his face. A moment later, he heard the sound of hammering, loud and incredibly close. They were driving nails into the sides of the lid. How many of them? It might be important. Bang, bang, bang, pause. Bang, bang, bang, pause. It wasn’t just the sound that was hideous, it was the methodical, almost robotic way in which the nails were being applied. A tiny amount of light was filtering in through the crack between the box and the lid. Bond could vaguely see the shape of his hands if he held them in front of his face. He focused on them, trying not to panic, knowing that all too soon they would disappear. Bang, bang, bang, pause. Four nails on either side. One at the top, one at the bottom. Ten in all. How long were they? That was important too. Bond wished he had caught sight of them before the work began.

  Silence. Then a lurch as the coffin was lifted off the ground. He could feel himself swaying from side to side as he was carried towards the grave and could imagine it opening up in front of him. Then came a sickening sensation, real or imagined, as he was lowered into the ground. The feeble light was extinguished. Now he was completely blind. The descent seemed to last for ever but then there was a thud as he hit the bottom and he felt the wood that he was lying on jolt into his shoulders and the back of his head. He pressed against the lid with the palms of his hands and pushed. Nothing. It didn’t give at all. There was another long pause. Utter silence. Was the digger coming back or were they going to fill the hole in by hand? It might make a difference. Why? Bond tried to focus but his nerves were screaming and it was impossible to think.

  He couldn’t see. He could hear nothing but the sound of his own heart beating, his blood being pumped through his arteries. How could it be this loud? It was beating too fast. Slow down, he thought. Slow down. Once again he was breathing too much, snatching at the air. It was almost impossible not to. He was aware of the tiny space in which he was trapped, the wooden panels pressing down left, right, above, below, so close. Every fibre of his being wanted to stand up, to break out even as his brain replied that it was impossible. Somewhere, deep inside him, Bond recognised that panic was now his worst enemy. Come on. Think about this. You’re not going to die. Not tonight. Not in this place. Close your eyes. That’s better. Now you’ve got a reason for the darkness. Breathe normally. You’re not underground. You’re lying on your bunk, back on the Trespasser. Bond had spent six weeks in the T-class submarine during his time at the RNVR. It had taken him a while to get used to the claustrophobia, to the sense of being trapped, but in the end he had done it. What was that bloody captain’s name? Bond remembered him. He had taken a shot at a dead whale, mistaking it for the enemy. A torpedo and a whale. The whole crew had laughed and, trapped in his coffin, Bond half smiled at the memory. After a few moments, his heart responded by slowing down. It had taken a huge mental effort, but he was under control.

  And then the earth came tumbling down. It thudded against the lid. They were using spades – he could tell from the rhythm – as if to taunt him, to make this more like a real funeral. Two, maybe three men. And they were working quickly. Already the sound was getting softer as the wooden surface was covered and earth fell on earth. Finally he could hear nothing and knew that the hole had been filled in. The silence had an extraordinary heaviness, the whole world pressing down on him. It was already getting warmer inside the box. The sweat trickled off his stomach and round the back of his neck. So now you are buried alive, he thought. The grave has been covered. They are walking away, leaving you here. He could feel the pressure in his ears and despite his efforts, the madness of panic and despair were close by, the other side of a mental barrier that could collapse at any minute.

  So dark in this tiny space. Blind. No room to move. The weight of the earth pressing down. No air.

  No – that wasn’t true. The box was about the size of a coffin. Let’s say eighty by thirty by twenty-four inches. Do the maths. That’s about thirty-two cubic feet of air, but you’ve got to lose about half of it for your own body displacement. You’re breathing about twelve times a minute. (Breathe gently. There’s no need to gulp. Keep your eyes closed. You’re lying on your bunk. That’s all.) Allow how much for each human breath? Let’s say a sixth of a cubic foot per minute, giving you ninety minutes. But then there’s the CO2. Every breath exhaled is 16 per cent oxygen and 4.5 per cent CO2. That was something he’d learned on the Trespasser. It was what would kill him. Hypercapnia – or CO2 poisoning. First there would be dizziness and confusion. His heartbeat and blood pressure would go off the map. He would go into convulsions. And he would die.

  But he still had time. Certainly more than an hour. Maybe as much as an hour and a half. So Sin had been wrong. He was always wrong, always too clever by half.

  Like at the table, for example. ‘Their attention is focused on you one hundred per cent.’ That was what Sin had said about his guards and Bond had instantly realised that if that were true, then they wouldn’t be watching Jeopardy. And she had known it too. Bond had been unable to steal his own knife but she had taken hers and, at the end of the meal, when she had run, sobbing, into his arms, she had slipped it into the waistband of his trousers. It was there now. Awkwardly, Bond felt behind him and pulled it free.

  It was the knife, the knowledge that it was there, that had kept him sane. Even if
it turned out that he was trapped, that there was no way out, he could use it on himself. If he pierced a carotid artery, it would all be over in seconds. But that had never been Bond’s intention. Using a finger to guide himself, he inserted the blade into the gap beneath the lid. And pushed. The knife slid easily. Plywood is a form of composite wood that has been engineered. It’s cheap but it’s not particularly strong and the piece that made up the lid was straining under the weight of all the soil. It was already buckling in the middle. And Sin had ordered the lid to be nailed down, perhaps for effect. Screws would have been much more of a problem. Bond twisted the knife. He had to be careful. He didn’t want to break the blade. He felt the side of the lid rise up, drawing the nail out. He was lucky, too, that the digger hadn’t been used. (That was why it had been important.) The earth, falling in smaller quantities, was more loosely packed. There was room for the lid to move.

  He felt with his hand and inserted the knife a second time, about halfway down his body. It was a difficult manoeuvre. He could barely move. He couldn’t find the space to give his arm freedom to do its work. But moving slowly, he was able to release three of the ten nails that he had counted, then passed the knife across his chest and, using his left hand, did the same on the other side. At one point his breath caught in his throat and he had to stop as all the fears that he had been keeping at bay came rushing up on him. There was no more air left! The deadly CO2 was attacking his system. He closed his eyes tight and forced himself to relax. The bunk on HMS Trespasser. That bloody whale. OK. Now get to it again.