Trigger Mortis
Page 21
The lid had been partly freed on both sides. It was bowed in the centre and Bond knew that actually it was keeping him alive. Without it, he would suffocate, buried in the dirt which would come plunging down. He slid the knife into his waistband and undid his shirt. It had to come off – but that too wasn’t easy in the confined space. Bond contorted himself, using his elbows to lever himself up and dragging it over his head. Every time he touched the lid, he was reminded of his predicament. You’re underground. You’re buried alive. Your air is running out. Relax. Don’t scream. The shirt had come free. His vest was sodden with sweat, sticking to his skin. Utterly blind, he felt for the top button of his shirt and did it up so that the collar formed a seal around his neck. Then he untucked the fabric and drew it over his chest and above his head, clumsily tying the bottom end to create a sort of balloon. It would prevent the earth rushing into his mouth and nostrils and allow him to breathe as he fought his way to the surface.
But could he even reach it? Bond was six feet tall and estimated that ground level – fresh air – was about eight inches above that. Well, there was no other way. With the fabric pressing against his face, he stretched out, then kicked upwards with his feet. Nothing happened. He rested his left foot and kicked out with his right, once, then several times. He felt the other nails come free and the lid slipped slightly to one side. A flurry of soil, soft and cold, trickled down onto his right foot and ankle. He felt with his hands. The lid was tilting. Most of the nails had come out. He kicked again and there was a sharp crack as the lid split along the edge and the earth cascaded in, burying him again, pressing down on him, threatening to pin him down with its weight.
This was the moment that mattered most. Bond had to get himself vertical. Then he would be able to use his outstretched hands to burrow his way up. He twisted sideways, at the same time forcing himself to his feet, exiting the coffin through the half-splintered lid. Bond made no sound but he was screaming. The soil was like some alien creature, swallowing him whole. It was pressing into his face and but for the shirt it would already have killed him. He could feel it, damp against his skin. He could smell it. Using all his strength, he uncoiled his legs, pushing himself up. Now his feet were flat, on the bottom of the coffin, and as he stood up he propelled himself towards the surface. He had been holding his breath but he needed more oxygen and breathed in. Somehow he found the necessary air, filtered by the fabric. He punched out with his fists, then hooked his hands, trying to find the leverage to pull himself up. He had hoped his outstretched hands would break through but he was too deep. He wasn’t moving. Christ! To have managed so much and to die now. It wasn’t going to happen. Bond was standing up, fully extended. He slid his feet apart, found the edges of the box and stood on it. Part of the lid was still in place and he used it as a platform, giving himself an extra twenty inches’ height. Once again he pushed and felt his hands break through the surface. Had Sin left any guards up above? If so, this would all be for nothing. He still had the knife though. He could feel the blade pressing against his skin. It was a moonless night. He might have a chance.
Bond was still buried. Only his hands were free. Like two spiders, they explored the surface, searching for the edge of the grave where the soil would be more compact. He brought his palms down and pressed. Yes. He could drag himself out. Did he dare take another breath? He was suffocating. The shirt wasn’t working any more. In fact it was gagging him, wrapped tight around his mouth and nostrils, held there by the pressure of the earth. Time to go. Do it now. Using all his strength, Bond pulled – and felt the earth sliding past him. His deltoid muscles were burning but he ignored the pain. He was dragging himself upwards, almost as if he was being reborn. His head broke the surface. He felt the weightlessness of the night air and, gasping, tore the shirt off his face. He had done it! He was free, lying crookedly with the earth still reaching up to his neck. He stretched out and pressed one hand into the ground, then pushed again. As the rest of his body emerged, he reached down and drew out the knife. But there was nobody there. Sin had left. (The rocket. The bomb. The Empire State Building. New York. It was only now that Bond remembered them but decided that even M would have forgiven this brief dereliction of duty.) The Keats house was empty, the lights switched off. The entire compound seemed to be deserted.
For a full minute, Bond lay there breathing in the sweet night air. Then he went to find Jeopardy.
TWENTY
Naked Aggression
He needed her. Jeopardy had told him that she had been brought up close to the train yard on Coney Island, and that was where Sin had taken his rocket. She would know her way around. She might know a way in. And anyway, Bond wasn’t going to leave her behind after all they had been through, even if finding her might eat up time he didn’t have. How many hours could there be until the launch of the Vanguard? It was only now that Bond realised he had lost his watch – a Rolex Submariner that was barely three years old. It had somehow been dragged off his wrist as he fought his way through the earth – just one more thing that Sin would have to pay for. There was a glint of something savage in his eyes as he stalked through the darkness, his shoulders low, keeping close to the perimeter fence, away from the security cameras. He was making for the accommodation block where he had been held for twenty-four hours, assuming she would have been taken back there.
Bond was filthy. The dirt from the grave was all over him, in his hair. It had penetrated his clothes and covered every inch of his skin. It was under his nails. He could smell it in his nostrils and it reminded him of the suffocating death that had almost been his. His clothes were damp and uncomfortable, clinging to his frame. He wiped sweat off his forehead and looked down, disgustedly, at the back of his hand. The brown streaks made him wonder what the rest of him must look like – something out of a horror film.
There was more security than he had first thought. Sin might have departed but he had left a full night staff behind him: the exit gate was still guarded, the barrier down, and there were uniformed men prowling around the central workspace as if anyone might be interested in stealing the builder’s junk it contained. Bond had parked a quarter of a mile away, further up the road. He and Jeopardy would have to steal another car to get out of here. There was a floodlit parking area with about a dozen vehicles to one side, but it was unlikely that anyone would have left their ignition keys behind the sunshades. As Bond reached the accommodation building, he saw a car pull out, drive over to the gate and stop while the driver showed his ID. It told him what he had already guessed. Getting out of this place was going to be as difficult as getting in.
He entered the building, following a long corridor – bare walls and parquet flooring – back towards the room where he had been held. The lights were on but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. As he crept forward, he passed an open door. He looked into an office with a desk and a telephone. Quickly, he slipped inside and lifted the receiver. Surely he could reach someone at the FBI in New York? One word from him and they could shut down the entire New York subway system, stopping Sin before he had even left the transit yard. But the telephone was dead. Sin must have taken the most elementary of precautions, cutting off the exchange to make sure that nobody could call out. Bond swore quietly and put down the receiver. He would just have to do this on his own.
He continued down the corridor, stopping as a door opened and a man appeared, carrying a sports bag which he swung back and forward as he walked away. Bond waited until he had disappeared around the corner, then opened the door and found himself looking into a staff changing facility with lockers, sinks and toilets, a pile of fresh towels and a row of showers. It was exactly what he needed but could he spare the time? A clock on the wall showed that it was half past nine. Just one and a half hours to go. Bond made an instant decision. He could shower and steal new clothes. It might cost him five minutes but the physical and, for that matter, the psychological gain, would be more than worth it.
He stripped off the filthy cloth
es and kicked them away, glad to be rid of them. Then he stepped into the nearest shower and turned the taps on full. He was rewarded by a burst of hot water that blasted the dirt away even before he picked up the soap. American plumbing at its typical best. He looked at the brown water swirling around his feet and just for a moment, as if a shutter had fallen across his eyes, he was back in the coffin, nailed in, underground. Furiously, he rubbed his shoulders and his face, washing away not just the dirt but the memory.
And then the door opened again and someone came into the room. Bond had pulled the shower curtain across. He couldn’t be seen. But with the rushing water it would be obvious he was there.
‘Jack? Is that you?’ a voice asked. Bond didn’t reply. ‘Jack?’ the voice insisted. Bond grunted non-committally, hoping that whoever it was would go away. But the man was puzzled. Bond saw his shape on the other side of the plastic curtain as he drew nearer. ‘Who’s in there?’
Bond knew what he had to do. He turned off the water, threw the curtain back and stepped out, already tensing himself for the action that would result in the certain death of another man. He would simply pile-drive into whoever was there, sweeping them forward and kicking their feet away from beneath him. Then, even as they fell, a hand-edge blow delivered hard into the larynx would finish them. The man wouldn’t even have time to cry out. It was straight out of the textbook, even if the authors had never factored in the possibility that the attacker might be stark naked. He had already grabbed hold of the man and unbalanced him but before he could deliver the coup de grâce, some instinct screamed at him to pause and he stopped with his hand rigidly locked, the muscles in his arm already strained.
The man who had come into the changing room and who had been less than a second from a violent death was very young, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. He had sandy hair and eyes that were wide with shock and innocence. He had been about to wash before bed. He was wearing a white, sleeveless T-shirt and he’d had a washbag and a towel in his hand, although they’d slipped onto the floor. There was a tattoo of an eagle and a girl’s name on his shoulder. Everything about him was crying up at Bond not to hurt him.
Bond knew him. An hour ago he had been driving the mechanical digger that had dug his grave. This man – this boy – had been part of the team that had set out to bury him alive.
‘Don’t hurt me, mister!’ the boy rasped. He had the good sense to keep his voice low, not to cry out. ‘Please!’ He raised both his hands, palms out, in the universal symbol of surrender.
Bond released him, then reached down and took the towel, wrapping it around himself. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You were out there tonight.’ There was a cold fury in the midnight eyes. ‘Give me one good reason why I don’t kill you now.’
‘Mister, I swear to God I wasn’t part of it. I just do what I’m told.’ The boy fumbled in his pocket and produced a security pass with his photograph as if it were some sort of talisman, as if it would protect him from Bond. ‘My name’s Danny. I’m from Queens. Don’t hurt me. I’ve got a wife and a kid . . .’
‘You buried me alive.’
‘No, sir. No, I didn’t. I swear to God. They just told me to dig a hole.’
‘Don’t lie to me.’ Bond’s voice was ice. His hand was still poised to strike and the boy cowered. ‘You saw what they were doing.’
‘Look . . . I know. They do crazy things here. I’ve seen things, horrible things, but what can I do? I came here because I needed a job. I’d been in trouble. I gotta rap sheet and nobody’ll touch me. Then I came here. They offered me good money and I gotta pay for my family. But I don’t do any of that shit, I swear ta you. I keep my head down. I’d leave if I could. I’d leave now. But I can’t. Nobody walks out of this place. They’d kill me before they let me go. I know that.’ He was on the edge of tears. ‘Honest to God, I hated what they did to you. It made me sick to my stomach. But what could I do?’
Bond lowered his hand but his expression didn’t change. ‘You live here?’
‘During the week. I have a room.’
‘Where’s the girl?’
‘What girl?’
‘Her name is Jeopardy. She was taken prisoner with me.’
Danny was going to lie. He was going to deny that he knew anything. Bond saw it in his eyes. He knew he shouldn’t give out any information and was as afraid of Sin as he was of the man he had tried to kill. But then he relented. He changed his mind. ‘Down the corridor,’ he said. ‘Through the doors. Then it’s the last room on the right. We’re not allowed to go near it.’
‘Is it guarded?’
The boy shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. And there are no keys. Just bolts. You can open them.’
‘I need clothes.’
‘You can have mine. There are spare clothes in my locker. You can have my keys. You can have my pass. You can have anything. Just don’t hurt me.’ The boy fumbled a set of keys out of his pocket and held them in front of him. ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ he went on. ‘I’ll say you stole my stuff while I was in the shower. I’ve got a kid. His name is Frankie and he’s six months old. I’ve got a mom – she’s sick. I’m not a bad person, mister. What they wanted to do to you . . . that was nothing to do with me.’
‘What’s your locker number?’
‘Sixty-four. There’s a shirt in there, pants . . . I’ve got money too. You can take it all.’
Bond knew that he had to kill him. That was the only safe option. There was no time to tie him up and gag him (how much time had he wasted already?). And yet, looking at him, pale and trembling, he had to ask himself – wasn’t this what it had always come down to? The thin man who had prepared him for torture at the hands of Le Chiffre, the disciples of Mr Big, the simpering women – Sister Lily and Sister Rose – who had welcomed him into the world of Dr No, all the workers at Goldfinger’s plant in Switzerland . . . he had never asked where they had come from, why they had agreed to do the devil’s own work. Were they just trying to scratch a living? Did they have sick mothers and six-month-old babies? Bond had killed many of them, snuffing out their lives without even thinking of them as human beings at all. And here was Danny, working his three-dollar-an-hour shifts. Danny Slater, his security pass read. He was crying. There were real tears seeping out of the corners of those blue eyes, trickling down his cheeks. Did he deserve to die?
But this was the same Danny Slater who had dug a hole seven feet deep and who had known that a living man, nailed into a box, was going to be buried in it. With the fingers rigid, Bond’s hand flashed out, aiming for his throat. The boy didn’t even have time to cry out.
Bond examined his work, then snatched the keys up off the floor and went over to the locker. There were spare clothes inside. The boy hadn’t lied about that. He dressed himself quickly, put his own shoes back on, then dragged Danny into one of the shower cubicles. If someone came in, they could think he’d slipped on the soap. He took the keys and the security pass, turned off the lights and hurried out into the corridor.
Down to the end and through a set of double doors . . . Bond found himself back where he had started a few hours before. His own cell was open and empty. Jeopardy had to be in the room opposite. He drew back the bolts, opened the door and stepped inside, ducking down as a wooden chair missed his head by inches, smashing into the wall behind him. Jeopardy was holding the other end. Her face was filled with pent-up fury which rapidly turned to alarm as she saw who it was.
‘James!’ she rushed into his arms. ‘Oh my God! I could have—’
‘Are you all right?’ he asked her. Someone had hit her. There was a second bruise high up on her cheek.
She nodded. ‘I cut up rough after they took you away and started throwing myself around. I smashed a few plates and threw a whole lot of stuff on the ground and in the end they did this to me.’ She pointed. ‘But I didn’t mind. I didn’t want them counting the knives and forks. And I guess it worked.’
‘You were brilliant, helping me the way you did.’
Bond showed her the keys and the security pass. ‘These might help. How far do you think we are from the Coney Island depot?’
‘We can do it in less than an hour.’
‘Can you contact your people?’ Bond had already worked it out. The best way to stop Sin was to throw the switch in one of the power stations and close down the entire subway system. If he couldn’t move the rocket, he would be finished. But had he left it too late? By the time they found a phone, called the FBI or Secret Service, established their identity, explained the situation and tracked down someone with the authority to do what was needed, the whole thing might be over. For all Bond knew, Sin was already sitting underneath New York with his bomb and his phoney rocket.
Jeopardy was ahead of him. ‘They’re in Washington,’ she said. ‘And it’s the middle of the night. I can call the duty officer but I’m not sure . . .’
‘Then we’re going to have to do this on our own.’
Ten minutes later the guards at the gate heard the sound of an engine starting up but it was immediately obvious that it wasn’t a car. Puzzled, they edged forward then shouted as, in the far distance, a mechanical digger rumbled towards the fence. A couple of them managed to bring their guns round and fire but the vehicle was too far away, moving too quickly through the darkness. Behind the controls Bond squeezed on the throttle and crouched down as a bullet clanged into the metal close to his head and ricocheted into the night. Jeopardy was next to him, the two of them squeezed together on the narrow seat. Ahead of them, the fence loomed up. Bond hoped it wasn’t electrified but it was too late to worry about that now. The vehicle’s blades were raised up and elongated, stretching out in front of them. Bond saw them tear into the wire, ripping it apart as if it were cotton thread. More bullets spat past but they were already out of the compound and the nearest trees were only a few feet away. Once they were in the scrubland, they could quickly work their way up to Jeopardy’s car. She had left her keys in the exhaust pipe.