Trigger Mortis

by Anthony Horowitz

  Bond was in pain. His whole body was in pain. He hadn’t broken his neck but he had landed awkwardly, one leg bent underneath him, his ribs resting on one of the rails. His shirt had been torn off. He could taste blood in his mouth. And he smelled burning. Something was on fire. He felt a great blow, a heavy object slamming into his stomach, and as his brain switched back on it informed him that this was actually the third or fourth time it had happened, that whoever was hitting him was going to do it again, and that this was what had woken him up.

  He opened his eyes and saw Jason Sin standing over him. His black hair was hanging down over his eyes and his spectacles had been knocked sideways so that they hung, ridiculously askew, on his nose. There were dark streaks on his face and a deep, weeping wound on his forehead. The railwayman’s uniform he was wearing included heavy leather boots and he had been kicking Bond repeatedly and deliberately, his face utterly blank, just two little pinpricks of madness flickering in his eyes. He was holding a gun, a Browning .22 Compact, but he wasn’t going to use it yet. It was hanging limply, slanting sideways and towards the ground. All his attention was focused on the half-naked body in front of him. Bond knew that the kicking would only stop when he died.

  What was left of the train was about a hundred yards down the track, lying on its side at a point where the tunnel emerged into another station. The steel was crumpled, the engine on fire. Smoke was billowing out, filling the tunnel, and Bond’s eyes were already smarting. He twisted the other way. There was no sign of the carriage with the bomb or the rocket. Sin’s men had probably been killed. The two of them were alone.

  Sin had seen him open his eyes. He kicked out one last time and Bond felt one of his ribs crack as the leather toecap made contact with the bone. ‘Why are you here?’ Sin asked. His voice was thin, high-pitched. He might have been on the edge of tears. ‘How are you here? You should be dead. Who helped you?’

  ‘It’s all over, Sin,’ Bond said. It hurt him to talk. ‘The American Secret Service will be here any minute. Your whole plan’s gone off the rails. Like the train.’

  ‘Who helped you?’

  ‘You did. Your ego and your stupidity.’ As he talked, Bond reached behind him, wondering what had happened to his own gun. It had been torn out of his grip when the train had crashed but was there any chance that it was somewhere near? His fingers passed over loose gravel, then brushed against a length of chain. He groaned and, at the same time, pulled it towards him, trying to think where it had come from. It could have been part of the train. There had been chains holding down the fake Vanguard rocket. It could have snapped off from one of them. He guessed there were three or four feet lying on the ground behind him. A weapon?

  He winced as Sin kicked him again, but this time he had anticipated it, turning his body, taking the main force of the blow on his lower back. He pulled the chain closer towards him, at the same time manipulating his body so that he lay between the rails, not touching either of them. ‘You should get away while you can,’ Bond said. He didn’t care if he was making any sense. He had to talk, simply to cover what he was doing. ‘And you won’t need to worry about the Americans if the Russians get to you first. It’ll be interesting to see who actually kills you.’

  ‘No!’ Sin remembered the gun in his hand. ‘I am not the one who is dying, Mr Bond. You are.’ Slowly he lifted it. ‘Even now, I can make your death protracted,’ he went on. ‘A bullet in the stomach or the groin. I will leave you here, like a rat, in the darkness—’

  ‘You’re the rat, Sin.’ Bond swung his arm. He had almost no strength. The position he was lying in made it impossible to put any force into the blow. The chain caught Sin on the ankle and draped itself over his foot. But it hadn’t hurt him. He looked down and, at last, something close to a smile appeared on his lips. ‘Is that the best you can do, Mr Bond?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Bond replied. ‘This is.’

  He threw the other end of the chain over the third rail.

  He hadn’t been certain that there would be any electricity in the subway system. It might have turned itself off automatically when the train derailed. But he knew at once that, when it most mattered, the gods were on his side. There was a sharp crackle, another shower of sparks and, at the same time, a terrible scream from Sin as seven hundred and fifty volts surged into him. His fingers splayed. The skin on his face rippled outwards. The glasses fell away and the eyes, finally revealed, turned white. His hair stood on end. He had surely been killed instantly but he stood there, jerking and shuddering until suddenly, as if a plug had been pulled, the electricity released him from its hideous grip. Smoke trickled out from between Sin’s lips. The sweet smell of burning flesh reached Bond’s nostrils and Sin fell sideways and lay still.

  Bond got unsteadily to his feet. He was careful not to touch the metal rails. The train was still blazing but if he moved quickly he might be able to get around it and into the station. Sin’s gun had fallen free. He took it . . . just in case.

  Choking, with the smoke burning his eyes, Bond made his way out.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Travelling Time

  Rain swept into London like an angry bride. It rattled off the streets, swirled round the gutters and drove anyone who happened to find themselves outside back into the doorways. The traffic slowed down, then came to a halt. All the lights – headlights, rear lights, traffic lights and the neon lights on the hoardings, blurred into a single turmoil of colour. Thick clouds, reflected in the puddles, rolled over the rooftops. There was no escape. Any memory of the August sunshine had been wiped away. This was the day when the birds would fly south and the leaves would begin to die. Soon it would turn cold. Another year was disappearing down the drain.

  Bond liked the sound of the rain, hammering on the roof of his Bentley. As the windscreen wipers drew back an endless series of curtains, he looked out on the sodden expanse of Regent’s Park and felt very much at home. It had been twelve hours since the Pan American ‘Super 7’ Clipper had deposited him at Heathrow. Flying back in first class, courtesy of a grateful CIA, Bond had taken full advantage of the on-board cocktail lounge, flirting with a pretty, over-severe stewardess at thirty thousand feet before stretching out on the bed-length Sleeperette and falling into a comfortable sleep. He’d had plenty of time to remember his last night in New York.

  Don’t want to leave you

  Sorry to grieve you

  It’s travelling time, and I must move on.

  The Frank Sinatra song had been playing in the cabin before take-off. It couldn’t have been better chosen.

  Things had happened very quickly in New York once the Secret Service had become involved, although, back at the Coney Island depot, Jeopardy had been right. Finding the right person in the right office in Washington had taken half the night and if Bond hadn’t gone after the R-11 on his own, it would have all ended very differently. As it was, they both knew it had been a near miss. The train had come to a halt just south of 23rd Street and, according to the experts who had examined it, it had been packed with enough explosive to do serious damage to the heart of Manhattan. There was a very real chance that it would have brought down the Empire State Building. It would certainly have devastated any number of the offices, apartments and hotels in the immediate neighbourhood, bringing chaos, multiple deaths and a billion-dollar reconstruction bill to the city. The loss of the Vanguard space rocket was regrettable but it was a small price to pay in comparison and Captain Eugene T. Lawrence had already been told that his services would no longer be required by the NRL. It was still unclear how Thomas Keller had managed to sabotage the feed to the turbo pump in such a way that it had passed unnoticed until the very end. But there are huge differences between static tests and an actual launch and Keller had certainly known what he was doing. The whole truth would emerge when the engine was finally recovered and since it was somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic that might take some time.

  Jason Sin was dead. The American authorities – the C
IA, the FBI and the Secret Service – could not have been happier with that particular outcome. They were still tying up the loose ends of the Goldfinger business and it would have been difficult for the government – particularly a Republican one – to explain why so many multimillionaires were suddenly ganging up on the United States. Sin’s people were already scattering. A raid on the Blue Diamond depot outside Paterson had found the place virtually empty. But there had been one grisly discovery. Two more coffins had been dug up in the loose earth where Bond had been buried alive. Each of them had contained the bodies of men who had died horribly, trying to claw their way out. These were clearly less fortunate victims of Sin’s grim deck of cards.

  Jeopardy was out of town for two days, going through her various de-briefings, and in that time Bond took it easy, recovering from the worst of his injuries. He had got away with serious bruising and one broken rib but he still felt as if he had been put through the wringer. He knew he was lucky. In those last few minutes in the tunnel, Sin had finally shed any semblance of reason or sanity. The kicking he had given Bond had been painful. But it was almost as if he had forgotten he was holding a gun.

  Bond was glad to be left alone for a couple of days’ quiet time. He had arranged to meet Jeopardy for dinner, just the two of them, when she got back to Manhattan. And he had made all the arrangements. He was staying at the Plaza Hotel in Fifth Avenue – not somewhere he would normally have chosen. It was a little too pleased with itself for his taste, a little too ostentatious. How much gold-plated china could one hotel seriously contain? And weren’t 1,650 crystal chandeliers taking it a little bit too far? But once again, the US authorities were paying – ‘It’s all on us, Mr Bond. Just charge anything to your room.’ He had a suite overlooking Central Park and he had already ordered a bottle of Clicquot Rosé champagne on ice and two glasses to be set beside the king-sized bed with its luxurious, 300-count Frette sheets (the same linen, the porter had proudly explained, had been used on the Titanic). He had booked dinner – the best table – in the Rendezvous Room. The stage was most definitely set.

  Jeopardy arrived late, hurrying between the tables. She had dressed for the occasion and looked stunning in a black silk velvet evening dress – Christian Dior, Bond guessed – with square shoulders, long sleeves and the waist drawn in almost cruelly by a black leather belt. The bruises on her face had faded or she had covered them artfully with make-up. She was wearing a simple necklace with three sapphires clustered together. A nod towards Blue Diamond perhaps. Bond stood up and held the chair for her and even as she sat down, the back of her shoulders sliding against his chest, he knew that there was only one way the evening could end.

  Bond chose the food for both of them: Caesar salad to start, then grilled sole. He explained: ‘I don’t trust a menu that’s in French unless I’m in France. Half these dishes are going to be pretentious and overcooked so let’s go for something simple.’

  ‘You go ahead,’ Jeopardy said. ‘Just make sure you choose a fancy wine. I don’t usually get to go to smart places like this on my expenses. And as for the menu, I didn’t even get past the swirly writing. It means they can double the prices.’ She smiled and the strangely unmatched features of her face arranged themselves so that she was suddenly beautiful. ‘It’s great to see you, James. How are the ribs?’

  ‘If you don’t mean the ones on the menu, mine are doing fine.’

  The waiter arrived with cocktails that Bond had already ordered: two Negronis made with sweet vermouth, Campari, gin and a slice of orange. He had decided to forego his usual martini because he didn’t want to remind Jeopardy of the last time they had drunk it. They clinked glasses. In the corner of the room, half hidden behind pillars and pot plants, a pianist began to play.

  They were easy in each other’s company. They both knew that they were saying goodbye. Bond was returning to London the following morning while Jeopardy would be returning to Washington. She had already been given her next assignment, a tidying up operation that involved tracking all the cash payments made by Sin in the past year in case any more of the Bernhard dollars showed up. Twenty-four hours from now, there would be 3,500 miles between them. That meant there were no strings attached. Tonight was tonight and that was it.

  It was Jeopardy who put it into words, after the coffee had been served and Bond was smoking his third cigarette of the evening. ‘You have a room here,’ she said.

  ‘A suite. Your people have been looking after me.’

  ‘Is that where we’re going?’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She eyed him curiously. ‘That’s why you invited me, isn’t it? It wasn’t just for the fancy food.’

  ‘I think you’re wonderful, Jeopardy. You were always there for me. Without you, I’d have been gunned down at the Starlite or left behind in Coney Island. I’d say we’re already more than friends.’

  ‘And you’re going to leave me with something to remember you by?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Bond couldn’t quite work out the tone of her voice.

  ‘You could have got me something from Tiffany’s.’

  ‘Is that what you’d have preferred?’

  ‘No.’ Again the urchin smile. ‘I’m just teasing you. All right, then, Mr James Bond. Take me up to your suite. After everything we’ve been through together, don’t we deserve to be happy?’

  Jeopardy made love almost reluctantly to begin with. She let him take off her clothes and when she was naked, lay on the bed with her ankles crossed, one hand gently resting between her legs as if she were some delicate Venus posing for a classical painting. She watched as he undressed himself and only then did he see the appetite awaken in her eyes. Bond lowered himself onto her and kissed her softly on the lips. His hand explored between her breasts and continued down to the soft pit of her stomach. He felt the silky skin flutter. And then she clamped hold of his wrist. With a show of strength that he could never have expected, she pulled him sideways, at the same time rolling onto him so that her body lay full-length on his. She slipped her hands around him and gripped him fiercely, pressing the two of them together.

  ‘Damn you,’ she said. ‘Do what the hell you want.’

  Later, when it was all over, she was vulnerable again. Bond thought she was even sad. Holding her close to him, he turned to her. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m just thinking that this is your way of saying goodbye.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’ She folded herself into him, moulding the contours of her body into his own. ‘It’s been wonderful knowing you, James. Not all of it. I almost died during that dinner with Sin – but somehow I knew we’d come through.’

  ‘We were good together.’

  ‘We were lucky – and you know it. But this is the end, isn’t it? You’re going to walk out on me. And I have to tell you, life’s going to be a lot less interesting without you.’

  ‘We can meet again.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She lay in silence for a while. When she spoke again, her voice was level. ‘I suppose I should have told you. There’s a guy I know in the Treasury in Washington. He’s sweet and he’s reliable and we’ve been seeing a bit of each other. He wants me to meet his parents and I’ll probably end up marrying him and we’ll have two children and grow old together. I’m not sure it’s what I want but I guess it’s what’s right for me. But you’ll never be like that, will you? The best thing for you tomorrow morning would be to wake up and find me gone.’

  ‘Jeopardy . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, James. That’s the way it’s got to be. I want you to make love to me again, right now. And then we’re going to go to sleep and you’re going to promise me you won’t open your eyes until you’ve heard me leave.’

  ‘You’re running out on me again?’

  ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’ She turned and hooked her hands behind his neck. She was smiling at h
im, her eyes bright. ‘You can remember me as the girl who ran away.’

  He did as she wanted. He slept deeply that night. And the next morning, he lay there listening to her getting dressed and didn’t open his eyes until she had gone.

  Back in the traffic, in London, in the rain, Bond remembered the sound of the door closing. After Jeopardy had left, he had lain there for a while with her scent still on him. Then he had got up and taken a shower, dressed and gone down to breakfast on his own. By the time the taxi arrived, he had put her out of his mind. She had been right, of course. How could they mean anything to each other when they were 3,500 miles apart?

  The Secret Service building was ahead. The rain still hadn’t stopped and Bond realised he would be soaked by the time he reached the front door. He seldom carried an umbrella with him; it was such a stupid, clumsy invention and anyway it would be practically useless against a downpour like this. He eased himself into his usual parking space and sat there for a moment, listening to the water drumming against the roof. He had a long day ahead of him. First of all he would have to prepare a report on everything that had happened since he had left London. Loelia Ponsonby would type it up. And M would insist that he saw the MO for a thorough check-up. He would probably get an appointment this afternoon.

  Bond noticed a man shuffling along the pavement, coming in his direction. The man was wearing a raincoat which seemed to have no buttons. His hands were stuffed into the pockets, holding it together. His head was bowed down and it was hard to tell with the rain distorting his image through the glass but he seemed to be in pain. A tramp? It was far too early for a drunk. Bond opened the door and at once the wind and the spray swept into the interior. At the same time, the man stepped into the road as if intending to go round the car. Bond’s thoughts had been far away. The bad weather had distracted him. By the time he realised he was in danger, it was too late. He straightened up. The open door was between the man and him. The man had taken one hand out of his pocket. It was holding a gun. He looked up and Bond saw the bandages, damp and dirty, criss-crossing his face. He was staring out with eyes made more furious by the livid burns that surrounded them. A few strands of colourless hair were plastered across his forehead. He was wearing gloves but Bond saw more bandages around his wrists. The man had clearly walked out of the intensive care unit of some hospital. Bond knew instantly who he was.