Forever and a Day

by Anthony Horowitz

  He moved to Marseilles at the end of the war and soon became a major player in the narcotics business. He now has control of 80 per cent of the drugs entering the port. Although he enjoys an excessively flamboyant lifestyle, with a prodigious appetite for both food and alcohol, he is unmarried and has no interest in women, leading to speculation that he may be homosexual.

  Remarkably, Scipio has never learned English or French and conducts all his business in the Corsican dialect of Pumuntincu. As this is spoken in the southern part of the island – the Corse-du-Sud – it would seem to confirm his place of birth. He is accompanied at all times by a translator.

  The printed document was attached to a photograph of a man so enormous that he barely fitted into the frame. At first Bond could not quite believe what he was seeing – Jean-Paul Scipio had enough flesh and muscle for two or perhaps even three human beings. He was wearing a dark, three-piece suit – yards of material – with a tie barely visible beneath the fourth of his undulating chins. His eyes were small, prisoners of his face. His hair was black, cut in the style of Napoleon, although it had the ill-fitting awkwardness of a wig. He was holding a champagne flute, the crystal somehow ridiculous in fingers like party balloons.

  Bond slid it to one side and opened the third file, this one marked ‘Joanne Brochet, aka Sixtine, aka Madame 16’. He smiled at the extended names, then turned his attention to the photograph that was also attached. This was less useful. Madame Brochet or Sixtine or 16 clearly did not like to have her picture taken. She was wearing dark glasses that covered most of her face, an Édith Piaf beret and a dark raincoat. There had been plenty of photographs taken of her before the war but it was impossible to get any real idea of what she looked like now.

  Bond began to read and had just reached the last paragraph when the telephone on his desk rang, announcing itself for the first time. He glanced at it for a moment – as if he didn’t quite trust the fact that it was actually his. Then he picked it up.

  ‘James?’ The voice at the other end belonged to Bill Tanner, M’s chief of staff and a man Bond knew well. ‘I hope you’ve settled in OK.’

  ‘I think I’m finding my feet,’ Bond replied.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ There was a short pause followed by the words that Bond was hearing for the first time and which he would hear many times again in the years to come. ‘I wonder if you’d mind coming up? M would like to have a word.’

  4

  Meeting with M

  Bill Tanner was waiting for Bond outside the lift on the ninth floor. The two men knew each other well. Theirs was a friendship that had begun in the last years of the war with a chance meeting in the Ardennes, but it had been firmly cemented over sole meunière and a first-rate Chablis at Scott’s the day after Bond was recruited to the secret service. It was necessary, but not difficult, to ignore their difference in rank. By the time Bond had joined the offices of ‘Universal Export’, Tanner was already working as M’s chief of staff.

  ‘Congratulations.’ That was Tanner’s first word as Bond stepped out onto the thick carpeting that might have been purposefully designed to swallow any sound in this part of the building.

  ‘Thank you, Bill. I’m sure you put in a good word for me.’

  ‘Not at all. You were next in line for promotion and I’m only sorry it had to happen the way it did. How was Stockholm?’

  ‘Bloody.’

  ‘Yes. I read your report. M has it too.’ Was there a hint of warning in Tanner’s voice? ‘Anyway, something’s come up. You’re not going to find it quite as straightforward as Stockholm – or New York for that matter. But it’ll give you a chance to spread your wings, so to speak. I’ll take you in and maybe you and I can have lunch later on.’

  They had been walking down the corridor as they spoke and now Tanner stopped in front of a green door, opened it and went through. Bond hesitated for a moment before he followed, savouring the moment. He had seen M many times, entering and leaving the building. On occasions they had shared a lift and there had been a brief nod, perhaps a comment on the weather. Bond had attended a couple of general briefings in the conference room on the sixth floor. But this was entirely different. He was entering the inner sanctum. He was actually going to sit opposite M, one to one, for the first time.

  And what did Bond know of the man who ruled every aspect of the Secret Intelligence Service, reporting only to senior government ministers who would nonetheless defer to him? Certainly not his name, although his initials were said to be MM. He came from a naval background. That much was obvious from his pipe, his general demeanour, the language he used. He was about sixty years old and tended to wear an old-fashioned three-piece suit unless the weather was unseasonably hot. He was terse but never rude. And there wasn’t a single person in the building who would not offer him their unswerving loyalty, even to the cost of their own life.

  He stepped into a small outer office, not dissimilar to his own. There was a woman sitting at a typewriter but she had paused with her fingers over the keys. Bond knew Miss Moneypenny by sight and by reputation. He often saw her in the canteen, picking at the salad she usually ordered and she was the undisputed leader of the coterie of young women who worked at the most senior level within the service. He was glad she was M’s secretary and not his. She was, quite simply, too damned desirable and he wouldn’t have wanted that to get in the way of work.

  ‘I’m James Bond,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I know who you are.’ She had sounded severe but her eyes were examining him with interest and he wondered how much she knew. Sitting so close to the lion’s den, she must hear every growl that emerged and she would have first sight of the top-secret paperwork that crossed her desk. He found himself thinking that she would make fascinating pillow talk – although at the same time he wondered what sort of man would be brave enough to share the pillow. ‘I’m sure we’ll get to know each other better,’ she went on. ‘But not now, I’m afraid. M is waiting.’

  ‘Another time, then.’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ He made his way towards the double doors on the other side.

  ‘Good luck,’ Miss Moneypenny said, quietly, and went back to her work.

  ‘Thank you.’ Bond wondered if he was going to need it.

  Tanner had already gone into M’s office and as Bond followed him a green light came on high above, signalling that they were not to be disturbed.

  M was sitting behind his desk with a report in front of him. His pipe had gone out but there was enough smoke in the room to turn the August sunlight, streaming in over Regent’s Park, into shafts. He examined the new arrival with grey eyes that missed nothing. As Bond stood there he was immediately struck by M’s authority, his quiet confidence. Decisions would be made in this room that might change the world. Lives would be snuffed out without a second thought. Both the Japanese man, Kishida, and Rolf Larsen would have received their death sentences here. And it would all have been done in a very English way – with a pipe and a cup of tea and the scratch of a fountain pen signing off on the dotted line.

  ‘Come in, Bond,’ M said. ‘Take a seat.’

  Tanner was standing to one side. Bond sat down opposite the man who would now control his destiny.

  ‘So, how did Stockholm go?’ M asked.

  ‘I’d say it went very smoothly, sir,’ Bond replied.

  ‘Well, the Statspolisen are treating it like a burglary, which is exactly what we wanted. I can’t say I’m ever comfortable dealing with the Swedes. You don’t know where you are. They were supposedly neutral in the war but that didn’t stop them supplying the Germans with iron ore. They lent their railway system to the Wehrmacht too, transporting howitzers, tanks, ammunition and all the rest of it through to Finland. On the other hand, they shared their intelligence with us and we were able to use their air bases in ’44. Maybe that’s what they mean by neutrality. Playing both sides.’

  He tapped the report.

  ‘I un
derstand you spoke to this man, Larsen.’

  Bond nodded. He had been thoroughly debriefed when he got back and he had described exactly what had happened. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He was awake when you entered the room?’

  ‘No, sir. I woke him up.’

  ‘I’m surprised you thought there was any need. What exactly did you say to him?’

  ‘I mentioned the names Bourne and Calder.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘I suppose I wanted an acknowledgement of guilt, sir. I wanted to be absolutely sure that I was killing the right man.’

  It was what M had been expecting. When he spoke again, his voice was brusque and there was a flare of anger in his eyes. ‘Do you think I’d have sent you to kill the wrong one? If you’re going to work in the Double-O Section, Bond, it might help you to have a little more trust in this organisation. Larsen was guilty. There was no doubt of it. He was responsible for the deaths of at least a dozen people and it was my decision to send an executioner. Not a lawyer.’

  Bond accepted the rebuke silently. M might have a point but when the moon had risen and the moment had come, it hadn’t been him sitting in the bedroom with the knife. He glanced at Tanner, who was looking away uncomfortably.

  ‘Well, you did a good job,’ M went on, more pleasant now. ‘And you’ve certainly earned your promotion. My chief of staff speaks extremely highly of you and I have no doubts at all about your capabilities.’ He closed the folder. ‘Now, I have an assignment for you. It actually connects with the man you’ve replaced. I want to know what happened to 007 and what exactly is going on in the south of France, particularly with regard to the Corsican syndicates and the supply of heroin. You might say it’s good news that they seem to have stopped producing this muck but 007 was clearly onto something – he said as much in his last transmission – and whatever it was, it got him killed.

  ‘And then there’s this woman, Joanne Brochet or whatever she calls herself, to investigate too. We’re not sure how she fits into the picture but she’s clearly no friend of this country, no matter what our man in the Treasury may think.’ Here, he threw a baleful glance in Tanner’s direction. ‘She’s dangerous, unprincipled and it may well be that she was directly or indirectly responsible for his death. She must be in France for a reason and we know for a fact that she has been in contact with the syndicates. More than that, our man was investigating her when he was killed. He went to a meeting to get information and he ended up getting three bullets instead. And finally there’s the manner of his death. It happened in a public place in daylight hours and he wasn’t carrying his weapon.’

  ‘Yes, I thought about that,’ Bond agreed. ‘It suggests that he was meeting someone he knew well. The bullets were fired at close range.’ He paused. ‘It could have been a liaison.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Do we really have no idea what she’s doing in the south of France?’

  ‘No,’ Tanner said. ‘She’s taken up with an American businessman, a multimillionaire called Irwin Wolfe. You may have heard of him or his corporation – Wolfe America.’

  ‘They make film,’ Bond said.

  ‘That’s right. Film – not films. He started out producing orthochromatic negative stock for the film industry and he was one of the first manufacturers to move into colour. Now he’s the third biggest supplier after Eastman and Kodak and he’s opened a European plant on the Italian border. He’s also branched out into luxury travel. He’s got a brand-new cruise ship he’s about to launch on its maiden voyage to America.’

  ‘Could he be involved in all this?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. Wolfe is something of a national hero. Before the war, he was an isolationist. He spoke out against America getting involved with the fight against the Nazis. Didn’t think it was any of their business. But he had two sons who joined the Marines and he lost them both on Omaha Beach. They were killed within minutes of each other. The Americans go for stories like that. Losing his two boys. Putting his country ahead of his personal convictions. He’s been in and out of the White House many times since then. An adviser to Roosevelt and Truman. He’s also getting on a bit. He must be well over seventy and there are rumours that he’s unwell.’

  ‘Did 007 mention him?’

  Tanner shook his head. ‘Not a word.’

  ‘I want you to leave at once,’ M cut in. ‘Miss Moneypenny will arrange the air ticket for you to Nice. That was where 007 was based and that’s where I suggest you start.’

  ‘We sent 007 out under a false name,’ Tanner said. ‘But there doesn’t seem to be any point doing the same for you. After all, it clearly didn’t do him any good. He called himself Richard Blakeney, working out of University College. He had an apartment, number twelve in the Rue Foncet. The French police have been in there but it might still be a good idea to have a look around.’

  ‘Station F will provide you with everything you need,’ M said. ‘But I don’t want you to contact the SDECE or any other French departments and I haven’t told them you’re on your way. I don’t like to say this about our friends and allies but we can’t be certain they’re to be trusted and until we know a little more of what’s going on, it might be safer for you to act as an independent agent, so to speak.’

  ‘I agree, sir.’

  M reached for his pipe, although he didn’t light it. ‘There is one more thing. You’re going to need a number. You’ll be working with 008 and 0011. I don’t know why, but 009 sprung to mind. What do you think?’

  Bond had been getting to his feet but he sat down again. ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d like to take over the 007 designation.’

  M raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Well, I suppose there are two reasons. The first is that I knew ————.’ Bond named the man who had died. ‘I’d go so far as to say we were friends and I’d like to keep his memory alive, flying the flag, so to speak.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘I think it sends out a message. You can take one of us down but it changes nothing. We’ll come back the same and as strong as ever.’

  M exchanged a glance with his chief of staff, then nodded. ‘Well, it makes no difference to me. As long as you’re not superstitious. Just make sure you take care of yourself. Good luck.’

  The following day, James Bond 007 left for France.

  5

  ‘Hold it right there …’

  The sun has always been a little in love with the south of France. It beats down, making the sea bluer and the palm trees greener and the beaches more welcoming than they have any right to be. As Bond walked along the Promenade des Anglais, curving round the waterfront at Nice, he found it almost impossible to imagine the scene in the cloud or the rain. What would happen to the sun-worshippers, stretched out on the sand or posing in the shallow water to one side of him? Or what about the smart set, drifting in and out of the fashion shops, sitting beneath the canopies with their grands café crèmes on the other? This whole city was a playground and its children had to be kept in the light.

  He had arrived that morning and checked into the Hotel Negresco. The splendour of the building with its pink dome and extravagant furnishings had amused him – as had the fact that he now had a budget that could reach out to afford it. A licence to kill, it seemed, also came with an almost unlimited licence to spend. He had quickly unpacked and now, dressed in a dark blue Sea Island cotton shirt and white linen slacks, he looked no different from any of the other tourists making their way down the famous thoroughfare.

  Only the .25 Beretta tucked into his back pocket told a different story. This was the gun that Bond favoured and he had tailored it exactly to his needs, removing the grip panels and carefully filing off the front sight above the slide. If he’d been asked why he had made these modifications, he would have hesitated before answering. The main reasons were to make the weapon more effective at close range but the truth of the matter was that it was simply the way he liked it. Feeli
ng the weight of it pressing against his hip reminded Bond why he was here and separated him from the crowd. It was strange, this sense of isolation. As if the sun were shining on everyone except him.

  He turned off, leaving the great sweep of the sea behind him. The Rue Foncet was a ten-minute walk away, a long narrow street that ran in a straight line from nowhere in particular to somewhere else. The peace and quiet of the seafront was punctured here by two sweating workmen digging up the road with a jackhammer. Not for them the delights of la belle saison. Bond went round them and continued past an old-fashioned tailor’s and a flower shop. There were fewer people here and almost no traffic.

  The flat Bill Tanner had mentioned – rented by a university lecturer who went by the name of Richard Blakeney – was about halfway along and opposite a funeral parlour, which seemed to Bond unpleasantly prophetic. The main entrance to the building was open. Bond walked in and nodded at a grandmotherly concierge sitting in her vestibule, knitting. She smiled toothlessly back. A flight of concrete stairs led upwards. Bond took them to the fifth floor – which was as high as the building went.

  There were two flats here, one at each end of a corridor that had seen better times. The paintwork was flaking and there was dust and debris on the marble floor. Bond quickly examined the door of number twelve, which had been secured with a simple lever tumbler lock. He drew a slim, silver tool from his pocket – a curtain pick – and after listening to make sure there was nobody inside, inserted the pick and manipulated it carefully until he heard the tumbler fall.

  He opened the door and found himself in a two-bedroom flat with a high ceiling, wooden shutters and wallpaper with a pattern of faded yellow roses. In the front room a well-worn rug covered a small area of otherwise bare floorboards. There was an assortment of furniture that looked as if it had come from or should be on its way to a flea market. He glanced through a second door and saw a brass bed, unmade, the mattress still holding the shape of the man who had once slept there. There were pictures on the wall – mountains and vineyards, vases of flowers – and old mirrors that threw back reflections speckled with age. Bond could hear a radio playing nearby and the smell of fried onions seeped up from somewhere below. He knew that this was only a temporary address but he wondered why anyone would have chosen to live here. Personally, he preferred the Negresco.