Forever and a Day

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘The invoice could have been falsified.’

  ‘There were hundreds … thousands of invoices in that place, James. You think they were all fake?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Maybe you should talk to Monique.’

  ‘I’ll see her tomorrow.’

  ‘And Madame 16 tonight?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why not, my friend.’ Griffith lowered his voice. ‘Scipio knew who you were. He called you by your name and your number. There was only one person who could have given him that information. Her!’

  Bond nodded, suddenly recognising that there was a large part of him that wanted to believe in Sixtine, and that – despite everything – he had taken a liking to her when they met in the casino. But all the evidence was against her. ‘They knew we were coming,’ he said gloomily. ‘They were expecting us. And for what it’s worth, when I met her, I actually mentioned Ferrix Chimiques. I asked her about it.’

  ‘That wasn’t too smart. She probably telephoned them the moment she left you.’

  ‘It does look that way.’

  Griffith jiggled the ice in his glass. He looked rueful. ‘I warned you about her, James. She’s the spider in the web. She’s living with Wolfe. She’s met with Scipio. And now she’s got you in her sights. Maybe I should tag along and hold your hand.’

  Bond smiled. ‘I think I can manage.’

  ‘Well, OK. But take care. I’d have said we’ve had enough scares for one day … and I’m telling you, that lady scares me. Quite seriously.’

  Bond thought about the CIA agent’s words as he drove the short distance past Villefranche and round the bay to the peninsula which – though barely one square mile in size – had become the most elegant location in the world. Bond had never been particularly impressed by the trappings of money and success – he had met too many wealthy people whose wealth was all that defined them. But there was something unassailable about the glamour of Cap Ferrat: the gardens and the walkways and the fabulous villas along with the artists, writers and international statesmen who had once occupied them. At night, with the stars thrown carelessly across a black velvet sky and the scent of pine and eucalyptus still heavy in the warm air, with the waves lapping and the luxury cruisers tugging at their anchors, it was hard to imagine anywhere more perfect. It might be a millionaire’s playground but it was the one place in the world where even the most fleeting of visitors would feel like a millionaire.

  Shame Lady was a brand-new construction built plainly, obviously to impress. It sat in the wooded hills above the little port, rising up on white, concrete legs like an attack dog about to spring. Huge, square windows gave the occupants spectacular views of the coastline. High walls and one-way glass made sure that nobody passing could return the favour. It was embraced by the gentle curves of multiple terraces planted with olive trees, rose bushes and tumbling ivy, but the main building was itself angular and hard; a case of modern architecture at war with nature. A flight of white marble steps led up to the front door, marked out by flames burning in silver chalices. Two burly attendants with clipboards guarded the way. Bond was on the list. He was admitted.

  The party was already in full swing. There was a jazz band playing, white-jacketed waiters somehow finding a way through the guests. Bond was offered and accepted a glass of champagne as he made his way up and sipped it approvingly, recognising the delicate flavour and quiet effervescence of a 1934 Pol Roger. The house had been designed so that the windows slid completely out of the way, removing any definition of what was inside and what was out. One moment, Bond felt grass beneath his feet. The next he was on carpet, surrounded by artworks hung and lit with the sort of care that suggested the multimillion-pound auction houses from where they had undoubtedly come. The furniture was aggressively modern. The guests seemed to have been selected for their fashion sense, their looks and their youth. This was a crowd of people for whom appearance was everything. They glittered a little too self-consciously as they stood and chatted in French and English, at the same time plucking caviar on blinis, lobster tails and smoked salmon from silver trays.

  And yet for all its extravagance, Bond found himself with the uncomfortable feeling of being alone in a crowd. From the snatches of conversation that he overheard, these people were bankers, investors, stockbrokers with their wives, girlfriends and mistresses. None of them had any connection to him or to anyone he would want to know. Many of the girls – Bond knew the type well – were over made-up, feverishly eyeing each other, already competing for the men who would take them to bed. Standing next to him, a man in a blazer and cravat brayed with laughter and threw back half a glass of champagne, barely tasting it as it passed down his throat. Everyone else was behaving in a similar way. Already Bond was wishing that he had taken Reade Griffith up on his offer and brought him along. He could have used the company.

  But then he saw Sixtine entering the room from the garden, looking sophisticated and gorgeous in another Dior creation, this one the very palest pink, strapless, with a wasp waist, decorated with intricate beading and pearlescent sequins. She had a simple diamond necklace around her throat and matching earrings. There was a silver clutch bag tucked under her arm.

  She was holding onto the arm of a man in a velvet dinner jacket and white evening shirt but no tie. Bond knew at once that this was Irwin Wolfe. He somehow made it clear that all of this – the house, the champagne, the guests – belonged to him and that the party could continue only under his sufferance. He was not a large man but he exuded confidence and control. He had a yachtsman’s face, chiselled by the wind and blessed by the sun with that hallmark of the very rich: an all-year tan. In his early seventies, he moved into the room with the ease of a much younger man. His eyes were a pale blue but they had a bright, slightly glazed quality that suggested to Bond that he might be taking medication. He still had a full head of hair, a silvery white, swept up extravagantly in a bouffant style. When he smiled, he displayed perfect teeth.

  Together, the two of them had entered like film stars or minor royalty. They were gay and they were welcoming but still there was something forbidding about them and Bond noticed the guests stepping back to allow them to pass. Nobody spoke to them unless they were spoken to first. And when there were a few words – a greeting, a pleasantry – there was a sense of benediction, an honour received.

  Sixtine saw Bond and immediately led Wolfe over to him. Even as they came towards him, Bond noticed how close they were to each other, moving like dance partners, and a small part of him recoiled. Was he jealous? Why would he possibly be? He had no time to answer the question. Suddenly they were in front of him.

  ‘Irwin,’ Sixtine said. ‘This is the man I was talking to you about, the one I met at the casino. His name is James Bond and he owes me 100,000 francs.’

  Wolfe smiled and held out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Bond.’ He had a solid American accent, one that had no shyness and liked to make itself known. ‘What brings you to the Côte d’Azur?’

  ‘Business,’ Bond replied, non-committally. Wolfe was still clutching his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. ‘Import and export,’ he added, hoping that would be enough.

  ‘Oh really? What exactly?’ The man was refusing to let go in any sense.

  ‘Agro-chemicals.’ Bond fell back on the same cover he had used at Ferrix Chimiques. ‘I represent a company that owns farmland in Great Britain.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ Finally, Wolfe released him. ‘So you met my baby girl in Monte Carlo?’ He leaned over and kissed her awkwardly on the naked curve between her shoulder and her neck. She didn’t try to push him away and seemed to enjoy his advances. ‘And I hear you gave her a good spanking!’

  ‘Irwin – I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Now she was coquettish.

  ‘At cards, baby. At cards!’

  ‘We were playing vingt-et-un.’

  ‘As long as it wasn’t soixante-neuf!’ He laughed loudly at his own joke and Bond fel
t a sense of revulsion that was somehow at odds with everything he had heard about the man he was meeting. But then Wolfe turned to him, suddenly serious. ‘So when did you get down here, Jim?’ he asked.

  ‘A couple of days ago.’ Bond felt the need to be polite and looked around him, trying to find something to say. ‘I have to congratulate you. You have a magnificent home.’

  ‘Oh – this little place isn’t my home. I live in Los Angeles. I had this house built by a guy from Paris when I expanded my business into Europe. It took me two years to get the permission to build. Would you believe that? There was a little church up here, a run-down chapel that nobody used. It had been here for centuries and that’s about how long it took me to persuade them to let me knock it down. It was the same at Menton. I have a plant about twenty miles from here and I said to the local authorities – the mayor or whoever – you don’t get round to giving me what I want, maybe I’ll close down and take my business elsewhere.’ He rested his hand just above Sixtine’s waist and jerked her closer towards him, as if he needed her to be on his side. ‘That quickly changed their minds.’

  ‘Irwin is in the film business,’ Sixtine explained.

  ‘I make the stuff. I don’t shoot it. Sixtine here is fascinated by my work. She’s always asking me about it. I can’t understand why. I’ve never yet met a woman who understood technology.’ He lowered his hand to cup the curve of her bottom and Bond was astonished that Sixtine didn’t seem to mind. ‘That’s the way I prefer it,’ he went on. ‘My first wife was good for three things. Boys. She gave me two sons. Boats. She was crazy about cruising. And bed.’ It was a formula he had used before. He challenged Bond not to be amused by it.

  But Bond wasn’t playing. ‘Are your sons here tonight?’ he asked innocently. He knew the answer. He was needling Wolfe quite deliberately.

  A flash of something ugly glimmered briefly in the man’s eyes. ‘No, Mr Bond. Both my sons are dead. They fell on the battlefield. In fact, they were taken from me on the same day.’

  ‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. A great many Americans made sacrifices and some of them may well have asked if it was worth it. After all, it was the Jews’ war. It was nothing to do with us. But our president – Frank Roosevelt, I knew him well – decided that we had to come in and save the world and that was what we goddamn did. I’d like to think where you Limeys would be right now if it hadn’t been for us! It may have cost us dear and in my view it will continue to cost us for years to come. But I’m proud to have played my part.’

  It seemed to Bond that Wolfe had uttered this last sentence with difficulty. As for the rest of his little speech, he had heard it all before and dismissed it.

  Sixtine sensed the atmosphere between the two men and cut in, trying to make light of it. ‘You mentioned boats,’ she said. ‘You should tell James about the Mirabelle.’

  ‘The Mirabelle!’ Wolfe visibly softened. ‘She’s named after my first wife and it won’t come as any surprise to you when I say she’s a beauty. Are you interested in cruise liners?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘The Mirabelle was built in your country in a place called Birkenhead – but I brought her down here to be fitted out. You Brits are good mechanics but you know damn all about design. 24,250 tons. 680 feet in length. Fully equipped with all the latest technology from the anti-roll stabilisers to some sort of new-fangled funnel that stops smuts falling on the upper deck. She’s set to make her maiden voyage and all I can say is, Moore-McCormack and the Grace Line had better start looking over their shoulders because our package makes their fleets look like a bunch of rusting tubs.’

  ‘I’d like to see her.’

  ‘Then you should get your ass on board. But you’d better make it soon, Jim. We’re weighing anchor Tuesday morning, 8 a.m. We’re allowing three weeks for the crossing. We could do it in half the time but we’re going to be dealing with any last-minute kinks, spending the first week just a mile off the French coast. It’s a shame I can’t invite you to make the trip with us. The mayor’s going to meet us when we dock at the New York harbour. The vice president’s hoping to fly in. We’re going to have a party on board like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve spent $1,000 on the fireworks alone!’

  Tuesday was four days away. ‘I’m sure I could look in before then,’ Bond said.

  ‘Then why don’t you arrange a time with Sixtine? She’s going to be with me on the crossing. It wouldn’t be a maiden voyage without a maiden and it should be fun – just the two of us with no passengers and 550 cabins to choose from.’

  ‘Maybe you could come along tomorrow?’ Sixtine suggested.

  ‘Sure. Tomorrow afternoon. How about teatime? You Brits like your tea don’t you! Let’s say four o’clock.’

  ‘Four o’clock will be fine,’ Bond said. ‘Is she berthed in Marseilles?’

  Wolfe shook his head. ‘No. She’s here in Nice. Sixtine will make the arrangements.’ His hand was still resting on her obscenely. It looked like a dead crab. ‘Come on, honey. There are some people I want you to meet.’ He steered her away.

  Bond stood where he was for a minute, surrounded by the young crowd. He was still holding half a glass of the Pol Roger but suddenly he had no appetite for it. In fact he didn’t want to stay here a moment longer. He wondered why he had come. Someone shuffled up to him and tried to make conversation but after a few brief words he twisted round and made his way out.

  He was halfway down the marble steps when a voice called out his name. He turned and saw that Sixtine had come out of one of the side windows. She must have made her excuses and separated from Irwin Wolfe almost at once. Bond walked up to her. ‘Yes?’ he asked coldly.

  She looked at him curiously. ‘Why are you leaving?’ she asked.

  ‘Why should I stay?’

  ‘You’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘It’s been a long day and I’m not really in the mood.’

  He might have left right then but she held him with her eyes and made the decision for both of them. ‘I want to talk to you. Come with me.’

  Without waiting for a reply, she turned her back on him and walked into the shadows of the garden, leaving the party behind. Bond watched her for a moment, then followed. He liked women and felt comfortable with them. He had always thought he understood them. But everything about Sixtine – even her name – was disconcerting and it seemed to him that in the short time he had known her he had been presented with at least three different personae. At the casino in Monte Carlo, he had thought her intriguing, a little lonely but entirely in control. To Reade Griffith she had been dangerous: a spider in a web, a Mata Hari. It was an opinion shared by M. But just now, inside the house, she had allowed herself to be fondled and petted by a man at least thirty years older than her. She was clearly no fortune hunter so what was she doing here? And, for that matter, what was he doing following her meekly across the lawn? He should have just told her to get lost.

  They came to a swimming pool surrounded by strange little plants with flowers that looked like pink dandelions. These were the shame ladies that Sixtine had described. Bond had seen them once in Jamaica and remembered being told that the leaves shrank when they were touched. That was why the name had been given to them. Sixtine continued walking towards a Japanese-style pavilion constructed at the far end of the pool. Inside, there were wicker chairs and cushions with heavy, floral covers. She threw herself down with her arms folded behind her and her body spread out, the sequins on her dress catching the light of the moon. She glanced up as Bond arrived but she had never doubted that he would come. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ she asked.

  Bond took out a packet of Du Maurier and handed her one. She looked at it disdainfully. ‘Canadian cigarettes named after a minor British actor. There’s a place I go to in London. Morlands. You should give them a try. If you’re going to pursue such a filthy habit, you might as well do it with style.’

  ‘To hell with you, Sixtine,’ Bond said. He lit her ci
garette and one for himself. ‘Why exactly did you invite me here? What do you want?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re in a bad mood.’

  ‘You could say I’ve had a bad day.’

  ‘Have you? Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘I have a feeling you already know.’

  She didn’t deny it. Instead, she blew out smoke and said: ‘You were looking for Scipio. Did you find him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’ Bond didn’t answer so she added: ‘I’m genuinely interested.’

  Bond turned on her. The moon was behind him and there were dark shadows over his eyes. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen your file. I know about the Kosovo papers. I know about some of the people who have been your victims.’

  ‘I prefer to call them clients.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. This may all be a game to you but a friend of mine was killed …’

  ‘You already told me.’

  ‘… and I’ve been sent to find out who was responsible. Right now, I’d say you’re the most likely suspect.’

  ‘I told you. I never even met him. Why should I want to get involved with the British secret service? I have my own reasons to be here, James, and although it might hurt your ego, you really ought to consider the possibility that they have nothing whatsoever to do with you.’

  ‘Maybe you should let me make up my own mind about that.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t care what you think.’

  ‘Then stop wasting my time.’ He was about to leave, but paused and looked at her coldly. ‘Are you sleeping with Irwin Wolfe?’

  If Bond had meant to insult her, he had succeeded. Her eyes flared. She threw down the cigarette and ground it out with a twist of her foot, then stood up so that she was facing him, eye to eye, and they were just a few inches apart. ‘What damned business is it of yours?’