Forever and a Day

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘Keep your hands in sight!’

  One of them had seen what he was doing. The muzzle of his machine gun rose, the single black eye daring Bond to continue. Bond froze. His fingers were only inches away from the Beretta.

  And then something silver glinted in the air, shining out against the dark background of the woods. It travelled so quickly that it had found its target before Bond knew what it was. The man with the radio grunted and collapsed, his knees folding underneath him. The handle of a knife jutted out of his neck. The other two turned just in time to face their own death. Two more knives span towards them. One of the men was hit in the throat, the other in his chest. Both crumpled and lay still.

  Three more people stepped out of the woods. Once again Bond’s hand crept round, reaching for the Beretta, but Sixtine had seen what he was doing and issued a one-word command. ‘Don’t!’

  It was fortunate that she had reacted so quickly as he might already have fired. But now Bond realised that he knew the new arrivals. He had seen them before. One looked like a schoolteacher, young, with thick glasses and carefully combed hair. One was short and overweight and could have been a businessman although he no longer wore a gold signet ring. The third was shabby and unshaven, standing lazily with a crooked half-smile. The last time Bond had seen them, they had been sitting together, playing vingt-et-un in the Monte Carlo casino. They were Sixtine’s syndicate. But how had they got here?

  The youngest of the three – the schoolteacher – was examining the guards. He glanced up and spoke in English. ‘This one is still alive.’

  ‘Finish him, please, Marco,’ Sixtine said.

  The survivor was the last of the guards to have been hit. He was the one who had spoken to Bond. Marco calmly pulled the knife out of his chest and re-inserted it in his throat, pushing it in and twisting it at the same time. The guard’s legs shuddered once. He made no sound.

  ‘Are you all right, madame?’ the businessman asked. Bond wondered what had happened to the woman who had acted as his wife. Or were they really married? With this group, anything was possible.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Frédéric.’ Sixtine looked around her. She seemed completely unfussed by what had just occurred.

  ‘We will need to get rid of the bodies,’ Frédéric muttered. ‘We can bury them, if you like, in the woods.’

  ‘No. I don’t think we should disturb the ground in this wretched place. Find some of those bushes – the ones with the poison nettles – and throw them in there. With a bit of luck nobody will find them, at least not until we’ve finished. Then go back to Nice. I’ll contact you there.’

  ‘Would you like us to accompany you out of here, madame?’ the third man asked. ‘There are still quite a few unpleasant things between the two fences.’

  ‘No, thank you, Georges. I can find my own way. Anyway, I have Mr Bond to look after me.’ She turned to Bond and smiled. ‘Have you seen enough?’

  ‘More than enough, I think,’ Bond said.

  They left the three men to deal with the bodies and made their way silently and carefully back to the outer fence. Sixtine had marked the section that had been cut with another white cross on a tree. Bond lifted the flap for her as she crawled out. The two of them made their way back to the car.

  ‘They followed us here,’ Bond said as they drove back down the hill. At last it was safe to speak.

  ‘Actually, they were already here. I asked them to wait for me and then follow us into the woods.’

  ‘You didn’t trust me?’

  ‘I don’t trust anyone, James. Not even the men I’ve slept with.’ She stopped herself. ‘Especially the men I’ve slept with. But that’s not why they were there. The boys always follow me wherever I go. They like to look after me.’

  ‘They were playing cards with you in the casino.’

  ‘Yes. Marco is actually very good at vingt-et-un and baccarat too for that matter. He could win on his own but he likes to indulge me.’

  They reached Castellar after a few minutes and drove slowly through the narrow streets. This time there was no donkey to block the way. Bond thought about what he had seen; the old and the new buildings, the electric fence, the various traps in the forest, the guards with machine guns. He knew that he had to go back. He turned to Sixtine.

  ‘Last night you said you thought you’d found a way into the plant – but that you might need my help.’

  Sixtine nodded. ‘That’s right. But it’s very high-risk and we’d have to be completely on our own.’

  ‘Do you want to try it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  16

  Suicide Doors

  It had taken Sixtine two weeks to find the baker who supplied the canteen at Wolfe Europe and another two weeks to persuade him to help her.

  Paul Rémy was a nervous man. He had inherited the business from his father and dedicated himself to his work, getting up every morning at half past four to fire up the ovens and begin the lengthy, almost artistic process of creating the baguettes, croissants, pain de campagne and fougasses that would fill the window of his little shop on the Avenue Boyer in Menton. When he had first been offered the contract by the film manufacturer, it had seemed almost too good to be true: a guaranteed order three times a week and the kudos of being associated with a large international company. But he had come to dread his visits to the factory or whatever it was that was buried so deep in the woods. He did not understand why there had to be guns. He had been ordered to sign a confidentiality agreement. Why make such a big deal when all he was doing was delivering bread? Every time he drove in, he felt that he was entering a trap. Every time, he counted the minutes until he left.

  And to make things worse, this strange, beautiful woman had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. She had offered him a huge sum of money to do something that would almost certainly put his life at risk. Why had she chosen him? He had been mad to speak to her at all.

  The trouble was, Paul Rémy desperately needed money. He had fallen several months behind with the rent. Earlier that summer, one of the kneading machines in the fournil where he did his work had given up the ghost and the cost of its replacement had been exorbitant. There was a full-time patissier who was threatening to resign unless he got a rise. What was he to do? If he added even a few centimes to the cost of his products, his customers would desert him.

  And then there was Jeanette. He had recently fallen for the pretty blonde girl who worked in the flower shop opposite and there was a problem here too. Jeanette was married to the owner of the flower shop. The two of them met regularly when the husband was away – either at the market or visiting his elderly parents. They talked constantly of running away together but that also required money. Jeanette had expensive tastes. Rémy knew he would have no trouble stealing her but keeping her would be altogether more difficult.

  Which was why, that same Sunday evening after their visit to the factory, he found himself sitting in the tiny apartment above the shop, sharing a rough bottle of wine with the woman who called herself Madame 16 and the Englishman she had brought with her. A fan turned slowly in the ceiling but it only pushed the air around without cooling it.

  ‘What can you tell us about Wolfe Europe?’ the Englishman asked. He spoke excellent French.

  Rémy spread his hands. ‘Very little, monsieur. I see nothing. The place is full of petits malfrats. I have already told madame.’ Small-time crooks. But Bond knew they were more than that. ‘I come. I go.’ He looked the Englishman square in the eyes. It was time to assert himself. ‘I can take madame in the van with me. But that is all I can do. You must not ask for anything more.’

  Sixtine had promised to pay Paul Rémy 200,000 francs to drive her into the compound. The guards had grown used to seeing him and never searched his van. There was plenty of space to conceal somebody underneath one of the shelves that lined the back. Sixtine would cover herself with sacks. While Rémy went into the kitchen with his loaves and cake
s, she would slip out and find somewhere to hide. If by chance she was discovered, there would be no way anyone would know how she had got in. That was what they had agreed but now, it seemed, everything was going to change.

  ‘This new plan is much better, Monsieur Rémy,’ Sixtine cut in. ‘You still have concerns that they will search your van even though they never have done so before. Then it’s safer for you if you don’t drive it. My friend will take your place. We will enter the compound at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. An hour later, at nine o’clock, you will telephone the police and say that the van has been stolen. That way, no blame will attach to you.’

  ‘How can he take my place?’ Rémy squinted at Bond.

  ‘There is a similarity between you … the same age, the same dark hair. Wearing your coat and with flour on his face, nobody will notice. I will be in the back of the vehicle, as we agreed. It is possible that we will be able to enter and leave before anyone notices that we were there. But if for some reason we are apprehended, you need have no fear. We will say we stole the van.’

  Rémy considered. ‘How can I trust you?’

  ‘Why would I lie to you? This is easier for you, Paul, because you won’t be part of it. And since there will be two of us going into the plant, I will double the money that I offered you. 400,000 francs. What do you say?’

  Bond saw greed and fear enter the baker’s eyes, the two emotions at war with each other. Paul Rémy was about the same age as him. Although he had changed into his best suit, ready for evening Mass, he was still covered in white flour. Sixtine was telling the truth. Bond could take his place and nobody would notice. But would he agree?

  ‘400,000 francs …’ The baker had never earned so much money. He had never even spoken those words.

  ‘If you’ll agree now, I’ll round it up to 500,000. All you have to do is to give us the keys.’

  The next day, early on Monday morning, wearing a herringbone worker’s jacket and a cap, Bond sat behind the wheel of a Citroën H van, urging it up into the hills surrounding Menton. The van was a grey steel box with the familiar corrugated bodywork and the ugly, blunt cabin that made it look as if it had been chopped in half as it came off the production line. With its front-wheel drive and three-speed gearbox, it was crude and uncomfortable to drive – Bond could barely push it above thirty miles per hour – but at the same time it seemed reliable, an old workhorse. Bond hadn’t shaved, allowing dark bristle to spread over his cheeks. He had also rubbed flour into his face and his hair.

  Sixtine was beside him in the passenger seat. There was no point hiding yet. Only when they were in sight of the turn-off did Bond slow down and stop.

  ‘If this goes wrong, get out as fast as you can,’ she said.

  ‘In this van, that’s not very fast.’

  ‘I know.’ She was wearing a loose-fitting tussore shirt and trousers cut off below the knee. She took out a gun, a custom-made Baby Browning with an ivory grip, checked it and slipped it into her pocket. Bond approved. It was a small, light weapon, easily concealed and quickly engaged. A lady’s gun.

  ‘Once we’re inside – even assuming we get that far – we’re not going to have a lot of time,’ Bond said. ‘I know you want to take a look around and perhaps we’ll find this secret formula or whatever it is you’re looking for, but after what happened yesterday, Wolfe may well have racked up his security apparatus – and from what I’ve seen so far, he had a pretty efficient machine to start with.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to hang around.’

  She slipped out. The van had wide doors with the hinges at the back, not the front so that they opened the wrong way: suicide doors, they were called. Bond hoped the name wouldn’t prove to be appropriate. The van rocked slightly as Sixtine climbed into the back and he heard the click as she swung the doors shut behind her. He pushed the van into gear and turned off down the lane towards Wolfe Europe.

  He drove at a constant speed, passing through the green tunnel to the security barrier that he had seen the day before. This would be his first test and he felt his pulse racing as the two-storey building drew closer. At the same time, he reminded himself, this was the least dangerous part of Sixtine’s plan. If the guards asked for identification or recognised that he wasn’t Paul Rémy, it would be easy enough to talk his way out. ‘I’m sorry, messieurs. Paul isn’t well. He told me to come in his place.’ But once he was past the checkpoint he would be trapped inside the enemy camp and, as he had discovered in the forest, with these people, anything could happen.

  But to start with, things went his way. Even as the Citroën H drew near, the first barrier was raised. The guards had recognised the van – they had watched it approach every other day at exactly the same time for months – and their eyes told them that the dark-haired figure hunched over the wheel must be the baker. Bond didn’t look sideways as he drove through, keeping as much of his face concealed as possible. He was careful not to speed. He was delivering bread; that was all. That was how he should behave.

  The lane continued through the wood with its deadly stinging nettles and booby traps although, looked at through the windows of the van, it seemed completely normal. Bond wondered what had happened when the three guards had failed to show up at the end of their shift. Was there a search party out looking for them now? If Irwin Wolfe or his people were expecting further trouble, they could be driving straight into a trap.

  On the other hand, it had been less than twenty-four hours since the men had been killed. It was always possible that whoever employed them might think they had clocked off and gone home. No shots had been fired. The three men had simply disappeared.

  Ahead of him, the electric fence loomed with the second checkpoint stark and menacing. There were more guards here – four of them – and the barrier stayed where it was as the van approached. Bond sank into his chair, allowing the collar of his worker’s jacket to rise up. He wished he had lit a cigarette. It would have helped give the impression that he was completely relaxed and it would also have allowed him to hide more of his face with his cupped hand. It was too late now. He rolled down the window and called out cheerfully – in what he hoped was an approximation of Rémy’s voice – ‘Bonjour!’

  One of the guards glanced at him curiously, then seemed to remember who he was and snapped out a command. The barrier rose. ‘Merci!’ Bond waved a hand and continued forward, a single drop of perspiration drawing a question mark around his ear and then continuing down his neck.

  He steered the van into the parking area beside the water tower. The jeeps, complete with their mounted guns and ammunition boxes, were still standing in the same parking bay where they had been the day before. One of them had its hood open and there was a man in overalls leaning into the engine. There was nobody else in sight. Bond got out. He opened the suicide door and spoke quietly. ‘It’s clear.’

  Sixtine rolled out of her hiding place. She and Bond picked up trays of baguettes and walked quickly towards the nearest building. This was the kitchen. Rémy had sketched out a map of the complex – or the parts that he knew – before they had left. Bond kept his head down. He could feel the shadow of the watchtower looming over him and wondered if he was being observed through binoculars. Hopefully, the trays would speak for themselves. I’m making a delivery. I’ve brought an assistant. There’s nothing to be worried about. He was glad when he reached the door and found that it was open. He and Sixtine moved inside.

  The kitchen was industrial-sized. Huge tureens of soup or stew or something bubbled away on gas flames. The thick smell of cooking hung in the air. Chefs sweated in their chessboard trousers and white jackets as they chopped and mixed ingredients. Bond and Sixtine set down their trays and continued forward without stopping. They had to look as if they knew what they were doing. To hesitate would be to draw attention to themselves and that would invite questions. There was a door next to a wide serving hatch and, on the other side, a room with twenty long wooden tables and no decoration. Bond was a
lready picking up the work ethic of Wolfe Europe. You did your job, you ate, you finished, you left. There were no perks.

  They passed through the dining room and into a corridor with whitewashed walls. Halfway along, Bond found exactly what he was looking for. There were two washrooms, one for men and the other for women, and a changing area where the staff could take off their outer garments before they ate. Half a dozen white coats had been left hanging on hooks and there were also square caps made out of white nylon. Without speaking, Bond and Sixtine slipped them on. Now, as they moved around the complex, they would look no different from anyone else.

  They continued to the end of the corridor. Already they could hear the sound of machinery coming from the next building. They passed through a double door that formed an effective airlock. Bond noticed dust filters on the wall and a machine to remove dust from his shoes. The second door led into a much larger area with at least fifty people, all wearing protective coveralls, attending to different machines. The room was in half-darkness, which suited Bond well. It was hard even to tell the men and women apart and it was impossible that he and Sixtine would be recognised. Even so, the two of them kept moving. There was a steel gantry overhead and internal observation windows made of thick plate glass. Everyone was being endlessly observed by white-coated figures with protective goggles and clipboards. Nobody was talking. The people here were as well regulated as the machines.

  Bond saw a clipboard lying on a table and picked it up. In an instant he had turned himself from a worker to an inspector and just holding it gave him the opportunity to linger. He examined the stainless steel panels, recording devices, platforms, ladders and overhead pipes. Knowing the final product, he was able to make some sort of sense of it all. In one part of the factory, emulsion was pouring down from an upper level, coating a roll of cellulose at least three feet wide. The cellulose was wound onto massive cylinders and then directed into the next metallic beast, a drying chamber that howled and shuddered as it fed. Moments later, the film base was regurgitated, cut into strips, then folded into rolls of yellow, protective paper. All the time, the machines hummed and shuddered. The lights flickered. The needles danced. Everything was connected to everything, and the end product, fulfilling the day’s quota, was all that mattered.