Forever and a Day

by Anthony Horowitz

  The door was unsealed and a blast of warm air came rushing in. James Bond, seated close to the rear on the upper floor, was the first to feel it. For the past twelve hours – the last leg of the journey from New York – he had sat silently in the pressurised, air-conditioned stillness of the cabin (the woman next to him, on the other side of the aisle, had soon given up any hope of conversation). Now the noise, the heat and the smell of the airport reminded him where he was and why he had come here. He could already feel the sweat patches underneath his shirt. His sense of discomfort was made worse by the bandages tightly strapped across his chest. The broken rib was already healing but it would be a while before he was fully fit.

  A week had passed since he had returned to London from the south of France.

  M had been pleased with the way things had gone. ‘You’ve taken out the number-one trafficker in the narcotics business and you’ve sent five tons of his product to the bottom of the ocean … best place for it. This will deal a major blow to the international syndicates and with a bit of luck it will allow the Americans to get on top of the problem of heroin addiction. The truth of the matter is that once the war ended, they could have eliminated it altogether if they hadn’t allowed themselves to get sidetracked. Maybe this will give them a second chance.

  ‘You also achieved exactly what you were sent out to do. When you confronted Scipio, he told you that it was he who killed our man.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He was quite clear about it.’

  ‘Then I’m very glad he’s been dealt with.’ M always chose his words carefully. Violence and death were often part of his remit. But that didn’t mean he had to articulate it, here in this office.

  ‘I was wondering about Wolfe, sir.’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid that part of it didn’t work out quite as well as we might have hoped. He managed to get into one of the lifeboats and they took him ashore. He was driven down the coast to Perpignan and slipped over the border into Spain. He was on a plane back to the US before anyone could speak to him. Now he’s resurfaced at his home in Los Angeles and we’re not going to be able to do very much about him … not officially, anyway. He’s surrounded himself with expensive lawyers. Claims that he knew nothing about Scipio or the drugs or you, for that matter – and unfortunately, as to what happened on the Mirabelle, it’s your word against his. The police raided the factory outside Menton but again he’s pleading ignorance. According to him, it was all down to Scipio.’

  ‘So he’s not going to be prosecuted?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to our friends in the CIA but they’ve been surprisingly unresponsive. They’ve made it clear that they want to handle things their own way.’

  M’s voice was bleak. If the Mirabelle had made it to New York it would have been the start of an epidemic that could have decimated the country. He would not have enjoyed being cold-shouldered by the Americans after everything Bond had done.

  ‘I did want to ask you about Joanne Brochet,’ M went on, a little softer now. His clear grey eyes were examining Bond carefully. ‘I understand that, contrary to what we believed, she was actually very helpful to you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I certainly couldn’t have got away with it without her.’ As he spoke, Bond’s thumb pressed against the wound on his wrist and the bandage wrapped around it.

  ‘And she died.’

  ‘Yes. For what it’s worth, she died helping me and I’d like to think you’ll amend the records to show that, although she had gone into business for herself, she was never an enemy of this country. Quite the contrary. I learned something of her experiences during the war. We owe her a great deal.’

  ‘I’ll see to it. And that son of hers, the one in the Bahamas. I understand that he’s with relatives but we’ll make sure he’s looked after.’

  Bond nodded, satisfied.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ M asked.

  ‘I’d like to take a week’s holiday, if that’s all right, sir,’ Bond said. ‘The doctor patched me up but the rib still hurts like blazes and it’ll be a while before I’m fully operational.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ M lit his pipe. He seemed to be searching for the right words, as if he had something difficult to say. ‘As a matter of fact, I was wondering if you might like to spend some time on the west coast of America. I’ve been thinking about this man, Irwin Wolfe. We obviously can’t involve ourselves in CIA business, but I’ll be damned if I’m just to sit back and do nothing. I wondered if you might like to have a word with him?’

  Bond thought for a moment. ‘Yes, sir. I’d like that very much.’ He paused. ‘Although I don’t think a loaded revolver and a glass of whisky would be something Mr Wolfe would consider.’

  M smiled. ‘I’m not surprised. I’m afraid the Americans don’t quite have our sensibilities when it comes to these matters but at the same time, it can’t hurt letting him know we’re not giving up on him, and at the end of the day all the lawyers in California won’t protect him from justice.’

  ‘That’s a lot of lawyers,’ Bond muttered.

  ‘Just see what you can do. You might find it personally helpful coming face to face with him again. And I want you to understand that whatever results from such a meeting has my full sanction.’

  So there it was. M was effectively giving Bond carte blanche. The visit would be unofficial. Bond could take whatever action he saw fit.

  ‘I want you to know that you handled yourself extremely well, 007,’ M concluded. ‘You fully justified my decision to promote you to the Double-O Section. Enjoy your week off. You deserve it.’

  Loelia Ponsonby had made an international call before Bond left and had spoken to one of Irwin Wolfe’s assistants. Although at first there had been a great deal of reluctance at the other end, a meeting had finally been arranged at the film mogul’s Los Angeles home at seven o’clock on the evening of his arrival. Bond was surprised that Wolfe should have agreed to see him, but then what did he have to lose? He was dying anyway. And he would doubtless be protected.

  At the airport, Bond presented the passport provided for him, made out under a false name. He collected his luggage and made his way through customs, presenting himself to a young, enthusiastic man in a grey uniform shirt.

  ‘How long are you here for, sir?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘A business trip?’

  ‘I’m seeing a friend.’

  ‘Oh. A special occasion?’

  ‘It might be.’

  There was a car waiting for Bond at the airport and he drove himself up La Cienega Boulevard to the hotel he had booked for the few days he actually planned to remain in the city. The Beverly Wilshire suited his needs exactly: grand and comfortable, close to the best shops and restaurants, it was somewhere a wealthy Englishman travelling on his own wouldn’t be noticed. It also had an Olympic-sized swimming pool which he would use twice a day, coaxing his body back into shape.

  Once he had been shown to his room, Bond took a long, hot shower followed by an icy cold one with needles of water pounding down on his shoulders and back. He had ordered a negroni – made with Gordon’s gin – from room service and drank it on his terrace, allowing the sunshine to dry him, wearing only a towel. Feeling refreshed, he wrapped a new bandage round his wrist, got dressed again and called down to the valet to bring round his car. Before he left the room, he opened the hinged compartment concealed in the base of his travel bag and took out the .25 Beretta that he had brought with him from England. He loaded it, slipped it into his back pocket and left.

  Sunset Boulevard runs for twenty-two miles, all the way from downtown Los Angeles to the Pacific West, but there is a specific point where it stops pretending to be an ordinary east–west thoroughfare and becomes something quite different; the home of movie stars, moguls and assorted millionaires. You know you have entered the world of Billy Wilder’s famous film just after you turn the corner at Doheny Road. Suddenly, you’ve left the shops and the offices, the huge billboards and the traffic behind you. Even the houses be
gin to disappear, lost behind high walls and clumps of cedar trees. More and more space stretches out between the various entrances with their gates, mailboxes and perfectly maintained front lawns … or front yards as the Americans call them. The air smells different, more countrified. You soon get the feeling that you are not in Los Angeles at all.

  Bond drove for about half an hour, following the twisting road towards the village of Westwood and the University of California at Los Angeles, before he came to the address he wanted. He saw a pale yellow wall with a fantastical metal gate – all birds and flowers hammered out in silver. The front yard was crowded with evergreen sumacs, which put Bond in mind of the deadly nettles he had encountered at Menton. These plants, too, were far from their natural habitat, the brilliant crimson leaves exploding in the evening sun. He pulled up to the gate and got out of the car, noticing a television camera trained down on him. He found an intercom box with a single button and pressed it. After a long wait, he heard a burst of static as he was connected.

  ‘Yes?’ The voice was distant, metallic.

  ‘My name is James Bond. I have an appointment with Mr Wolfe.’

  ‘Come in.’

  Bond heard a buzz and the gate slid open, revealing a pink tarmac driveway beyond. He got back into the car and drove in.

  There was no sign of the house. He was surrounded by a garden so extravagant that it might have been used to illustrate a Victorian fairy-tale book or a Bible. Everything was green and heavy, a mass of different leaves blocking out the light, flowers of every shape and size bursting out of the earth, over-ripe and odorous. It was the garden of a man who wanted everything and had the money to get it. Statues, lamps, hedges cut into the shapes of pyramids and elephants, palm trees, rose bushes, cacti, conservatories and greenhouses … they had all been jammed together into not quite enough space, so that the overall effect was stifling. In the mirror, Bond saw the gate sliding shut behind him and felt completely trapped.

  He drove round a corner and passed the obligatory tennis court, the one well-defined space in all this clutter. It hadn’t been used for a while. The net was sagging and weeds sprouted out of the clay. And there ahead of him was the house, built in the style of a Spanish hacienda, two or three times larger than any similar house in Spain. According to the records, Wolfe lived here alone – but even when his wife was alive, with a cook, a butler, a tennis coach and half a dozen friends it would have been surplus to requirements. How many bedrooms did it have? Eleven? Twelve? The walls were thick and white, curving and rippling as if struggling to hold back the interior. Many of the windows were stained glass. The roofs were square, circular, rectangular … all made from Spanish tile. There was nothing welcoming about this house. It seemed to be hiding from the world.

  Bond parked between a turquoise Buick Roadmaster – the latest model with its two-piece, convex windscreen – and a black Pontiac Chieftain. The first car was more likely to belong to Wolfe, he thought. So what about the second? A bodyguard, perhaps. It was unlikely that the millionaire would have agreed to see him on his own. He walked to the front door, his feet crunching on the gravel, and pulled the heavy iron bell chain. He heard the bell ring out inside the house but nobody came. He looked behind him and saw the sun sinking behind the trees. It wouldn’t be dark for a few hours.

  He rang a second time. Still nothing. Annoyed now, wondering if Wolfe had decided not to see him after all, he reached out and touched the door. It swung open. There wasn’t a single sound coming from the building. Bond hadn’t seen any gardeners working in the grounds. Everything was still. If it hadn’t been for the monosyllabic voice that he had heard on the intercom, he would have thought the place deserted.

  He stepped inside, into a cavernous hall with wooden floors, exposed beams, a minstrel’s gallery with a twisting rail. Just like the garden, there was too much clutter in the room, too many antique tables, too many faded tapestries covering the walls, too many clocks, potted plants, oil paintings in gilt frames. An arched doorway led down into what might have been a kitchen area. Other doors, dark wood, were closed. Ahead of him, a grand, double-width staircase invited him up to the second floor. Halfway up, he was faced by a nineteenth-century banjo clock fighting the silence with its sonorous ticking. Its hands, twisted into overly ornate shapes, pointed to six forty-five. It was ten minutes slow.

  Bond had already decided to take advantage of the situation and began to explore the different rooms, moving from the study to the dining room, to the library, to the sitting room, to the bar. The floors were uncarpeted – either wood or tile – but his footsteps made no sound. It was darker inside than out. All the furniture and bric-a-brac seemed to swallow up the light. Everywhere, in every room, Bond saw photographs in gold and silver frames and Wolfe appeared in nearly all of them, sometimes with a woman – presumably his dead wife, Mirabelle – sometimes with two young men who must have been his sons, but most often with celebrities; film stars and politicians. There was Wolfe in a dinner jacket, Wolfe in swimming shorts, Wolfe on horseback. Just no sign of Wolfe himself.

  Bond went upstairs. He took out the Beretta and held it in front of him, knowing instinctively that there was something wrong, that something bad had happened in this house. The silence, punctuated only by the banjo clock, was too oppressive, the lack of any sort of welcome a statement in itself. He did not call out. He had already announced his arrival at the gate and whoever had answered knew he was there.

  He reached the first floor, where a carpeted corridor stretched into the distance with old-fashioned candelabras overhead and arched windows high up on either side. Two floor-to-ceiling doors stood open at the far end – surely the master bedroom – and he made for them, with the uneasy feeling that he had become a player in somebody else’s game and that – although he should have had the advantage – he was being sucked into this against his will. He stopped in front of the doors and pushed them wider open. No sound came from the other side.

  He’d guessed correctly – it was the bedroom. Bond stepped into a wide chamber with high ceilings and windows looking out onto a swimming pool. The bed was a four-poster, the sort of thing that might find its way into a museum, or which might have been bought from one. It had an oak frame with gold ornamentation and a canopy that was a heaving sea of antique, mauve satin. Pillows and cushions were piled up against a velvet, studded bedhead. It was, Bond decided, a nightmare of a bed – made more so by the man who was lying in it, a gun lying in his open palm, blood seeping out of the hideous wound in the side of his head.

  Bond had got here too late. Irwin Wolfe had shot himself. That at least was the picture that presented itself to him. The dead man’s eyes were still open, staring glassily into the mid-distance. He was wearing pyjamas and a silk dressing gown. The sheets, stained dark with his blood, were bunched around him. The hair that had impressed Bond when he had first met the millionaire at the house in Cap Ferrat now seemed to be in full flight from his head, sprawled across the pillows. His skin was grey. He was the most corpse-like corpse Bond had ever seen.

  So if Wolfe had killed himself, who had answered the intercom?

  The answer to that question came a moment later as a hand with a gun stretched out from behind the door, pointing in his direction, and a gravelly voice said: ‘We really shouldn’t make a habit of this.’

  Bond had raised his hands. Now he turned his head and smiled. ‘I was rather hoping we’d run into each other again. But I have to say you’ve taken me by surprise.’

  ‘I’m the one who’s surprised, James. What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Can I put down my hands?’

  ‘Of course. Just don’t hit me again.’

  The last time Bond had seen Reade Griffith had been over a bourbon at the Hotel Negresco in Nice. As the man stepped out of the corner where he had been concealed, Bond recognised the neatly cut dark hair and blue eyes of the CIA agent. He lowered his hands and slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. ‘I don’t need to ask what yo
u’re doing here,’ he said.

  ‘Supporting and defending the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic,’ Griffith replied, quoting the CIA oath. He grinned. ‘As a matter of fact, Wolfe asked me to come out to the house. Quite ironic when you think about it. He had this idea that he might need protecting.’

  ‘From me?’ Bond sounded innocent.

  ‘I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘And you’d been given orders to take care of him.’ Bond glanced at the dead man sprawled out on the bed.

  ‘Wolfe was an embarrassment. He was also an enemy of the country. We like to keep things tidy. This seemed the best way.’

  ‘Suicide.’

  ‘The easy way out.’ Griffith paused. ‘Out of interest, why did you want to meet him?’

  ‘My people wanted to put pressure on him. I think the idea was to achieve exactly what you’ve accomplished.’

  ‘Then you owe me a drink.’

  ‘I owe you more than that. I was hoping to see you again. I’m sorry we didn’t catch up before I left Nice.’

  ‘Yeah. I heard you killed Scipio and closed down his entire operation. That’s quite an achievement.’ Griffith put his own gun away. Bond noticed it was the same US Army Remington that he had carried at the Rue Foncet. ‘So where are we going to have that drink? There’s a place I know down in Westwood …’

  ‘That sounds good.’ Bond thought for a moment. ‘But before we head off, there is one thing I wanted to ask you.’

  Bond took out his gunmetal cigarette case and extracted a cigarette with three gold bands. This particular mixture of Turkish and Balkan tobacco had been recommended to him by the man at Morlands, the cigarette maker in Grosvenor Street that Sixtine had told him about. It was stronger than he was used to but he already preferred it to the Du Mauriers he had been smoking before. He glanced inside the lid, then closed it.

  ‘You were working for Scipio all along,’ Bond said.

  He lit the cigarette.