High Time To Kill

by Raymond Benson

  The mantra reemerged in the Gurkha’s head: It is better to die than be a coward.

  With determination Chandra swung his ice ax at the rock, lodged it in tightly, and pulled himself up. His boots found edges in the rock to hold his weight as he hugged the wall. He pulled out the ax, almost losing his balance in doing so, but swung it back into the rock just as quickly. It was slow going, but he managed to ascend a few feet with every try. Marquis, on the other hand, was rapidly approaching the top of the ridge.

  Chandra had climbed twenty feet when the air in the respirator noticeably changed. The oxygen canister was empty! He winced, spat the respirator out of his mouth, took a lungful of cold, biting air, and kept going.

  He looked up at his prey and saw that Marquis was sitting on the ridge, watching him. The man had something shiny and metallic in his hand. Marquis let it go, and the tool fell straight for Chandra. It was a carabiner, and it struck the Gurkha on the shoulder. The surprise almost caused Chandra to let go of the ice ax.

  He had to get down. He couldn’t climb farther or he would surely die.

  Marquis extracted an ice screw from his pack, held it in the air, and dropped it.

  The object struck Chandra on the head. He clung to the handle of the ax, hugging the wall, praying that his feet wouldn’t slip. He was breathing in gasps, and never knew that pain could be so severe.

  A few seconds later, another ice screw struck him on the forehead, successfully disorienting him enough for him to lose his balance.

  One foot slipped. He struggled to hold on to the ax handle, but it was wet and slippery now. He reached with his dead left hand, but this proved to be the fatal handicap. The other boot lost its footing as his hand slipped away from the ax. He fell backward into thin air and bounced off the edge of the cliff.

  Instead of screaming, the Gurkha was aware of the words running through his head as he plummeted to the vast lower depths.

  It is better to die than be a coward … it is better to die than …

  Roland Marquis cursed the fact that Carl Glass had been carrying half of the diamonds. He didn’t know how much he had in his own pack, but it wouldn’t be enough to buy his way out of England and into a foreign country where he could hide behind a false identity and live out the rest of his life in splendor. That had been the plan, such as it was.

  If only the Union hadn’t interfered. Nevertheless, this was still his show, and he wasn’t going to let anyone wreck it—not them, not the Russians, not the damned Gurkha, and certainly not James Bond.

  He could still find a buyer for Skin 17. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps he could sell it to the Union! They wanted it badly enough. Their incompetent minion, Schrenk, had been unsuccessful in getting it. Perhaps they would pay him a handsome fee. After all, they had employed him before to help steal it in the first place. It was only a matter of finding the right person to talk to. He hadn’t known who Steven Harding’s contact was. When Harding had approached him several months before with the Union’s pitifully low offer, he could see that the doctor was a greedy bastard and could be turned. He had talked Harding into going along with the Union’s orders, but instead of delivering the specification to them, Harding and he would “lose” it, sell it to the Russian Mafia, and make even more money together. Harding had been afraid of the Union, but Marquis was able to ease his fears. They had worked together. They had stolen the formula and were successful in diverting it from the Union. Now he had it and could name his price.

  Would the Union seek revenge on him? Would they refuse to deal with him? He thought not. They wanted it too badly. They were probably the most likely buyers. The Chinese would offer too little. He didn’t know who was behind the Belgian team, but he didn’t care. They were probably being funded by a European consortium of some kind.

  The trick would be contacting the Union before they found him. He wasn’t sure how he would do it, but he had plenty of connections. He would go back to Camp Five, keep the pacemaker under wraps, and try to avoid Bond at all costs, if he was still alive.

  He looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were beginning to form again. The storm was probably three or four hours away. He had to make it back to camp before then. It wasn’t very far. The trouble was, he was exhausted and had a splitting headache. Marquis checked his oxygen canister and saw that it was nearly empty. That must be the cause of the headache, he thought. He found his last canister and attached the respirator to it. The new air felt good. That was another reason to risk going back to Camp Five. He needed more oxygen. He took another five minutes to eat two granola bars and drink some water from his canteen, then he set off toward the camp. Now if he could only avoid running into 007.

  James Bond and Hope Kendall had spent the morning looking around the camp for any signs of the missing people. The storm had completely covered any tracks, so they thought it best to stay put and see if anyone came back. They had decided that they would perform crevasse burials for the dead, stay put through the coming storm by sharing the bivouac sack again, and begin their descent the following day. Bond hated to give up, but there was nothing else to do. Attempting to search the upper reaches of Kangchenjunga for people who might be lost or buried was foolhardy. To hell with Skin 17, he thought. If it had been created once, it could be created again. Britain had plenty of intelligent physicists. If Marquis had indeed stolen the specification and had found a way down the mountain, then so be it. If it fell into the wrong hands, it was beyond Bond’s control at this point.

  He was past caring.

  Hope pulled Barlow’s and Léaud’s bodies out of their tent so that they could be buried. Bond went into Paul Baack’s tent, looked at the bright yellow and green parka covering the body, and sighed. It was too bad. He had liked the Dutchman. Before pulling him out, though, Bond decided to get a message to London on Baack’s satellite phone.

  Reception was surprisingly good. He got Tanner, who put him through to M herself. She agreed with Bond’s plan to descend the following day if the missing climbers failed to show up. As for Roland Marquis, an all-points warrant was issued for his arrest. If he dared to show his face at any western airport, he would be nabbed.

  “Don’t worry, Double-O Seven,” M said. “I’ve explained to the Minister what has happened. He was furious, but he’ll get over it. You did your best.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t, ma’am,” Bond said. “I feel as if I let you down. I’m also very concerned about Sergeant Gurung. If he died up here, I would—”

  “If he died up there,” she interrupted, “he died for Britain. That was his job. He knew the risks. Now put it behind you. That’s an order, Double-O Seven.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Uhm, any news on Miss Marksbury?”

  “Nothing. Not a trace of her. Now, finish your own job and get home safely.”

  He rang off and sat there a moment. Had he tried hard enough? Had he pushed himself to the limit? Had he gone the distance? And what about Helena? Had there been a clue of her betrayal—some sign that he may have missed? Bond suddenly experienced a crushing feeling of guilt and anger. What could he have done better?

  He stood and prepared to drag Baack’s body out of the tent but then decided to let it go. He would do it later. At that moment he felt like taking a good look at the Himalayan range and cursing the gods.

  He emerged from the tent and called for Hope. There was no answer.

  He walked back to his own tent, calling her name.

  “Over here!” she yelled. She was busy digging out the snow from the front of the plane fuselage. Bond joined her, took another shovel, and began to help.

  “We should have buried the plane passengers in the first place instead of trying to haul them down the mountain,” he said. “How many are still in the plane?”

  “I don’t know, five or six,” she said. They would have to make do with giving the victims crevasse burials, which meant that they would simply haul the bodies to the nearest crevasse and throw them in. This avoided having to dig in the ice
and snow, which was a major expenditure of energy.

  They worked hard for several minutes, then stopped to take a break. They sat on rocks, breathed oxygen, and drank from their water bottles.

  “I’m hungry,” she said. “How about I boil up some freeze-dried?”

  “Why, I haven’t had a dish like that in such a long time. By all means!”

  She laughed and started to get up, but he surprised her by standing quickly, shoving her out of the way, drawing the P99 from his outer holster, and firing into the distance. She screamed.

  “Stop right there!” Bond shouted, holding the gun level. Hope turned to look and was shocked by what she saw.

  Roland Marquis was fifty feet away, his hands raised.

  TWENTY - FOUR

  A BETTER WAY

  TO DIE

  MARQUIS STOOD HIS GROUND, NOT MOVING. BOND WALKED TOWARD HIM, the Walther still in hand. Hope stood spellbound, watching the two of them.

  “Put the gun away Bond,” Marquis said. “I’m not the bad guy.”

  “How do I know that’s true?” Bond asked.

  “I saved your miserable life, you fool. It was Carl Glass and Otto Schrenk. They were working together. They tried to kill you and take the pacemaker.”

  “What happened to the pacemaker? Where have you been?”

  “I saw Schrenk and Glass enter your tent. It was a good thing I was watching with a CWS. I didn’t like the look of it, so I went over to the tent but stood outside. I heard a gunshot and rushed in. They had already hit you on the head, and Glass had just shot Schrenk. I don’t know why Glass turned on Schrenk. I suppose he got greedy. Anyway, I surprised him, and Glass panicked. He knocked me down running out of the tent. I chased him over the north ridge.”

  The story was plausible but something wasn’t right. “Go on.”

  “Not much else to tell except that Glass fell. I never did catch up with him. He was near a precipice and lost his footing. He saw that I was behind him and he got careless. The weather was bloody horrific. I was mad to go after him, but I thought you would appreciate it if someone did.”

  “So the pacemaker … ?”

  “It went down with Glass. It’s gone forever. Can I put down my hands now?”

  “I’d feel better if you empty your pockets and throw down any weapons you might be carrying,” Bond said.

  “I assure you that I’ve lost my Browning. I tried to shoot Glass, but I dropped the bloody thing. Couldn’t find it.”

  Bond approached him and patted the pockets on his parka. He looked through the goggles into Marquis’s eyes, attempting to judge whether or not something there would betray him. All Bond saw, though, was the familiar hatred eminating from his old school rival.

  “All right, Roland, but don’t try any sudden moves. I’ve got an itchy-trigger finger.”

  Marquis lowered his hands. He looked around and said, “Where’s everyone else?”

  “They’re dead,” Hope said, walking up to them with an ice ax in hand. “Everyone is accounted for now that you’re back and you’ve confirmed why Glass is missing. Except for Chandra.”

  Bond said, “We don’t know where he is. Do you?”

  Marquis shook his head. “No. I haven’t seen him since we brought up Lee Ming’s body. Everyone else is dead? The Sherpas, too?”

  “Yes,” Hope said. “They were all murdered in their tents. We think Schrenk did it.”

  “So you’re burying people? That’s what you’re doing now?”

  “Yeah,” Hope said. “We were going to stay here tonight, sit through the storm, and go home tomorrow.”

  “Well, then,” Marquis said. “I’ll help you. I’d like to go home, too. I daresay we’d be safer traveling together, don’t you think?”

  “You’re no longer our leader, though,” Bond said. “I take no more orders from you, Roland.”

  “Fine, Bond. If it makes you feel victorious or something, then you be the leader.”

  Bond didn’t comment. He lowered the gun and said, “We had better hurry and finish the job with these corpses. The storm is coming.” He put away the Walther but was still wary. There was something about Marquis’s story he didn’t like.

  They walked back to the hole that Hope had begun to dig. She asked, “Have you had food? Do you need something before we get to work?”

  “That would be very nice,” Marquis said. “Some hot tea would be quite welcome indeed, Hope.”

  Bond stopped her and said, “Wait. Roland, did you happen to run into the Russians?”

  Marquis replied, “As a matter of fact, yes. Just saw their campsite, is all. It was over on the other side of the ridge. We steered clear of it.”

  Bond’s eyes narrowed. “We?”

  Marquis flinched. He knew he had said the wrong thing. Without a moment’s hesitation he lashed out at Hope, grabbed her ice ax, and swung it at Bond. The point buried itself in Bond’s right shoulder. He cried out in pain as Hope screamed. Marquis pulled the ax out, turned, and ran the way he had come. Bond fell to his knees and clutched his arm. Blood was pouring out of the wound. Hope squatted beside him and tried to examine the injury.

  Bond watched Marquis running, or, rather, trudging through the snow toward the rock face. The bastard had done it. He had betrayed his country and the security of the western world. Bond couldn’t let him get away with it. Not Roland Marquis. Not the only son of a bitch at Eton who believed he beat Bond at wrestling. All this time Marquis had been in denial that in reality, Bond had gotten the better of him back then. Everyone watching had known that Bond had been the victor. The bloody instructor gave the match to Marquis and the bastard never let Bond forget it.

  “Stay here,” Bond said to Hope. He struggled to his feet.

  “You can’t go after him, you’re hurt!” she cried.

  “Stay here!” Bond said firmly, then set off after Marquis.

  Neither man was wearing a backpack. Bond had his weapon and an ice ax, but no oxygen canisters. Chasing Marquis at this altitude was complete madness, but he was determined to catch the bastard. Bond hoped that Marquis was telling the truth when he said he hadn’t eaten. Perhaps he would be more fatigued than Bond and that would slow him down.

  Even so, Bond was under extreme physical stress. He was already breathing so rapidly that he was afraid he might hyperventilate. The wound in his arm didn’t help.

  Marquis scaled the wall like a lizard. It was uncanny the way the man could climb. Bond conceded to himself that his rival was indeed the superior mountaineer, but it was time to push himself further than his body could go.

  Bond found handholds in the rock wall and attempted to follow along Marquis’s route. He felt as if he were moving in slow motion again. He was gasping for air, and every move he made was torture.

  Thirty minutes later Marquis was over the wall. Bond was not far behind, but he was ascending at a snails pace. When he got to the top, he collapsed onto his back as his lungs screamed for oxygen. He felt dizzy and disoriented. If he stood up, he would surely fall.

  If only he had brought an oxygen canister! He had been about to put one on his back when Marquis had hit him with the ax. He should have heeded Hope’s admonitions to stay put. This was madness indeed!

  The sky was darkening above him. He felt cold, wet drops on his face, reminding him to cover his skin with the muffler. The wind was picking up again and the snow began to fall in earnest.

  His lungs were on fire. Could he make it back down the wall without falling?

  Wait! How could he have forgotten? He reached into the side pocket of his parka, praying that Major Boothroyd’s little tube was there. Bond grabbed it and brought it to his mouth.

  The emergency air breather was a godsend. The oxygen was cold and dry, but it sent bursts of energy into Bond’s veins. He took several deep breaths, willing the clouds of confusion from his mind. He would have to conserve the air, though, and use it only when necessary. After a few minutes he put it away, got to his feet, and continued the chas
e.

  They were climbing a snow gully of mixed rock and ice that cut through a rock wall to reach the West Ridge, which was a hundred meters from the summit. Marquis was climbing without oxygen at all, something that many professional mountaineers dared to do. Bond had never attempted an 8,000-meter peak without oxygen, but he had known men who had. They were usually like Marquis, cocky and egotistical, believing that they were invincible against the might of the mountain. Perhaps this time, Bond thought, the gods would not look favorably on Marquis. Perhaps his arrogance would be his downfall.

  As he climbed higher, Bond lost sight of Marquis. He stopped and looked around frantically, wondering what had happened to the man. Had the falling snow somehow obscured his escape?

  Suddenly Marquis leaped from a ledge, jumping on Bond and knocking him to the rock. He raised the ice ax and attempted to smash it into Bond’s head. Bond grabbed Marquis’s arm and held it tightly, forcing it back in a life-or-death arm wrestle. Marquis, too, was wheezing loudly, fighting for air. Bond shoved with all his might, rolling the man off him. Without giving him time to counter, Bond jumped on his opponent and hit him twice in the face. The thin air inhibited the blows’ effectiveness, for the degree of force behind the punches was nowhere near what Bond perceived it to be.

  Marquis slammed the side of the ice ax against Bond’s head, stunning him. Bond fell over and was momentarily helpless. His vision blurred and he began to gasp for breath again. He expected the point of the ice ax to come crashing down into his chest, but it never did.

  He forced himself to shake away the stars and stand up. His vision returned, but his head was pounding. Marquis had run. He was climbing farther up the mountain—toward the summit. Bond took a few more breaths from the emergency breather, then continued the ascent.

  The snow fell faster as the wind blew harder.