Bond and Beatrice edged their way in, trying not to allow their bodies to be highlighted against the exterior.
Inside, the lights, drilled into the ceiling, were on, and they found themselves in a high, curved vault, big enough to take a three-lane highway.
They spread out, one taking each side of the rough-chiselled wall, their eyes straining ahead for any sign of movement. There was none, and the lights seemed to go on for ever.
They stopped beside two curved nissen huts, built into a cavern carved from the rock-face. But they were locked and empty, so they continued, moving slowly, very aware of the fact that, should Baradj find a hiding-place – some dug-out in the rock – he could pick them off as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.
The tunnel branched off, and within a hundred yards Bond and Beatrice found themselves in the remains of what had once been a field hospital. Parts of tiled operating theatres remained, the sluices and lavatories were intact. But the hospital led nowhere and, in minutes, they were back in the wide main route.
Bond remembered now, that these tunnels were once full of men, tanks, lorries, field guns, and jeeps. Indeed, they had been used as one of the main staging posts for Operation Torch, the allied invasion of French North Africa in 1942, the force commanded by Eisenhower, way back when he was still only a Lieutenant-General. There were many ghosts in this dank and cold place, and Bond could feel them all closing in on him now as water dripped from the roof of this incredible stone highway.
‘Over here,’ Beatrice whispered, and he saw that there was another tunnel leading off, only large enough to drive a jeep into, and possibly reverse out again. They stopped, listened and went down the branch tunnel. The far end was blanked off by a high metal wall, into which a door had been set. Bond tried the door and it swung open easily. Beatrice covered him while he leaped inside and was met by such an incredible sight that he almost forgot to follow the routine. He heard Beatrice gasp as she passed through the door, then the shot, echoing through this incredible place, and the bullet shattering only inches from Beatrice. They both dived for cover, and there was plenty of that.
They appeared to be in natural light, on what could have been a large film set, only the place as it appeared was so real it would be easy to imagine you were dreaming. There were streets, houses, shops, even a church in the distance.
It took Bond a few moments to realise what it was, for he had heard of this place, though never seen it before. Graffiti was daubed on walls. Jibes at the police and military.
It was all so real that it took time for the truth to sink in. This was a training ground for troops resting in Gibraltar. A place where they could practise street fighting: the kind of work that was so often required in times of civil unrest. He had heard a rumour that some members of the quick-response teams, police and army, were sometimes flown here for training.
They were lying on a pavement, sheltering behind a wall which was part of The King’s Head, a pub that looked so real you could almost smell the beer.
Bond tried to assess where the shot had come from. ‘You work left,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll cross the street and go right. Yell if you see him, or if he fires at you. Give it ten minutes.’ He held up his watch. ‘Then we meet back here.’
She nodded, and crouching low, scuttled along the wall, while Bond readied himself and made a crouching run for it, across the street to the far side, along the blank wall of Jack Berry, Family Butcher. The shop front, in the main street, was decorated with meat, carcasses hanging inside. He was almost at the angle of the wall on the far side, when two bullets came down, flinging shards off the pavement. He thought he saw the muzzle flash, from a doorway, three houses up the cramped, terraced street, and, still running, he fired, two lots of two shots from the hip. Bond was sure he had seen a figure duck back into the doorway.
He was panting, his back flat against the wall, working out the next move. If he went behind the butcher’s shop he should be able to make his way down the back of the parallel street, and head for the rear door opposite the house from which he thought Baradj had last fired.
Keeping his back against the wall, he edged himself behind the shop, and along the rear of the terraced houses. One. Two. He tried the handle on the mean little door of the third house. It moved and he stepped into a long dark passage. There were stairs going up to the right. He leaned his right shoulder against the stairs, listening, wondering if he should try the front door ahead of him, then decided to move left, into what would be the little front room. He heard nothing before the door crashed open, and two shots ripped against the stairs, one of them clipping his Browning, sending pain dancing up his arm and the pistol flying.
He waited for death to come quickly, looking up at the figure of Bassam Baradj, silhouetted in the doorway.
‘Captain Bond,’ Baradj said. ‘I am sorry about this, but in other ways pleased that the honour of being your executioner falls to me. Goodbye, Captain Bond.’ The pistol came up in the two-handed grip, and Bond winced at the shot, but felt nothing. Tense, unable to move, he stared at Baradj who still appeared to be looking at him, his arms outstretched, the gun aimed.
Then, as in a dream sequence, Bassam Baradj buckled at the knees and toppled forward into the narrow passage.
Bond let out a deep, long breath and heard Beatrice’s sneakers thudding across the road. She stopped in the doorway. ‘James?’ she asked. Then, again, ‘James? You okay, James?’
He nodded, his arm still shaken from the thump when the bullet had caught his pistol. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m okay. I guess I owe you another life, my dear Beatrice.’ He stepped forward, over the dead body of Bassam Baradj, and took her in his arms. ‘It’s one hell of a way to make a living,’ he said.
‘James?’ she whispered. ‘Love me?’
He held her close. ‘I love you very much,’ and he realised that he meant it.
Together, they walked back down the unreal-real street, to the door which would take them to the tunnels and finally to the light outside.
20
SOME DIE
It was summer, and an hour before dusk: hot and pleasant. The Villa Capricciani looked lovely at this time of day. Lizards basked under the foliage, the flowers were in full bloom, and the lilies burned yellow from the pond below the house.
James Bond came onto the terrace and plunged into the pool, swimming strongly, doing a couple of lengths before climbing out, rubbing his hair with a towel which had been thrown over one of the garden chairs, into which he now sank, stretching his body like a cat.
‘Cat’, he thought, suddenly shivering. It was the word in his head. He had noticed that, since the business earlier in the year, he had a tendency to tense up at certain words: cat; viper; snake. The shrink had told him it was not surprising. ‘You went through a lot during the BAST thing.’
Yes, he supposed he had gone through a lot. He thought for a moment about death. Not the quiet friend that comes to old and worn-out human beings, but that which comes suddenly and with a terrible violence.
He thought of the Fiat down in the turning circle below. There was a little BMW there now, but, in this contemplative state of mind, Bond saw it as a little Fiat. For a few seconds, he was aware of Beatrice, smiling and holding the door open, then the fearful flash and smoke, and the agony of knowing he had lost her. But there was joy also, for he had not lost the girl who could quite easily, if he did not take care, become the love of his life.
As the lights began to come on the sun went down, so the night animals began to come out. The bats started to flit to and fro, and geckos came from the daytime hiding-places, strangely seeming to bask in the electric lights around the pool.
His head began to fill with other horrors. Poor old Ed with his throat cut, head almost severed from his body; Nikki, who had sought comfort from him, then tried to save his life and had her own life taken from her; then all those girls who could have lived really useful, happy long lives: the ones he had personally taken to their graves, and Cl
over Pennington, whose relations he had known, cut down by her own trigger woman.
He shivered again in the warmth, feeling the goose bumps coming up on his skin. Behind him the lights came on in the villa, and he heard Beatrice flip-flapping out towards the pool.
‘You okay, darling?’ she said, kissing him and looking hard into his face and eyes. ‘James, what’s the matter? It’s not us, is it?’ Almost a frightened tremor to her voice.
‘No, my dear, not us. I was just having what the shrink would call a touch of the horrors.’
‘I wondered if we should come back here.’
‘Oh, yes, this was the right place.’
‘Good. Let’s go out to dinner. I enjoy it here.’ She squatted down beside him, looking up into his face, shadowed by the lights and the night. ‘James, darling. You know, some you win and some you lose.’
James Bond nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘And some die.’
ENDNOTES
1. Though it has only been hinted at, and never admitted in print, Bond almost certainly saw action during the Falklands War. It has been said that he was the man landed secretly to assist and help train civilians before the real shooting war started.
2. ‘The Andrew’ is naval slang for the Royal Navy, and has been since the mid-nineteenth century. Before that the word usually described one ship.
By John Gardner
Licence Renewed
For Special Services
Icebreaker
Role of Honour
Nobody Lives For Ever
No Deals, Mr Bond
Scorpius
Win, Lose or Die
Licence to Kill
Brokenclaw
The Man from Barbarossa
Death is Forever
Never Send Flowers
SeaFire
GoldenEye
COLD
John Gardner served with the Fleet Air Arm and Royal Marines before embarking on a long career as a thriller writer, including international bestsellers The Nostradamus Traitor, The Garden of Weapons, Confessor and Maestro. In 1981 he was invited by Glidrose Publications Ltd – now known as Ian Fleming Publications – to revive James Bond in a brand new series of novels. To find out more visit John Gardner’s website at www.john-gardner.com or the Ian Fleming website at www.ianfleming.com
An Orion ebook
First published in Great Britain in 1989 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd
This ebook published in 2012 by Orion Books
© Glidrose Publications Ltd. 1989
The right of John Gardner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
James Bond and 007 are registered trademarks of Danjaq, LLC, used under licence by Ian Fleming Publications Ltd.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-4091-2729-1
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London, WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK company
www.orionbooks.co.uk
www.ianfleming.com
John Gardner, Win, Lose or Die
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