Bond slid on to the bar stool next to her, turning it slightly so that he had a clear view of anyone coming through the big glass doors at the front. ‘What will you drink?’
‘Oh no, tonight’s on me. In honour of your saving my honour, James.’
Again her hand lightly brushed his arm, and he felt the same electricity. Bond capitulated.
‘I know we’re in Ticino, where they think grappa is good liquor. Still, I’ll stick to the comic drinks. A Campari soda, if I may.’
She ordered the same, then the padrone bustled over with the menu. It was very alla famiglia, very semplice, he explained. It would make a change, Bond said, and Sukie asked him to order for them both. He said he would be difficult and change the menu around a little, starting with the Melone con kirsch, though he asked them to serve his without the kirsch. Bond disliked any food soused in alcohol.
‘For the entree there’s really only one dish, pasta excepted, in these parts, you’ll agree?’
‘The coscia di agnello?’
She smiled as he nodded. In the north these spiced chops were known as ‘lamm-Gigot’. Here, among the Ticinese, they were less delicate in taste, but made delicious by the use of much garlic. Like Bond, Sukie refused any vegetables, but accepted the plain green salad which he also ordered, together with a bottle of Frecciarossa Bianco, the best white wine they appeared to supply. Bond had taken one look at the champagnes and pronounced them undrinkable, but ‘probably reasonable for making a dressing’, at which Sukie laughed. Her laugh was, Bond thought, the least attractive thing about her, a little harsh, maybe not entirely genuine.
When they were seated Bond wasted no time in offering to help her on her journey.
‘I’m leaving for Rome in the morning. I’d be very pleased to give you a lift. That is, if the Principe won’t be offended at a commoner bringing you home.’
She gave a little pout. ‘He’s in no position to be offended. Principe Pasquale Tempesta died last year.’
‘I’m sorry, I . . .’
She gave a dismissive wave of the right hand. ‘Oh, don’t be sorry. He was eighty-three. We were married for two years. It was convenient, that’s all.’ She did not smile, or try to make light of it.
‘A marriage of convenience?’
‘No, it was just convenient. I like good things. He had money; he was old; he needed someone to keep him warm at night. In the Bible, didn’t King David take a young girl – Abishag – to keep him warm?’
‘I believe so. My upbringing was rather Calvinistic, but I do seem to recall the Lower Fourth sniggering over that story.’
‘Well, that’s what I was, Pasquale Tempesta’s Abishag, and he enjoyed it. Now I enjoy what he left me.’
‘For an Italian you speak excellent English.’
‘I should. I am English. Sukie’s short for Susan.’ There was the smile again, and then the laugh, a little more mellow this time.
‘You speak excellent Italian then.’
‘And French, and German. I told you that yesterday, when you were trying to ask subtle questions, to find out about me.’
She reached forward, putting out a hand to cover his as it lay on the table beside his glass.
‘Don’t worry, James, I’m not a witch. But I can spot nosey questions. Comes from the nuns, then living with Pasquale’s people.’
‘Nuns?’
‘I’m a good convent-educated girl, James. You know about girls who’ve been educated in convents?’
‘A fair amount.’
She gave another little pout. ‘I was pretty well brainwashed. Daddy was a broker – all very ordinary: home counties; mock Tudor house; two cars; one scandal. Daddy was caught out with some funny cheques and got five years in an open prison. Collapse of stout family. I’d just finished at the convent, and was all set to go to Oxford. That was out, so I answered an ad in The Times for a nanny, with a mound of privileges, to an Italian family of good birth: Pasquale’s son, as it happened. It’s an old title, like all the surviving Italian nobility, but with one difference. They still have property and money.’
The Tempestas had taken the new English nanny into the family as one of their own. The old man, the Principe, had become a second father to her. She became very fond of him, so when he proposed a marriage – which he described as comodo as opposed to comodita – Sukie saw a certain wisdom in taking up the offer. Yet even in that she showed shrewdness, careful to ensure that the marriage would in no way deprive Pasquale’s two sons of their rightful inheritance.
‘It did, to some extent, but they’re both wealthy and successful in their own right, and they didn’t object. You know old Italian families, James. Papa’s happiness, Papa’s rights, respect for Papa . . .’
Bond asked how the two sons had achieved success, and she hesitated for a fraction too long before going on airily.
‘Oh, business. They own companies and that kind of thing – and, yes, James, I’ll take you up on your offer of a ride to Rome. Thank you.’
They were half-way through the lamb when the padrone came hurrying forward, excused himself to Sukie, and bent to whisper that there was an urgent telephone call for Bond. He pointed towards the bar, where the telephone was off the hook.
‘Bond,’ he said quietly into the receiver.
‘James, you somewhere private?’ He recognised the voice immediately. It was Bill Tanner, M’s Chief-of-Staff.
‘No. I’m having dinner.’
‘This is urgent. Very urgent. Could you . . . ?’
‘Of course.’ He put down the receiver and went back to the table to make his apologies to Sukie. ‘It won’t take long.’ He told her about May being ill in the clinic. ‘They want me to ring them back.’
In his room he set up the CC500 and called London. Bill Tanner came on the line straight away.
‘Don’t say anything, James, just listen. The instructions are from M. Do you accept that?’
‘Of course.’
He had no alternative if Bill Tanner said he was speaking for the Chief of the Secret Service.
‘You’re to stay where you are and take great care.’ There was anxiety in Tanner’s voice.
‘I’m due in Rome tomorrow, I . . .’
‘Listen to me, James. Rome’s coming to you. You, I repeat you, are in the gravest danger. Genuine danger. We can’t get anyone to you quickly, so you’ll have to watch your own back. But stay put. Understand?’
‘I understand.’ When Bill Tanner spoke of Rome coming to him, he meant Steve Quinn, the Service Resident in Rome. The same Steve Quinn Bond had planned to stay with for a couple of days. He asked why Rome was coming to him.
‘To put you fully in the picture. Brief you. Try to get you out.’ He heard Tanner take a quick breath at the other end of the line. ‘I can’t stress the danger strongly enough, old friend. The Chief suspected problems before you left, but we only got the hard intelligence in the last hour. M has flown to Geneva and Quinn is on his way there to be briefed. Then he will come straight to you. He’ll be with you before lunch. In the meantime, trust nobody. For God’s sake, just stay close.’
‘I’m with the Tempesta girl now. Promised her a ride to Rome. What’s the form on her?’ Bond was crisp.
‘We haven’t got it all, but her connections seem clean enough. Certainly not involved with the Honoured Society. Treat her with care, though. Don’t let her get behind you.’
‘I was thinking of the opposite, as a matter of fact.’ Bond’s mouth moved into a hard smile, tinged with a hint of cruelty.
Tanner told him to keep her at the hotel. ‘Stall her about Rome, but don’t alert her. You really don’t know who are your friends and who your enemies. Rome will give you the full strength tomorrow.’
‘We won’t be able to leave until late morning, I’m afraid,’ he told Sukie, once back at the table. ‘That was a business chum who’s been to see my old housekeeper. He’s passing through here tomorrow morning, and I really can’t miss the chance of seeing him.’
>
She said it did not matter. ‘I was hoping for a lie-in tomorrow anyway.’ Could he detect an invitation in her voice?
They talked on and had coffee and a fine in the neat dining room, with its red and white checked tablecloths and gleaming cutlery, the two stolid north Italian waitresses attending the diners as though serving writs instead of food.
Sukie suggested they should sit at one of the tables outside the Mirto, but Bond made the excuse that it could be uncomfortable.
‘Mosquitoes and midges tend to congregate around the lights. You’ll end up with that lovely skin blotched. It’s safer indoors.’
She asked what kind of business he was in, and he gave her the usual convincing if vague patter, which she appeared to accept. They talked of towns and cities they both enjoyed, and of food and drink.
‘Perhaps I can take you to dinner in Rome,’ Bond suggested. ‘Without wanting to seem ungrateful, I think we can get something a little more interesting at Papa Giovanni’s or the Augustea.’
‘I’d love it. It’s a change to talk to someone who knows Europe well. Pasquale’s family are very Roman, I’m afraid. They don’t really see much further than the Appian Way.’
Bond found it a pleasant evening, although he had to make some effort to appear relaxed after hearing the news from London. Now he had to get through the night.
They went up together, with Bond offering to escort Sukie to her room. They reached the door, and he had no doubts as to what should happen. She came into his arms easily enough, but when he kissed her she did not respond, but kept her lips closed tight, her body rigid. So, he thought, one of those. But he tried again, if only because he wanted to keep her in sight. This time she pulled away, gently putting her fingers to his mouth.
‘I’m sorry, James. But no.’ There was the ghost of a smile as she said, ‘I’m a good convent girl, remember. But that’s not the only reason. If you’re serious, be patient. Now, goodnight, and thank you for the lovely evening.’
‘I should thank you, Principessa,’ he said with a touch of formality.
He watched as she closed her door, then went slowly to his own room, swallowed a couple of Dexedrine tablets and prepared to sit up all night.
4
THE HEAD HUNT
Steve Quinn was a big man, tall, broad, bearded and with an expansive personality, not the usual sort to get a responsible undercover position in the Service. They preferred what they called ‘invisible men’ – grey people who could vanish into a crowd. ‘He’s a big, bearded bastard,’ Steve’s wife, the petite blonde Tabitha, was often heard to remark.
Bond watched from behind his half-closed shutters as Quinn got out of a hired car and walked towards the hotel entrance. A few seconds later, the telephone rang and Mr Quarterman was announced. Bond told them to send him up.
Quinn was inside with the door locked almost before the knock had died in the air. He did not speak immediately, but went straight to the window and glanced down at the forecourt and the lake steamer which had just docked. The sheer beauty of the lake usually took the tourists’ breath away when they disembarked, but this morning the loud yah-yahing of an English woman’s voice could be heard, even in Bond’s room, saying, ‘I wonder what there is to see here, darling.’
Bond scowled, and Quinn gave a tiny smile, almost hidden by his beard. He looked at the remains of Bond’s breakfast and mouthed noiselessly, asking if the place was clean.
‘Spent the night going over it. Nothing in the telephone, or anywhere else.’
Quinn nodded. ‘Okay.’
Bond asked why they could not have flown Geneva up to him.
‘Because Geneva’s got problems of his own,’ said Quinn, his finger stabbing out towards Bond. ‘But not a patch on your problems, my friend.’
‘Talk, then. The Chief met you for a briefing?’
‘Right. I’ve done what I can. Geneva doesn’t like it, but two of my people should be here by now to watch your back. M wants you in London – in one piece if possible.’
‘So, there is someone on my tail.’ Bond sounded unconcerned, but pictures of the shattered car on the motorway and Cordova’s body lying in the churchyard flashed through his mind.
Quinn lowered himself into a chair. He spoke in a near whisper.
‘No,’ he said, ‘you haven’t got someone on your tail. It seems to us that you’ve got just about every willing terrorist organisation, criminal gang and unfriendly foreign intelligence service right up your rectum. There’s a contract out for you. A unique contract. Somebody has made an offer – to coin a phrase – none of them can refuse.’
Bond gave a hard, half-smile. ‘Okay, break it to me gently. What am I worth?’
‘Oh, they don’t want all of you. Just your head.’
Steve Quinn filled in the rest of the story. M had received a hint about two weeks before Bond went on leave. ‘The Firm that controls South London tried to spring Bernie Brazier from the Island,’ he began. In other words, the most powerful underworld organisation in South London had tried to get one Bernie Brazier out of the high security prison at Parkhurst, on the Isle of Wight. Brazier was doing life for the cold-blooded killing of a notorious London underworld figure. Scotland Yard knew he had carried out at least twelve other murders, although they could not prove it. In short, Bernie Brazier was Britain’s top mechanic, a polite name for hired killer.
‘The escape was bungled. A real dog’s breakfast. Then after it was all over, friend Brazier wanted to do a deal,’ Quinn continued, ‘and, as you know, the Met don’t take kindly to deals. So he asked to see somebody from the sisters.’
He spoke of their sister organisation, MI5. This had been refused, but the details were passed to M, who sent their toughest interrogator to Parkhurst Prison. Brazier claimed he was being sprung to do a job that threatened the country’s security. In return for giving them the goods, he wanted a new identity and a place in the sun, with money to singe if not actually to burn.
Bond remained oddly detached as Quinn described the nightmarish scene. He knew the devil incarnate in M would promise the world for hard intelligence, and that in the end he would give his source the minimum. So it had been. Two more interrogators had gone to Parkhurst and had a long talk with Brazier. Then M had taken the trip himself to make the deal.
‘And Bernie told all?’ he finally asked.
‘Part of it. The rest was to come once he was nicely tucked away in some tropical paradise with enough birds and booze to give him a coronary within a year.’ Quinn’s face went very hard. ‘The day after M’s visit they found Bernie in his cell – hanged with piano wire.’
From outside came the sound of children playing near the jetty, the toot of one of the lake boats, and far away the drone of a light aeroplane. Bond asked what they had got from the late Bernie Brazier.
‘That you were the target for this unique contract. A kind of competition.’
‘Competition?’
‘There are rules, it appears, and the winner is the group that brings your head to the organisers – on a silver charger, no less. Any bona fide criminal, terrorist, or intelligence agency can enter. They have to be accepted by the organisers. The starting date was four days ago, and there’s a time limit of three months. The winner gets ten million Swiss.’
‘Who in heaven’s name . . . ?’ Bond started.
‘M discovered the answer to that less than twenty-four hours ago, with the help of the Metropolitan Police. About a week back, they pulled in half of the South London mob, and let M’s heavy squad have a go. It paid off, or M’s paying off, I don’t quite know which. I do know that four major London gangland chiefs are pleading for round the clock protection, and I guess they need it. The fifth laughed at M and walked out of the slammer. I gather they found him last night. He was not in good health.’
When Quinn went into the details of the man’s demise, even Bond felt queasy. ‘Jesus . . .’
‘. . . Saves.’ Quinn showed not a shred of humour. ‘One
can but hope He’s saved that poor bastard. Forensic say he took an unconscionable time a-dying.’
‘And who’s organised this grisly competition?’
‘It’s even got a name, by the way.’ Quinn sounded offhand. ‘It’s called the Head Hunt. No consolation prizes, just the big one. M reckons that around thirty professional killers went through the starting gate.’
‘Who’s behind it?’
‘Your old friends the Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion – SPECTRE; in particular, the successor to the Blofeld dynasty, whom you’ve had one nasty brush with already, M tells me . . .’
‘Tamil Rahani. The so-called Colonel Tamil Rahani.’
‘Who will be the late Tamil Rahani in a matter of three to four months. Hence the time limit.’
Bond was silent for a minute. He was fully aware of how dangerous Tamil Rahani could be. They had never really discovered how he had managed to take over as Chief Executive of SPECTRE, which seemed always to have kept its leadership within the Blofeld family. But certainly the inventive, brilliant strategist, Tamil Rahani, had become SPECTRE’S leader. Bond could see the man now – dark-skinned, muscular, radiating dynamism. He was a ruthless, internationally powerful leader.
He recalled the last time he had seen Rahani, drifting by parachute over Geneva. His great forte as a commander was that he always led from the front. He had tried to have Bond killed about a month after that last meeting. Since then there had been few sightings, but 007 could well believe this bizarre competition was the brainchild of the sinister Tamil Rahani.
‘Are you implying the man’s on his way out? Dying?’
‘There was a sudden escape by parachute . . .’ Quinn did not look him in the eyes.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m told that he jarred his spine on landing. This set off a cancer affecting the spinal cord. Apparently six specialists have seen him. There is no hope. Within four months, Tamil Rahani’s going to be the late Tamil Rahani.’
‘Who’s involved, apart from SPECTRE?’
Quinn slid a hand down his dark beard, ‘M’s working on it. A lot of your old enemies, of course. For starters, whatever they call the former Department V of the KGB these days – what used to be SMERSH . . .’