James Bond - Win Lose Or Die Part 4

Tethered goat.' said Bond.

'Stalking-horse. Tanner correeted him. 'Sort of Christmas horse, so that BAST can come down your chimney and knock your socks off. In this case BAST will take on the human shape of a woman."

'Ah,' said Bond with a wry smile, 'You want me to play slow horses and fast women."

'Something you've been known to do before this, 007.' M did not even twinkle, let alone return the smile.

'1 have any option?'

M shook his head. 'None whatsoever. BAST already know far too much; they're going to have a go during Landsea 'X9. and they regard yitu as a mild threat. Mind you, they don'l yet seem to know all the details: such as the six SAS people you might be commanding for the bodyguard operation."

'Funny, I hadn't heard about them either, sir.' Bond paused, then looked from M to Tanner and back again. 'If you know all this, why can't you deal with BAST on its own terms? Take them out before they do their bit?'

M sighed. 'We know the names of their ringleaders; we have descriptions of two of them, but we have no idea how large their Brotherhood is, or really how fanatical they arc The four or so leaders are fanatical enough, though the mastermind is, we deduce, more concerned with a return for his capital investment than the political aspect.'

*We wouldn't normally put you at risk, James . . ,' Tanner began.

'Not much.'

'Not with Landsea '89 coming up." M said firmly. "We would like to get our hands on one of their leading people, though. So what about Christmas?'

'Not my favourite time of the year.' Bond looked down his nose. 'I can't stand all that bonhomie, and families getting together around the festive board, but that's probably because I have no real family.' Tracy. his wife of only a few hours, flashed through his mind. Christmases would have been good if she had lived, he thought. Even an uncharacteristic picture of the two of them by a log fire with presents and a tree went flickering in and out of his mind. Then he saw the reflected spear of light again and wondered how all this would end. He looked bleakly at M. suppose you've already got somewhere lined up. though, sir.'

M nodded, 'You recall that a few years ago I sent you for some rest and recuperation. A villa on Ischia, in the bay of Naples?'

"That was in summerHe recalled it vividly. Secluded, beautiful setting, almost idyllic. You only had to drive a couple of miles for food. The rest of the time you were all set up by the pool, with maid service, a cook, if you wanted one, and spectacular surroundings. 'The Service paid for it, I know, but they only open ihem up for the summer."

'I think I can persuade the owner.' M had his stubborn look grappled to his face.

After a couple of heartbeats. Bond said - 'Christmas on Ischia, then. sir. Just tell me what to do.'

'First.' M began, 'you'll have to run the Ihing solo. We can give you only modest cover. Nothing fancy, and certainly not the local police . . .' He went on for the next hour, and as he progressed. Bond realised that, as ever, the whole business would be down to him. Sit there and wait for a woman out to kill him, and who would possibly have a back-up; then outwit her; and, finally, bring her hack into the UK with everyone, including himself, alive and kicking.

'Run of the mil! sort of job really.' he said when M slopped talking.

"The kind of ihing you should be able to do, armed with a b.u.t.terfly-net and a killing jar. 007.'

Til settle for the killing jar.' Bond smiled. 'Preferably 9mm with a lot of kick toil. You know, the kind of thing any Christmas slalking-horse carries around.'

At just about the same moment as Bond was being apprised of how he would spend a happy Christmas. Harry and Bill were putting some bad news to their old friend the Petty Officer Engineer.

'It's not that we don't like you. Blackie,' Bill was saying. 'We're under a certain amount of pressure ourselves.'

mean we didn't know they took photographs in that place, and there's a fair old collection now as you can see.' Harry laid out some thirty black and white prints on the table.

They were in Harry's room at his usual Plymouth hotel. The photographs, with their grainy texture, looked almost as dirty as the cavortings they had captured for all time. The PO looked very miserable. "You'd send these to the wife?' It was not so much a question as a shocked statement 'No. "course we wouldn't.' Harry's voice was low, soothing. Oil on troubled waters. 'We're in the mire as much as you are, Blackie. We didn't know.'

'And there's all that money.' Bill tried to look as miserable as his colleague. "I mean we put things on our expense accounts. Now. we're both in the same boat. It's coming to something when two companies, with two different interests, turn down your expenses.'

"And we always understood that place with the girls was buckshee. They never charged us a penny before.'

'How. . . How much are we talking about?'The Petty Officer was chalk-white. He could feel (he blood draining from his cheeks.

Harry sighed. 'Seven thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five pounds.'

'And sixty-two pence,' Bill added.

'But I can't . . . There's no way. The wife'II kill me - at best leave me - and there's no way I can get my hands on that kind of money.'

"Second mortgage on the house?' Harry asked, 'First b.l.o.o.d.y mortgage isn't paid off yet." The gloom was almost tangible.

Harry gathered the photographs up into a neat pile. They have offered us a way out, but 1 said you'd as like do it as fly using your arms.'

'What is it? The way out?'

'Well, I don't think you'd want to hear it.'

Bill, who had poured them each a stiff whisky, interrupted. 'They're offering money on top, though. Best tell him.'

'Well,' Harry sighed again. "Okay, it gets us all off the hook, and they'll throw in one hundred e for you, Blackie. seeing as how you'd be taking the biggest risk.'

'A hundred grand? For me'? Who've I got to kill?'

'It's not a matter of killing.' Harry moved closer, and began to make the Petty Officer the offer which, in the circ.u.mstances, he could not afford to refuse.

6.

See Naples and ....

Naples was not James Bond's favourite city. Now, sitting in a b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper, horn-hooting, yelling traffic jam, cramming one of the narrow streets leading down to the harbour, he placed it almost at the bottom of his list. The double-lane Freeway from the airport had not been loo bad, but, as ever, the city streets were crowded and in a state of chaos. To make matters worse it was raining: that fine, soaking misty rain that is even more unpleasant than an out-and-out downpour.

This was a city that time had forgotten. Bond reflected, as he eased (he uncertain hired Fiat behind an unsteady lorry overloaded with bottled water. Naples had never regained its status as a tourisl resort. Instead it had become a transit point. People arrived at the airport, maybe stayed a couple of nights to 'do' Pompeii, and were either whisked off to Sorrento, or made his journey down to the ferries for Capri or Ischia, the two islands that form the gate to the Bay of Naples.

Constantly the two islands were regarded as pa.s.se or outdated, yet that was where the tourists or socialites weni. The only people who stayed were the Neapolitans, or NATO sailors from the various naval vessels which tied up off the coast, in the safety of the bay. For sailors it was one h.e.l.l of a city with its blatant red-light district and the area running down the foothills between the Castel Sant' Elmo and the Munic.i.p.al Building. This last was crowded with bars, clip-joints and gaudy Heeling pleasures. It was known, like George V Street in the old Malta days, as The Gut. The Gut saw every possible depravity. It was. Bond thought, near enough like some parts of Pompeii must have been before Vesuvius slammed its lava down over the city. The traffic moved about six feet, and again ground to a halt, while shouts from drivers and police filtered back through the closed, steamy windows of the car.

in summer the earth-red houses and terracotta roofs of Naples soaked up the sun and filled the streets with dust; in winter the same walls seemed to blot up the rain so that the buildings took on an even more crumbling look, as though they might turn to sludge and slide into the sea. Over it all. threatening Vesuvius glowered.

At the Ischia and Capri ferry points, cars and ramshackle wagons stretched back, clogging the restricted s.p.a.ce. A large black limo tried to jump the line, and Bond watched, amused, as a police-officer leaned into the car and backhanded the uniformed chauffeur. In London the cop would have been in big trouble. Here, the driver probably knew he would never work in Naples again if he complained.

After the frustration of the slow journey from the airport, the waiting cars and wagons boarded the ferry with relative speed, though with much shouting, waving of arms and protestations to G.o.d and the Blessed Virgin.

Bond left the car on the vehicle deck, and climbed through the crowd of pa.s.sengers to seek out a reasonably sheltered part of the ferry. Shouldering his way to the little bar he reluctantly bought a plastic beaker of what was supposed to be coffee. The liquid tasted like sweet, coloured water but at leasl it moistened his throat. Once at Ihc Villa Capricciani he would be able to pick and choose for himself.

As the ferry began to move out into the bay. Bond looked back across the black, oily water, wondering what Naples had looked like in its days of glory. Once its beauty was inspirational. Parthenope the Siren had thrown herself into the sea for love of Ulysses and was washed up on the golden sh.o.r.e that became the Bay of Naples. "See Naples and die". Bond smiled to himself. The old Italian saying had a double edge at one lime: see Naples and die for its beauty; then the second edge when the seaport had become the focal point of typhoid and cholera. Now? Well, there had been slums and depravity here for decades, with an increase since the end of World War Two. He decided that the old phrase could become triple-edged now that AIDS was spreading across the world like the new Black Death. But ihe same was true of most ancient ports.

Perhaps it was the ihoughtof age and decay, of lost glory and of the current world tensions. ih;ii plunged Bond into feelings of concern and anxiety as the coastline shrank in the ferry's wake. Undercover once mure, he knew the risks for he had gambled his life in this way on many occasions before. He was aware thai the day could easily come when the odds would be stacked too heavily against him. The last time he had made this trip had been on a glorious summer day. when he was looking forward to rest and healing relaxation. This time - see Naples and . . . what? Die or live? Win or lose?

So it was in e somewhat sombre mood that, an hour later, he looked out over the sea on the port beam towards the brooding Aragnnese Castle, shaped like a small-scale model of Gibraltar, with its umbilical road reaching towards Ischia. Within ten minutes they were docking at Porta d'lschia. and the whole shouting, jostling and yelling match began again. The ears and lorries made their way onto the very restricted area around the berthing point, to the accompaniment of horn blasts and more shouting. Planks wer,e laid down to a.s.sist some of the heavier vehicles and the entire operation was made even more hazardous by !he slick of rain on quayside and ramp, while the throng of pedestrians seemed to delight in walking directly in front of the slow-moving vehicles.

He had carefully checked the car before getting behind the wheel, for these people of BAST did not care about the lives of innocent victims. Then, after what seemed aneterniiy, he finally negotiated Ihe Fiat off the ferry, around some makeshift Malls still selling tourist junk on the off-chance of catching some gullible holidaymaker who had left home and hearth to spend the festive season here on the undeniably beautiful shambles that was Ischia, the peaceful island that had known the crack and blast of history, and seen much violent death as well as happiness in its time.

He drove wesi, feeling at his most vulnerable. I le had carefully sailed the ground for whoever was supplying BAST wiih information, declaring to a lot of people, in and out of the ward-room ai Yeovilton RNAS. that he was heading for the Bay of Naples, to spend a quiet Christmas alone.

They knew that BAST was filching information from Yeovilton: just as they knew that, the oily Baradj had fingered him, putting the Cat - Saphii Boudai - in charge. As with Baradj, Hamarik. and Adwan, there were no photographic descriptions available. At best the pictures were blurred, photo ts provided by people who had caught fleeling glimpses of the quartet which formed the leadership of BAST. All Bond knew for sure that the Cat was a woman, variously reported to the short, tall, fat and thin, beautiful and repellent, The only feature was that she had very dark hair.

He was traveling in a rented car, which was bare security to start with, and, until he reached the Villa Capricciani he was unarmed. It was only alter M had given the final instructions that Bond had also realised, from memory, that the villa itself was a security nightmare. As he drove the narrow dangerous security to roads he constantly scanned the rear-view mirror searching sight of vehicles that had been on the ferry - a Volvo there, a VW there. But none seemed to linger, or take any interes in him.

On the road between Lacco and Forio, respectively on the north west and west of the island, he turned off, down the very narrow, metalled road which led to the villa. Nothing seemed to have changed on the island, everything was hot remembered it, from the destructive, near suicidal driving to the sudden beautiful views that came, unexpectedly, it turn in the road. There were also other aspects: handful of peeling buildings, the open front of a cluttered shop, a dowdy petrol station. In summer these last would seem romantic. In winter the they came into clear, depressing focus. Now he locked for the gates set into the high, grey stone wall to the right hoping that nothing at the villa had fundamentally altered.

The gates were open, and he swung the Fiat in to the tight turning circle inside, cut the engine and got out. In front of him was a large and beautiful lily pond, bordered on the right by another gate which, in turn, led to steps overhun, with vines and greenery. He could see the white dome of the villa above and was half way up the steps when a voice called.

'Signer Bond?'

He shouted back an affirmative, and, as he reached the top a young girl appeared. She was dressed in a tank top and jeans that were not so much cut-offs as rip-offs. Makin her look as though a pair of gorgeous legs had been grafted onto a small exquisite body. Her face could only be described as cheeky Dark eyes danced above a snub nose and wide smiling mouth, the whole topped by a bubbly black, tight-curled foam of hair.

She had come out of the big, sliding gla.s.s doors of ihe villa and now stood, smiling, by the poolside. In the palms and tropical fronds to her right a short, white statue of a young satyr thumbed its mouth and produced almost a mirror-image of the girl, 'Signor Bond,' she said again, the voice jolly and bright, 'welcome to Villa Capricciani. I am Beatrice.' She p.r.o.nounced it with almost ca.s.sata-flavourcd Italian - Beh-ah-Tree-che. '1 am here to greet you. Also to look after you. I am the maid.'

Bond thought he would not like to bet on it. but strode onto the wide terrace which was covered with a green material so thai in hoi weather you would not barbecue the bare soles of your feet getting to the pool which was now empty and covered. The villas were never open in the winter, so he wondered how M had pulled off the renting of this one. The answer probably lay in a close, maybe secret, arrangement with the owner. M had highly placed friends the world over, and. Bond suspected, was able to apply pressure when required by circ.u.mstances such as these.

As though reading his thoughts. Beatrice stretched out her hand and took his in an unexpectedly firm grasp. LThe Signora is away. She go to Milano for the Natale. I remain here and guard the house and all the villas entirely.'

*And I wonder if you guard them for BAST, also?' Bond thought.

'Come. I will show you.' Beatrice gave his hand a short lug, like a child leading him into the villa, then stopped. 'Ah, 1 forget. Already you know. You have before been here, yes?'

He smiled and nodded, following her into the big white room with arched ceiling and matching sofas and chairs, encased in crearn covers. There were three gla.s.s-topped tables, four lamps with surrounds of white gla.s.s shaped like opening lilies, and four paintings - one in the style of Hockney. an unknown man leaning against the chrome surround of the pool; three others of various garden views which needed no explaining to Bond.

In spite of Beatrice's realisation of the fact thai he already knew the place, she continued to lead him around, almost at breakneck speed, showing off the three large bedrooms - 'You will have trouble in making your mind which to use. huh? Or possibly you use them one at a time. Different each night. You are alone, huh? A pity. One different each night would be enjoyable.' This last was followed by grandsire triples of laughter.

The villa was on one level, just the main room, with doors off to (he three bedrooms, and a narrow pa.s.sage - neatly contrived to store two refrigerators, food, china, pots, pans and cutlery - leading to the kitchen. The rear of the main room was arched and, in turn, led to the dining area: the whole beautifully furnished with a clever mix of old and new, each room taking on a style of its own. Behind the dining area you pa.s.sed through a pair of french windows on to a second terrace, on the left of which, steps led up to a flat roof, converted into an open-sided room - simply a wood and rush roof, topped by a weatherc.o.c.k, supported by heavy wooden beams and furnished with a long refectory table, making an excellent dining area in summer. The view looked out towards the little white and grey town of Forio. with its ancient refurbished church of Our Lady of Succour, brilliant white, built with simple architectural lines, perched on the older grey stone projecting from the headland of Soccorso.

The rain had cleared, and there was a little winter sun which seemed to hit the church, tiny in the distance, then bounce off to sprinkle and glitter on the water. Bond looked back at the town, with its hills rising above, then returned his gaze to the promontory and the church.

'Is beautiful, eh?' Beatrice stood by his side. 'This is for the help of fishermen; for all who sail. Our Lady of Soccorso takes care of them.'

'We have a hymn," Bond unexpectedly heard himself say. 'It is a prayer. "Oh hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea."

"Is good."

She was standing close to him. and even in the chill of this winter day he could smell the sunshine on her. A sweetness that seemed to have been trapped in the strong hot weeks of summer, mingled with a scent he could not identify.

He turned and walked back, pausing by the steps to look at this incredible wonder which lay behind the villa.

At one time, the local people had thought the Signora - who, as Beatrice had said, was now in Milan - was mad. Widow of a great artist she had bought this land: barren rock. She had arranged for some of it to be blasted away, shaping it into a kind of amphitheatre. Hard against the side of the rock she had then built a large villa which looked like a grey b.u.t.tressed fortress. The four small villas which she rented out in the summer were converted from old structures, once shepherds' huts and barns. But her greatest achievement had been the garden which was reflected in some of (he pictures back in the Villa Capricci- an.

She had gathered together men who loved growing things, as she did. and, with immense toil and frustralion had built this incredible, beautiful place full of cyprus, palm, mountain flowers, (lowering shrubs and bushes, shaded walks, ponds and fountains, water tricks which would hurl liquid into great archways over paths, or imitate a mountain stream pouring endlessly from bare rock into a blue pool from whence it was recycled to create the illusion of constant moving water. The ponds were peopled by small turtles and goldfish, and even in winter there was colour from hardy plants. All year round there was some form of natural colour, and the beauly of ihis place stayed in Bond's memory. Once seen, the garden lived with you, as though it had been implanted in your mind through some magic of its own creation, He looked up along the stone -encrusted ridge at the far end of the great scooped rock, and allowed his eyes to trace their way along the zig-zag of paths and walks, the trees and bushes bent, growing at angles determined by the harsh winds of winter. Indeed, this was a work of great love and dedication. The local people had long since come to understand that the Signora should be treated with awe and reverence.

'Is a great genius, the Signora,' Beatrice said, as though speaking of a saint.

'An amazing lady.' Bond smiled at her. standing to one side to allow the girl to descend first, as he looked down at the rear terrace. Since the moment they had met by the pool he had been careful to keep Beatrice in view. Even when she had come close to him on the open, covered roof-lop, he had made sure his body had always been turned towards her with one hand braced, stiff and tense, to be used as a cutting edge should she make a wrong move. For alt he knew, the effervescent Beatrice could well be the Cat, Saphii Boudai, or at least one of her messengers.

Once back in the house, she said she would light the stove. *It will become cold tonight, and I do not wish an invalid on my hands.' She gave him a sideways glance as though to imply that she would not mind him on her hands it" he were fit and willing.

Bond merely smiled and said he would go down to the car and get his luggage. 'Have you (he keys?' he asked. 'I should lock the gates.'

'Of course. They are in the kitchen. In their usual place.' A pause of four or five heartbeats, then, 'Everything is in the kitchen as you expect.' Another pause, slightly shorter. 'Everything, Signor Bond, 'Call me James,' he Ihrew back over his shoulder. If she was on (he side of the devils and not the angels, it would be best to meet her on Christian name terms. They said that knowing the name of devil or angel always put you at the advantage.

The bunch of seven or eight keys lay on the free-standing kitchen unit. They were attached to a penlight key-ring and looked as though (hey had just been tossed onto the work-top, even though the smallest key stuck out separately and was aligned with the edge of the unit. He picked the whole lot up by the small key. inserting it into the lock on the drawer just below the point where the bunch had been lying. It turned easily.

Inside the drawer lay one 9mm Browning automatic and three spare ammunition clips. The action moved slickly, well oiled, and showed there was a round in the chamber. Later he would strip the weapon down and go through it piece by piece. 'There'll be a pistol in the locked kitchen drawer,' M had said. Had Beatrice put it there? Or had she merely been inquisitive and found the secrel?

Bond hefted the pistol in his hand. The weight seemed right for a fully loaded weapon. The spare magazines also appeared to be correct, but he knew weapons and ammunition could easily be doctored to feel right. If that happened, then the last thing you ever knew was that someone had been clever, spiked the firing-pin, mechanism, or even the rounds.

For the time being he simply had to trust, slipping the spare magazines into the pockets of his windcheater, pulling the Browning's safety to 'on', ami pushing it into his waistband, far to the left so that it was hidden, then pulling the b.u.t.t down so that the muzzle was screwed lo the left. This was always advisable. Movie cops and agents so often jammed a pistol straight into the waistband, risking a shot foot, or worse - 'testicide' as one leathery weapons instructor had called it.

He locked the drawer again and went out of the kitchen door, which contained a gla.s.s panel. On his way down, he went through the whole catastrophe of the Villa Capricciani's security. The main gates, and the gate at the foot of the steps, could be taken out quickly enough, either by sealing, or the use of a lock-gun. The pair of sliding doors which led from the villa to the front terrace would be a noisy job, but could be accomplished quickly. The kitchen door was simplicity, particularly with the one pane of gla.s.s, while the rear french windows offered easy access using a jemmy. Ninety seconds at the most for any of them, he reckoned as he secured the bolts on the main gate, and look his heavy case from the car.

He locked the second gate behind him and went up the stairs and in through the main sliding doors. Beatrice was standing by the telephone, checking the meter which would monitor all outgoing calls. She looked up and gave him her cheeky smile, reading off the numbers and asking him to agree them.

'Now, I show you what food is here.' Another smile as she led him towards the kitchen. 'You found all you needed?' Over her shoulder with eye-contact and the same smile.

Bond nodded. She loves me? She loves me not?

She opened the refrigerator with a flourish, and began to reel off all the provisions she had bought. Chicken, veal, eggs, b.u.t.ter, cheese, milk, three bottles of wine, bacon, sausage, pate, pasta. In the other small fridge set into the opposite units of cupboards and drawers there were vegetables.

'Is enough until tomorrow?'

'Only if I've got an army staying overnight.'

'Tomorrow is last proper shopping before Nutate.' Tomorrow was Sat.u.r.day and Christmas Eve.

'Yes.' Bond mused. "Christmas is a'coming and the goose is getting fat . . .'

'You wish for goose?'

He shook his head. 'Old English children's rhyme. No, Beatrice, I don't know how I'll celebrate Christmas- Nalale.'

'In England you have snow, yes?'