Win, Lose or Die (12 page)

He thought about this dilemma for some time, then remembered there was a new code word to collect, so lie turned back into the villa and dialled London.

The number in England picked “\?” as usual, on the third ring.

“Predator,” said Bond. “Day two.

“Dragon tooth,” the voice was clear from the distant line.

“Repeat. Dragontooth.”

“Acknowledge.” Bond put down the receiver. So, some of the intelligentsia who burrowed away in the Regent’s Park office were trying to be clever. In his extreme youth, Bond had read much, and his memory was almost photographic. He called back the lines now, from Dante’s Inftrno from The Divine Comedy.

Front and centre here, Grizzly and Hellkin .

You too, Dead dog.

Curly beard, take charge of a squad often.

Take Grafier and Dragontooth along with you.

Pigfusk, Catclaw, Cramper and Crazyred.

They were some of the named demons with forked claws and rakes who tended, and goaded, the damned in their cauldron of boiling pitch. So, those at headquarters were now deeply influenced by the strange mystic concept of the Brotherhood of Anarchy and Secret Terrorism - BAST, the three-headed monster who rode on a viper.

“Dragontooth, James.” He had not even heard her come in through the french windows behind him. She had been as silent as a cat.

“Correct. Dragontooth,” he said, thinking, “Cat”. Could the Pennington girl be the Cat of BAST - Saphii Boudai?

“Dragontooth,” he said again, giving Beatrice a sad smile.

Behind the smile his brain worked at the equation. Saphii Boudai’s file showed her as a dedicated terrorist from her teens.

The British authorities had been close to her on two occasions, yet she remained, like the other members of the BAST hierarchy, a ghost; an insubstantial, if deadly, figure with no true form or shape, of which there was no real description. The Pennington girl had a history. A good family. He even knew her uncle, Sir Arthur Pennington, Master of Pennington Nab in the West Country. Her cousins had both been close to him at one time or another. The background was impeccable. Or was it? Another thought struck him.

“What’s wrong, James?” Beatrice had come to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and looking into his face with her hypnotic black eyes. The eyes seemed almost to weaken him, and their bottomless darkness drew him into her brain so that all he could see was a possible future with her: a future free from danger and responsibility - except to her.

Bond drew back, holding Beatrice at arm’s length. “I saw someone in Forio. Someone who shouldn’t be there.”

Her face underwent a change. Just a slight twitch of concern, but enough to reveal that this delightful girl had the tough inner resources required by people in their mutual trade. She drew him over to the couch and started to question him - her queries all aimed at the heart of the problem, the reason he was here, in the villa on Ischia.

It was plain that, as well as everything else, Beatrice was a skilled interrogator.

He told her everything, in its chronological sequence. First Officer Pennington at Yeovilton, her lax sense of security, and the fact that she was to be in charge of a section of Wrens on draft to the invincible - something very much out of the norm for the Royal Navy.

“And she knew of your drafting?” Beatrice asked.

“To where?” he countered, still in control of his own sense of need-to-know, the central pin of all security matters.

“Invincible, of course. James, you don’t think they would have put me in charge of this assignment without a complete briefing.

She knew you were to be in Invincible for Landsea “89 - the Pennington girl, I mean?”

He nodded. “Yes, and she didn’t seem to think it was something she had to keep quiet about. Clover had access to all the draft orders. It was like giving classified information to a gossip columnist. She had as much idea of security, and keeping her mouth shut, as a town crier.

“Mmmm.” Beatrice frowned, and Bond thought she even looked attractive when her face became re-patterned with anxiety.

“Look, James,” she laid a hand on his thigh, which seemed to ass a current of signals to alert his most basic physical needs.

“Look, I have a secure radio-link back to the big villa. This is something I should report now, before it’s too late. It won’t take long. Are you up to some menial chores, like doing vegetables for tomorrow’s dinner?”

Bond rarely bothered himself with the preparation of food. For years it had always been something others did for you. But he simply nodded, and went into the little kitchen while Beatrice left the Villa Capricciani, hurrying, her face reflecting the fact that she considered Clover Pennington’s presence on the island, and nearby, to be something of grave concern.

In the kitchen, Bond began to prepare the vegetables, smiling wryly and thinking how M would love to see him now. He would not have been surprised to learn that M had given Beatrice Maria da Ricci instructions to “Put Bond in his place.” He could hear the Old Man telling her that 007 was sometimes a shade too conscious of his class for his own good. “Get him to do some physical jobs, like swabbing the decks of that villa.” It was the kind of devilment in which M would revel.

In England that Christmas Eve, M was down at Quarterdeck, but not at ease. An extra secure telephone link had been installed so that he could get information concerning Bond and his situation within seconds of it coming in to Headquarters.

Though M was naturally a solitary person, he did have relatives: a daughter, now married to an academic who worked on incomprehensible and obscure pieces of European history at Cambridge. They had provided M with two grandchildren, a boy and girl, whom he adored and spoiled in, for him, a most uncharacteristic manner.

The tree was trimmed, Mrs. Davison had everything ready, and, during the previous week, M had gone, with her husband, on a spending-spree, most of the purchases being extravagant playthings for the grandchildren. At Christmas, M seemed to turn into the reformed Scrooge - in fact, part of the Quarterdeck Christmas ritual was a reading from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

But, this year, M did not seem to have his heart in the preparations. He sat in his study, unmoved by the Nine Lessons and Carols, broadcast live each year from King’s College, Cambridge.

This, in itself, was also unusual, for, in spite of his crusty, sharp manner, and weather-beaten features, Christmas usually brought Out a drop of sentiment in M.

His hand seemed to leap to the telephone a second before it rang, and he answered with a crisp, “M.”

Bill Tanner was at the other secure end. “Something’s come through, sir.”

M nodded, not even speaking into the instrument. There was a brief pause, then Tanner continued, “Today we’ve had two contacts. The usual change of cipher. Then another one. A Flash.”

“Serious?”

“Not sure, sir. It’s a report from Dragontooth. It looks as though the Cat, or one of her lieutenants, is there and very much on the prowl. The query is should we pull her, or wait for her to move?”

“No idea how big her team is?”

“Impossible to tell, sir. Maybe three. Possibly more. Certainly one was wounded in the not over-zealous attempt we know about.”

NI sat, silent, for a full minute. “We need hard intelligence, Chief of Staff. Hard as nails. But, if it serves the purpose, tell Dragontooth to be utterly ruthless. Our contacts with the Italians are still holding up?”

“No problem there, sir.

“Right. Ruthless if necessary. And there’s another order . .

He spoke to Tanner for ten minutes, giving him detailed instructions. Then, with a sharp, “Keep me informed,” M closed the line, wondering why, of all the agents under his command, he worried most about 007. Was he the son the old man had always wanted?

Difficult. Something not to be dwelt upon.

Behind the rise and fall of Wassail! Wassail! he heard his daughter’s car crunch on the gravel outside. Banishing all thoughts of what was probably going on far away in Ischia, M fashioned a smile of greeting and went to the door.

They trimmed the little tree with the cheap and gaudy things bought in the Forio market, prepared everything for tomorrow’s dinner and settled down for a light snack of a soup that Beatrice had put together quickly, and allowed to simmer while they were dealing with the tree. There was also bread and a choice of a dozen cheeses, washed down with a bottle of good local wine.

Afterwards, Bond stretched out in an easy chair, with Beatrice resting her back against his legs, while his arm caressed her shoulder, occasionally dropping to finger one of her breasts.

He had purposely not asked her anything about her contact with London. Now he thought the time was right. “What was their reaction?”

“Whose?”

“London’s reaction to the Pennington girl being around.”

She twisted her body so that she could look up at him. “Better you shouldn’t know. It’ll all be taken care of, James. It’s under control.”

He nodded, trying to explain that all this was new to him.

“Normally it’s me doing the protection and giving the orders.”

“Well,” her voice took on the husky tone he had come to know and appreciate from the previous night, and what had passed between them during the morning. “Well,James, there are some orders you can give me.”

“I hadn’t noticed it. You’re a pretty dominant young woman.

Even “Even in bed? I know, but I can change all that. You want to try?”

“Soon.” He sounded very relaxed. “You know, Beatrice, I think barring anything going wrong - this is going to be one of the happiest Christmases ever.”

She took his hand from her shoulder and drew it down to her mouth, kissing it, nibbling at the vortex between thumb and forefinger, then gently sucking each finger in turn. At last she asked, “Until now, “What’s the best Christmas you can remember?”

Bond grunted and stretched. “I think the last Christmas I spent with my parents.” His voice also changed, the sentences delivered haltingly, as though he found it difficult to discuss.

“I’m a mongrel as well, Bea. Scottish father and Swiss mother.

Christmas in a little chalet on Lago Lugano.” He gave a laugh, “Odd that it was the best, because I was ill - just recovering anyway.

Chicken pox, measles, that sort of thing.”

“Why was it the best?”

He gave an almost schoolboyish smile. “I got everything I asked for. They indulged me. There was an air-pistol, as I recall it.”’ “What else?”

“I had to stay in bed, but my father opened the window and put some tin cans on the ledge. Let me pot away at them for half an hour or so. In the evening they both stayed in my room and ate Christmas dinner from trays. It was different. A final taste of love. I’ll never forget it.”

“Final? Why final?”

“My parents were killed, climbing, a few weeks later.”

“Oh, James.” She seemed shocked, as though regretting she had asked.

“A long time ago Beatrice. Your turn. Your best Christmas ever?”

She twisted around and pulled him down from the chair, close to her, on the floor. “This Christmas. I never had great Christmases, James, and I’ve never had things happen to me so quickly before. It’s it’s all strange. I don’t entirely believe it.”

She took his hand and placed it intimately against her.

Bond fumbled in his pocket and brought out the gift-wrapped package. “merry Christmas, Beatrice.”

She opened it like a child, tearing the paper from it as though she could not wait to see what lay beyond. When she lifted the lid of the box she gave a little cry. “Oh. Oh. Oh, my God, James.”

“Like it?”

She looked up a him and he could see the tears staining her cheeks.

Later, in the darkness of the bedroom, and at a crucial moment, she whispered, “Merry Christmas, James darling.” Without thinking, Bond whispered, “God bless us, every one.

Franco, Umberto and the dogs must have done their work well.

Nothing came suddenly to interrupt a blissful night, and when the lovers dropped into sleep they did so with quiet untroubled dreams.

Waking at ten-thirty, Beatrice proved to be highly domesticated and moved around the kitchen with speed, preparing their meal. Even the Browning 9mm, tucked into her waistband, did not seem out of place.

They ate chicken, not the traditional turkey. But it was a huge bird, cooked in some mystic manner which she said had been a secret of her mother’s. The trimmings were in keeping, however, and after the chicken there was a real Christmas pudding, round like those you see in Victorian drawings and very rich, with an outrageously alcoholic brandy sauce. Then came mince pies and nuts.

“What about the crackers?” Bond asked with a laugh.

“Sorry, my darling. Couldn’t lay my hands on a single Christmas cracker, nor any kind of favour.”

“I think I’ll sleep for a week.” Bond stretched his arms and yawned.

“Well, that’s not what you’re going to do.” She rose. “I’m going to let you drive me to the other side of the island, and we’re going to walk off the food and let the sea air clear our heads.

Come on.” She moved quickly to the front windows, grabbing the keys and sliding them open. “Race you to the car.”

Bond picked up his Browning, cocked it and settled it in the shoulder holster, then checked that he had the car keys, and re-lowed her. She had just unlocked the inner gate as he got to the top of the stone steps leading down to it. “Stop. Wait for me!” he called, laughing.

She giggled as he ran after her, heading for the car. Then Bond stopped, eyes widening with horror. The main front gates were drawn apart and he shouted “No!” and again, “No. Beatrice!”

as he saw her tug at the car door, hardly believing what his eyes and brain told him. “Beatrice, no! No! Don’t open .

But the car door moved and opened. As it did so, she looked up at him, laughing, happy. Then the ball of flame erupted from inside the Fiat. The wind from the explosion hit him a second later, knocking him backwards, making his ears sing, scorching his eyes as the flame leaped from the shattered car.

He reached for the pistol and had it up as someone seized him from behind.