Authors: Sebastian Faulks
There was a large room at the top of the Terminus Nord with a good shower and plentiful shampoo and soap. Bond had room service send up some whisky and Perrier, then poured himself a large glassful as he relaxed on the bed with a clean white towel wrapped round him.
He lay back on the pillows and let the events of the last few days replay in his mind. It had taken him some time to find the Service’s man in Helsinki. He was new, and looked no more than twenty, but at least he had produced a couple of reasonable-looking passports in the course of the afternoon. Bond had given him the Luger to dispose of as he wished. He would get a new Walther PPK back in London. Tomorrow, he thought, would be a wonderful day. He could spend an idle morning buying new clothes, report to M, then lunch at the Rotonde or the Doˆme and telephone Scarlett in the afternoon. After that, more sleep in his anonymous hotel room,
then perhaps a film and dinner at one of the great restaurants, the Ve´four or the Caneton.
As for tonight, the Finnish notes he had changed at the airport had given him enough money for a good dinner, but he didn’t feel in the mood. He rang down again to Reception, told them to bring an omelette
fines herbes
and the rest of the whisky bottle. When he had done it justice, he rolled naked beneath the covers and slept without moving for twelve hours.
Friday morning was brilliantly clear and sunny as Bond left his hotel and took a taxi to the place Vendoˆme. On the rue de Rivoli, he bought a lightweight grey suit, a black knitted tie, three shirts, cotton underwear, some charcoal grey woollen socks and a pair of black loafers. He asked the shopkeeper to get rid of the Volga driver’s clothes and Ken Mitchell’s shoes.
It was time to make his call to M. He reversed the charges from a coin-operated box in the rue de l’Arbre Sec, then waited when he heard the switchboard in Regent’s Park, the laborious clanking and the long silence that the inexperienced took for a lost connection before the strange hollow sound of the secure line.
‘Bond? Where the devil are you?’
‘Paris, sir. I told Moneypenny yesterday.’
‘Yes, but why?’
‘I was escorting a young lady home, sir.’
‘Never mind that. I’ve had the PM on the line.’
‘How was he?’
‘Well . . . He was extremely pleased as a matter of fact.’
‘Unusual,’ said Bond.
‘Damn near unprecedented. The RAF took out that Ekranoplan. Somehow the VC-10 also came down off-target.’
‘Yes, sir, I – ’
‘You can tell me all about it back in London. Give yourself a few days in Paris, if you like. While you’re there, I’d like you to meet the new 004.’
‘What?’ Bond’s voice went cold.
‘Don’t be a damned fool, Bond. I told you when you were in London that the last man died in East Germany.’
‘Where do I meet him?’
‘Go to the George V at seven tonight. Ask for room five eight six. They’ll be expecting you. It’s just a formality. Press the flesh, say hello. And, Bond?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you know Felix Leiter had been in on
Pistachio?’
‘Felix? No. What happened?’
‘Bit of a crash dive. There was a problem with a man called Silver.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me.’
‘He tried to stop Leiter making contact. He turned out to be some kind of double. And, Bond, I’m afraid Pistachio himself . . .’
Bond heard the emptiness of the line. It meant only one thing. He swore violently.
‘ Take some time in Paris,’ said M. ‘Leiter’s passing through on Monday on his way back to Washington. I think he’d like to see you.’
‘I’ll tell Moneypenny where to find me.’
‘ That’s all for the moment.’
‘ Thank you, sir.’
He replaced the receiver and walked down to the river. Darius had been a good man, but, like Darko Kerim in Istanbul and others before, he had always known the risks involved.
Bond tried to put the thought of him from his mind. His pockets were still full of new francs as he strolled along the
quai
, stopping occasionally to look at the cheap paintings, souvenirs and second-hand books that the stall-holders were displaying beside the river. It always surprised him that the padlocked green wooden stalls could contain so much when
they were opened out. He picked up a miniature Eiffel Tower and turned it over in his fingers. Should he buy Scarlett a present? he wondered. Time enough to do that before tomorrow evening.
He contented himself with buying a suitably risque´
postcard for Moneypenny and went to a small pavement cafe´ on rue des Bourdonnais to write it. He ordered an Americano – Campari, Cinzano, lemon peel and Perrier – not because he particularly liked it, but because a French cafe´ was not a place in his view for a serious drink.
It was surprisingly good, the zest of the lemon cutting through the sweetness of the vermouth, and Bond felt almost fully restored as he left some coins on the zinc-topped table and stood up. He would double back, cross the river at the Pont Neuf and walk slowly towards the Doˆme. He had time to kill. When he was half-way across the bridge, he noticed, about a hundred yards upriver, the Mississippi paddle steamer, the
Huckleberry Finn
, ‘on loan to the City of Paris for one month only’ – the same vessel he had seen after his first lunch with Scarlett on the Iˆle St Louis. Cheerful tourists thronged her decks, and a minstrel band in striped blazers and white trousers played noisily in the bow. Bond glanced at his watch. He had nothing else to do.
He saw the boat moor at a stop on the Left Bank and went down the steps to the river. He bought a ticket and went up the gangplank.
There were empty seats towards the bow, and Bond settled down alone on a bench. It was a warm summer’s day and Paris was
en feˆte
. He sat back as luxuriously as the wooden seat allowed, closed his eyes and let his mind picture what the evening ahead might have in store. The boat proceeded slowly down the river.
Bond’s reverie was interrupted by a shadow blocking out the sun. He opened his eyes to see a tall, bearded man looking down on him. The beard was full and dark – too dark for the fair skin. It looked odd and unfamiliar, yet there was no mistaking the eyes – or their look of burning, zealous concentration, as though their owner feared that other people might corrupt the purity of his purpose.
At the same moment, Bond felt something hard and metallic being driven against one of his lower vertebrae through the open back of the bench.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ said Gorner. ‘Forgive my childish disguise. My face is rather more widely known than I care for just at the moment. The press can be so intrusive.’
‘How the hell did you find me?’
Gorner let out the grunt that was his version of a laugh. ‘ The fact that one of my factories has suffered a setback doesn’t mean I have become impotent overnight, Bond. I have staff in London and Paris, as well as connections in Moscow. When I gathered that the plane had not reached Zlatoust-36, I had Chagrin fly to Moscow to keep an eye open. Just in case. Word reached me that you and the girl were bound for Leningrad. What else would you do but run for home? We found business cards in the handbag my men took from her in Noshahr, so we knew where she was based and we knew you’d head either for London or Paris. I had my men watch both airports. They’ve been following you. But in my mind there was no doubt you’d follow the bitch’s scent to Paris. That’s why I came here first.’
‘And what do you want?’
‘I want to kill you, Bond. That’s all. In a moment the minstrel band will strike up its noise again and no one will hear the sound of a silenced gun.’
Gorner glanced behind him, where his hitman was leaning forward, the long silencer of his gun concealed beneath a folded raincoat.
‘ This is Mr Hashim,’ said Gorner. ‘I did business with his brother once. But that’s another story.’
‘What happened to your desert factory?’
‘Savak,’ Gorner spat. ‘With information from their American and British ‘‘chums’’, the Persian goons finally located it. The army moved in and closed it down.’
‘Was there bloodshed?’
‘Nothing much. I told my staff to co-operate. I was in Paris by then.’
‘And the people inside, what happened to them?’
‘ The addicts? God. Who knows? Who cares? Back to their gutters, I imagine.’
Bond could see the horn player in the band emptying spit on to the deck and the clarinettist turning the pages of his music on the stand. The drummer was sitting down on his stool again.
Then he looked at where Gorner held his gloved left hand with his right, both folded in his lap.
‘Do you like music, Bond?’ said Gorner. ‘It’ll start again any second now. I’m not one of those idiots who looks for a protracted or picturesque death for their arch-enemy. A single bullet is good enough for British scum like you.’
‘Was Silver working for you?’ said Bond.
‘Who?’
‘Carmen Silver. The man at General Motors. I hear he tried to stop the real CIA making a move.’
‘Perhaps he was being blackmailed by the Rus
sians,’ said Gorner. ‘Perhaps he’d ‘‘gone native’’ and thought he understood American national interest better than his bosses.’
‘Yes,’ said Bond. ‘Or perhaps he was just a man without qualities.’
‘ There will always be such people in your world, Bond. Loose ends. Oh, do look, the conductor is coming back to join the band. Mr Hashim loves negro music.’
Bond waited while the conductor, in his striped blazer, looked round the twelve-man band, nodding and smiling. Gorner was watching with avid eyes, eager for this treat. Then, as the conductor lifted his baton to tap the music stand in front of him, Bond reached over, grabbed Gorner’s left hand and tore the glove from it.
He had remembered from the crimson office at the desert lair that the deformity was the only thing that had the power to deflect Gorner’s concentration. With one hand, Bond hurled the glove as far forward as he could, almost to the feet of the conductor, and with the other he held up the monkey’s paw in the sunlight for all the passengers to see. Gorner threw himself across Bond in his desperate attempt to pull his hand back. As he did so, Bond yanked on Gorner’s arm, bringing the full weight of the man
across him, thus dislodging for a moment the gun from his own back. The hitman hesitated for a second lest he shoot his paymaster. With Gorner’s bulk across him, Bond lashed out once with his forearm into Hashim’s face. Then, still with Gorner on top of him, he grabbed Hashim’s hair, pulled his head forward and smashed his face into the back of the bench. With his right hand, Bond shoved Gorner down on to the deck where, on all fours, he searched frantically for his glove. With his left hand, Bond kept Hashim’s face against the bench. He heard the sound of a silenced gunshot, but it went into the deck by his feet. Then he vaulted over the bench and took Hashim’s right wrist between both of his own hands. The gun went off again, this time upwards through the striped canvas canopy.
Passengers had begun to scream as they saw what was happening. Two crew men were running towards Bond and Hashim. Bond had managed to get
Hashim’s arm behind his back and was twisting it violently. He could hear the elbow dislocating as the crew closed in on him. The captain sounded the alarm as the band stopped playing their Dixie tune. Hashim let out a grim, feral scream and dropped the gun. Bond grabbed it from the deck and ran forwards.
The
Huckleberry Finn
was approaching a low bridge as the captain killed the engines. Gorner, his precious white glove now back on his left hand, had climbed on top of the enclosed wheelhouse where the captain and the pilot stood. There were iron rungs let into the brickwork of the bridge that was slowly approaching them. By the time Bond had seen what was happening, Gorner was hauling himself up the side of the low bridge. Bond managed to catch the last iron handhold as the
Huckleberry Finn
, now drifting without power, slid beneath the arch. With Hashim’s gun in his waistband, Bond pulled himself up the dozen rungs and on to the parapet. Gorner had already crossed four lanes of traffic and was making off towards the Right Bank.
Weaving between furious, hooting cars, Bond steadied himself on the central island, planted his feet and fired once. The phlegmy cough of the silencer was followed by a scream from Gorner as the bullet caught his thigh.
Bond dodged through the northbound traffic. As he did so, he heard the rumble of the steamer below as the captain restarted the engines.
Bond ran towards Gorner, but when he got there he found that Gorner, bleeding but not disabled, had pulled himself up off the pavement and on to the
brick parapet. Bond stopped and pointed the gun at Gorner’s chest.
‘I won’t give you that pleasure, Englishman,’
panted Gorner. The black beard had come half unstuck.
Bond watched closely, expecting him to produce a second gun. But Gorner said nothing, merely turned, jumped and disappeared. Bond ran to the edge of the parapet and looked down. Gorner was still alive, floundering in the brown water.
The
Huckleberry Finn
, presumably making with all haste to a point where the captain could disembark the passengers and report to the police, had changed course and was now heading upstream, back beneath the same bridge. The wounded Gorner, splashing impotently with both arms, was directly in her path. Gorner appeared stricken, unable to move, as the great paddle swept under him, lifted him up in its teeth, and rolled him round and back beneath the water. Bond watched in fascination as Gorner rose and circulated once more, leaving a poppy-coloured bloodstain in the river. A third time, the trapped body was swept up and revolved in the indifferent paddles, as the captain of the boat, unaware of what was happening, proceeded at full steam ahead.
The minstrel band began to play again as the
paddles turned – this time with no trace of Gorner. Then on the surface of the river there appeared, floating like a water-lily, a single white glove. It bobbed and turned in the wake of the boat for a few seconds, then filled with water and sank.