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. “Ilove 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.
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 buned 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 shnnk 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 Clover 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.”
