Nobody Lives for Ever

‘The gun, Nannie. I have to make a couple of important calls, and I’m not taking chances. Just give me the gun.’

Nannie smiled at him, a gentle, fond smile. ‘You’d have to take it from me, James, and that might not be as easy as you imagine. Look, I used that weapon to help you. Sukie’s given me my orders and I am going to co- operate. I can promise you, had she instructed otherwise, you would have known it very soon after my joining you.’

‘Sukie’s ordered you?’ Bond felt lost.

‘She’s my boss. For the time being, anyway. I take orders from her, and . . .’

Sukie Tempesta put a hand on Bond’s arm. ‘I think I should explain, James. Nannie is an old school friend. She is also President of NUB.’

‘And what the devil’s the NUB?’ Bond was cross now.

‘Norrich Universal Bodyguards.’

‘What?’

‘Minders,’ said Nannie, still very cheerful.

‘Minders?’ For a second he was incredulous.

‘Minders, as in people who look after other people for money. Minders. Protectors.’ Nannie began again: James, NUB is an allwomen outfit, staffed by a special kind of woman. My girls are highly trained in weaponry, karate, all the martial arts, driving, flying – you name it, we do it. Truly, we’re good, and we have a distinguished clientele.’

‘And Sukie Tempesta is among that clientele?’

‘Naturally. I always try to do that job myself.’

‘Your people didn’t do it very well the other evening in Belgium.’ Bond heard the snarl in his voice. ‘At the filling station. I ought to charge commission.’

Nannie sighed. ‘It was unfortunate . . .’

‘It was also my fault,’ added Sukie. ‘Nannie wanted to pick me up in Brussels, when her deputy had to leave. I said I’d get home without any trouble. I was wrong.’

‘Of course you were wrong. Look, James, you’ve got problems. So has Sukie, mainly because she’s a multimillionaire who insists on living in Rome for most of the year. She’s a sitting duck. Go and make your telephone calls and just trust me. Trust us. Trust NUB.’

Eventually Bond shrugged, got out of the car and locked the two women in behind him. He took the CC500 from the boot and went over to the telephone booth. He made the slightly more complex attachments to link up the scrambler to the pay telephone. Then he dialled the operator, and placed a call to the Resident in Vienna.

The conversation was brief, and ended with the Resident agreeing to square with the Austrian police. He even suggested that a patrol meet Bond at the picnic area, if possible including the officer in charge of the May and Moneypenny kidnapping. ‘Sit tight,’ he advised. ‘They should be with you in about an hour.’

Bond hung up, dialled the operator again, and within seconds was speaking to the Duty Officer at the Regent’s Park Headquarters in London.

‘Rome’s men are dead,’ the officer told him flatly. ‘They were found in a ditch shot through the back of the head. Stay on the line. M wants a word.’

A moment later he heard his Chief’s voice, sounding gruff. ‘Bad business, James.’ M called him James only in special circumstances.

‘Very bad, sir. Moneypenny as well as my housekeeper missing.’

‘Yes, and whoever has them is trying to strike a hard bargain.’

‘Sir?’

‘Nobody’s told you?’

‘I haven’t seen anyone to speak to.’

There was a long pause. ‘The women will be returned unharmed within forty-eight hours in exchange for you.’

‘Ah,’ said Bond, ‘I thought it might be something like that. The Austrian police know of this?’

‘I gather they have some of the details.’

‘Then I’ll hear it all when they arrive. I understand they’re on their way. Please tell Rome I’m sorry about his two boys.’

‘Take care, 007. We don’t give in to terrorist demands in the Service. You know that, and you must abide by it. No heroics. No throwing your life away. You are not, repeat not to comply.’

‘There may be no other way, sir.’

‘There’s always another way. Find it, and find it soon.’ M closed the line.

Bond unhooked the CC500 and walked slowly back to the car. He knew that his life might be forfeit for those of May and Moneypenny. If there was no other way, then he would have to die. He also knew that he would go on to the bitter end, taking any risks that may resolve his dilemma.

It took exactly one hour and thirty-six minutes for the two police cars to arrive. While they waited, Nannie told Bond about the founding of Norrich Universal Bodyguards. In five years she had established branches in London, Paris, Rome, Los Angeles and New York, yet never once had she advertised the service.

‘If I did, we’d get people thinking we were call girls. It’s been a word-of-mouth thing from the start. What’s more, it’s fun.’

Bond wondered why neither he nor the Service had ever heard of them. NUB appeared to be a well kept secret within the close-knit circles of the ultra-rich.

‘We don’t often get spotted,’ she told him. ‘Men out with a girl minder look as though they’re just on a date; and when I’m protecting a woman we make sure we both have safe men with us.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve seen poor Sukie through two dramatic love affairs in the last year alone.’

Sukie opened her mouth, her cheeks scarlet with fury, but at that moment, the police arrived. Two cars, their klaxons silent, swept into the glade in a cloud of dust. There were four uniformed officers in one car and three in the other, with a fourth in civilian clothes. The plain-clothes man unfolded himself from the back of the second car and thankfully stretched out his immense length. He was immaculately dressed, yet his frame was so badly proportioned that only an expert tailor could make him even half presentable. His arms were long, ending with very small hands that seemed to hang apelike almost down to his knees. His face, crowned with a head of gleaming hair, was too large for the oddly narrow shoulders. He had the apple cheeks of a fat farmer and a pair of great jug-handle ears.

‘Oh, my God.’ Nannie’s whisper filled the interior of the Bentley with a breath of fear. ‘Show your hands. Let them see your hands.’ It was something Bond had already done instinctively.

‘Der Haken!’ Nannie whispered.

‘The hook?’ Bond hardly moved his lips.

‘His real name’s Inspektor Heinrich Osten. He’s well over retirement age and stuck as an inspector, but he’s the most ruthless, corrupt bastard in Austria.’ She still whispered, as though the man who had now started to shamble towards them could hear every word. ‘They say nobody’s ever dared ask for his retirement because he knows too much about everyone – both sides of the law.’

‘He knows you?’ Bond asked.

‘I’ve never met him. But he’s on our files. The story is that as a very young man he was an ardent National Socialist. They call him Der Haken because he favoured a butcher’s hook as a torture weapon. If we’re dealing with this joker, we all need spoons a mile long. James, for God’s sake don’t trust him.’

Inspektor Osten had reached the Bentley and now stood with two uniformed men on Bond’s side of the car. He stooped down, as though folding his body straight from the waist – reminding Bond of an oil pump – and waggled his small fingers outside the driver’s window. They rippled, as though he were trying to attract the attention of a baby. Bond opened the window.

‘Herr Bond?’ The voice was thin and high-pitched.

‘Yes. Bond. James Bond.’

‘Good. We are to give you protection to Salzburg. Please to get out of your car for a moment.’

Bond opened the door, climbed out and looked up at the beaming polished-apple cheeks. He grasped the obscenely small hand, outstretched in greeting. It was like touching the dry skin of a snake.

‘I am in charge of the case, Herr Bond. The case of the missing ladies – a good mystery title,