them can refuse.’
Bond gave a hard, half-smile. ‘Okay, break it to me gently. What am I worth?’
‘Oh, they don’t want all of you. Just your head.’
Steve Quinn filled in the rest of the story. M had received a hint about two weeks before Bond went on leave. ‘The Firm that controls South London tried to spring Bernie Brazier from the Island,’ he began. In other words, the most powerful underworld organisation in South London had tried to get one Bernie Brazier out of the high security prison at Parkhurst, on the Isle of Wight. Brazier was doing life for the cold-blooded killing of a notorious London underworld figure. Scotland Yard knew he had carried out at least twelve other murders, although they could not prove it. In short, Bernie Brazier was Britain’s top mechanic, a polite name for hired killer.
‘The escape was bungled. A real dog’s breakfast. Then after it was all over, friend Brazier wanted to do a deal,’ Quinn continued, ‘and, as you know, the Met don’t take kindly to deals. So he asked to see somebody from the sisters.’
He spoke of their sister organisation, MI5. This had been refused, but the details were passed to M, who sent their toughest interrogator to Parkhurst Prison. Brazier claimed he was being sprung to do a job that threatened the country’s security. In return for giving them the goods, he wanted a new identity and a place in the sun, with money to singe if not actually to burn.
Bond remained oddly detached as Quinn described the nightmarish scene. He knew the devil incarnate in M would promise the world for hard intelligence, and that in the end he would give his source the minimum. So it had been. Two more interrogators had gone to Parkhurst and had a long talk with Brazier. Then M had taken the trip himself to make the deal.
‘And Bernie told all?’ he finally asked.
‘Part of it. The rest was to come once he was nicely tucked away in some tropical paradise with enough birds and booze to give him a coronary within a year.’ Quinn’s face went very hard. ‘The day after M’s visit they found Bernie in his cell – hanged with piano wire.’
From outside came the sound of children playing near the jetty, the toot of one of the lake boats, and far away the drone of a light aeroplane. Bond asked what they had got from the late Bernie Brazier.
‘That you were the target for this unique contract. A kind of competition.’
‘Competition?’
‘There are rules, it appears, and the winner is the group that brings your head to the organisers – on a silver charger, no less. Any bona fide criminal, terrorist, or intelligence agency can enter. They have to be accepted by the organisers. The starting date was four days ago, and there’s a time limit of three months. The winner gets ten million Swiss.’
‘Who in heaven’s name . . . ?’ Bond started.
‘M discovered the answer to that less than twenty-four hours ago, with the help of the Metropolitan Police. About a week back, they pulled in half of the South London mob, and let M’s heavy squad have a go. It paid off, or M’s paying off, I don’t quite know which. I do know that four major London gangland chiefs are pleading for round the clock protection, and I guess they need it. The fifth laughed at M and walked out of the slammer. I gather they found him last night. He was not in good health.’
When Quinn went into the details of the man’s demise, even Bond felt queasy. ‘Jesus . . .’
‘. . . Saves.’ Quinn showed not a shred of humour. ‘One can but hope He’s saved that poor bastard. Forensic say he took an unconscionable time a-dying.’
‘And who’s organised this grisly competition?’
‘It’s even got a name, by the way.’ Quinn sounded offhand. ‘It’s called the Head Hunt. No consolation prizes, just the big one. M reckons that around thirty professional killers went through the starting gate.’
‘Who’s behind it?’
‘Your old friends the Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion – SPECTRE; in particular, the successor to the Blofeld dynasty, whom you’ve had one nasty brush with already, M tells me . . .’
‘Tamil Rahani. The so-called Colonel Tamil Rahani.’
‘Who will be the late Tamil Rahani in a matter of three to four months. Hence the time limit.’
Bond was silent for a minute. He was fully aware of how dangerous Tamil Rahani could be. They had never really discovered how he had managed to take over as Chief Executive of SPECTRE, which seemed always to have kept its leadership within the Blofeld family. But certainly the inventive, brilliant strategist, Tamil Rahani, had become SPECTRE’S leader. Bond could see the man now – dark-skinned, muscular, radiating dynamism. He was a ruthless, internationally powerful leader.
He recalled the last time he had seen Rahani, drifting by parachute over Geneva. His great forte as a commander was that he always led from the front. He had tried to have Bond killed about a month after that last meeting. Since then there had been few sightings, but 007 could well believe this bizarre competition was the brainchild of the sinister Tamil Rahani.
‘Are you implying the man’s on his way out? Dying?’
‘There was a sudden escape by parachute . . .’ Quinn did not look him in the eyes.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m told that he jarred his spine on landing. This set off a cancer affecting the spinal cord. Apparently six specialists have seen him. There is no hope. Within four months, Tamil Rahani’s going to be the late Tamil Rahani.’
‘Who’s involved, apart from SPECTRE?’
Quinn slid a hand down his dark beard, ‘M’s working on it. A lot of your old enemies, of course. For starters, whatever they call the former Department V of the KGB these days – what used to be SMERSH . . .’
‘Department Eight of Directorate S: KGB,’ Bond snapped.
Quinn went on as though he had not heard: ‘. . . Then practically every known terrorist organisation, from the old Red Brigade to the Puerto Rican FALN – the Armed Forces for National Liberation. With ten million Swiss francs as the star prize you’ve attracted a lot of attention.’
‘You mentioned the underworld.’
‘Of course – British, French, German, at least three Mafia Families and, I fear, the Union Corse. Since the demise of your ally, Marc-Ange Draco, they’ve been less than helpful . . .’
‘All right!’ Bond stopped him sharply.
Steve Quinn lifted his large body from the chair. There was none of the visible effort that might be expected from a man of his size, just a fast movement, a second between his being seated and standing, with one large hand on Bond’s shoulder. ‘Yes. Yes, I know, this is going to be a bitch.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s one more thing you ought to know about Head Hunt . . .’
Bond shook off the hand. Quinn had been tactless in reminding him of the special relationship he had once nurtured between the Service and the Union Corse, an organisation that could be even more deadly than the Mafia. Bond’s contacts with the Union Corse had led to his marriage, followed quickly by the death of his bride, Marc-Ange Draco’s daughter.
‘What other thing?’ he snapped. ‘You’ve made it plain I can’t trust anybody. Can I even trust you?’
With a sense of disgust, Bond recognised the truth of the last remark. He could trust nobody, not even Steve Quinn, the Service’s man in Rome.
‘It’s to do with SPECTRE’S rules for Head Hunt.’ Quinn’s face was expressionless. ‘The contenders are restricted to putting one man in the field – one only. The latest information is that already four have died violently, within the past twenty-four hours – one of them only a few hundred metres from where we’re sitting.’
‘Tempel, Cordova and a couple of thugs on the Ostend ferry.’
‘Right. The ferry passengers were representatives from two London gangs – South London and the West End. Tempel had links with the Red Army Faction. He was an underworld-trained hood and a barroom politician trying for the rich pickings in the politics of terrorism. Paul Cordova you know about.’
All four, Bond thought, had been very close indeed when they were murdered. What were the odds on that being a coincidence? Aloud, he asked Quinn what M’s orders were.
‘You’re to get back to London as quickly as you can. We haven’t the manpower available to look after you loose on the Continent. My own people will see you to the nearest airport and then take care of the car . . .’
‘No.’ Bond spat the word. ‘I’ll get the car back. Nobody else is going to take care of it for me – right?’
