Nobody Lives for Ever

around – with your hands on your head.’

He was looking for both a makeshift weapon and one more cunningly concealed. Sukie wore a small cameo brooch at the neck of her shirt. He made her unpin the brooch and throw it gently on to the bed, where her shoulder bag lay. Then he told her to take off her shoes.

He kept the cameo; it looked safe, but he knew technicians could do nasty things with brooch pins. He performed the entire examination deftly with one hand, while he held the ASP well back in the other. The shoes were clean, as was her belt. He apologised for the indignity, but her clothes, and person, were the first priorities. If she carried nothing suspicious he could deal with the luggage later, making sure it was kept out of harm’s way until they stopped somewhere. He emptied the shoulder bag on to the bed. The usual feminine paraphernalia spilled out over the white duvet – including a cheque book, diary, credit cards, cash, tissues, comb, a small bottle of pills, crumpled Amex and Visa receipts, a small Cacharel Anais Anais spray, lipstick and a gold compact.

He kept the comb, some book matches, a small sewing kit from the Plaza Athenee, the scent spray, lipstick and compact. The comb, book matches and sewing kit were immediately adaptable weapons for close-quarter work. The spray, lipstick and compact needed further inspection. In his time Bond had known scent sprays to contain liquids more deadly than even the most repellent scent, lipsticks to house razor-sharp curved blades, propellants of one kind or another, even hypodermic syringes, and powder compacts that were miniature radios, or worse.

Sukie was more embarrassed than angry about having to strip. Her body was the colour of rich creamed coffee, smooth and regular, the kind of tan you can get only through patience, the right lotions, a correct regimen of sun, and nudity. It was the sort of body that men dreamed of finding alive and wriggling in their beds.

Bond went through the jeans and shirt, making sure there was nothing inserted into linings or stitching. When he was satisfied, he apologised again, told her to get dressed and then call the concierge. She was to use his exact words, saying that the luggage was ready in her room and in Mr Bond’s. It was to be taken straight to Mr Bond’s car.

Sukie did as she was told. As she put down the receiver, she gave a little shake of the head. ‘I’ll do exactly what you tell me, James. You’re obviously desperate, and you’re also undoubtedly a professional of some kind. I’m not a fool. I like you. I’ll do anything, within reason, but I too have a problem.’ Her voice shook slightly, as though the whole experience had unnerved her.

Bond nodded, indicating that she should tell him her problem.

‘I’ve an old school friend in Cannobio, just along the coast . . .’

‘Yes, I know Cannobio, a one-horse Italian holiday resort. Picturesque in a touristy kind of way. Not far.’

‘I’m afraid I told her we’d pick her up on our way through. I was meant to meet her last night. She’s waiting at that rather lovely church on the lakeside – the Madonna della Pieta. She’ll be there from noon onwards.’

‘Can we put her off? Telephone her?’

Sukie shook her head. ‘After I arrived with the car problems, I telephoned the hotel where she was supposed to be staying. That was last night. She hadn’t arrived. I called her again after dinner, and she was waiting there. They were fully booked. She was going in search of somewhere else. You’d said we might be late setting off so I just told her to be at the Madonna della Pieta from twelve noon. I didn’t think of getting her to call back . . .’

She was interrupted by the padrone himself, arriving to collect the luggage.

Bond thanked him, said they would be down in a few minutes, and turned his mind to the problem. There was a big distance to cover, whatever he did. His aim was to get to the Klinik Mozart, where there would be a certain amount of police protection because of the search for May and Moneypenny. He had no wish to go into Italy at all, and from what he could recall of the centre of Cannobio, it was the perfect place for a set-up. The lakeside road and the front of the Madonna della Pieta were always busy, for Cannobio was a thriving industrial centre as well as holidaymakers’ paradise. The square in front of the church was ideal territory for one man, or a motorcycle team, to make a kill. Was Sukie, knowingly or not, putting him on the spot?

‘What’s her name, this old school friend?’ he asked, sharply.

‘Norrich.’ She spelled it out for him. ‘Nannette Norrich. Everyone calls her Nannie. Norrich Petrochemicals, that’s Daddy.’

Bond nodded. He had already guessed. ‘We’ll pick her up but she’ll have to go along with my plans.’ He took her firmly by the elbow, to let her know he was in charge.

Bond knew that the trip to Cannobio would hold him up for only an hour, thirty minutes there, and another thirty back, before he could head off towards the frontier, and Austria. If he took the risk, it would mean two hostages rather than one, and he could position them in the car to make a hit more difficult. There was also comfort in the thought that it was only his head that would gain the prize. Whoever struck would have to do it on a lonely stretch of road, or during a night stop. It was easy enough to sever a human head. You did not even have to be very strong. A flexi-saw – like a bladed garrotte – would do it in no time. What would be essential to accomplish the task was a certain amount of privacy. Nobody would have a go in front of the main church in Cannobio, beside Lake Maggiore.

Outside, the padrone stood, at the rear of the British racing green Mulsanne Turbo, waiting patiently with the luggage. From the corner of his eye, Bond spotted Steve Quinn’s man, who had been standing above the rocks, begin to saunter casually back along the cars towards the Renault. He did not even look in Bond’s direction, but kept his head down, as though searching for something on the ground. He was tall, with the face of a Greek statue that had been exposed to much time and weather.

Bond contrived to keep Sukie between himself and the car, reaching forward from behind her to unlock the boot. When the luggage was stowed, they shook hands with the padrone with due solemnity, and Bond escorted Sukie to the front passenger side.

‘I want you to fasten the seatbelt, then keep your hands in sight on the dashboard,’ he said with a smile.

At the end of the line of cars the Renault’s engine started up. Bond settled in the driving seat of the Bentley.

‘Sukie, please don’t do anything stupid. I promise that I can act much faster than you. Don’t make me do anything I might regret.’

She smiled coyly. ‘I’m the hostage. I know my place. Don’t worry.’

They backed out, headed up the ramp and seven minutes later crossed the Italian frontier without incident.

‘If you haven’t noticed, there’s a car behind us.’ Sukie’s voice wavered slightly.

‘That’s right.’ Bond smiled grimly. ‘They’re babysitting us, but I don’t want that kind of protection. We’ll throw them off eventually.’

She nodded.

He had told her that Nannie would have to be handled carefully. She should not be told anything except that she could go on to Rome under her own steam. Plans had changed and they had to get to Salzburg in a hurry. ‘Leave it to her. Let her make up her own mind. Be apologetic, but try to put her off. Follow me?’

There was a lot of activity going on around the Madonna della Pieta when they arrived. Standing by a small suitcase, looking supremely elegant, was a very tall young woman with hair the colour of a moonless night, pulled back into a severe bun. She wore a patterned cotton dress which the breeze caught for a second, blowing it against her body to reveal the outline of long, slim thighs, rounded belly and well-proportioned hips. She grinned as Sukie called her over to the passenger side of the car. ‘Oh, how super! A Bentley. I adore Bentleys.’

‘Nannie, meet James. We have a problem.’

She explained the situation, just as Bond had instructed her. All the time, he watched Nannie’s calm face – the rather thin features, the dark grey eyes peering out brightly, through granny glasses, full of intelligence. Her eyebrows were unfashionably plucked, giving the attractive features a look of almost permanent sweet expectation.

‘Well, I’m easy,’ Nannie said in a low-pitched drawl, giving the impression that she did not believe a word of Sukie’s tale. ‘It’s a holiday after all – Rome or Salzburg, it matters not. Anyway, I adore Mozart.’

Bond felt vulnerable out in the open, and could not allow the chattering to continue long. His tone implied urgency.

‘Are you coming with us, Nannie?’

‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Nannie had the door open, but Bond stopped her.