James Bond Anthology (256 page)

It would be fun to drop some of these names casually in this quiet little room – fun to tell Marc-Ange that Bond knew of the old abandoned jetty called the Port of Crovani near the village of Galeria, and of the ancient silver mine called Argentella in the hills behind, whose maze of underground tunnels accommodates one of the great world junctions in the heroin traffic. Yes, it would be fun to frighten his captor in exchange for the fright he had given Bond. But better keep this ammunition in reserve until more had been revealed! For the time being it was interesting to note that this was Marc-Ange Draco’s travelling headquarters. His contact in the Deuxième Bureau would be an essential tip-off man. Bond and the girl had been ‘sent for’ for some purpose that was still to be announced. The ‘borrowing’ of the Bombard rescue-boat would have been a simple matter of finance in the right quarter, perhaps accompanied by a ‘pot de vin’ for the coastguards to look the other way. The guards were Corsicans. On reflection, that was anyway what they looked like. The whole operation was simple for an organization as powerful as the Union – as simple in France as it would have been for the Mafia in most of Italy. And now for more veils to be lifted! James Bond sipped his drink and watched the other man’s face with respect. This was one of the great professionals of the world!

(How typical of Corsica, Bond thought, that their top bandit should bear the name of an angel! He remembered that two other famous Corsican gangsters had been called ‘Gracieux’ and ‘Toussaint’ – ‘All-Saints’.) Marc-Ange spoke. He spoke excellent but occasionally rather clumsy English, as if he had been well taught but had little occasion to use the language. He said, ‘My dear Commander, everything I am going to discuss with you will please remain behind your Herkos Odonton. You know the expression? No?’ The wide smile lit up his face. ‘Then, if I may say so, your education was incomplete. It is from the classical Greek. It means literally “the hedge of the teeth”. It was the Greek equivalent of your “top secret”. Is that agreed?’

Bond shrugged. ‘If you tell me secrets that affect my profession, I’m afraid I shall have to pass them on.’

‘That I fully comprehend. What I wish to discuss is a personal matter. It concerns my daughter, Teresa.’

Good God! The plot was indeed thickening! Bond concealed his surprise. He said, ‘Then I agree.’ He smiled. ‘ “Herkos Odonton” it is.’

‘Thank you. You are a man to trust. You would have to be, in your profession, but I see it also in your face. Now then.’ He lit a Caporal and sat back in his chair. He gazed at a point on the aluminium wall above Bond’s head, only occasionally looking into Bond’s eyes when he wished to emphasize a point. ‘I was married once only, to an English girl, an English governess. She was a romantic. She had come to Corsica to look for bandits’ – he smiled – ‘rather like some English women adventure into the desert to look for sheiks. She explained to me later that she must have been possessed by a subconscious desire to be raped.Well’ – this time he didn’t smile – ‘she found me in the mountains and she was raped – by me. The police were after me at the time, they have been for most of my life, and the girl was a grave encumbrance. But for some reason she refused to leave me. There was a wildness in her, a love of the unconventional, and, for God knows what reason, she liked the months of being chased from cave to cave, of getting food by robbery at night. She even learned to skin and cook a moufflon, those are our mountain sheep, and even eat the animal, which is tough as shoe leather and about as palatable. And in those crazy months, I came to love this girl and I smuggled her away from the island to Marseilles and married her.’ He paused and looked at Bond. ‘The result, my dear Commander, was Teresa, my only child.’

So, thought Bond. That explained the curious mixture the girl was – the kind of wild ‘lady’ that was so puzzling in her. What a complex of bloods and temperaments! Corsican English. No wonder he hadn’t been able to define her nationality.

‘My wife died ten years ago’ – Marc-Ange held up his hand, not wanting sympathy – ‘and I had the girl’s education finished in Switzerland. I was already rich and at that time I was elected Capu, that is chief, of the Union, and became infinitely richer – by means, my dear Commander, which you can guess but need not inquire into. The girl was – how do you say? – that charming expression, “the apple of my eye”, and I gave her all she wanted. But she was a wild one, a wild bird, without a proper home, or, since I was always on the move, without proper supervision. Through her school in Switzerland, she entered the fast international set that one reads of in the newspapers – the South American millionaires, the Indian princelings, the Paris English and Americans, the playboys of Cannes and Gstaad. She was always getting in and out of scrapes and scandals, and when I remonstrated with her, cut off her allowance, she would commit some even grosser folly – to spite me, I suppose.’ He paused and looked at Bond and now there was a terrible misery in the happy face. ‘And yet all the while, behind her bravado, the mother’s side of her blood was making her hate herself, despise herself more and more, and as I now see it, the worm of self-destruction had somehow got a hold inside her and, behind the wild, playgirl façade, was eating away what I can only describe as her soul.’ He looked at Bond. ‘You know that this can happen, my friend – to men and to women. They burn the heart out of themselves by living too greedily, and suddenly they examine their lives and see that they are worthless. They have had everything, eaten all the sweets of life at one great banquet, and there is nothing left. She made what I now see was a desperate attempt to get back on the rails, so to speak. She went off, without telling me, and married, perhaps with the idea of settling down. But the man, a worthless Italian called Vicenzo, Count Julio Vicenzo, took as much of her money as he could lay his hands on and deserted her, leaving her with a girl child. I purchased a divorce and bought a small château for my daughter in the Dordogne and installed her there, and for once, with the baby and a pretty garden to look after, she seemed almost at peace. And then, my friend, six months ago, the baby died – died of that most terrible of all children’s ailments, spinal meningitis.’

There was silence in the little metal room. Bond thought of the girl a few yards away down the corridor. Yes. He had been near the truth. He had seen some of this tragic story in the calm desperation of the girl. She had indeed come to the end of the road! Marc-Ange got slowly up from his chair and came round and poured out more whisky for himself and for Bond. He said, ‘Forgive me. I am a poor host. But the telling of this story, which I have always kept locked up inside me, to another man, has been a great relief.’ He put a hand on Bond’s shoulder. ‘You understand that?’

‘Yes. I understand that. But she is a fine girl. She still has nearly all her life to live. Have you thought of psychoanalysis? Of her church? Is she a Catholic?’

‘No. Her mother would not have it. She is Presbyterian. But wait while I finish the story.’ He went back to his chair and sat down heavily. ‘After the tragedy, she disappeared. She took her jewels and went off in that little car of hers, and I heard occasional news of her, selling the jewels and living furiously all over Europe, with her old set. Naturally I followed her, had her watched when I could, but she avoided all my attempts to meet her and talk to her. Then I heard from one of my agents that she had reserved a room here, at the Splendide, for last night, and I hurried down from Paris’ – he waved a hand – ‘in this, because I had a presentiment of tragedy. You see, this was where we had spent the summers in her childhood and she had always loved it. She is a wonderful swimmer and she was almost literally in love with the sea. And, when I got the news, I suddenly had a dreadful memory, the memory of a day when she had been naughty and had been locked in her room all afternoon instead of going bathing. That night she had said to her mother, quite calmly, “You made me very unhappy keeping me away from the sea. One day, if I get really unhappy I shall swim out into the sea, down the path of the moon or the sun, and go on swimming until I sink. So there!” Her mother told me the story and we laughed over it together, at the childish tantrum. But now I suddenly remembered again the occasion and it seemed to me that the childish fantasy might well have stayed with her, locked away deep down, and that now, wanting to put an end to herself, she had resurrected it and was going to act on it. And so, my dear friend, I had her closely watched from the moment she arrived. Your gentlemanly conduct in the casino, for which’ – he looked across at Bond – ‘I now deeply thank you, was reported to me, as of course were your later movements together.’ He held up his hand as Bond shifted with embarrassment. ‘There is nothing to be ashamed of, to apologize for, in what you did last night. A man is a man and, who knows? – but I shall come to that later. What you did, the way you behaved in general, may have been the beginning of some kind of therapy.’

Bond remembered how, in the Bombard, she had yielded when he leaned against her. It had been a tiny reaction, but it had held more affection, more warmth, than all the physical ecstasies of the night. Now, suddenly he had an inkling of why he might be here, where the root of the mystery lay, and he gave an involuntary shudder, as if someone had walked over his grave. Marc-Ange continued, ‘So I put in my inquiry to my friend from the Deuxième, at six o’clock this morning. At eight o’clock he went to his office and to the central files and by nine o’clock he had reported to me fully about you – by radio. I have a high-powered station in this vehicle.’ He smiled. ‘And that is another of my secrets that I deliver into your hands. The report, if I may say so, was entirely to your credit, both as an officer in your Service, and, more important, as a man – a man, that is, in the terms that I understand the word. So I reflected. I reflected all through this morning. And, in the end, I gave orders that you were both to be brought to me here.’ He made a throw-away gesture with his right hand. ‘I need not tell you the details of my instructions. You yourself saw them in operation. You have been inconvenienced. I apologize. You have perhaps thought in danger. Forgive me. I only trust that my men behaved with correctness, with finesse.’

Bond smiled. ‘I am very glad to have met you. If the introduction had to be effected at the point of two automatics, that will only make it all the more memorable. The whole affair was certainly executed with neatness and expedition.’

Marc-Ange’s expression was rueful. ‘Now you are being sarcastic. But believe me, my friend, drastic measures were necessary. I knew they were.’ He reached to the top drawer of his desk, took out a sheet of writing-paper and passed it over to Bond.

‘And now, if you read that, you will agree with me. That letter was handed in to the concierge of the Splendide at 4.30 this afternoon for posting to me in Marseilles, when Teresa went out and you followed her. You suspected something? You also feared for her? Read it, please.’

Bond took the letter. He said, ‘Yes. I was worried about her. She is a girl worth worrying about.’ He held up the letter. It contained only a few words, written clearly, with decision.

Dear Papa,

I am sorry, but I have had enough. It is only sad because tonight I met a man who might have changed my mind. He is an Englishman called James Bond. Please find him and pay him 200,000 New Francs which I owe him. And thank him from me.

This is nobody’s fault but my own.

Goodbye and forgive me.

TRACY

Bond didn’t look at the man who had received this letter. He slid it back to him across the desk. He took a deep drink of the whisky and reached for the bottle. He said, ‘Yes, I see.’

‘She likes to call herself Tracy. She thinks Teresa sounds too grand.’

‘Yes.’

‘Commander Bond.’ There was now a terrible urgency in the man’s voice – urgency, authority and appeal. ‘My friend, you have heard the whole story and now you have seen the evidence. Will you help me? Will you help me save this girl? It is my only chance, that you will give her hope. That you will give her a reason to live. Will you?’

Bond kept his eyes on the desk in front of him. He dared not look up and see the expression on this man’s face. So he had been right, right to fear that he was going to become involved in all this private trouble! He cursed under his breath. The idea appalled him. He was no Good Samaritan. He was no doctor for wounded birds. What she needed, he said fiercely to himself, was the psychiatrist’s couch. All right, so she had taken a passing fancy to him and he to her. Now he was going to be asked, he knew it, to pick her up and carry her perhaps for the rest of his life, haunted by the knowledge, the unspoken blackmail, that, if he dropped her, it would almost certainly be to kill her. He said glumly, ‘I do not see that I can help. What is it you have in mind?’ He picked up his glass and looked into it. He drank, to give him courage to look across the desk into Marc-Ange’s face.

The man’s soft brown eyes glittered with tension. The creased dark skin round the mouth had sunk into deeper folds. He said, holding Bond’s eyes, ‘I wish you to pay court to my daughter and marry her. On the day of the marriage, I will give you a personal dowry of one million pounds in gold.’

James Bond exploded angrily. ‘What you ask is utterly impossible. The girl is sick. What she needs is a psychiatrist. Not me. And I do not want to marry, not anyone. Nor do I want a million pounds. I have enough money for my needs. I have my profession.’ (Is that true? What about that letter of resignation? Bond ignored the private voice.) ‘You must understand all this.’ Suddenly he could not bear the hurt in the man’s face. He said, softly, ‘She is a wonderful girl. I will do all I can for her. But only when she is well again. Then I would certainly like to see her again – very much. But, if she thinks so well of me, if you do, then she must first get well of her own accord. That is the only way. Any doctor would tell you so. She must go to some clinic, the best there is, in Switzerland probably, and bury her past. She must want to live again. Then, only then, would there be any point in our meeting again.’ He pleaded with Marc-Ange. ‘You do understand, don’t you, Marc-Ange? I am a ruthless man. I admit it. And I have not got the patience to act as anyone’s nurse, man or woman. Your idea of a cure might only drive her into deeper despair. You must see that I cannot take the responsibility, however much I am attracted by your daughter.’ Bond ended lamely, ‘Which I am.’