It was a tourist-class cabin for the class of tourist who didn’t demand too much in the way of space and comfort. One day, more than 600 of them would discover the charms of the Mirabelle, the cruise liner that Irwin Wolfe had named after his first wife. There were two berths, one above the other, two wicker chairs, a chest of drawers and a sink. The floor area was just big enough for two people to sit together in comfort but if they wanted to move they would need to plan a route around each other. The toilet was across the passageway, shared with the cluster of six cabins that surrounded it. There was a porthole but it didn’t open and it wasn’t big enough to provide much of a view.
It was less than twenty-four hours since Bond and Sixtine had been brought here. They had arrived separately. It had been made clear that if one caused any trouble, the other would pay but, drawing up in two cars, surrounded by men with guns, there had been no chance of that. Scipio’s two hired hands – Carlo and Simone – had accompanied Bond. They hadn’t spoken to him again but their very presence had confirmed what he already knew. They worked for Scipio. Wolfe owned the Mirabelle. Scipio and Wolfe were in this together. But there was still something missing from the picture. This wasn’t just a case of narcotics smuggling, even if the amounts involved were enormous. What was their common aim?
All night long, the Mirabelle had been preparing for its departure. It had taken more than twelve hours simply to fire up the furnaces. Finally, just before sunrise, Bond had been woken by a distant rumbling and a series of vibrations coursing through the cabin. He swung himself off the bunk and went over to the porthole. There was no view. He and Sixtine had been deliberately placed on the seaboard side, away from the port of Nice. It occurred to him that there were plenty of people looking for them. Sixtine’s team would know that something was wrong and Reade Griffith must surely have noticed that Bond had disappeared. The last time they had spoken had been on the Friday evening before Wolfe’s party. Might he have alerted his people at the CIA? Bond thought it unlikely.
And anyway, it was too late. Looking out of the porthole, Bond saw that they were moving. Wolfe had told him the Mirabelle was going to weigh anchor on the Tuesday morning and here it was, exactly on schedule. The ship would conduct a week of sea tests off the coast of France and then continue to America for its gala reception. And he and Sixtine were to be unwilling passengers – supercargo – at least for part of the trip. Nobody knew where they were. Bond wasn’t expected to report back to London for another twenty-four hours and he hadn’t told Reade Griffith where he and Sixtine were heading either. As far as the CIA man was concerned, the two of them would simply have vanished into thin air.
‘We’re on our way.’ Sixtine’s voice came from behind him.
‘It looks like it.’ Bond watched her climb down from her bunk.
‘So what now? Maybe they’ll throw a launch party. We might even get invited to the captain’s table.’
‘It’ll make a change from beans and potatoes.’ That was all the food they’d had so far, brought in on a tray by a scowling crewman.
Bond could feel movement under his feet now, a very slight swaying as they left the harbour and headed into open sea. The fact that they had left the port only made their situation more perilous. While they were moored, there was always a chance that they might break out and find someone to help them. Now that had become impossible. The cabin on the Mirabelle was a prison within a prison and the great expanse of the sea gave it the solitude and the inescapability of a Devil’s Island. Worse still, they were alone. There were no other passengers and Bond had no doubt that everyone who worked on the Mirabelle, from the captain down to the cabin boy, would have been paid or coerced to do exactly as they were told. Two shots in the night, two bodies overboard. It would have no significance at all in the great emptiness of the ocean.
Sixtine came over to him and looked out of the window. He put an arm around her. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens, you have to survive. It may be that Wolfe has a soft spot for you. He was talking about marrying you only a few days ago. And Scipio knows who you are. He won’t want to go to war with you. What I’m saying is, don’t worry about me. If you can find a way out of this, you have to take it.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, James. For a start, Wolfe is a horrible man who doesn’t care about anyone. He’s not going to give me a break and it certainly won’t have helped our relationship, his finding me with you. As for Scipio, maybe I can talk him round – but I doubt it. No. If we’re going to find a way out of this, as you put it, it’s going to be together. It seems to me our best bet will be to get to the radio room. I can get a message to my group or we can send out a general Mayday alert. Otherwise, it’s just going to be on deck and overboard and let’s hope it’s not too far to swim!’
‘They’ve kept us alive,’ Bond said. ‘There must be a reason for that. Maybe they need us for something.’
Sixtine shuddered. ‘You may be right,’ she said. ‘But I’d prefer not to find out what it is.’
It was another eight hours before they heard the lock being turned and the door opening. The same men who had brought them to the Mirabelle had come for them a second time.
‘Out!’ the man with the broken nose grunted.
‘Which one are you?’ Bond asked. ‘Carlo or Simone?’
‘Just move . . .’
‘A shame. It would be nice to know your name when I kill you.’
As before, the two men knew where they were going. They led Bond and Sixtine out of the cabin and along a corridor that stretched out ahead of them with what looked like a mile of brand-new carpet, unused handrails, door after door with chrome handles and numbers in the mid-hundreds, glowing lamps set at precise intervals in the ceiling, the countless fire extinguishers that Bond had noticed before. The air was warm. The vibrations were ever-present but seemed more distant. Wolfe had boasted that the ship was fitted with anti-roll stabilisers and Bond had to admit that he could no longer feel any movement under his feet at all.
They went up the stairs and out onto the deck. Bond saw the coast of France, with the hotels, the apartment blocks and shops fighting for space close to the sea and the green hills rising up serenely behind. He guessed they were at least a mile away. It might just be possible to swim ashore but there was no chance of jumping now. He would be dead, riddled with bullets, before he had even reached the side.
A second staircase led up to the promenade deck, which would one day be reserved for first-class passengers. This was where Wolfe had greeted him when he first came on board. When the Mirabelle actually came into commission, there would be an officer positioned at the top on the other side of a discreet barrier, making sure that everyone knew their place. But nobody stopped them as they made their way up and then back inside, into the first-class dining room. Now that they were at sea, there was something eerie about the cruise liner; a sense of the Marie Celeste. The dining room had more than fifty tables, doubled and trebled by their reflections in the mirrored walls. Marble columns cut the room into different sections but the identical chairs, the low ceiling and the thick, red carpet reaching from corner to corner only emphasised that this was one vast space. It was another reason why Bond would never have considered taking a cruise – unless he was at gunpoint. For all its plush, this was a food factory, nothing less. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, two sittings of each, too much food, with the band playing mood music, day after day. It wasn’t for him.
They passed through the dining room and into the ballroom, one man ahead of them, four more behind. Here the carpet gave way to acres of walnut and their feet tapped out a rhythm of sorts . . . more a funeral march than a waltz. Another door led into the bar – the Wolfe Bar – that Bond had already visited. Wolfe himself was waiting for them, settled into a velvet armchair with a low, dark wood table in front of him and two more chairs facing. Jean-Paul Scipio was sitting at the bar with a triangular glass lodged in his massive hand and surrounded by the glittering stones of his many rings. The liquid inside it was a creamy white with something – nutmeg perhaps – sprinkled on top. A brandy Alexander? His translator stood next to him. Bond felt himself being carefully examined as he moved into the room. The cannibal king savouring his next meal.
‘Sit down,’ Wolfe said. It was not an invitation. It was a command.
Bond chose one of the chairs opposite him. The American millionaire looked uncomfortable, out of sorts. This time, there was to be no ‘Jim’, no ‘baby girl’. He was wearing a grey flannel suit and a wide silk tie – it was all business tonight. Bond noted with interest that he was doing his best to avoid looking at Scipio. There was a sort of disdain, as if the Corsican gangster was a butler who had risen above his station by joining the family for drinks.
‘Irwin . . .’ Sixtine had gone straight over and was crouching beside him, her eyes wide and tearful. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening. I was just interested in your work. That’s all. I didn’t mean . . .’
‘I know who you are,’ Wolfe cut in. ‘According to Scipio, you’re as crooked as he is. From the very start I wondered why you were getting so close and cosy, but I was happy to play along with it. Why not? You’re an attractive woman. Well, you can put a sock in it now. I know your business and I’ve got a good idea what you were up to. It’s a damn shame because I don’t see how you can get off this boat alive, but we’ll come to that later. For now, take a seat. What can I get you to drink?’
‘I’ll have a bourbon with a little water and ice,’ Bond said. ‘But before that, there’s something you need to know. Miss Brochet has got nothing to do with me. We hadn’t even met until a few days ago. Send her back to the cabin and you and I can say what has to be said. But leave her out of it.’
‘She’s here and she’s staying,’ Wolfe replied, curtly. ‘I think the phrase is – she’s made her bed and she can lie in it.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Sixtine muttered petulantly. ‘I’ve been stuck in that cabin long enough, thank you.’ She sat next to Bond. ‘And I’ll have a bourbon too.’
The barman started fixing the drinks. The translator was already whispering into Scipio’s ear, repeating everything that was being said. Scipio gazed ahead, his eyes fixed on Bond.
‘I guess you want to know what this is all about,’ Wolfe began.
‘I know what it’s all about,’ Bond said. ‘And for what it’s worth, so do my superiors. I think you’ll find there’s quite an unpleasant reception waiting for you when you dock in New York. You may have a nice boat and plenty of friends in high places but American customs officials take a pretty dim view of heroin smugglers and, at the end of the day, it turns out you’re just another dime-a-dozen petty criminal. Your business affairs must have taken a turn for the worse if that’s the only way you can think of to make money – but that’s not my problem. Wolfe America, Wolfe Europe . . . from now on it’s going to be Wolfe Alcatraz. Your business is finished and so are you.’
To his surprise, Wolfe broke into laughter. It was an unpleasant sound, like a dog barking. ‘Is that what you think?’ he demanded. ‘You think I’m in this for the money? Do you have any idea how much money I have? Do you really think I need to make any more of it? I’m seventy-three years old. Even if I was in perfect health, I’d only live another ten or fifteen years and as it is, I’ll be lucky to have half of that.’
He tapped the side of his head. ‘I have something inside my brain. The doctors call it an ependymal tumour, which strikes me as a very fancy name for something that’s growing where it shouldn’t. The fact is, it’s going to kill me. There’s nothing I can do, no treatment I can buy. I’ve spoken to doctors all over the world and they talk about drugs and surgery but I can see it in their eyes. I’m a goner and I might as well get used to it.
‘It was diagnosed a year ago and, you know, that was what set me thinking. I thought about the war and about the two boys I lost. It was a stupid war, an unnecessary war. What would it matter to us if the Nazis kicked you British in the ass? As a matter of fact, I actually knew President Woodrow Wilson when he brought in the Neutrality Acts back in the thirties and they were meant to keep us out of exactly this sort of situation. A European war . . . not an American war.’
The drinks arrived. ‘I’d like a cigarette, if you don’t mind,’ Bond said.
‘It’s a dirty habit but you might as well go ahead.’ Wolfe nodded and one of Scipio’s men handed Bond a packet of Lucky Strike.
Bond offered one to Sixtine, who shook her head. ‘America didn’t exactly enter the war,’ he said as he lit his cigarette. ‘Your country was attacked on 7 December 1941. Or maybe your brain tumour has knocked that particular detail out of your memory.’
‘I think I know my history rather better than you, Bond. Pearl Harbor was the end result of a series of hostile manoeuvres by the United States that began ten years before – when the Japs invaded Manchuria in 1931, to be precise. Once again, it was none of our business but our politicians didn’t approve. So what did we do? We threatened them with a blockade. That led to them dropping out of the League of Nations, the second Sino-Japanese War and eventually to the Tripartite Act with Germany and Italy. The Japs didn’t become our enemy overnight. It was our aggression and interference that drove them to it.
‘Anyway, Roosevelt didn’t need an excuse to go to war. He’d been wanting it all along. He had said as much in his commencement address to the University of Virginia on 10 June 1940 – they called it the “stab in the back” speech and in my view they got it exactly right. A few months later, he brought in the Lend-Lease Act, which went against everything that had gone before, providing your country, France and the Soviet Union with $50 billion worth of supplies. And of course, those supplies had to be protected by American ships and American lives. So don’t talk to me about Pearl Harbor. It was a European war and it should have stayed in Europe, but we threw ourselves into it long before December 1941.
‘We’re doing the same thing right now in Korea. You tell me – what has the North Korean People’s Army got to do with us and why should it bother us if a whole load of gooks want to kill each other over the 38th Parallel, a line that was created artificially in the first place and which doesn’t actually exist? But even now, while you and I sit here in first-class comfort, young American soldiers are dying far away from home leaving American parents feeling like I felt when they told me that my two boys had been cut down on the sand.’
Wolfe was sitting rigidly in his chair, breathing heavily. Bond could see a pulse throbbing on his forehead and it made him think of the malignant growth somewhere beneath. Wolfe had a glass of water. He lifted it and took a gulp.
‘You should take it easy,’ Bond said mildly. ‘You’re going to make yourself ill.’
‘I am ill.’
It amused Bond, how easy it was to rile the American.
‘I have been thinking a great deal about my legacy and what I can do to change the way my country is heading,’ Wolfe went on. There was a rasp in his voice. ‘We are coming to the belief that we can solve all the problems in the world and, as we become ever more powerful, with ever greater weapons, we don’t see what’s happening. We don’t see that we risk becoming monsters! Look at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Believe me, I have no love of the Japs. But I never thought I’d live to see a day when we would sit back and kill tens of thousands of people, including women and children, simply to assert our superiority.
‘Something has to change. What the United States of America needs is a wake-up call, or what you might think of as an injection of common sense. And that is exactly what I am intending to give them.
‘I will not tell you how I came to meet Mr Scipio here or how I got into business with him. Working in Marseilles, I was obviously aware of the Corsican syndicates and their power. I learned a great deal about the narcotics business and it became clear to me that it’s going to change the world. In fact I would go so far as to say that, with or without my intervention, drug addiction is going to become the driving force of the twentieth century. People are going to get ill. People are going to need treatment. People are going to turn to crime. That’s the future whichever way you look at it – but maybe it can become a force for good. This is the thought that has occurred to me. If America becomes more inward-looking, if it is made to look after its own, then maybe it will re-examine its position in the world and as a result the world will become a better place.
‘On this ship are concealed more than 12,000 pounds of what is known as Number Four heroin – between 90 and 99 per cent pure. To put that into perspective, the average heroin addict uses less than half an ounce a day and in most cases the drug has been contaminated with many other substances. I do not intend to make money from this consignment, Mr Bond. That is why I laughed at your suggestion just now. What I am providing might be called the greatest loss-leader of all time. Although I have paid Scipio a fair market price for his product, I am going to pretty much give it away. Of course, this will eventually bankrupt me. It is financial suicide. But I am dying anyway and I have no friends and, thanks to Mr Roosevelt, no family.
‘Can you imagine the transformative effect that so much high-grade heroin is going to have on American society? There is already a huge network of dealers across the country, but soon the new product will flow relentlessly into every town and every community and at a price so ridiculously low that it will make at least one encounter with the drug irresistible. One, of course, will lead to another. I intend to create a nation of heroin addicts, Mr Bond, a million future customers for Mr Scipio.’
Bond saw the translator whisper this last sentence into Scipio’s ear and the man’s enormous face rearranged itself into a smile. Wolfe’s plan was hideous, an act of self-destructive lunacy, but whatever happened, Scipio would reap all the benefits. Wolfe had facilitated the manufacture of high-grade heroin. He had paid for it. And he had provided Scipio with a business opportunity that would last for generations.
‘It is, of course, only the weakest who will succumb to the temptation I am placing before them: the uneducated, the delinquent, the petty criminal. I find some consolation in that. Families who look after their young people won’t have anything to fear. But soon the streets will be littered with victims. As the prices rise and the supply begins to fall, there is sure to be an unprecedented crime wave. The government will be forced to concentrate all its resources on its own backyard and it simply will not have the money or the energy for another Omaha Beach, another Okinawa, another Pusan. It will start trying to help its young people instead of killing them, nursing itself rather than policing the world.
‘In doing this I will have built a memorial to my sons. At the same time, I will go to my grave in the knowledge that I have changed the future of American history so that other sons will be saved.’
He fell silent. The translator spoke for another few seconds, catching up with the end of the sentence. Finally, it was over.
Bond finished his bourbon. He glanced at Sixtine, who had listened to all this with growing incredulity and who was sitting very straight, her face pale.
‘I have to say, it will make interesting reading in the Lancet,’ Bond said, finally. ‘I wonder if doctors were aware that an ependymal tumour could actually cause the sufferer to lose every trace of his sanity?’ He leaned forward. ‘You really think that by condemning hundreds of thousands of young people to the living hell of heroin addiction, you can make your country a better place?’
‘I’m creating a tunnel. But it will lead them to the light.’
‘You’re creating a completely useless and self-destructive nightmare which will be of benefit to no one except Fat Boy over there, and he must be laughing at you from behind the folds of his face. It won’t work anyway. There were drug addicts all over America in the thirties and the forties. Marijuana, methamphetamines, cocaine . . . it made no difference to the entry to the war. You’re going to create chaos. That’s for sure. But you’re deluding yourself if you think any good is going to come out of it.’
Wolfe got stiffly to his feet. He looked drained. ‘Then think of it simply as revenge for what happened to my boys,’ he said. He turned to Scipio. ‘I’m done with him. You can do what you like. Don’t kill the woman . . . not yet. She and I have still got things to say.’
Scipio waited until Wolfe had walked out of the bar. Then he slid himself off the bar stool, carefully transferring his enormous weight to his legs. The translator handed him his shooting stick. Slowly, he took a few steps forward. The smile was still on his face.
‘Meester Bond,’ he said.